Crumbling Down - Preface

Again, I dream. Irenicus, again, telling me of the death in my blood with which I am already too familiar. “Follow,” he said, and I would receive the gifts of my heritage. And then Imoen was there, standing gagged and bound by his side by ropes of lightning-like magic. They constricted around her, scorching her flesh and slicing into muscle. She whimpered behind the gags and looked at me with such terror.

“Follow,” he said. “If only to protect the weak who fell because of you.”

In the Time of Troubles, the gods walked the earth in mortal form -- among them Bhaal, the Lord of Murder.  To escape the death which he foresaw, he sired mortal progeny:  half-divine children, doomed to be slowly driven mad by the Taint inside them.

Cassandra is one such child.  Hunted by the holy as an abomination and by the evil as a threat, she trusts only one person:  her adopted sister, Imoen.  Raised together in isolation and sharing an extraordinary friendship, they are inseparable.  They would die for each other.  They would kill for each other.

And then came Irenicus.  A cold, calculating mage with a hidden agenda, he performs 'experiments' designed to break body, mind, and soul.  When he kidnaps Imoen, Cassie is faced with her worst nightmare.  She would die for Imoen; even kill for her.  But how far will she go to save her?

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Crumbling Down is a fan novelization of the Baldur’s Gate II: Shadows of Amn computer game, based on the Imoen Romance modification by Lord Mirrabbo. 

Please read the Fan Fiction Disclaimer.

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Crumbling Down - Ch. 1 - "The Hunt"

She stood before a memory. The gates of Candlekeep, her childhood home, yawned wide before her. The twin crimson standards of the great library hung limply on either side of the entrance, but the doors were gone. The guards were gone. The sights and sounds and smells of childhood were gone, from Hull’s good-natured shouting to the stink of Dreppin’s cows. The great keep was empty and hollow.

Cassandra reflexively tapped her palms against her hips, chest, and face. The sheath of her sword, heavy with its steel, clanked against the hardened leather cuisse and greave which protected her leg. A chainmail shirt protected her breasts, but the metal of her glove was cool against her bare cheek. No helm. Partially armored, then, and partially armed.

She glanced around. She was alone. She’d had dreams like this before, but this one seemed different. A stale wind struggled to lift the red-gold strands of her hair, and she tucked them back with a faint expression of distaste. The scent of decay was in the air.

“Do not fight.”

Cassie whipped around, yanking her sword from its sheath despite the trembling fear in the words, and then nearly dropped it in shock. Imoen stood before her, frail and shivering against the empty backdrop of the keep’s outer grounds. Imoen, whom she’d spent the last month struggling, clawing, and ripping her way through Faerûn to find again – Imoen was here. Tears of joy and relief blurred the figure before her into a palette of pastel, threatening to wash the vision away as suddenly as it’d come.

“Imoen…” She sunk to her knees, the sound of her armor echoing against the walls, and took her sister’s hand in hers. “Imoen, I’m here.”

She was ignored. Imoen continued speaking in the same halting, far-away voice. “Do not fight. To fight is to lose. Come to me.”

“I’m here.” Cassie held the younger woman’s hand to her cheek, letting her feel the wetness there. “I’m here, I promise. I won’t leave again.”

“You cannot fight alone. Find me within.”

The faded watercolors of Imoen’s form began to disintegrate. The tips of her hair broke into multi-colored dust, stolen away in the decay-laden wind along with her clothing, her skin, and her voice. Cassandra clutched the hand she held tighter, only to feel it fracture and shatter under the pressure. It, too, began to slip through her fingers like so much sand, and the blue-eyed warrior grasped at the grains in disbelief.

“No! Don’t leave me!”

Her sister’s form wavered, shimmered, and then tumbled into nothingness as the wind greedily stole the last precious shards.

“Imoen!” Cassandra threw the sword into the dirt and screamed her name into hateful silence of the keep. No answer was forthcoming. Her eyes burned as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks and spattered into the lifeless dust below. She struggled to control the heaving and shaking in her chest.

Control. It wouldn’t stop the pain, but it would push it aside and make it manageable. Control would blunt the edge of despair’s teeth until another time. Her body trembled and breath caught in half-choked sobs as her mind repeated its mantra. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in.

The mantra continued, and somewhere in the darkness of her soul a spark ignited. Rage was kindled, fueled by frustration and stoked by helplessness. Now each breath brought a hot flame of anger, each higher and hotter than the last. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to be so close, to have come so far, and be denied. It wasn’t fair to have sacrificed so much and so many only to again fall short. It was not fair, and she was not going to have spilled so much blood for nothing.

She grasped the hilt of the sword and levered herself to her feet. Her eyes still stung, but she used it as motivation. She hurt, and she knew why. She knew who to blame. Her blood tingled throughout her veins and she advanced through the gates with grim determination. She’d find Imoen. And after that, she’d find Irenicus.

The courtyard was as she remembered it, with the flowers springing forth in full glory of spring despite the timelessness of the dream. The familiar paths led to and fro, trailing off into pockets of nothingness where the fabric of the landscape disintegrated. ‘Within’ could only refer to the great library itself, housed within the formidable walls, and it was there she went, blade drawn and mind seething. And it was there that the dream became even more surreal.

“Halt.”

Cassandra stopped, half-raising her sword into a ready position, unsure of how to react. A massive, barrel-chested demon stood before her at the top of the library’s entrance stairs. It was red-skinned and sported black bat-like wings easily twenty feet in span. The demon towered above her, well beyond seven feet tall, and massed as much as warhorse. Feral yellow eyes regarded her from above a short, canine muzzle filled with cruel and wicked teeth.

“This path is to the core, to the depths of your soul,” it said, the words clear and spoken with a polished accent despite the devilish face. “You must give of yourself to know yourself. Enlightenment requires—“ the fangs clicked together sharply, and the demon seemed to smile “—sacrifice.”

She tilted her head to the side, frowning as she studied him. He seemed solid enough, real enough. It’d be a very tight squeeze to get past him, though. “You can’t kill me,” she said at length. “I’m the dreamer here, not you.”

“I can’t kill you,” it agreed, clicking its teeth together again. The wings flexed as it inhaled deeply, seeming to scent the air. “And demons do not dream.”

Her frown deepened, and she advanced forward up the steps. The beast made no move towards her; its gaze on her blade was more amused than cautious.

“Step aside,” she ordered.

It laughed, a low rich sound interspersed with jackal-like yips and barks, then abruptly unfurled its wings with a rush of air and whip of leathery skin drawn taught. The body lengthened, the hunched legs straightening, and the demon leaned forward with a disturbing leer. “Sacrifice. Then you may gain entrance.”

It’d admitted it couldn’t kill her, but could a demon hurt her? Even in a dream? What kind of sacrifice to dream-demons need? It was ridiculous to contemplate — giving something to her own imagination, in order to continue her own dream. Nonetheless, Cassandra’s many brushes with magic made her suspect it was wise to comply.

“What do you want, then, as this… sacrifice?”

It seemed to settle down when faced with cooperation, and slowly returned to its former, less-threatening position. “It’s not what I want, Bhaalspawn. It’s what you want.”

“What I want is for you to let me into the library,” she growled irritably.

It laughed again, a short chuckle, and then shook its head with an animal smile. “You do not understand, Child of Bhaal, and that is why you have brought me here. You don’t want that at all.”

She tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword. “I think I know what I want, devil.”

“Yes,” it agreed. “You do think… but you don’t really know.”

“Then how about you enlighten me before I tire of your games?” she said, raising the sword once more.

“Idle threats are unbecoming, Child,” it rumbled, lowering itself further and twisting its snout into a grin. “Especially from one like you. But do you truly wish to be enlightened?”

“If it gets you out of my way.”

The yellow eyes narrowed, and the demon let out its bizarre laugh once more. “Very well. I take of your wits, and the wisdom you have learned. Thus you shall know yourself through your mistakes, when you undoubtedly falter with foolishness. Embrace your doubts and insecurities, Cassandra of Bhaal – they are what give you strength.”

A gust of air and wind-blow grit swirled into being around the demon and forced the fighter to shield her eyes. She staggered backwards, nearly stumbling off the stairs entirely, and then it was gone. The stairway lay open, accessible, and blessedly demon-free.

She approached the door cautiously as she eyed the surroundings for any further surprises, but none came forth. The door opened easily and revealed the dimly-lit interior of the famed Candlekeep library.

“Imoen!” Her voice resounded off the shelves of books and vault-like walls, booming like thunder. “Imoen!”

“Here.” Cassandra turned her head towards the direction of the voice, and spotted a familiar figure in the northeast quarter of the library’s main foyer. “Over here…”

She resheathed her sword and steadied it with her hand as she jogged over to where the figure stood, then slowed to a confused halt as Imoen gestured for her to stay back.

“I… I can see you there,” her sister said, her voice soft and without echo even in the empty chamber.

“I’m here, Im. What’s wrong?”

The girl held a finger to her lips. “Shhhh. Before the shadows return to me. I’ve seen…. I’ve seen…” Her voice trembled and quavered. “Lead the creature here. Lead it to me, and we shall fight it together. He does not expect us together.”

Cassandra shook her head. “No. I’ll do it. Tell me how, and I’ll do it.”

“One alone cannot win.” Imoen closed her eyes and turned her head away. “Alone you would fall, win or lose.”

“I will not risk you,” she retorted, voice rising. “I’ve done that too often!”

The grey eyes opened, and the trembling voice was now strong. “Go. Lead the beast here.”

“Imoen!”

“Go, Cassie. For us both.”

Cassandra stood still for several moments, struggling between her emotions, then with a growl she turned on her heel and stalked out of the library. This was stupid. It was a dream. Why did she even care? It wasn’t the real Imoen. It wasn’t a real demon. None of it was real. Whatever imaginary beast that she was to face would also be no more than the smoke and mirrors of her own mind. Was this how she soothed her conscience at night, by torturing herself in her dreams?

The stairs of the library were clear again; the demon had taken its leave. What other creature was there, then? She cast her eye about the courtyard and saw nothing beyond the flowers planted there. She quickened into a jog once more, again steadying the sheath of her sword, and exited to the outer grounds. Left and right she scanned the horizon… and on the left stood a figure where none had stood before.

To Hell with this, she spat mentally, then raised her voice to carry across the dead air. “You there! Hey!”

The figure’s head turned in her direction, and the body quickly followed. He or she strode forward at a quick, confident pace. As the person drew nearer, details became clear. A horned helmet with a visor made of sharpened metal tines, fashioned to resemble a monster’s gaping maw; spiked metal armor tinted jet black, which encased a massive humanoid form. The dark warrior held what by all rights should have been a two-handed sword, but such was his size and power that he carried it easily with only one.

She knew him. She’d met him many times before, in dreams fouled with fear and in more nightmares than she could recall.

“Fall to your knees!” the warrior thundered.

She drew her sword. Imposing or not, it was still her dream. “Fall to yours.”

It provoked the reaction she’d expected. The dark warrior surged forward, raising the immense sword high overhead, and swung at her in massive arc. She ducked under the blow and moved inside of his range, limiting the effectiveness of the huge weapon, and drove her sword into the open faceplate of the helmet. The blade shattered teeth and bone as it pierced the roof of his mouth and skewered his brain, stopping with a dull metallic sound as the steel and the iron helmet collided.

Cassandra held it there for a moment, then yanked the blade backwards, freeing it from the corpse. The body teetered as if unsure which way to fall… and then the gaping wound drew together, re-knitting itself, teeth sprouting from the gums and settling as if nothing had occurred. The warrior looked down on her, raising an arm, and drove a spike-covered gauntlet towards her head.

Cassie dodged out of reflex and hissed in surprise as the weapon ripped a shallow furrow through the shoulder of her mail shirt and the flesh underneath. That hurt. A lot more than she’d expect from a dream. Her foe’s armored foot lashed out and caught her squarely in the right shin. Pain lashed through her leg from the impact and she fell hard to the ground, barely keeping her grip around the hilt of her blade.

“You cannot run from yourself,” the warrior warned as he advanced, once again raising the giant sword. “You cannot defeat yourself. I am the blood! I am the instinct!”

She rolled out of the way as the blade bit deep into the earth where she’d lain and tore loose clots of dirt when it was yanked free. Suddenly she wasn’t so positive that it wouldn’t do the same to her head, dream or not. She got to her feet with difficulty, pain still lancing through her right leg, and she limped out of his range, dragging her blade behind her.

Aerie used to tell her that if someone died in a dream, they died in life as well. Normally Cassie scoffed at such superstitions, but now she wasn’t so eager to put the avariel’s words to the test.

Thankfully the constant of encumbrance worked in fantasy as well as reality. Laden down with gods-only-knew how many pounds of armor and metal, the dark warrior was fierce but slow. Cassandra kept ahead of him, half-limping, half-walking, and grimaced with each painful step. She’d given the man a face full of steel and he’d not even blinked. He’d kicked her and nearly broken her leg.

One alone cannot win. She was entering the courtyard, heading towards the library, where she hoped that Imoen’s dream image knew what she was doing. She glanced behind her every few steps, partially to reassure herself he was still following and partially to reassure that he hadn’t caught up. Going up the stairs was torture, and by the time she entered the main foyer, he was already at mounting the steps.

“Imoen!” She made her way over to the figure at the back of the library. “What do I do?” When she reached her younger sister, she turned once more to check on the warrior’s progress. He was heading towards the pair unerringly, with murder in his eyes.

“Now!” Imoen pointed at the advancing swordsman. “It is within my sight. I will add my will to yours!”

Cassandra shouted and threw herself forward in a flurry of blows, the clash of sword against armor ringing through the halls of the library. She focused on being faster than her opponent, knowing she could not be stronger, and somehow here in the library, her strikes made wounds. Blood flowed, and it kept flowing, enraging the dark warrior more with every slice.

“How do you stand?” he demanded, reeling backwards. “I should devour you!” The blade of her sword slid off his chestplate with a shower of sparks and the screech of metal against metal.

“I have help,” she informed him, and shifted to strike again. Once again the blade dove into the gap of the helmet’s face plate, and this time she knew the wound would kill. She left the sword there, buried inside the man’s head, and released the hilt as she backed away.

“Help?” Somehow he managed to talk nonetheless, despite the blade protruding from his face. He laughed, bubbles of blood and gore frothing in his destroyed visage. “You are empty inside. There is nothing left. Nothing but me.”

Imoen pulled on her arm. Cassie turned around and found her sister frantically looking at herself, at her hands, her clothing, her legs, as if they’d all betrayed her. “Something’s wrong,” she breathed. “Something’s wrong!”

Imoen's breath started coming harder and faster as panic enveloped her, and she pushed Cassie violently away. “I- no- Not again! Not again!” She held her head in her hands and clenched her eyes shut. Her scream of terror reverberated through the entire keep, growing in volume and intensity as each and every echo added its voice to the fear, until Cassandra was forced to cover her ears and fall to her knees. The scream pierced her regardless, like a soul crying out in agony, until Cassie added her own voice to the chorus.

Then abruptly it was silent, and she was alone.

She awoke with the bile thick in her throat as her legs gave way beneath her. She fell forward, instinctively thrusting her hands forward to break her fall, and found herself somehow braced against empty air. She collapsed against the invisible barrier and fought back the urge to vomit.

“Well, you are a strong one indeed!”

The voice raised the bile once more, and Cassandra gagged when the bitter gall entered her mouth. The red-haired woman fought it back once more and spit out the foul taste, wiping her mouth with her hand.

“You resist beyond all reason.” The pride in his voice dipped into smug satisfaction. “A pity you are dead inside.”

Cassie got to her feet. She was encased in some manner of glass container, a jar, and slowly her memory returned to her. She vaguely remembered the journey to the island; the struggle to find entrance to the asylum was slightly more clear. What she remembered best was the betrayal, when Irenicus had revealed that he now controlled the asylum, and that the ship’s captain Saemon had been in his employ. When she’d been locked in this damnable jar to begin with, before the mage’s ritual had begun. Now it was over, and his disfigured, corpse-like face stared at her from the other side of the glass.

She spat at him, ineffectively, and glared at him with icy eyes. “Dead inside? I defeated your creature. Imoen and I defeated it, together.”

“I don’t know what you faced while mired within the spell, but here in the world of the living my plans have gone just as I wished.” Irenicus smiled. It was a tight and ugly sight. “I have drained you — drained you of the very thing that made you special. It is the worst of curses, and I should know.”

“Drained me of my Taint? You consider that a curse?”

“Hardly. I have taken your very divinity, and drained you of your soul. The curse that was wrought against Bodhi and I has now ceased and yours has begun. You will wither, you will wane, and you will die.”

“You’re not the first to underestimate me, Irenicus.”

“Oh really?” He approached the glass, the cold amusement clear in his dead black eyes. “Imoen has also been stripped of her soul. She has withered, and she is dying. I think you would agree.”

Her mind flashed back to how Imoen had seemed when they had discovered her in Spellhold. She’d been empty. Shattered. Like the broken toy of a too-rough child, too battered to do anything but await the next abuse. The memory brought the hot spark of rage back to her heart.

“If you’ve hurt her, I will kill you,” she hissed.

“I have no doubt you would,” he agreed, “but you are no longer a living threat. Bodhi!”

The svelte, pale form of the vampire materialized from the shadows of the room and crossed to the mage’s side.

“Remove this nothing,” he instructed, gesturing to the captive woman. “And Imoen as well. We no longer need them.”

Bodhi smiled sweetly at Cassandra, no doubt enjoying the reversal of fortunes since her last defeat. “As you would have it, brother.”

He turned his attention to her once more and made a small, elegant gesture of departure. “Farewell, Child of Bhaal. We shall not meet again.”

“Irenicus!” He strode out of the room, ignoring her call. “Irenicus!” She slammed her fists ineffectively against her prison walls. “I WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD, MAGE!”

The dark-haired vampiress sighed and lazily drew her clawed fingernail across the glass. It etched a fine line into its surface. “Such bravado. Such fire. Such a waste.”

She clapped her hands sharply and within seconds two more vampiric minions appeared. Cassandra tried to follow Bodhi’s motions as she manipulated the jar’s locking mechanism. There was a click, then one of the servants pulled open half of the container while the other rushed in and delivered a punch to the human’s midsection with unnatural strength and speed. Cassie doubled over, unable to hold back the bile this time, and emptied her stomach on the cage floor.

Bodhi’s nose wrinkled in distaste, and a brief gesture from her had Cassandra dragged from the glass container and thrown like a children’s doll from the platform to the room’s floor. The impact kicked the breath from her lungs and another swift punch to her stomach brought tears to her eyes.

“Don’t kill her. Not yet.”

The two lesser vampires hauled her to her feet and drug her forward between them, each one holding an arm, as Bodhi guided the way. Cassie was vaguely aware that she was being transported down a hallway and up a flight of stairs. Two large doors swung open in front of them, blinding her with a momentary wash of light. They threw her forward into some manner of large open chamber where she landed painfully on a cold tile floor. Several unmarked sacks were tossed in after her, impacting with the floor with heavy, metallic sounds, and then the doors were closed.

“Are you alright?”

Two hands helped her as she rolled onto her back. She teeth gritted against the pain of motion and fumbled for the hands. Two small, warm fingers curl around hers. A breath, another, and she opened her eyes.

“…Imoen?”

The girl smiled shakily. She was kneeling over her fallen friend, clothed in a simple smock of rough green cloth. Several small scars marred her face where none had been before, but her eyes were clearer now. “Yeah, it’s me. You’re a sight for sore eyes, I tell ya.”

Cassie reached up and took her arm, pulling the young woman into a prone embrace. Imoen went willingly, wrapping her arms around her as best she could, and buried her face in flame-red waves of Cassandra’s hair. The wetness of tears touched her neck.

“Cass, I thought I’d never see you again.”

She hugged her tighter and rested her cheek against her sister’s. Her own tears threatened to make words impossible. “I came as fast as I could, I swear.”

“I know.” Imoen returned the squeeze. “I knew you’d find me.”

“Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

Imoen pulled away slowly, a weak, forced smile barely curving her lips. “Don’t worry about me. Look at you!” The smile vanished as Imoen really did look at her, and took count of the cuts, slashes, and scars. “Holy crap, Cass, are you alright?”

She levered herself into a sitting position, grimacing again as bones shifted in ways they shouldn’t have. “I’m fine. Help me up.”

Imoen did so to the best of her abilities, despite her smaller stature. Her hands steadied the fighter from behind. Cassie’s stomach twisted again as the world tilted and spun from a wave of nausea.

“Cassie…” Imoen cupped her sister’s face in her hands, fixating her with stormy grey eyes. “You are not fine.”

“I will be. Just help me, like in the dream.”

“Dream?”

“That– that ritual he just did. The dream. You helped me kill the warrior in the library.”

“What?” Confusion and concern furrowed her brow. “I had no dream in my ritual. The whole thing was an unbearable nightmare… but I had no dreams at all. It was just blackness, all around me, and this pain like I was being ripped apart. I … I—“

She shook her head, clearing away the dark memories which had spawned, and dropped her hands from Cassandra’s face. “I’m sorry. The things he showed me. They were… they were so black and horrid. And the feelings he evoked in me were even worse.”

Cassie’s jaw tightened. Her eyes flickered back to the doorway, beyond which the ritual had taken place. Beyond which was Irenicus. “He tortured you.”

She shuddered, a tremble running visibly through her body. “‘Torture’ doesn’t even come close. …you know, he– he said he took my soul…”

Cassandra hugged her close again, offering what comfort she could. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“I’m not so sure…” She looked down at her hands, curling her fingers experimentally. “I’ve been getting a lot weaker, Cass. I don’t know how much time has passed since he... since he did whatever he did. But the effects are real.”

“Then we’ll find a way to stop it.”

“I hope so. He did the same to you, you know.” She sighed, flexing her hands one last time. “If we don’t reverse what was done, we’ll probably both die.”

An amused feminine voice spoke from above. “Oh, beyond a doubt.”

Both sets of eyes lifted. Bodhi stood on a second-floor balcony, overlooking the chamber in which they stood, and leaned against the railing with a casual smile. “Family reunion — so touching.”

“What do you want?” Imoen demanded. “Haven’t you done enough?”

“And she still has a spark.” Bodhi’s smile widened, her eyes focused on Imoen with a perverse hunger. “Fading so quickly, though. It’s a pity; you’ve proven resilient beyond all expectations. It is… appealing… to me.”

“We aren’t here to entertain you!”

“Oh, but you are,” she corrected. “My amusement is all that is keeping you alive. Irenicus wishes you dead, and he is very rarely denied his wishes.”

“Irenicus this, Irenicus that – you think too highly of him,” Cassandra spit back at her. “Get down here and do it, if that’s his demand.”

The unearthly beauty of her face darkened in a frown. “It is his demand, but I am not his lapdog, and now you are subject to my whim, not his.”

“Oh joy.” Imoen rolled her eyes.

Bodhi ignored her. She adjusted her position on the railing. “Your abilities have piqued my interest, and since you are to die I would have you do it in an entertaining fashion. Irenicus can be so dour when he wishes. He is set on revenge for his banishment and can think of nothing else. A failing of his mind remaining flesh, I suppose. But undeath has given me focus, and an interest in the abilities of powerful creatures. An interest in you.” Her smile returned. “I will make your death glorious, as well as entertaining.”

“If you want to kill me, kill me. I will not play this game.”

“Oh, but you will, Cassandra. You have no choice. You’ll run my maze like the good little mice you are.” She stepped away from the balcony and retreated into the blackness of Spellhold’s walls. “The hunt begins.”

Cassandra sighed heavily, running her left hand through her hair. “You know, I’d love to go just one god-damned week without someone trying to kill me. Just one.”

“I think she meant it,” Imoen said, voice serious. “Spellhold is one big maze designed to separate the insane from the ‘merely deviant’. We’ll be lucky to survive running from her, much less fighting her.”

Another sigh, and another reflexive run of her fingers through the crimson waves. “I need time to think, then, time to plan. We should get moving. Maybe we can find some make-shift weapons or –“ Her eyes caught the two sackcloth bags which had been thrown in after her. “What’s in those sacks?”

“Sacks? What—oh.” Imoen crouched down next to the nearest one and quickly untied the clasp with nimble fingers. One pale hand slipped in and withdrew a blood-spattered metal gauntlet. “Huh?”

“That’s my armor.” Cassandra knelt beside her and quickly helped her empty the contents of the bag. Her chain shirt, greaves, boots — dirty and bloody, but functional. “It’s all here,” she breathed in amazement. “All of it, even my sword.”

Imoen’s tone was doubtful. “I guess she wants us to have a fighting chance.”

“Check the other one.” Cassandra started buckling on what of the protective leather and metal she could by herself as Imoen rummaged through the other container.

“Uh…cloth? A robe, I think. Couple of rations – at least we won’t starve – no water though. A key. A teddy bear? What the Hell?”

Cass looked up from fastening her knee guards and blushed slightly as Imoen waved the small brown animal at her with a questioning arch of her eyebrow. “I found it,” she muttered. “Thought it might be important.”

“Oh, so it’s not for me?”

“Umm.. sure. I guess.”

The fiery eyebrow arched higher.

“Er… of course it’s for you. That’s why I got it in the first place. Cheer you up.”

Imoen’s lips curved into a mischievous smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” She dragged the bag over to her warrior sibling and let it loose as she helped fasten the armor. When she got to the pauldrons which protected her shoulders, she leaned in close with a giggling whisper. “Nice recovery, by the way.”

Cassandra stiffened at the warm touch of breath against her ear. Visions from her dreams flooded back, bringing with them a faint blush of heat. She turned her head away. “You should– We should go.”

“Okay. I’ll get the bag, you’re carrying enough as is.” She shouldered the pack, oblivious to the reaction to her teasing. “Door number one, door number two, or door number three?”

The fighter studied the archways which led into the heart of Spellhold, each one light by simple flickering torchlight. Nothing seemed especially inviting or special about any of them.

“Number two, I guess.”

“North it is. Ah Hell... wait…” Imoen put down the sack and glanced over her shoulder at the three small objects which had fallen out during her rifling through the bag. “Just a sec.”

She crossed back over to the doorway through which Cassandra had so indelicately entered and knelt to scoop up the objects. A small tin container which smelled slightly of ash, one of the handful of rations which she’d discovered, and a small book.

A spellbook? That’d be useful. She flipped it open to the first page.

Day 1

I failed her. I failed her completely. I promised I'd take care of her, never leave her side, get her free of that madman; she trusted me to do it.

She closed the book instantly and glanced over her shoulder at Cassandra. Her foster sister was adjusting one of the straps on her greaves.

Imoen pursed her lips in a moment’s hesitation. It was Cassie’s handwriting. She’d stolen her share of diaries in Candlekeep and read them all with giggling enjoyment, but they were adults now, and with all that had happened she was sure that they both had thoughts they’d prefer to keep private. But with all that had happened, all that could happen… they might not have time to catch up on ‘old times.’ Bodhi hadn’t said how long her hunt would last.

“Imoen, come on.”

“Coming, coming!” She slipped the book into her pocket, mentally cursing herself as she did so. She gathered the other two items in her hands and rushed back over to the sack, stuffing them inside.

“Okay, I’m ready.” She ensured the sack was firmly closed this time and hefted it over her shoulder. “Point the way, fearless leader.”

Cassandra glanced at her with a small frown and sighed as she turned towards the northern arch. “I wish you weren’t so confident in me.”

“Hey, it’s all I’ve got.”

---

They’d explored for nearly two hours before increasingly frequent bouts of nausea had doubled Cassie over twice in ten minutes. Imoen had declared it time to stop for the night. The young mage had scouted out an empty room, some manner of fabric storeroom it seemed, and they’d decided that sleep was worth the risk. As Imoen had pointed out over her foster-sister’s objections, sleeping might get them killed – exhaustion would get them killed.

“Do you think we’ll make it?”

Cassandra glanced back from the door as she levered the make-shift bar into place. She gave the door a hard, experimental tug. “I don’t know.” It rattled but remained in place. “Guess it depends on how good a hunter Bodhi is.”

“Y’know, if she weren’t such a bitch, she’d be beautiful.”

She cast back another questioning glance. “Who, Bodhi? Beautiful?”

“Yeah, y’know, good-looking.” Imoen was seated next to the far wall, in the space between two large rolls of colorful cloth, digging through the pack of supplies which had accompanied Cassandra into Spellhold. She didn’t look up as she spoke. “Believe me, both their faces are permanently etched into my head. Bodhi’s got this look, y’know? She’s really gorgeous, like some gothic Sunite priestess almost, but she’s such a bitch.”

“Ever tell her that?”

“Umm… once. After that I dropped the ‘beautiful’ part and just went straight to ‘bitch.’”

“And why are you telling me this?”

She pulled out a tubular leather case and eyed it with curiosity. “What’s this?”

“Scroll case, I think.”

“Scrolls?” Her eyes lit up and she immediately unclasped the lock to get at the parchments within. “And I’m just trying to make conversation. I don’t really know what to talk about, I guess,” she admitted. “This isn’t exactly a normal reunion.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Pale pink lips pursed together in a low whistle of appreciation as she flipped through the scrolls. “You’re a life-saver, Cass. Where’d you get these?” She glanced up at last, and her eyes flashed when she saw the fighter still adjusting the barricade. “And what are you still doing standing up? Sit down already!”

Cassandra gave the door one last tug. It was as sturdy as it would ever be. Hopefully it’d be enough. Whatever came to get them would have to bust down the door to get in.

She crossed the twelve feet to her companion and began the laborious process of unbuckling and untying the pounds of armor which she’d put on a few hours earlier. “Just ran across them on the way. I had Nalia – mage I met on the way, nice girl, you’d’ve liked her – look them over and tell me which ones were the best. I figured they’d come in handy.”

“Definitely! If we can get a good night’s sleep – well, a good week’s sleep – then between your sword and my magic we could give Bodhi a run for her money.” Imoen’s eyes flickered upward from the scrolls again. “Don’t take that off! We just got it on you.”

“What do you want me to do, sleep in it?”

“Yes! What if we’re attacked?”

“Do you have any idea how much this weighs? There’s no possible way I can sleep in it.”

“Sure you can. Just find a comfortable position.”

Cassie sighed. “Imoen—“

“Sit!” Her hand snuck up and grasped the redhead’s wrist, giving her an insistent pull. She smiled in satisfaction when the her sibling complied. “Good girl.”

“I really can’t sleep in this,” Cassandra objected, wincing slightly at the sound of stone-against-metal as she wriggled to find even a decent way to sit in eighty pounds of armor. “It’s impossible.”

“Would you just hush?” Imoen said. “I’m going to have to study these scrolls all night to get them memorized by morning.”

“I thought you needed sleep?”

She shrugged, brushing her own red waves back behind her ear. The two friends shared a similar coloring, though Cassie’s hair was shot through with strands of blond which gave it a fire-like look, while Imoen’s was a rich, dark auburn. “One of us will have to keep watch, and you’ve been through a Hell of a lot more than me. Today, at least.”

“I told you, I can’t sleep—“

“Geez, I heard you the first time!” Imoen placed aside the scrolls with an annoyed sigh and shot her foster-sister a dark look. The anger dissipated immediately and with an apologetic smile she scooted closer to the seated woman and patted the leather on her leg.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I just—well, you’re here, right? Because you came, I’m free tonight. And maybe it’s just for tonight, but it’s something. I just want to make the best of it, y’know?”

“Fine. Let’s talk then.”

“About what?”

Cassandra shrugged. “Anything. Pick a subject.” Anything would be better than sitting and dwelling on just how bad the situation was.

Imoen pursed her lips thoughtfully, going silent for several minutes. When she finally spoke her voice had become soft and her expression completely serious. “You really took your time coming to rescue me, didn’t you?”

Her eyebrow shot up in surprise. “What?”

“I mean– don’t get me wrong, Cass, I’m incredibly grateful.” Imoen tucked her hair back behind her ears, a nervous gesture she’d had since childhood. “But it felt like an eternity just waiting, wondering if you’d arrive.”

Cassandra’s lips drew together as well, her defensive ire slowly subsiding. That hadn’t been a topic she’d expected. She turned several possible answers over in her mind, discarding most of them. Imoen didn’t need to know everything. Not even most of it. Especially after what’d she’d been through.

“I didn’t really know where to start looking for you.” She spoke slowly and stuck to the basics. “I had to pay twenty-thousand gold just to find out you were in Spellhold, then I had to charter a boat to the island and figure out how to get into the damn place.”

Grey eyes widened. “Twenty thousand gold? Where’d you get all that cash?”

More memories better left buried. Cassie faked a smile. “C’mon, you don’t need to concern yourself about those things. Just know that I got all of it.”

She looked dubious, but let the subject fall. “Okay… but then, how did you get into Spellhold?”

This time her smile was genuine, as was the blush of embarrassment. “I– ah– I dunno if– yeah…”

“Mmm hmm…?”

The blush grew by leaps and bounds. “I, umm, acted completely nuts so the Pirate Lord would send me here.”

“Hah! I’d’ve loved to see you in that situation. C’mon, give me details!”

“No way.”

“Way! C’mon, Cass, tell me!” Imoen giggled. “Judging from how red you are, it’s gotta be juicy. Please?”

“No!”

“Awww, don’t be such a spoil sport. It’s me, remember? You can tell me anything.”

“And you’ll tell half of Faerûn.”

She held up her hand, one finger raised. “Pinkie swear; I won’t tell a soul. You can even whisper it to me; not even the walls’ll hear. C’mon, pleeeeease?”

“Damn you and your silver tongue. Fine— You come over here, since I’m the one encased in metal.”

Imoen let out a whoop of joy, then scooted close when Cassandra beckoned her. “C’mon, tell, tell!”

“Brat.” She leaned forward, cupping her hands around the redhead’s eager ear and somehow managed to stammer out each increasingly awkward detail.

“Oh…my…gods. You didn’t!” Imoen stared at her with wide-eyed astonishment. “Are you serious?”

The furious heat in her cheeks was answer enough.

“Oh…my…” The astonishment gave way to delighted laughter. “I don’t believe you! I mean – wow – that would be a stretch even for me! No wonder Desharik thought you were crazy!”

The giggles gradually subsided, and as they did Imoen's expression slowly melted into a mixture of affection, surprise, and gratitude. “You know… I can’t believe you did all that just to rescue me. I mean, I knew you cared for me... but all this? I– I didn’t know I was so…appreciated.”

“I couldn’t leave you,” Cassie admitted softly. “I–” I failed you too often already. She took a deep breath and banished the thought. “You mean too much to me.” The next three words were barely voiced. “Way too much.”

“You... you really mean that?” The joy in her smile and brightness in her eyes was heartbreakingly genuine. Imoen took her hand and squeezed it tightly, mindless that the metal gauntlet ruined the gesture.

“Thank you, Cassandra. Thank you for coming, and for your kind words. I really needed something like that.”

“I guess everyone needs something like that sometimes.”

“Yeah.”

A comfortable silence fell over them, and for several minutes nothing could be heard but the gentle rhythm of their breath. Imoen laid her head against Cassandra’s shoulder, seemingly unbothered by the rigid riveted steel. Cassie rested her cheek against her hair and drew in a slow, deep breath. Her scent was a mixture of dust and sweat from their trek through the halls, but it wasn’t unpleasant at all.

So here we are. Cassandra bit her lower lip pensively. All the effort, all the pain, the struggle, the death, the loss: it’d all led up to this.

And now what? Here she’d come, the knight in battered armor, charging in to save the day – and here they were. Surely it wouldn’t end like this. After sacrificing so much, only to die as some twisted entertainment? A simple barred door wouldn’t stop a vampire. Swords and armor wouldn’t stop a vampire. Imoen had magic, but… it was a long shot. A very long shot.

And even if they escaped the undead, there was still the matter of Irenicus and his unholy ritual. If what he said was true, they were dying anyways.

So what do you talk about when you’re dying?

“You asleep?”

Cassandra shook her head. “Not yet.”

“You should be. Yeah, yeah, I know – the armor.” Imoen straightened, stretching her arms overhead. “Fortunately, that’s why you have me. Here, lay down.”

Cassie eyed Imoen’s proffered lap dubiously. “On you?”

“Yup.”

“But how are you—“

“Let me worry about me,” she said. “You just lay down.”

She awkwardly maneuvered herself into a prone position, trying to find a comfortable compromise between crushing herself and crushing her sister in fourscore pounds of metal. When she finally seemed to have found a tolerable spot, she found her head in Imoen’s lap, looking up at her sister’s watchful grey eyes.

“Comfy?”

“No.”

“Eh.” Imoen shrugged, smilingly slightly. “Can’t win’em all. Any last words before I put you to sleep?”

“Put me to sleep?”

Her fingertip touched Cassie’s lips. “I’m a sorceress, remember? We get cool tricks like that.”

“Ah.”

“So, any last words?”

I’m sorry. Forgive me. The dreams sprung to mind again: Imoen’s image holding her and weeping against her chest, begging her to make the pain stop. The hollowness that lived in her eyes now, so visible when her thoughts were far away. And the damnable desire to hold her, to caress her, and take it all away.

“No last words,” she murmured.

“Well I have some. I missed you, Cassie. I can’t even begin to tell you how much. And I know things aren’t going all that well, but being with you again is worth it.” Imoen smiled again, but this time it spoke of sadness instead of joy. Teardrops glittered unshed in her eyes. “Y’know… If I’m gonna die, I’d rather die with you.”

Cassandra raised her hand and laid it against the redhead’s cheek. “I don’t want you to die, Im.”

She reached out her hand to Cassie’s face. “Close your eyes.”

She did as bidden, and the touch of unseen fingertips on her eyelids brought on a sudden lethargy. She managed only a few more words before the arcane slumber overtook her.

“Imoen.”

“Yeah, Cass?”

“I missed you too.”

“I know.”

The night’s sleep had proved a wise decision. The second day in Spellhold’s maze had proven thus far more interesting than the first. The friends had run afoul of several small skirmishes with the building’s inhabitants, most of which were of the six- or eight-legged variety, and most of which were three to five feet long.

The giant spiders and quick-moving sword-spiders were not much of a problem for Cassandra; large as they were, their fangs were incapable of piercing metal. One bite had punctured the leather of her cuisse, leaving two bloody holes in her lower thigh, but the wound did not seemed to be poisoned.

Beyond the vermin, though, the exploration had proven almost routine. Bodhi had apparently lain no traps and was in no hurry to end her little game. Cassandra wagered, though, that once there had been considerably more creatures inhabiting the maze. Spiders simply could not grow so large without some manner of ample prey. Perhaps they’d done the women a favor by being such ravenous eaters.

“So I guess we’re really related, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, other than being adopted.”

Imoen fell silent for a moment, gesturing for Cassandra to do the same, as she crept ahead to the end of the hallway and cautiously peered around the corner. The next chamber was unoccupied, just as the last three had been. She waited for Cassie to catch up and then continued her train of thought.

“I mean, Gorion adopted us, right? So we were always kinda related, I guess. We’ve always acted liked sisters, and we’ve always looked like sisters – Hell, we could almost be twins – but now... if we’re both Bhaalspawn, then we really are sisters, right?”

Cassandra’s brow furrowed slightly. “I guess so. But I don’t think that Bhaal was exactly your normal everyday dad. Gods only know – literally – how our mothers got pregnant.”

“True– oh!” She bounced excitedly. “Maybe we have the same mom, too!”

“I really doubt that.”

“It’s possible! Maybe that’s why we look so alike.” Her tone became a sing-song list of similarities. “I’ve got red hair, you’ve got red hair; I’ve got grey eyes, you’ve got blue eyes; I’m bubbly and good-looking, you’re.... well, I’m bubbly and good-looking.” She giggled happily. “Kidding, ‘course. I guess you’re kinda bubbly.”

Cassie arched an eyebrow.

“I’m kidding!” Imoen stuck her tongue out at her sibling. “Anyways – So I’m short, you’re not quite as short, blah blah blah...” Her hands pantomimed a mouth opening and closing. “You really think that’s all coincidence?”

If not... Cassandra winced slightly. She’d been able to wriggle, squirm, and squeeze her way around the queasy moral sickness which had haunted her for the past month by rationalizing that they weren’t really related. Adopted sisters... adopted sisters, that wasn’t so bad, was it? No family ties forsaken, no bloodline made impure. If they just grew up together—

And here she was trying to justify it. She shuddered. Be they adopted or be they blood-twins, it didn’t make a difference. It was sick.

“I– I don’t know,” she responded. A frown crept onto her lips, and with a sudden resolve of determination she forced herself to continue the thought. Imoen deserved to know. “I hope we aren’t.”

Imoen glanced over her shoulder surprisedly as she rounded the next corner. “You do?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why do ya say that?”

“Just–” What’re you going to do, Cass? Admit it? the voice in her head sneered. “I just– I don’t know,” she sighed. The resolve was gone. Coward! “Just ignore me.”

Confusion and hurt replaced the surprise in her words. “...you wish you weren’t—Cass, look out!”

Imoen lunged towards her, but whatever she’d seen behind the warrior got there first. Something latched onto her and pulled her backwards, off-balance, and threw her against the northern wall. A scream of rage echoed through the hallway: a human-sounding scream.

Cassandra let herself slip to the floor, figuring that it was the last thing an opponent would expect her to do. A normal defender’s reaction would be to stay standing, to draw a sword and fight. A normal aggressor’s response would be to grab onto the shoulders for leverage while they drove a blade into your belly.

“Back off, freak!” Imoen stretched forth her hands and bright lances of reddish energy shot forth, each one striking its target unerringly. A sizzling sound and the smell of burnt flesh began to fill the air.

Cass finally got a good look at her attacker. He was of average size, with pale, whitish skin and a bald head. Definitely human – or used to be. His reddish eyes and long, pointed canines could have signalled a werewolf, but coupled with his corpse-like pallor, his true nature was clear: a vampire.

Another volley of magic bolts sprung from Imoen’s hands. They burnt into his flesh, eating holes as large as apples, but he paid it no mind. His expression was crazed and rabid, and she doubted he could feel the pain at all. He wasn’t fooled by her misdirection; one clawed hand seized her shoulder and lifted her up from the floor, while the other raked across her chest. The sheer force behind the blow took her breath away, even though the protective gear kept her skin intact.

Cassandra brought her free arm up and slammed her elbow into the creature’s face. She delivered three quick, hard blows before his grip relented. She tried to maneuver away from the wall, to get some space so that she could draw her blade, but he was upon her again in a heartbeat. His hand closed around hers on the hilt of the sword and squeezed with inhuman strength. She felt the metal of the gauntlet crumple under the pressure and knew her bones would soon do the same.

He opened his mouth, exposing the yellowed fangs, and went for her neck: the one move you could always count on a vampire to try. Cassie growled and shoved her other hand between his teeth before he found his target. Her thumb remained outside and hooked under his lower jaw. She tightened her grip and hung on when he reflexively jerked backwards to free himself, letting his own momentum pull them away from the wall and using his flesh as rein and bit to turn him and slam him into the bricks.

The sound of cracking bone rewarded her, and the grip on her sword hand was gone. She unsheathed the blade and yanked her hand free of his mouth, breaking off several teeth along the knuckle rivets. She drew the blade across his stomach from right to left, slicing open a gaping, bloodless wound where the intestines should have been. He tried to push away from the wall, but Cassie had another plan. She’d already shifted the blade to chest-height and angled it so that the flat lay parallel to the floor. A quick thrust and it slid forward, easily passing between the ribs, and skewered the creature’s heart.

There was a moment of silence, and then the body disintegrated in a shower of ash and bone.

“Cass…” Imoen’s footsteps approached from behind, then a low whistle of appreciation. “You made that look almost easy.”

“Lots of practice.” She lowered the sword slowly, eyeing the remains lest some unexpected surprise appear. When she was satisfied he was truly dead, she placed it back in her sheath.

“Guess the hunt’s over.” Grey eyes scanned the surroundings. “What now?”

Her armor had done its duty well, but the vampire’s claws had rent the chainmail shirt with four parallel gouges, slicing through the metal and leaving the strips dangling unconnected. It was useless now. Her hand in the damaged gauntlet had begun to tingle and throb. She gingerly rocked her hand and fingers free of the warped glove and then pulled the shirt over her head, letting them both drop to the ground with a loud rattle.

“My armor’s ruined. Upper body, at least.”

Imoen looked her over, tapping experimentally on the pieces which were left. “You’ve still got your leg coverings, and your shoulder plates.”

“I don’t think a vampire’s going to go for my knees.”

“Hey, it’s better than nothing. C’mon, let’s go. Bodhi can’t be very far, she wouldn’t let us die without a chance to watch.”

“Wait…” Cassandra frowned. “I’m not sure he was one of Bodhi’s. He wasn’t either of the ones that I saw.”

“Really?”

She shook her head. “I only saw two, though. Did you recognize him?”

Imoen pursed her lips thoughtfully for a moment.. “Bodhi only had four lackeys that I saw around, and only one of them was bald. I don’t think that was him, but I dunno for sure. Didn’t get a good enough look.”

She toed the ashes, crushing a half-charred bone underfoot as she glanced down the hall. “We keep moving, then. Keep alert, just in case.”

The younger mage fell back into step immediately. “Always do.”

“I half hope he was one of Bodhi’s spawn. If we have to deal with her, her minions, and some resident enclave of Spellhold vampires, we are so screwed.”

“Eh, we’ll deal,” Imoen responded. “I’m just glad it wasn’t another puzzle. If I have to talk to one more statue, wall, hat-stand, or whatever idiotic animated object, I swear I’ll scream. It’s like some fucked-up fairytale.”

“You’d rather face a horde of vampires than answer a few riddles?”

“Well, normally, no,” she admitted. “But honestly, Cass, they’re really bad riddles.”

No further attacks were encountered as they wandered the halls for a second day. When it came time to rest Imoen again located a suitably defensible room, this one larger than the last. It was empty of all belongings save a few dust-covered chairs; whatever function it had once served was lost to the years. The door did not lock nor was there a way to bar it, but the younger sister’s magic came to the rescue once again. She set up a warded area just outside in the hallway, an alarm which would sound whenever the site was disturbed. They couldn’t keep their captors out, but they could at least have warning if they were on the way in.

They shared the last two rations from the equipment sack and some of the water they’d collected from a marble basin. They weren’t sure how safe it was, but they needed water badly enough to take the risk. There was no means to make fire, but Imoen’s small magic lights were a godsend. One glowed merrily not far away as they prepared to bed down for the night.

Imoen watched Cassie as the latter unbuckled her remaining armor and moved it to the floor. She’d refused outright to sleep in it a second night, citing a myriad of aches and pains that she swore was not from recent struggles.

“Y’know, there’s a spell called mage armor that would really be good for you.”

“Got it memorized?”

“Yeah, but you can’t cast it on other people. It’s a self-targeting spell,” she explained. “I was thinking more that I maybe I could try teaching you some magic.”

“Im, I don’t know the first thing about magical theory. All I know is you say some words, wiggle your pinky, and suddenly it’s raining frogs.”

“I know that, silly, but everyone starts off knowing nothing. It’s just like wielding a sword, right? I betcha the first time you picked up a sword you didn’t know how to use it either.”

Cass wrinkled her nose. “I’ll leave the magic to you. I have enough on my mind right now. No offense, sis.”

She shrugged. “None taken, just an offer.”

Cassandra tossed the last of the armor into the corner and sat down cross-legged, pulling the equipment sack over to herself. The sight jogged Imoen’s memory. She’d been debating what to do with the diary for most of the last day. Normally the lure of mischief would have been prize enough to just keep it, with Cassie none the wiser, but things had changed in the last year. Especially in the last month.

“Hey, uh, Cass.”

“Hrm?”

Imoen sat down next to her, also crossing her legs, and adjusted the hem of the green smock around her knees. “I kinda borrowed something. Your diary.”

Blue eyes shot up, her hands on the sack abruptly still. “You what?”

“Hey, hear me out. I only read the first entry. I was gonna read more, yeah, but… that’s your personal stuff, I know, and I felt bad about it.” Imoen drew the journal out of her pocket and laid it on Cassandra’s leg. “So I figured I’d ask permission.”

The older girl laid her hand on the book, fingering its spine. “You want permission to read my diary?” Her tone indicated it was unlikely.

“No. I want you to read it to me.”

Cassie’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. Imoen tried to explain.

“We’ve both been through so much, Cass. And changed so much. I know you’re not the little freckle-faced girl I grew up with, and I’m sure as Hell not the same person I was two months ago.”

She brushed the hair out of her face, her voice slowly becoming increasingly soft. “I—I don’t know how to really bridge that gap, y’know? How do you talk about things like that? How do you– how do you share something like that? But here it is, all written down—“ she tapped the cover of the journal “—everything you went through. Everything that kept us apart. Maybe this is a way for me to get to know who you are now… you know what I mean?”

“And,“ she continued before Cassandra could answer, “I’m not asking for you to lay bare your soul for nothing.” Her finger now tapped her own forehead. “I don’t have a diary, but I got everything locked away up here. You asked me what he did to me.”

“And if I show you mine, you’ll show me yours.”

A weak smile. “Something like that. Believe me, it’s not something I’m looking forward to talking about…but fair is fair.” She winked, the smile strengthening into something more sincere. “Plus I’m dying to know what you wrote about me.”

Cassie’s eyes went to the worn and damaged cover of the book on her leg. Thirty-odd days of thoughts and emotions, condensed into as many pages. She knew without looking which pages bore bloody fingerprints and teardrop stains. She knew how few did not.

“I don’t think you’ll like what you hear, Im.”

“That’s okay. Neither will you.”

She bit her lip and glanced at the diary again. “Imoen– Im, there’s stuff in there… I don’t think you realize—“

She leaned forward, placing her hand on Cassie’s own, and stared into her eyes. “There is nothing you can tell me, nothing you could have written, that is any worse than what I have already been through. Trust me.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I want to. That’s why I’m asking this.”

The fighter sighed and rested her forehead in her hands. “Im… I don’t want you to hate me.”

“Cass.” Imoen gently touched beneath her chin and lifted the red-head’s gaze to hers. “Don’t you think I’m afraid of that, too?”

Their gazes held for several moments as Cassandra weighed the request. At length she gave in and picked up the journal, hands trembling as she opened to the first page.

“Where do we start?”

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Imoen queried, scooting closer.

”No,” she answered honestly, then repeated her question. “Where do we start?”

She squeezed Cassie’s hand reassuringly. “I already read the first entry.”

She slowly turned the pages until the next section appeared. “So… you just want me to read it out loud?”

The mage shrugged slightly, now shoulder to shoulder with her sibling. “Well... read it, then tell me what really happened. I’m sure there’s lots of stuff you remember that you didn’t write down.”

“Okay…” She scanned the page to refresh her memory and gave a mental sigh of relief. This one was innocent enough.

She cast a glance at Imoen, who gave her fingers another squeeze, and then started to read.

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 2 - "Fame and Fortune"

Tenthday, ere Eleint (Day 3)

The City of Coin indeed. I have been made an offer of assistance. Some grand, unknown benefactor will help me to locate and rescue Imoen...for twenty thousand gold. How I'm supposed to raise such an amount I've no idea. Given a few years, doubtlessly I could. But I do not have years! I have days, maybe weeks. And short of robbing everyone I come across, I see no way to raise such an amount so quickly.

It galls me still that a price has been laid upon her life, even a high one. Jaheira and I discovered a nest of slavers in the grand City of Coin, and I am all too aware that Imoen could be destined for such a fate. I swear, if so much as one finger is laid on her, if so much as a single copper trades hands with her in the balance...

But enough talk, and enough worriful thinking. We have some leads, Jaheira and I. Doubtlessly breaking the slave ring is worth a healthy reward, and an insufferable noble girl has asked us to help liberate her lands from invading bandits. Where there are the rich, there are their riches.

“This is hopeless. Where in Faerûn am I supposed to find twenty thousand gold? There are kings who lack that much!”

Jaheira’s exotic elven eyes glanced over. “We will find a way.”

A small snort of frustration. “It’s hopeless,” she repeated.

“Only if you insist on such negativity.”

“Easy for you to say. You didn’t lose—“ Cassandra bit the words off with an audible click of her jaw. Didn’t lose someone you love, she’d been about to say.

One honey-brown eyebrow arched as Jaheira turned to face her. The druid’s lightly-accented words were casual enough, but Cass could hear her infamous temper gathering underneath. “Would you like to finish your sentence, Cassandra?”

“Ah... no. Sorry.”

Jaheira had lost someone. They’d found Khalid, her husband, when escaping from Irenicus’ underground lair. His body had been mutilated almost beyond recognition, dissected as if he were nothing more than a frog or toad. It wasn’t easy for her say, and doubtlessly she knew a much deeper pain than Cassandra did. At least Imoen was alive, for now. At least there was that hope. Jaheira had only memories.

“Good,” she responded sharply. “Let’s finish here.”

Cassandra followed the advice and returned her attention as best she could to the weapons rack before her. Several different sizes and shapes of swords rested against the oaken stand, points dug into the earthen floor; spears were propped against the wall; maces and flails hung from pinions. She could use most of them adequately – well enough not to injure herself, at least. The swords and spears were gaining most of her consideration, though.

It just wasn’t fair. Her mind kept coming back to that. Imoen hadn’t even known that magic was illegal; what right did they have to arrest her? She’d been defending herself! It wasn’t fair of her to be taken, and it wasn’t fair that Gaelen Bayle and his mysterious employer were demanding a king’s ransom to reveal her location.

But Jaheira was right – she usually was, despite her quarrelsome and demanding ways. They’d find a way. They had to.

“Finding everything you need?” The proprietor of the Adventure Mart had ambled over to check on the two women. Ribald, he’d introduced himself as. He wasn’t quite as vulgar as his name suggested.

“Quite, Mr. Barterman.”

“If you need any help—“

Jaheira turned on him, her muffled ire from earlier leaping at a chance to be expressed. “If we need help, we will ask — which we did not. Understood?”

“Ah... yes. Understood. My apologies.”

The druid snorted her disdain as he quickly made his retreat. “I swear, this city is insufferable.” Her eyes flicked back to Cassandra, who wondered if she was included in the judgment.

The redhead sighed softly. “Let’s just buy the gear and get out of here.”

“I am waiting on you.” The banded mail armor Jaheira had chosen was already at the front desk, and she held both a scimitar and a medium-sized wooden shield in her hands.

Cassandra glanced at her selection so far: a suit of hardened leather, strengthened by hundreds of small brass studs, and a basic but functional longsword. She’d been playing for the last several minutes with the idea of a secondary weapon, one with a bit of reach, but hadn’t been able to decide. Now she plucked the steel-tipped spear from the rack. It wasn’t like they were paying for it anyways. “I’m ready.”

“It is about time.” She turned sharply and walked away with her firm, confident stride, and called out to the young woman standing nervously at the front of the store. “Lady De’Arnise. We are ready.”

The girl’s elaborate green silken skirt twirled as she turned and approached the merchant’s counter at Jaheira’s call. She pursed her lips as she looked over the various items the two women had gathered.

“That's all?”

Cassandra hefted the leather armor onto the counter with a loud, dull thunk. "Yes."

Nalia De'Arnise regarded both the collection of gear and the two women with a growing air of doubt. Two sets of armor and two weapons each hardly looked sufficient for the task that lay ahead. "What if your shields should break or your armor be damaged? Don't you need reserves? Or transport? Money is no object."

"We already have horses," Cassie reminded her. "And this is enough; we can't carry the entire store."

The young woman studied her for a moment before giving in. “Fine. Whatever you want, so long as you get those brutes off my lands. I’ll meet you back at the Copper Coronet and we’ll leave in the morning.”

“Okay, fine.” Cassie had already moved over to where Jaheira stood speaking with the storekeep, and barely registered Nalia as she left the store.

“Everything okay, Jah?”

“Everything is bought and paid for.”

That didn’t quite answer Cassandra’s question, and she noted with amusement the dark glare with which the woman eyed the merchant. Apparently this particular round of haggling had not gone in Jaheira’s favor.

“Good. Let’s get going, then.”

Barterman’s ears perked up. “To the circus?”

“Circus?”

“Ah, I thought you might be buying equipment to check on the circus troubles.”

“No.” Jaheira’s response was flat and to the point.

Cassandra, however, was not so eager to dismiss a potential lead. “What circus troubles? If we can help, I’m sure we’ll try,” she added quickly, silencing the druid’s objection with a sharp look.

“Well, I don’t know for sure, miss,” he said slowly. “I overheard a customer earlier this evening say that the animal trainer had run away and that a few people who’d gone into the tent hadn’t come back out. The city guard had to block off the entrance.”

“Really? Is it the animals?”

“Couldn’t say. You might ask the guardsmen, if you’re interested.” He smiled broadly. “And of course feel free to recommend them to my store. Professional military get a discount!”

“Do they?” Jaheira’s eyebrow nearly shot into her hairline. “And we did not?”

“Well, you aren’t—“

“Is that why you charge such outrageous prices? Do you assume that because we are women that we cannot be ‘professional’?”

“Well, no, but—“

“If so, I am more than willing to correct your ignorance.”

The shopkeep attempted to stammer out a reply under the druid’s piercing stare and was saved the necessity of it by Cassandra’s interruption.

“Just keep it in mind for next time we’re in,” she informed him, gathering up Jaheira’s new belongings and shoving them into her arms. She grabbed her own and headed for the door with a quick stride.

“Next time? I have no patience with a man who insults his customers with his ill-considered—“

Cassie’s hand pushed her forward slightly, interrupting the woman’s tirade. “Just walk.”

Narrowed green eyes were cast back to the human with ire. “I suggest you not do that again, lest—“

“Gods and minions, Jaheira, just walk!”

The older woman immediately went silent – an icy silence that promised Cassie would get an earful about the issue later. Nevertheless the fighter was grateful when the Adventurer’s Mart door closed behind them. Anything was better than watching some poor soul get eviscerated by Jaheira’s razor-sharp tongue.

The silence persisted until the brightly yellow and white stripes of the main circus tent became visible as they crossed Waukeen’s Promenade. It was Cassandra who finally spoke.

“Want to?” she asked, tilting her head towards the tent and the lone watchman who warded off the passers-by.

“Obviously you are in charge here,” came the response.

“C’mon, Jah, lighten up. You just don’t need to rip into people every time they make a mistake.”

“I do no so such thing.”

“You do too, and you know you do.”

Silence again. Whatever her opinion, she was keeping it to herself. For now, at least; Cassandra knew she’d speak her mind about it sooner or later, and may the gods protect whoever was in earshot at the time.

Well, if I’m in charge here... Cassandra walked over to the guardsman, who immediately held out his pike to bar her approach.

“Halt! This tent has been closed off for your own safety, citizen. The circus is closed until this matter is resolved.”

“What matter, exactly?”

“We’re not exactly sure. There was no problem until a show was scheduled earlier in the morning. Apparently the show began well enough, and then something occurred.” He glanced reflexively over his shoulder at the tightly-shut curtains of the tent. “Nobody has come out of the tent who went in for the show… and no one we have sent in to investigate has come out, either. Foul magic is, no doubt, involved here. We are waiting for the Cowled Wizards to arrive. They will be able to solve this, I am sure.”

“Doubtlessly by arresting all involved.”

Cassandra shot Jaheira a warning look. It was probably true, though. “Nobody at all has gotten out?”

“Well…we have been told that one of the animal trainers darted out after the show began, but we have not been able to find him as of yet.”

Barterman had mentioned the animal trainer as well, and this corroboration gave her a pretty firm idea of what had gone wrong. Jaheira’s knowledge of nature and its creatures would make this an easy job.

“We can handle ourselves,” she informed him. “Mind if we take a look?”

He looked doubtful. “I can’t guarantee your safety if you enter the tent, citizen.”

“You don’t need to.” She motioned to Jaheira. “Let’s go.”

“Is this really worth our time, Cassandra?”

Cass smiled and made an elaborate flourish with her new sword. “I have to test it sometime. Besides, it’s a circus tent with some wild animals and a few freaks inside. We’ll be in and out in fifteen minutes.”

Jaheira followed the human’s lead and began to suit up. “If you think it is wise...” Her expression indicated she thought otherwise, as her pale green eyes studied the tent.

“I do. C’mon.”

Cassandra pushed open the flap of the tent and stepped inside. She stopped abruptly just inside the entrance and heard Jaheira’s footsteps do the same.

The interior of the tent wasn’t a tent at all. It was a vast, wide-open chamber – which, from all appearances, lay beneath a clear night sky. Pinpoint stars slowly became visible as her eyes adjusted from the afternoon sun outside the tent to the darkness of this new realm. A building stood a few hundred feet ahead on the other side of a thin bridge of land. The white stone walls were pristine and crisp in appearance, fit for a palace or a temple. The land around it was clean and manicured.

She looked behind them. The doorway they’d just entered was gone. Behind them lay nothing but an endless stretch of void. Jaheira was watching her with a cool, accusatory gaze.

“Fifteen minutes, you said?”

“Well...” By all rights they should have been inside the tent; granted, a large tent, but a tent nonetheless. What she saw was physically impossible. “Fifteen minutes might have been too optimistic.”

“Really?” She couldn’t tell whether Jaheira was annoyed or amused. Possibly both.

Cassie looked towards the large palace building, then back to the emptiness behind them, then back to the palace once more. “I guess we go forward.”

The two approached the strange bridge of earth with a mixture of caution and curiosity. It seemed solid enough, and while Cassie’s eyes could make out little in the darkness, Jaheira’s elvensight detected no obstructions. Cassandra kept her sword out regardless. She’d learned a lot about survival in the last year and a half, after leaving Candlekeep – including that it was wiser to expect trouble than not to.

They had barely reached the halfway point when a small whirlwind of dust arose from the empty earth and formed itself into the semblance of a man.

“Aha! I see a wayfarer has come to amuse Kalah!” It addressed Cassandra. “You must answer a riddle, naturally, before I will allow you to pass this bridge. Are you ready to hear it?”

“A riddle?”

Jaheira was more interested in the name. “Kalah?”

“Yes, a riddle. And yes, Kalah. Are you hard of hearing, humans?”

The druidess bristled slightly. “I am half-elven. Are you blind of vision, spirit?”

“Whatever. Are you ready for the riddle?”

“I’d prefer to know who this Kalah is, before I play any of your games,” Cassie responded.

“Kalah does not reveal himself to those who are not worthy.”

“I do not answer riddles for those who are unseen. And I’m tired of random genies meddling in my affairs.”

“Regardless, you must answer the riddle. Here it is: A princess is as old as the prince will be, when the princess is twice as old as the prince was, when the princess’ age was half the sum of their present age. How old are the prince and the princess now?”

“Twice as old as...” Her lips creased into a frown. “Bloody Hell! I am not going to answer that; I can’t even understand it!”

“Kalah does not speak to the stupid,” the dust-man responded. “Perhaps your companion has an inkling of intelligence...?” The odd, sunken eyeholes turned to Jaheira.

“Spirit.” Cassandra drew his attention back to her. “Do you know who I am?”

“Not at all.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, leaning a bit closer to the creature. “Do you know what I am?”

The question gave him pause. He studied her, seemingly looking her over with the odd, empty eyes, and after a moment gave a slow and reluctant answer. “I can feel the darkness in your blood, godchild. But nothing beyond that.”

When it came to intimidation, being a Bhaalspawn had its advantages. “Then would you like to move aside?”

“Even if I did, I could not. The magic which binds me is strong.”

“Stronger than your sense of self-preservation?”

The spirit chuckled. “You are not that strong yet – although doubtlessly some day you will be.”

Dammit. So much for her fearsome reputation. “Fine,” she growled. “Repeat the riddle.”

He did so. She still didn’t understand it. “Jaheira? Ideas?”

The blond fighter shook her head and shrugged slightly.

Great. So… if the prince was twice as old as the princess—no, it was the princess who was twice as old as the prince, when the princess was half as old… no… Well, shit. She couldn’t even get the riddle right, much less figure out how to solve it. What did this Kalah expect, a troupe of sages knocking on his door?

“Twenty-five and forty,” she blurted, tossing out the first numbers that came to mind. “Prince and princess, respectively.”

“Good guess, godchild. Wrong, but a good guess.” It slowly began to dissolve back into the earth from which it had come, and within moments was nothing more than a small lump of inert grains of sand.

Cassie’s forehead wrinkled in utter confusion. “That’s it?” she asked, to no one in particular. “All that trouble, just so it could tell me I was wrong?”

“Apparently.” Jaheira nudged the dirt where it had disappeared. “Rather anticlimatic, I think.”

The human warrior huffed her annoyance and strode forward, pointedly kicking the mound of sand. She muttered obscenities as she walked. “I hate genies. Fucking hate them.”

The palace itself was apparently unguarded, and Cassandra pushed the doors with enough force to make her frustration perfectly clear. They flew open, but without the expected creaks and whoosh of air, and revealed an inner chamber easily the size of a small house. Pure white marble tile served as the floor, with sculpted and elegant columns ringing the outer edge and supporting the roof. In the middle of the room was an indoor pond, over which passed another, much smaller bridge. A decidedly non-genie-ish ogre guarded the path.

“Who are you?” it demanded in a high, almost childish feminine voice. “Oh, whoever you are, you must flee this place at once! He–he’s killed everyone else who has come into this place, almost! Oh, please run!”

The two fighters exchanged baffled glances. Cassandra leaned over and pitched her voice so that only the half-elf could hear. “...this is...different...”

“Talk to it,” Jaheira whispered.

“Talk to it? Are you mad?”

“It’s obviously intelligent,” she insisted.

“It’s an ogre. You talk to it.”

“You—“ Jaheira bit her lip, forcibly cutting off the sharp retort. She gave Cassie a withering glare, then resumed a normal tone of voice, now directing her words to the hulking monster before them. “Who has killed everyone?”

“I don’t know what he’s done, exactly, or how… but everything here is an illusion! But it’s magic that can hurt you, if you believe in it. Oh, you probably don’t understand, do you?”

This had to be the most eloquent ogre on the face of Faerûn. Cassie edged closer and studied the room as she did so. Was it being controlled by someone? An elaborate ruse? Ventriloquism somehow?

“Just who are you?” Jaheira queried. “How is it a monster has the voice of a young woman?”

It reared up to its full height, the lips drawing back in anger, but the voice was still that of a frightened girl. “I-I’m not a monster! I’m an elf, a winged elf… or at least I was. This–this covering you see is some kind of illusion! P-please believe me!”

Jaheira stepped backwards reflexively when the ogre bared its fangs. Her scimitar was unsheathed, but she so far kept it in a low and non-threatening position. She wasn’t sure what to make of the situation either.

“Please!” the ogre continued. “If—if you could just unlock these chains? They prevent me from using my own spells, and they keep this hideous illusion over me!”

“Chains?” Cassandra saw no such things. “What chains?”

“The chains are invisible, covered by the illusion. Y-you need the key… but it won’t look like a key!” The beast pointed one massive arm to the north. “There is a man– Don’t be fooled by the illusion, though—he’s a monster! He has a sword which is actually my key. But please be careful! Y-you can’t trust anything you see!”

Jaheira gestured to the other woman with a toss of her head, and Cassandra quickly crossed over to her, giving the ogre a wide berth. When she was close enough not to be overhead, the half-elf spoke.

“Illusions... That does make more sense,” she said. “The tent disappearing, an ogre who speaks like a child. Perhaps the other people who entered are here as well, just hidden by this enchantment.”

“Perhaps.” Cassandra looked back at the ogre. “What about this key it – she – mentioned?”

“I think it is wise to find it.”

“And give that beast a sword? What if that part isn’t an illusion?”

“True ogres can barely form a sentence, much less stammer on about illusionary threats,” the druid countered. “Besides, were she a monster, would she not have already attacked? Or if a monster, why not take a fairer form? It could have easily appeared to us as a child, or remained invisible until it struck.”

“Forget it. This was supposed to be a quick in-and-out with some thug in a clown suit, not going up against a high-power illusionist. We need to keep whatever advantage of surprise we have.”

“Cassandra, I am just a few years older than you,” Jaheira pointed out dryly, “and I have more experience in such matters. I suggest we get the sword.”

As much as the woman’s personality grated against her nerves, Cassandra knew she was right. Jaheira had been adventuring for longer than Cassie had been alive, and her knowledge of the natural world was formidable. Gorion had trusted Jaheira and Khalid more than any other people, and through countless battles and trials, she’d come to realize why. If Jaheira believed this was no natural beast, then it certainly wasn’t. Haughty and acerbic she could be, but her pride was often justified. They went to fetch the sword.

The commoner was where the ogre had said he’d be, to the northern side of the chamber, and he did indeed have the sword strapped to his thigh. The two warriors approached with confident stride, blades held low, and Cassandra offered a smile as she drew near.

“Could I borrow your blade a moment, sir?”

He lunged forward, an inhuman growl roaring from his throat. The attack was amateurish at best, and Cassie easily avoided it. She side-stepped his grab, lifted her sword, and brought the blade down across the nape of his neck. The head fell to the floor with a wet thunk, and she scooped the sword out of the body’s grasp before it too could clatter to the ground.

“Cassandra! Decapitating him was not necessary.”

She shrugged. “You trust the ogre, so I trust the ogre. The ogre said this is a monster.” She kicked the man’s head, which rolled to a stop several feet away. “Let’s hope it – she – is right.”

Green eyes narrowed. “For your sake, or else you’ve just become a murderer.”

“We’re warriors, Jaheira. Murder is what we do.”

“Cleansing the land of aberrations is not ‘murder’,” she stated flatly, falling into step behind her companion as they returned to where the ogre stood.

“Every monster we slay has a family. Do you ever stop to think of how many goblin children you have orphaned in your lifetime?”

“That is not the same.”

It was the same. She might not have been able to explain it as eloquently as a priest or philosopher, but murder was one thing Cassandra understood in a most intimate fashion. It was part of her essence, part of her very soul. She didn’t feel like debating it, though; now was not the time. They could argue morality later.

She called out to the creature as they approached. “Ogre!”

“You–you have the key! Or, rather, the sword! Please– please give it to me and I can be rid of this illusionary form at last!”

Well, here goes... She switched her grip to the blade of the sword and lay the flat of it across her forearm, hilt facing the beast in the traditional manner. It reached for the blade with more restraint than she’d expected. As the massive fingers enveloped it, a ripple of distortion flowed outwards, causing the entire scene to shake and tremble as if viewed through a film of water.

“My–my hands… my skin, it’s real again! Thank Baervar!” The ogre’s form wavered in the strange ripple and slowly dissolved into a faint mist of color. Beneath the facade was indeed a young woman, with long blond hair and vivid blue eyes. An elf, judging from the ears. “Oh, we must find Quayle! And stop Kalah before he does any more harm!”

“We?” Cassandra caught the girl’s shoulder as she started to turn towards the marble bridge. The last thing they needed as some wide-eyed innocent stumbling around in a sword fight. “You can wait outside. Or, um, where ‘outside’ used to be. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“Are—are you sure? I do know some magic, and—“

“We’re sure.” The redhead gave her a light push back towards the entrance of the building. “Wait outside.”

The girl obediently exited the room, leaving the two fighters free to approach the chamber’s man-made lake. A second person stood upon the ornate walkway, near the exit of the room: an extremely well-endowed woman in extremely revealing clothing.

“Welcome to Kalah’s realm,” she greeted them. “Be thee not of impure mind for surely Lord Kalah shall destroy thee. Kalah is the one Ruler, the One True Being.”

Jaheira snorted her disdain. Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Really, now?” the half-elf asked. “Where can we find this Kalah?”

“Worry not, Lady, for Kalah has already found thee. Continue on thy path and if thou shouldst find favor in Kalah’s eyes then thou shalt surely be granted an audience.”

Cassie edged past the woman with a displeased scowl. Jaheira followed close behind.

“Apparently Kalah has quite an ego,” Jaheira noted. “Almost as large as yours.”

Cassandra gave her a rude gesture, which only served to make the druid smile. “Anyone who needs some half-dressed tart to sing their praises is more self-absorbed than me.” She paused before the entrance to the next chamber. “Hey, Jah, maybe you should do some of that nature magic on us. There could be just about anything in there.”

“Yes, there could — which is why I will wait and see what we are facing before I go idly wasting magic.”

“Eh... well, any ideas on how to fight illusions?”

“You could close your eyes.”

Cassie blinked in surprise. “Really?”

Jaheira fixed her with an icy glare. “Surely even you can’t be that naive.”

“But—“

Jaheria threw the curtain open before Cassandra could finish her sentence. The next room was exposed; a lush den of finery, covered in rich, plush carpet. Bookcases lined the walls, filled to the brim with tomes of all sorts, but the large couches in the middle of the room were better suited for sleeping rather than reading. Pillows of all shape and size were piled upon them, soft and inviting – quite unlike the denizens which stood nearby.

Half a score of large, feral beasts leap up from their resting places. Cassandra recognized them instantly as werewolves; she’d dealt with enough of their kind before. Mixed in among the beasts were a number of slim, almost shadow-like forms which seemed to have no matching bodies. The shadows moved independently of the werewolves, independently of the light in the room, in ways that no natural shadow ever could. These, too, made their way towards the women.

A hand on her shoulder pulled her to her left. Jaheira had spotted the staircase which she had not, and now was mounting the steps. It was the only visible exit from the room other than the way they’d come. Cassandra looked back at the approaching foes, taking a quick and cursory count. Twelve against two; running was the better option. She darted up the stairs.

Halfway up the stairs, a familiar swirl of color and wind manifested, solidifying into the form of a muscular human man. “Kalah awaits—“

Cassandra shoved past him and knocked him hard against the rail as she raced for the exit. “Fucking genie,” she hissed under her breath.

Jaheira slammed into the door with her shoulder and burst it open easily. The next room appeared to be a study of some sort or a private office. Just in front of the large table by the far wall stood a tall, blueish-skinned creature. Its body was heavily muscled, its lower jaw protruding slightly with pointed canine-like teeth. It resembled the ogre-illusion they’d encountered downstairs, but taller and much less primitive in appearance. Around it stood a menagerie of the same lycanthropes and shadow-beasts that they’d encountered moments ago.

“You dare invade my realm?” it bellowed.

“You must be Kalah,” Cassie said.

“Indeed. And I am god in this world!” The ogrekin raised an accusing finger towards them. “At them, my shadows! Rip them apart!”

The legion of beasts advanced in a maelstrom of howls and screams. Cassie had to shout to be heard over the chaos. “Jah, get Kalah! I’ll take care of these!”

The woman gave the briefest of nods to signal that she had heard. The red-haired fighter raised her sword to ready position and screamed a war cry at the approaching horde. A few of them split away to follow the half-elf, but the shout drew the majority of the attention to Cassie. They descended on her en masse.

Some of the beasts were doubtlessly illusions, she knew – but Kalah would not be so foolish as to employ non-existant bodyguards. Some of them had to be real. As the flurry of snarls and claws closed in, Cass tried desperately to pick out some visual signal, some clue or flaw in the illusion, which would reveal which were the actual threats and which were merely distractions.

The first blow passed cleanly through her. The clawed hand struck and sunk into her chest, eliciting a reflexive attempt for her to yank away. Cassie’s heart stopped and her breath froze for a split second as she waited for the agony of rent flesh to burn through her nerves... but the hand withdrew again, unbloodied. The monster lashed out again, and again the attack was nothing but air. No pain. Her heart started beating again.

Something lashed across her cheek, and this time it hurt. She whirled around to face her attacker, but the throng of forms around her made it impossible to tell which one had struck her. So some of them were real – real enough to rip flesh. The fighter could feel a thin trickle of blood trailing down her neck. Another lunged at her with wide-open jaws, only to vanish when the teeth closed around her arm; another flash of pain raced up her thigh as one of the seething beasts tore through the armor there.

Jaheira’s form was blocked from view by the whirlwind of snarling and snapping beasts; Cassandra had no way to tell if the situation would last seconds or minutes more. A third gash opened across the left side of her ribs and she swung her sword at the area where the attacker should have been. It whistled through empty air.

Even if only one of the creatures was real, if she could not defend herself from it this would be a very short fight. How did you fight an enemy you couldn’t see? Or rather, too many enemies that you could see? She closed her eyes, trying to block out the chaos and gather some measure of control. There had to be a way. Something dug into her chest, sharp points blunted by the protective mail, and with a snarl she drove her blade to where the opponent should be. This time her blade struck home.

Cass opened her eyes in surprise and then clenched them closed once more. Keep your eyes closed, Cass. Jaheira had said it in jest, but it could work. The warrior could not fight by sight or sound, but the sense of touch could still serve. She pulled the sword out of her attacker and instantly thrust it forward again, again meeting resistance as it bit into flesh. With a rough twist she withdrew it, eyes still shut, and crouched into a ready position as she tried to determine the now-unseen world around her.

A hoarse masculine scream sounded from the forward-left. She turned to face it, sword still at the ready, but no attack came. Instead there was a fit of coughing and wheezing, followed by a higher-pitched male voice.

“No! This isn’t what was supposed to happen!”

Cassandra cracked one eye open, risking a glimpse. The office chamber and its creatures were gone, replaced instead by the mundane interior of the old circus tent. Dazed and bewildered patrons stood scattered about the area amid gambling tables and cheap trinkets. On the floor lay the speaker, a small dwarfish-looking man with bloody froth around his lips and a large bloodstain on his chest. Jaheira stood over him with the scimitar pointed at his throat.

“You’ve– you’ve killed me,” he gasped. “Destroyed Kalah with your misplaced morals and beastly greed for adventure…”

“What has passed here?” asked Jaheira angrily. “You replaced the circus with your personal playground?” The tip of the blade pressed against the flesh of his throat.

“In this tent– in my world– Kalah was the master, where none would dare to laugh...”

“Fool,” she spat. “Nothing gives you the right to decide others’ lives.”

“I don’t think he can hear you anymore, Jaheira.” Cassandra approached and prodded Kalah with the tip of her blade. He didn’t move.

“All the better.” She looked the human fighter over, frowning displeasedly at the multiple fresh wounds. “You must be more careful, Cassandra. Fortunate for you that I am a healer.”

“Fighting things that don’t exist was harder than I thought it would be.”

“I’m fortunate for the distraction you gave those illusions. How did you fare?”

She shrugged. “Kept my eyes closed. It didn’t work just perfectly, but it worked.”

Elven eyes widened. “Kept your eyes– Cassandra, are you mad?” the druid exploded. “You idiot! If you cannot see, you cannot fight! What if one of these wounds had pierced the heart, or slit your throat?”

“Hey, you gave me the advice.”

“I—you—“ She took a deep breath and tried to calm her tone. “Child, if you were not already injured, I would hurt you.”

“Good thing I’m bleeding then.”

The young blond elven girl they’d rescued from the illusion had crouched down to wrap her arms around an elderly, spectacled gnome. “Uncle Quayle, you’re okay!”

“Ha!” he replied. “I knew Kalah would trip over himself, eventually. I’m just pleased he despised me enough to play with me rather than dispose of me like some of the others!”

“Oh, Quayle!” the girl smiled, “what would I ever do without you? Oh!” She stood as she noticed the two warriors regarding her. “Uncle Quayle, th-these are the women who saved us!”

“Ah!” He held out his hand to each of them in turn. “Pleased to meet our saviors. My name is Quayle.”

“Jaheira.”

“Cassandra,” she replied, accepting the handshake. “Say, umm... do you know if there was a reward for this?”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t know... You might ask the circus owner?” The gnome glanced around the tent. “Oh dear. He must have been ...disposed of.”

“We are just happy to have helped,” Jaheira assured him, taking Cassie’s hand and leading her from the tent at a rapid pace. Once outside the druid’s hand flashed up and knocked her firmly upside the head.

“Ow! Jaheira!”

She hissed her disapproval. “Have you no manners, asking those people for a reward for their lives?”

Cassie glowered at her. “In case you forgot, I’m twenty-thousand short of what I need. If saving Imoen means being rude, then by the gods I’ll be rude!”

“You will attract far more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

“I need to attract coins, not bugs.”

“You know what I mean.”

The human rubbed her head for a few more moments as they walked. Dusk had started to descend while they were within the illusion, and by the time they had crossed the Promenade and re-entered the slums district, night had taken hold. The two stayed close together, posture straight and steps sure, keeping an eye out for any would-be bandits.

The Copper Coronet was still abuzz with activity when they arrived. Jaheira paid the barkeep for a room and both women retired for the night.

“Rise and shine.”

A blinding wash of light flooded over Cassandra’s face. “What the—“ She flung her arm over her eyes. “Bloody Hell, Jaheira. Close the curtains!”

The light stayed where it was. The druid’s characteristic accent answered her from somewhere in the room. “It is well past dawn, and our noble employer is growing impatient.”

“Fine, fine, FINE!” Cassie threw off the blanket and swung her feet onto the cold wooden planks of the floor. “I’m up.”

“You are sitting.”

She rose to her feet, giving the woman an icy glare from behind her still-shielded eyes. “See? Happy?”

Jaheira smiled. And gods damn her, she honestly looked pleased. Maybe druids rose and shone at dawn every morning, but Cassie, like most civilized folk, liked to sleep an extra hour or two. One of these days, she’d get up in the middle of the night and wake Jaheira up with a splash of cold water – just to do it. Then they’d see how happy she was when it was her sleep that was interrupted.

The mental tirade continued through the entirety of Cassandra’s morning routine. Only after she’d finished washing, combed her hair, and gotten dressed did the foul mood begin to subside. With two sets of hands the packing went swiftly, and within the hour they were ready to go — but not without a good meal first.

The two women descended the stairs together, each carrying their pack of belongings. The common room was mostly empty, with the majority of patrons having wandered back to their homes the night before, or still sleeping off their ale in a rented room. A young elven man was leaning up against the bar counter. His eyes brightened as Jaheira approached.

“Ah, I sense you have an earthy wisdom about you, my sweet elf.” He smiled at her, taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips. “I find that most sensual.”

Jaheira pulled her hand away with a scowl before his kiss could land. “Do you also find sensual my disdain for your disgusting manner?”

The rebuff didn’t damper his ardor. “Ah, such passion! You set me on fire with your words...” His gaze traveled appreciatively over the half-elf’s slim and muscular form. “And with your lovely body, as well.”

The druidess held up her hand, palm towards the ceiling, and a moment later a small flame burst to life in the center. She held it in front of the would-be suitor, making sure his widening eyes got a good look at it.

“I could set you on fire with more than that, if you truly wish.”

His jaw opened and closed several times before a stuttering voice finally emerged. “Well...er, no, not really...”

“The first thing of sense you have said.” She closed her fist, snuffing the flame out of existance. “Now stay out of my way.”

Cassandra chuckled and took a seat next to Lady De’Arnise at one of the almost-empty tables. “Good morning.”

“Good morning. Are you ready to go?”

“Almost. Breakfast first.”

The noble sighed. “Can’t you eat on the road? Or eat when we get there? Every moment we delay decreases our chances of success!”

“We’ll get there; don’t worry. An hour is not going to spell the difference between doom and glory.”

The brunette woman sighed again and began drumming her fingers against the surface of the table impatiently.

Jaheira returned a few minutes later and took a seat next to them. “Berard will have our food momentarily,” she said.

“Good, I’m starving.”

“People are dying while you are ‘starving!’”

Cassie arched an eyebrow, as did Jaheira. “Lady De'Arnise–” The noblewoman’s own eyebrow went up. “Nalia,” Cassie corrected with a roll of her eyes. “Stop being so damn overdramatic. We. Will. Be. There. Soon.”

The nervous drumming stopped, but the noble looked anything but pleased. “I should have hired someone else,” she muttered.

“Well feel free.”

“There’s no time,” she snapped back at the redhead. “Unfortunately, you’ll have to do.”

A soft sound of someone clearing their throat raised all three sets of eyes to a newcomer at the table. A human male stood dressed in shining and obviously-unused armor, smiling genteelly at the women.

“Fair ladies—“ he began, but got no further.

“Oh, by the horns of Silvanus!” Jaheira slammed her hands down on the table, causing all three onlookers to jump. “Did you not just hear what I said to that foppish elf over there? It is not even noon and yet you rut like a wild boar. We are not interested in your amateur advances!”

Nalia cleared her throat, casting the woman a cool, reproachful look. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said to the befuddled bearded man. “Please excuse her outburst. Can I help you?”

“Rut like…? Ah...yes, well...” He somehow managed to collect himself and started the entire spiel over again, now specifically addressing the noblewoman. “Milady, what brings you to this cesspool of filth and corruption?”

Cassie rolled her eyes. Paladin. Had to be.

“I try to help those less fortunate than myself,” the noble explained. “The Copper Coronet offers plenty of opportunities. We are about to leave on a quest to retake my lands from unwelcome invaders.”

“Fortune smiles upon our meeting, then, for I am Anomen, Warrior Priest of Helm, and a force dedicated to serving justice and righteousness.”

Jaheira choked and sputtered on her drink. Cassie slapped her back sympathetically to clear her throat. “Oh—oh by the gods—“

“Should you desire to walk the path of virtue,” he continued, still addressing the noble, “then my virtuous and strong arm will be lent to your protection.”

“I would be extremely honored, Sir Anomen,” Nalia gushed. “This expedition needs a fighting man like yourself at the head. Would you be able to leave today? Within the hour?”

“Absolutely, milady.”

“What—wait a minute!” Cassandra objected. “A fighting man at the head? I can tell you right now that Jaheira and I have more battle experience than this man, and you’re not only going to hire him, but put him in charge?”

“That’s precisely what I’m doing,” the brunette responded coldly. “He at least understands the importance of helping people in an expedient and punctual manner!”

“I will be in charge here,” Cassie informed her. “That is how it is.”

“I am in charge here! You seem to forget who hired whom!”

“Gentlewomen, if I may... if the matter is urgent perhaps we should discuss this on our way to the Lady’s lands?”

Jaheira shook her head. “Our breakfast has not arrived.”

He made a sound of dismissive disgust. “A true warrior is not a glutton to be led around by his stomach! We can eat on the way; time is of the essence when dealing with evil-doers!”

Nalia rose from the table, and her stern gaze informed the two women that it was time for them to do the same. They did so unwillingly, trading conspiratory glances.

“He’s right,” she said. “Finally somebody understands. We need to leave now before the situation gets any worse!”

Anomen hoisted his pack onto his shoulder. If he had any other belongings he made no mention of it. He walked past the two female fighters with a slight sniff of disdain.

Cass swore the most vile curse she knew. “She can’t be serious. He has probably never seen a battle more serious than a practice duel.”

“Doubtlessly,” Jaheira agreed. “Still – she did hire us, and if you wish to save Imoen it might be wise to coddle her wishes. He may prove useful.”

“As a talking packhorse. Maybe if we play the part of frail maidens, we can get him to carry our stuff.”

The honey-blond elf smiled and winked at her. “Now you are on the correct train of thought.”

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 3 - "The Darker Side of Me"

The third morning came, and again they were alive. Imoen became aware of the world around her slowly as she stretched her arms overhead and stifled a yawn with the back of one hand. Cassandra stirred slightly as her ‘pillow’ moved. Imoen smiled and gently laid her hand on her sister’s red-gold hair. It was rough and oily, fouled with days — if not weeks — of sweat, blood, and dirt. She didn’t mind though. It was Cassie, and that was worth its weight in gold.

“Yo, sleepyhead.” Imoen poked the tip of her nose. “Time to wake up.”

The eyes cracked open, revealing a sliver of arctic blue. They regarded Imoen drowsily for a moment and then drifted closed again.

“Hey.” She tried again, this time gently shaking her shoulder. “Seriously, we should go.”

The eyes opened again, a little wider this time. “I’m tired.”

“You slept all night!”

Cassie arched her back slightly and stretched, but made no move to get up. “Still exhausted. I feel like I barely slept at all.”

“Nightmares?”

“No. Just– I feel...weird.”

Imoen frowned and laid her hand against Cassie’s forehead, then her cheeks. “You don’t have a fever.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s more...” She bit her lower lip in concentration as she sought an appropriate word. “More... I don’t know. Just... strange. Wrong, maybe? Did you feel that way after your ritual?”

She shook her head softly. “I always felt okay – well, as okay as I could, I guess. I feel weak, but it’s more like I’m just gradually wasting away, y’know? I was never sick or anything.”

Cassandra lay where she was for a minute, sampling the odd hollowness she felt, trying to understand what it was. ‘Sick’ wasn’t the right word. It didn’t feel bad, it felt... different. Unusual. Uncomfortable from the utter strangeness of it. It didn’t feel ‘wrong’ in the way that illness or disease usually did. It felt... well, maybe it didn’t feel like anything. Maybe lack of feeling was the better term.

“Has this affected you differently than me?” Imoen wondered aloud. “You’ve been dealing with the Bhaal essence longer; perhaps you’re more focused on it. Or maybe it’s more focused on you.”

“That sounds dire. What do you mean?”

“Well... I dunno, exactly. But you had nightmares and stuff and manifested your weird abilities well over a year ago, so you’ve got a head start on me as far as that stuff goes. So maybe when Irenicus– maybe when he took our souls– Maybe that sped up the process? Or changed it somehow?”

Maybe, Cassandra thought. There’d always been a feeling of energy there, like a liquid heat that she had learned from trial and error how to manipulate. Small things, which had grown larger as her mastery increased: healing minor wounds, bolstering strength when it flagged, harming others if she needed to. She didn’t care for the last one, but it’d come in handy more than once. But she’d lost her Bhaalspawn abilities after the ritual; the flow of energy she was accustomed to was gone. There was nothing there to draw upon, nothing there to tap and twist like she used to. Maybe that was what was missing.

Or maybe that ‘nothingness’ was where her soul used to be. But then, wouldn’t Imoen feel it too?

“Just be careful, Cass,” her sister warned in a stern voice. “Don’t push yourself too hard. I dunno what’s wrong with you, but it’s really weird that you’re sick.”

“Hey, don’t worry.” She offered a smile and reached up to ruffle the other girl’s red waves. “I’m half-god, remember? I’m invincible.”

“Psht.” Imoen slapped her hand away playfully. “You wish. You bleed as red as I do, Miss Almighty Bhaalspawn. Speaking of which, I’m half-god too now, remember?”

“Eh. Well, I made it this far, and I don’t plan on stopping now, so you have nothing to worry about.” Lack of soul or not, she still had to get them out of here. And after that, there was a certain mage to disembowel.

“Well, good.” Imoen gave the fighter a small push. “Now get up.”

This time the older sibling obediently got to her feet and stretched out her limbs as she did so. She’d elected to sleep in what little armor she had left, minus the pauldrons; it took only a few minutes to strap and buckle the shoulder plates back into place. There would be no breakfast this morning; the few rations in the equipment bag had only lasted a day and a half between them.

Cassie hoisted the bag over her shoulder and tossed a question back to Imoen. “How far do you think we are from the exit?”

“Hell if I know. I’m not even sure there is an exit.”

“Well aren’t you a little ray of sunshine.”

She rolled her eyes and reached for the door handle. “Don’t blame me. You shouldn’t ask questions ya don’t want the answer to.”

Cass chuckled drily. “Yeah. You’d think I would’ve learned that lesson by now.”

Imoen’s lips pursed into a small circle. She’d cracked the door open perhaps two inches and now stood studying something on the other side, outside Cassandra’s range of vision. “Cass... We have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” She advanced slightly, only to be waved back by an abrupt motion of her sister’s hand.

“Don’t,” Imoen ordered. “Stay there.”

She stayed in place, but her hand reflexively went to the hilt of her sword. “What is it?”

“Someone rigged the door.” She blew a sharp breath from between her lips, lifting her bangs from her eyes. “Dammit, that means Bodhi was right outside last night and we didn’t even know it. Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

Cassie leaned to the side, trying to get a look whatever Imoen had noticed, but could see nothing. It was either too subtle for untrained eyes, or blocked by the woman’s body.

“Are you sure it as Bodhi?” she asked.

“Dunno. Can’t tell just from the trap.” Imoen had slipped two of her fingers into the gap of the open door and was now feeling around gingerly on the other side. “I’m just assuming on the basis of her general bitchitude.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Nah, just hold on a sec.”

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, shifting position slightly to give her a longer reach through the door without opening it any wider. After a minute of effort and a few more adjustments of her angle, she sighed and withdrew her arm.

“’Kay, we’re screwed.” She motioned Cassandra over and pointed to a spot on the door where a thin, almost invisible strand of metallic fiber had been attached. “That’s attached to the door and the wall using some sort of putty. Judging from the smell on my fingers, it’s heartwood sap, which means the wire is probably platinum.”

“Which means...?”

“Which means we’re screwed. That’s the material components necessary for lightning bolt. If we break that wire – or dislodge the putty – we’re gonna end up lit up like a Talosian parade.”

Cassie eyed the wire and the door it had effectively barred. “Can’t you disarm it? Or dispel it, or whatever you do to magic when you don’t want it around?”

“Not that easy, sis.” She pursed her lips again, eyeing the wire with annoyance. “I mean, yeah, I can disarm a trap, but I gotta have the proper tools, y’know? And I can dispel magic, but that assumes that it’s a fixed-state magical effect, not a trigger effect. Plus you gotta know the oppositional school of the flux – which in this case I do – and select the appropriate counter-weave to cancel it out. Which normally I could do, but anyways – like I said, it’s a trigger-effect spell.”

“Whoa, Im. Too many words.” Cassie tapped her temple. “Me dumb warrior, remember? You lost me at ‘fixed-state’ whatever-it-was.”

“See, this is why you should let me teach you magic,” she countered. “You could pick this up; you’re not stupid, Cass.”

“Yeah, and would I be able to do all this fluxing counter-triggering stuff?”

“Not right away, no.”

“So I’d still be useless in this situation. I’ll stick with the grunt work.”

“You might not be stupid, but you sure are stubborn, y’know that?” She tapped her fingers against her chin and resumed studying the door. “So I can’t disarm it, unless you happen to have a bishop’s flick on you.”

“Bishop’s flick?”

“Nevermind. And I can’t dispel it. So... we can either open the door and take a lightning bolt to the face, or we can find another way out of this room.”

Cassandra went to the nearest wall and examined it more closely. She already knew from last night’s scouting of the room that there wasn’t an obvious secondary exit, but that didn’t rule out the slim possibility of a hidden door. Unusual cracks in the masonry; mismatches in the color of the bricks or mortar; scratches along the floor – she checked for all of it, with Imoen doing the same along the opposite wall. The investigation took nearly 10 minutes, even working as a team, but when they both announced their lack of findings, they shared a pensive look.

“Well,” Cassie said reluctantly, “I guess we open the door.”

Imoen nodded, her face now somber. “Looks like.”

“Is there anything that could make this easier, Im? Like...” She racked her brain for examples. “Like protective shielding? Or... or could we open the door without standing in front of it? Would that help?”

The red-head considered for a moment, casting her gaze once more around the room. “Nothing protective in here,” she said after a moment. “The width of the energy channel is determined by the caster when he – or she, of course – sets up the spell. Although...”

She trailed off and approached the door again, crouching down to study the metallic wire more closely. “Y’know,” she said, pitching her voice so that Cassandra could hear her without turning around. “Theoretically the thickness of the wire determines the maximum diameter of the energy channel the bolt passes through. I say ‘theoretically’ ‘cause platinum wire only comes in two sizes unless you specially make it yourself, and the difference between fine-wire and hair-wire isn’t all that much.”

Cassandra nodded, forgetting for a moment that her sibling couldn’t see the gesture. It was mostly for encouragement anyways; she didn’t have even a fraction of the knowledge Imoen did when it came to the arcane and occult, and the entire explanation was quickly passing her by.

“This, however,” Imoen continued, barely grazing the wire with her fingertip, “is pretty thick. So the bolt generated by this should be wider than normal... and of shorter duration. Same amount of energy, broader plane, lesser scope.”

“So...”

“So it won’t bounce as much,” she concluded, rising to her feet again. “Normally you get a lightning bolt and it’ll ricochet around ‘til the charge is spent. So if I’m right, if we can avoid the initial shock, we should be okay.”

“If you’re right,” Cassie repeated dubiously.

“Hey, you doubt the Marvelous Miss Im?”

It was wiser not to answer that. She motioned to the door with a lift of her chin. “So what do we do? Just push it open and stand to one side?”

“Yup, pretty much.”

“That’s the plan?”

She placed her hands on her hips, arching her eyebrows questioningly. “Got a better one?”

She sighed her resignation. “No. Okay then... You get in the corner, and I’ll open the door.”

“What?? I’m the one who knows how this—“

“Imoen.“ The sharpness of her tone silenced the mage’s protest. “I’m the hero here, remember? If anyone’s gonna take stupid, needless risks, it’s going to be me.”

That almost got a smile. “It’s more of a needed risk,” she corrected.

“Either way. Get in the corner. I’m not going to get you killed if this goes wrong.”

“Like getting yourself killed’ll be so much better?” she muttered.

“Im—“

“I’m going, I’m going.” She positioned herself in far corner on the same wall as the booby-trapped door and crouched down. “Ready.”

Cassandra drew her sword from its sheath and flattened herself against that same wall as best she could, trying to position herself so that she was close enough to push it with the tip but no closer than absolutely necessary. All I have to do is avoid the first burst, she reminded herself with a deep breath. Of course, which way that burst would go was unknown. Or exactly how big it’d be.

She chambered her arm and roughly shoved the point of the sword into the door. She felt a split-second of resistance, then the wire snapped and the door swung up from the strength of her push. A loud crack of sound was the only warning she had before the room was illuminated in a flash of white-blue fire and the sharp smell of burnt air. The impact of the spell flung her backwards against the wall and ripped the breath from her lungs. Her sword clattered uselessly to the floor as Cassie sunk down to her knees and doubled over.

“G-g-gods and fucking minions!“ She wheezed between coughs and gasped attempts at breath. Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably and the muscles of her right arm refused to respond. They trembled and quivered with a life of their own. “—th-that really h-h-hurts.”

Imoen’s hands were on her in an instant as the girl knelt down in front of her and quickly and efficiently checked her pulse and eyes. The pulse was rapid but steady, the eyes glazed but focused.

“Metal conducts lightning, you dolt,” she informed her, hands now going to the limp arm. “Your sword acted like a storm rod.”

“Sh-sh-should tell me th-that.”

“Sorry; thought you were going to use your hand.” She massaged the trembling muscles, using long, even strokes and pressure to try to restore balance to damaged nerves.

“Probably b-b-b—“ Cassie clenched her teeth together with an irate glare and fell silent. Her chest rose and fell unevenly with deep, ragged breaths as Imoen watched her with concern.

“You’ll be okay, Cass,” she promised.

A shadow drifted across the floor, barely visible in the edge of Imoen’s peripheral vision. She stiffened reflexively and then immediately forced her muscles to relax again and her hands to keep moving in the same patterns. Don’t show them that you know they’re there. She had several spells memorized, but without turning around she couldn’t tell exactly what had cast the shadow to pick the best one. Still, it was moving... and the timing was too damn convenient. She had a pretty good idea of what – and who – it was.

“Ochu azheif ranif rai.” The words were mouthed more than said, with just enough breath to stir the air. She kept one eye on the shadow and kept her hands moving on Cassandra’s shoulder as she cast the spell. The soft whisper drew the fighter’s attention; blue eyes opened and gradually widened in shock. Imoen rushed to finish the chant before Cassie’s movement ruined the element of surprise. “Roch felen seich talaashim jani!”

She whirled around as she shouted the final word of the incantation and extended her hand towards the figure in the doorway. An arc of black, crackling energy shot forth from each fingertip. It snapped and hissed as it leapt through the air... and charred a foot-wide section of the hallway wall as it passed through the empty door frame. The person was gone.

“Imoen, my dear,” said a soft, seductive voice on her left. “That was so predictable.”

A hand was planted firmly in her back and shoved the mage forward. She stumbled a few steps and tried to catch herself against the frame of the door, when two sets of hands reached out from either side and seized her upper arms. The vampiric minions hurled her forward into the hallway, slamming her face-first into the far wall hard enough to draw blood.

“Bodhi!” Cassie’s voice rang out from inside the room.

Imoen managed to keep herself upright and turned around only to have a slim, cold hand clamped around her throat. Bodhi smiled at her, her lips a dark and carnal red. The vampiress tightened her grip and lifted her up, off the floor, until the human’s feet struggled vainly in search of something solid. The redhead’s fingers scrabbled at the cold, dead hand which now choked out her life.

“I was hoping that you’d survive my little surprise,” Bodhi purred, leaning in closer. “It would have been so... disappointing not to end the hunt myself.”

A figure appeared in the doorway of the room. Cassie was on her feet, but unsteadily so, and her sword arm still dangled limply. She held her blade in her other hand and braced herself against the doorway with her shoulder. Her lips drew back in a growl as she found her target.

“Bodhi! Get the Hell away from her!”

The undead’s expression was amused as she stepped to Imoen’s side, still holding her aloft, and regarded the would-be rescuer. “Ah, the hero,” she breathed, lips tilting in a sardonic smile. “Come to save the day. Tell me, Imoen, which would be worse: for her to watch you die, or you to watch her?”

The last sentence was purposefully pitched for Cassie’s hears to ear. The warrior surged forward, lifting the sword with her left hand. The vampire spawn who stood beside the doorway caught her before she’d taken even three steps. One of them bit viciously into the redhead’s wrist, and the sword clattered to the ground from the now-numbed hand.

Imoen’s struggles intensified, but Bodhi’s supernaturally strong grip did not waiver. The pull of gravity and the iron-like hand around her throat made breathing almost impossible; each gasp brought only the smallest relief. Already her lungs were burning and her muscles screaming in protest.

“Get off me!” Cassandra yelled and yanked her arm away from the vampire spawn. Flesh tore and pain lanced through her as the canines buried in her wrist ripped free. The second one grabbed her immediately, followed by the first, and they were both upon her, snarling like animals, and the fangs pierced her again.

And not fifty feet away stood Bodhi, smiling contently, as Imoen fought vainly for air.

Cassie saw it and the scene expanded in her mind. Everything became focused on that razor sharp smile: the smile that mocked her, belittled her, and challenged her to do something – anything – before the hunt was through.

A tempest of rage ignited, and suddenly her vision went black.

“LET HER GO!”

The roar echoed throughout Spellhold’s halls like thunder from Talos himself. It was followed by a howl of mixed fury and pain as Cassandra screamed and grabbed one of the vampiric minions by his neck. She ripped him away from her, mindless of the holes and gouges that his teeth and claws left behind, and hurled him towards the object of her hate.

Bodhi dropped Imoen with a hiss of surprise and leapt swiftly to the side, narrowly avoiding being crushed by her own servant. Imoen collided painfully with the stone floor and reflexively covered herself as the stunned spawn crumpled to the ground. She gasped in several deep, instinctive breaths as her lungs fought to regain the oxygen they’d been denied. And through the haze of deprivation, she saw Cassie.

The redheaded warrior had the second vampire in her hands, both holding him by the front of his pale grey tunic. Her teeth were bared in a growl of pure hateful rage as she held him aloft. He struggled, raking his claws across her face and arms with a power and viciousness that would have felled any normal mortal. But Cassie didn’t seem ‘normal’ any more.

With a gutteral shout she threw him down the hallway, launching him nearly fifteen feet before he crashed to the ground. The first one she’d detached was on his feet again and with a snarl launched himself back at her. The fighter whipped around at the sound, and Imoen saw that her eyes had changed. Instead of bright, exotic blue the orbs were now black as oil from top to bottom and side to side. Cassie caught him in mid-air with hands that now were large and jointed in ways they should not have been, tipped with two-inch claws on each finger.

The leather of Cassandra’s armor creaked and groaned in complaint as her form shifted. Sharp snapping sounds echoed through the chambers and Imoen flinched in revulsion as she saw bones break and reknit themselves under elastic flesh. Cassie’s knees cracked and bent backwards, inverting the joint, and the bones and muscles knotted and extended, growing longer and thicker, until she stood easily seven feet in height. Long spikes erupted from her now-blackish-grey skin; from her shoulders, from the joint of her elbows and legs, even from her head. Her face distorted and warped as her jaws lengthened and thickened into a wolf-like snout.

The leather of her remaining armor gave way and clattered to the floor, shredded and useless. Bodhi’s serene smile faltered and gave way as well.

The trapped vampire spawn abruptly stopped struggling as the creature’s head snapped forward and clamped its jaws around his neck. One swift yank ripped out his throat. The monstrous head whipped forward again and this time the jaws crushed his skull. It released him with another unearthly scream and flung the remains to the ground.

It turned to face the remaining minion, who was circling this new development with caution. In a flash of movement, supernaturally fast, the beast lunged forward, closed the distance, and buried one massive clawed hand in his stomach. The tips of all five claws exited his back and then withdrew, stringing the blue-grey lines of his intestines out onto the floor. The other hand easily pierced flesh and bone and lodged inside his rib cage. One arm swung left, the other right, and the vampire’s body seemed to explode as it was ripped apart.

“What is this?” Bodhi hissed softly. She’d crept several feet further down the hallway as her servants were torn apart. Imoen was on her feet now and wondered the same thing as the creature turned around once more. Its alien black eyes found the vampiress and a third howl shook the asylum.

Bodhi ducked the first clawed attack, but the second ripped wide gashes across her shoulder and upper arm. She danced backwards, spitting her ire like a cat, but the emotion in her eyes was all-too human fear.

A second rake of the claws connected and flayed open the undead’s chest. Again her agility and speed saved her from a more dire fate; the wound was flesh-level and the now-exposed bones beneath remained intact.

Bodhi growled and launched herself backwards down the hall in an acrobatic series of leaps and springs. She landed on her feet nearly thirty feet further down, and her form instantly began to dissolve into a greyish-white mist. The beast charged down the hall to re-enter the fray, but the fog dissipated unharmed even as it slashed and flailed.

“This isn’t over, Child of Bhaal,” her disembodied voice warned as the last of the mist disappeared. “Irenicus will know of this.”

The creature snapped its jaws in frustration and cast its gaze around to find the speaker. It turned. And it saw Imoen.

Uh oh.

The lupine mouth opened, revealing glistening razor-sharp teeth. It screamed and began advancing towards her, the mis-jointed legs causing it to bob and sink in a most disturbing manner.

“Stay back!” Imoen’s hands lit up with an aquamarine glow as she immediately summoned forth a shield of arcane protection. The glow darkened to lurid purple as she began to weave together streams of evocation magic. “Don’t come any closer!”

It continued to advance with no indication that it understood. The claws flexed and twitched as it drew nearer. Unlike the speed and hatred with which it had attacked the vampires, the creature now came forward in a slow stalk, sizing up its prey at leisure.

Imoen backed away as her hands continued through the weave of the spell. Keep calm, Imoen, keep calm. She mentally repeated the mantra as she struggled to pay attention to the creature -– Cassie, that’s Cassie –, to the world around her, and still manipulate the magical streams. Abruptly her retreat stopped against the cold stone surface of one of the hallway walls; a corner, which might as well have been a dead end. Her heartrate spiked and the slow, steady motion of her fingers faltered. The purple light flickered and threatened to disappear.

“Cassie—“ An adjustment of her hands and the violet glow leapt to life once more. She didn’t know if the spell would stop something like this, though. “C’mon, you won; they’re gone. Come out of there, Cass.”

The sight of its quarry cornered spurred the creature into motion. It leapt forward and swung at her with both taloned hands; Imoen reflexively ducked and triggered the spell. Otiluke’s Resilient Sphere enveloped her, encasing her in a shimmering globe of arcane magic. The claws descended in a massive arc, impacted the sphere, and bounced harmlessly away. The interference only served to incite it further; with a howl of anger it began lashing out and assaulting the barrier in a flurry of talons, fangs, and spike-like protrusions.

“Cassie, stop!” she yelled. “It’s me, you dumbass; it’s Imoen!”

The attacks continued, and the magical weave strained and buckled as she crouched within its protective confines. The sphere would not last for long. The beast’s roar of frustration nearly drowned out her own cries.

“Stop it! Cass! Cassandra!”

She shouted out every variation of her name she could think of, trying anything to break through to what of her sister still lie beneath the demonic exterior. The first weave of the sphere shattered under dark energy of the creature’s attacks, and the sphere began to collapse. Imoen braced the shrinking globe with her hands and tried to reinforce it, but the damage spread like cracks across a frozen lake; each concussion to the spell fractured it somewhere new, and she could not mend the breaks fast enough. It buckled inwards further, forcing her to her knees.

“Stop it, Cassie!” she screamed. Another rake of the claws shook the protective barrier, and tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “Please don’t, Cass... please don’t...”

The creature paused for a moment. It reached out one hand and laid it atop the sphere experimentally, feeling it rather than attacking. The energies swirled and twisted under its blackish-grey skin. The legs folded downwards and the face lowered until it looked Imoen eye-to-eye. Its fangs were still bared within the wolfish face, but it tilted its head and studied her with abyssal eyes through the shimmer of the spell.

“Cassandra.” The maw which had so easily crushed the vampire’s skull was less than a foot away from her, blocked only by a translucent film of magic. Her heart thundered in her veins as it leaned still closer. “Cass, you’re scaring me,” she said in a trembling voice. “Please stop.”

It snarled at her and backed away a step. The taloned hand came up and this time went to its own face as it growled and hunched over. Imoen watched through the flicker of the sphere even as she continued to reinforce it. There was a snap and a harsh yelp, then another, then several more in quick succession. The creature snarled once more and lashed out, this time at empty air, and fell back another few feet.

Another crack, and the left knee dislocated, inverting itself to a more human arrangement before setting once more. The pained cries continued as the bones once more seemed to break, shrink, and return to their original forms. The horns and spikes retreated and were re-absorbed into the body and the healthy pink of Cassandra’s skin slowly replaced the ashen black. Soon the animalistic growls were replaced by all-too-human screams as her form became normal once more.

Imoen dispelled the sphere and rushed over to where Cassandra now knelt and panted heavily on the tiled stone floor. She was nude now; the cloth and leather shredded and cast off during the transformation.

Her fingers went to her sister’s throat and found a rapid but regular pulse there. The whites of Cassandra’s eyes were visible beneath fluttering lids. “Can you hear me?” She didn’t respond. “C’mon, sis, speak to me.”

Her eyes flickered once more, then opened and focused on the worried mage. Her expression was glazed, as if she’d just awoken from a deep sleep. “Im...”

“Are you okay? How do you feel?” Imoen began checking her over for the worst of the wounds. The combat with the vampires had been short and brutal, but she’d taken several attacks before the transformation had taken place.

“I feel...” She trailed off for a moment, then smiled crookedly. “...good, I think.”

Imoen’s brows knit together in confusion and concern. “Good? That’s it?”

“That was... amazing.” Cassandra’s smile brightened. “Just this—this raw power... I’ve never felt anything like it. You should have been there.”

“I was there, you dork,” she reminded her, frowning as she continued to examine the fighter’s body. It was scored a dozen times over with scars of various sizes, but they were all old and healed wounds. The gashes and gouges she’d seen inflicted by the vampiric minions were gone, as if they’d never occurred. Her hands, wrists, face, and shoulders were intact and showed no sign of the assault just moments ago.

“That was just... wow.” Cassie let out a soft breath of amazement. “Everything was just there, Imoen. I could see and smell and hear everything – everything! It was so sharp and perfect... What was that, you think?”

“That was the Slayer.”

“The what?”

“Y’know, as in the avatar of Bhaal? During the Time of Troubles, Bhaal walked the earth, et cetera, et cetera?”

“Really? Huh.” She looked down at her human hands and flexed them. The small fleshy fingers seemed so inadequate now, next to the memory of godlike talons. “It was so– so powerful. Do you think it’ll happen again?”

“Dammit, Cass, don’t act so nonchalant about it!” Imoen surged to her feet and balled her fists at her sides.

Cassie’s brows drew together in confusion as she looked upwards at her sister. “Nonchalant? As opposed to what?”

“You just transformed into the Lord of Murder. Doesn’t that bother you? It sure as fuck bothers me — you nearly killed me!”

The older sibling fell silent. Put that way, it certainly did sound disturbing. It didn’t feel disturbing, though. It felt... euphoric. Wonderful. Like all the power in the world had been at her fingertips for those brief few minutes; like she could do anything. Even the pain of the physical transformation seemed miles distant when faced with the dark elation that it had brought.

As the giddy intoxication of power faded, reality began to re-emerge. She shook her head. Of course it was disturbing. Something had reached up and wrested her body away from her, out of her control. Possession. Demonic possession, or something even worse. And all she’d done was let it take over, and then admired how good a job it’d done.

Is it still here? Inside me still? The Bhaal-creature from the dream, was it in her now? Controlling her? Was the odd euphoria some manner of trick? Cassie turned her gaze to the floor, brows knit once more, this time from worry and a spike of fear. She felt along the corners and crevices of her mind, but found no lurking monsters. She didn’t feel any different. The odd nothingness was still there, deep inside and seemingly unchanged.

A bundle of cloth hit her in the face. She reflexively caught it; the spare robe which Imoen had found in her pack. Her gaze returned to her sister.

“Get dressed,” Imoen ordered.

Cassandra looked down at herself and for the first time realized her nakedness. Damn, Cass. How drugged to you have to be to not notice that?

She rose with a rising blush in her cheeks and quickly drew the robe around her shoulders, fastening it closed with the small embroidered hooks. Imoen’s gaze never left her, but neither it was really ‘there.’ She seemed to stare straight through her, arms folded tight across her chest and shoulders trembling slightly.

“Are you okay, Im?”

“I’m fine,” she answered coldly. Her brow was still knit and eyes dark. “Let’s get out of here. And by Tyr’s eyes, don’t do that again.”

“I couldn’t help it; it just happened,” Cassie explained. “It was like something snapped. I—“

“Don’t do it again!” Imoen’s voice was suddenly as hard and unyielding as steel and the vehemence in her glare could have halted Bhaal himself. The quaver of her shoulders had spread, and now her entire body trembled with emotion. “That’s not a request, Cassandra,” she said flatly. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

What in the Nine Hells? She’d never seen Imoen this upset over anything. In the last ten years the girl had raised her voice perhaps thrice, and never had it held the cold promise of consequence it held now. Fear she would understand – seeing the impossible, faced by a monster which had once been your friend. But Imoen wasn’t afraid; the emotion in her eyes was far too dark for that.

Cassie stood in shocked silence for several seconds before she managed a jerky nod. “Okay... I’ll try.”

“Do better than ‘try,’” she snapped, then without waiting for a reply: “Let’s go.”

They walked for another half hour before they located the stairwell back to the asylum’s main level. It was hidden behind a large statue of a minotaur whose horns had been been broken off. A closer inspection revealed that the horns were actually detachable; the sockets were threaded like carpenter’s screws, and it didn’t take much to put two and two together.

Finding the horns had been more difficult. They hadn’t dared split up, even with Bodhi’s retreat and the slaying of her two lackeys. Gods only knew what else lived in this Hellhole, or when Bodhi might choose to take some opportune revenge. Searching the rooms one by one had taken nearly two hours before both horns were located and returned to the marble minotaur. Once in place, though, the door had clicked and swung open, finally allowing passage from the maze.

“Sune’s crabs and pubic lice," Imoen swore. "It’s about freakin’ time."

“That’s some pretty foul language you’ve got there, little sis.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a pretty foul month.”

“Still, if you’re going to swear, could you do it without pissing off a god?”

“I kinda doubt Lady Firehair is listening in.”

Cassie shrugged. “Weirder things have happened. And I really doubt she has crabs.”

“What? C’mon, Cass, she’s the goddess of sex and love. Of course she has crabs.”

One fire-gold eyebrow went up. “Since when did being in love and having sex doom one to pubic lice?” Suddenly her eyes widened as a thought occured to her. “And since when in the Nine Hells do you even know about sex and pubic lice?”

Imoen rolled her eyes. “Jeez, Cass, I’m seventeen for cryin’ out loud.”

“Yeah, so? When we left Candlekeep you were still giggling over boys trying to kiss you.”

“When we left Candlekeep I was still a kid.”

“You were fifteen!”

“Two years makes a difference!” She stuck out her tongue at the older girl. “’Sides, I’ve learned a few things since then. I’ve grown up quite a bit since Candlekeep.”

The abrupt image of Imoen in a tavern-boy’s arms flooded Cassie's mind: her sister laughingly protesting as his lips sought out the curves of her neck. A spike of jealousy flared up and was instantly quashed as Cassandra slammed an iron grip down on her emotions. Stop it, Cass, just stop it.

Imoen glared at her as she started up the stairs. “And so’ve you, so don’t you give me that shocked look.”

Shock? Better than envy, at least. She crossed her arms and played up the part of the over-protective older sister. “Well, you better still be a virgin, that’s for damn sure.”

The younger sibling froze in mid-step. Every line in her body went rigid as she slowly turned her head. Her face had drained of color and her eyes were narrowed dangerously. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“That if any second-hand stable boy had his way with you, I’m going to kick his ass, that’s what.”

Her lips pressed together in a tight frown, and she turned to continue up the stairs. “Shut up, Cass.”

She returned the frown. The small flame of jealousy rekindled, and now she really did feel the part of the protective sister. Imoen never took such teasing seriously – not until now. “What, you have some secret lover I don’t know about?”

“Shut the Hell up!”

“I’m just teasing, but damn, if you’re going to make a scene out of it, maybe I’m right!”

Imoen turned around with rage in her eyes and made a sharp, twisting gesture with her right hand. A shimmering snake of pale white energy leapt out and wound itself around Cassandra’s throat as the fighter instinctively jerked backwards and nearly fell to the floor. It tightened; there was a brief sensation of suffocation, as if it had stuffed her throat with cotton, and then it was gone.

She glared at her sister and demanded an explanation — or tried to. Her mouth opened, but the words failed to come. Cassie stopped and reflexively put one hand to her neck. It felt normal enough; there was no sensation of tightness, no unusual texture. She tried the question again, but again the sound refused to come forth. Her vocal cords did not vibrate beneath her inquisitive fingertips.

“That,” Imoen said angrily, “is a silence spell. Maybe next time I tell you to drop it, you’ll drop it.” She turned once more and continued to the top of the stairs, making no move to cancel the enchantment.

Cassandra waited for a moment, but the mage didn’t even look back. The fighter gritted her teeth, quelled her mounting anger, and ascended the stairs in silence – the only way she could.

She’s right, she told herself. She told you to shut up and you didn’t. You let your damn emotions get the better of you.

Who does she think she is? another part responded. You’re the rescuer; you’re the one who risked everything to save her, and this is her thanks? To order you around like a dog?

Cassie’s lips pursed as she followed the back of the mage’s green smock. Imoen wasn’t acting very thankful, that was for damn sure — silencing her for some innocent teasing, her unreasonable reaction to the Slayer change.

She’s afraid, the inner voice assured her.

Of what, though? Me? The Slayer – Cassie – had attacked her, just as it had Bodhi. It hadn’t cared. That would definitely explain it.

Afraid of you – afraid of your power. And ashamed... The thought trailed off uncertainly, then rose again like a faint whisp of smoke. Ashamed.

Her brows furrowed together. In front of her, Imoen had reached the top of the staircase and now listened intently to whatever lay on the other side of the door. She’d tucked her auburn waves back behind her ears and her youthful face was beautiful in its concentration.

Of me?

The voice didn’t have an answer.

“I think it’s clear,” Imoen whispered, turning her head from the door. “If I remember, this is the same floor as the ritual chamber, before we got thrown into the maze. We gotta be careful. But if we can find the stairs, the next level up is the exit.”

Cassie nodded.

Imoen gently pushed on the door’s wooden surface, and it glided open with an almost eerie lack of noise. A thin sliver of dim blue light shone on her face as she looked through the opening into the space beyond. After a moment she nodded and motioned to her sister. “Clear.”

The warrior slipped through the opening and into the next chamber. It was a long hallway, bathed in an ambient teal-blue light which originated from small glowing glass bowls stationed at even intervals along the wall. Every twenty to thirty feet was a large, ominous metal door covered by rivets and reinforced bars. The air was deathly quiet, giving no clue as to what was sealed within.

We should— Cassie growled in frustration as her mouth opened and closed mutely. Or tried to growl. She reached out and touched Imoen’s shoulder, then gestured to her own throat. Fat lot of good it would be if they ran into trouble and she couldn’t even yell a warning.

Imoen shrugged her hand away and gave her an annoyed look. “It’ll wear off in half an hour.”

Take it off now, she mouthed.

“Sorry, can’t hear you.” She turned with a flippant toss of her hair and headed down the hallway to see what lie ahead.

Oh, this little prank was going to far. Cassie jogged to catch up with her, absently noting that even the sword belted around her waist and the fabric of the robe she was clad in made no noise. She reached out and caught Imoen’s elbow. It was safer for them both if she undid the spell.

Again the young woman pulled away. The annoyance in her eyes became more pronounced. “Don’t touch me.”

This was no time for games. They were still not to safety and there were still dangers out there. They were both tired, hungry, and physically drained from the fighting earlier; a surprise could be deadly. Cassie refused to compromise. She grasped her sister’s wrist as she turned away and halted her departure.

Imoen’s free hand flashed up and struck her swift and hard across the cheek. The sharp snap of impact echoed down the empty hall. Her grey eyes were bright with rage. “I said don’t touch me!”

Cassie’s hand went to cover the vicious sting of her cheek as the mage once more turned and ignored her. Her eyes widened; suddenly a wave of heat flooded her and the entire world was narrowed down to the girl who now was walking away.

How dare she!

The black fury hit her like a tidal wave; it crashed down and nearly washed her away in its turbulent swell. She had the sword raised to strike and lips drawn back in a mute snarl before she realized what she was about to do. The rage was wiped from her face by shock, and she dropped the blade as if it were white-hot in her hands. Though it’d been silent when held, the enchantment was apparently restricted to Cassandra herself — it clanged and clattered harshly against the cold stone floor.

Imoen jumped, startled, and turned around. Her expression slowly changed from exasperation to confusion and finally concern as she saw Cassandra bent over, holding her hands to her temples, eyes clenched shut and face harsh with pain.

She deserves it. An image flashed through the warrior’s mind: Imoen’s face, bloodied and bruised, as she screamed and pleaded for mercy. Her blood quickened in excitement even as she tried to shake the image out of her head.

Stop it. Get out of my head.

She deserves it, it repeated, and the image expanded. The phantasmal sounds of fist meeting flesh resounded in her mind, the wet smack of bloodied knuckles, the screams of terror. No one uses you.

Dammit, get out of my head!

“Cassie?” Imoen approached her cautiously, leaning slightly to the side to better see her sister. “Y’okay?”

She shook her head and tried to back away and keep distance between them. She was definitely not okay. Her heartbeat pounded in her temples like a herd of wild horses and the sensation of fire within her stole the air from her lungs. It doubled her over, gasping for breath, as the burning expanded outwards and lunged towards the surface. Definitely not okay.

“C’mon, Cass, cut it out.” The redhead’s voice was nervous and uncertain. She took a few hesitant steps forward.

Cassandra shook her head more vehemently and motioned for her to stay back. Words reflexively came to her lips as she tried to speak through the arcane silence. Run. Stay back. Stay back!

Imoen paused in her approach, face now thick with doubt and worry.

The other voice now cut in, its volume and intensity amplified in her mind by the rising tide of unnatural rage. She never listens, it growled. Ungrateful, selfish, manipulative...

No. No!

The green-clad mage began whispering under her breath and extended her hand towards her sister. A soft bluish light appeared on the tips of her fingers.

Dammit, Im! The frustration from both voices combined and the resulting scream echoed inside her skull. For the gods’ sake for once in your pathetic life will you just listen– “–to me and RUN!”

Cassie’s head snapped upwards at the unexpected sound of her own voice, and Imoen jolted backwards. The harsh panting of her breath now rasped through the still air, and the faint sound of cracking and breaking was no longer masked by the spell. The fighter winced as an especially loud snap dislocated her shoulder. Black, alien eyes regarded Imoen from the face of a friend.

“Run, damn you,” Cassandra whispered, but the soft words soon escalated to a scream. “Run before I rip your god-damned head off, you bitch!”

The warrior lunged forward and Imoen reflexively responded with a hail of searing magical darts. The tiny white lances of energy cut into her skin and made the woman stagger backwards, but she remained on her feet. Cassandra snarled and crouched down as she steadied herself and prepared to attack again.

Her second lunge was met with a blast of arctic wind and snow that gusted forth from a glowing white orb between her sister’s hands. The shards of needle-like ice and pellets of hail assaulted her and once more drove Cassandra to retreat.

Imoen took off down the hallway at a dead run. Cone of cold and flaming arrows might slow Cassie down, but it damn well wouldn’t stop her. She didn’t bother trying the metal doors bolted into the walls. There had to be an easier escape route, or a room with easier access. Time was not a luxury she had, to wrestle with locks and bolts with– with whatever it was, chasing her. A howl of anger behind her emphasized the point.

A small door, this one wood instead of steel, was set at the end of the hall. Wood... dammit. It might hold. It was better than nothing, at least.

She didn’t bother looking behind her as she reached the portal and yanked viciously on the handle. It opened, hinges groaning a brief metallic protest, and the young mage quickly ducked inside and slammed it shut behind her. Her hands fumbled frantically for some manner of deadbolt or tiebar, but it quickly became obvious that there was none. The door could not be locked.

Not physically, at least. Imoen pantomimed turning a non-existent key in the door’s non-existent lock and recited the familiar words of the spell. A ghostly, semi-transparent image of the key appeared where she had pretended to hold it, then gradually faded into invisibility as the arcane lock settled into place.

Less than five seconds later the entire door shook with a jolting crash of impact as it was attacked from the other side. Imoen leapt instinctively backwards and flattened herself against the far wall as the wood continued to tremble and shake. The arcane lock held its place.

She clenched her eyes shut and tried to block out the bestial screams and howls as she mentally leafed through her repertoire of magic. Most of the spells she’d prepared the night before were geared towards finding things, revealing things, bypassing obstacles to their route: see invisible, locate object, open lock. She’d already used her only instance of Otiluke’s Resilient Sphere, which was arguably the only one of real value in the situation. There was disintegrate, but that would to exactly as its name suggested.

Another slam against the door caused the entire portal to quiver. The wood groaned miserably under the onslaught; the ripping and cracking sound of splintering wood quickly replaced it.

It’s trying to go through the door, she realized bleakly. The enchantment would keep the door from opening but it did not strengthen or reinforce the wood itself. It would still shatter and break the same as any door – eventually.

“Cassie!”

An inhuman cry answered her from the other side and the Slayer’s efforts to destroy the door by brute for redoubled. Imoen looked around her self-imposed prison for another avenue of escape, but the walls of the room were solid and plain. There were no other exits.

The door had to hold. It had to. What was left – disintegrate? And kill Cassie, her own sister? Kill or be killed, was that it?

The creature in the hall screamed again, and Imoen sank to the floor, hands over her ears, trying to muffle the Hellish sound. It hardly made any difference at all. The cacophony continued, punctuated by quaking and rattling of the door, closing in on her, suffocating her, crowding out everything but raw, primeval fear.

“STOP!”

She yelled it with all her strength, somehow piercing the din of chaos... and suddenly the room was quiet.

It was several seconds before she registered the change. She opened her eyes and looked at the door in wary disbelief. It was still, and still intact. She slowly uncovered her ears. Silent. Completely. Nevertheless she sat unmoving for nearly a minute more, trying to hear any hint of where the creature had gone. There were no obvious sounds of breathing, no footsteps, no click of claws on granite floors – unless it was being very, very careful, which didn’t seem to be its modus operandi. And somehow she couldn’t quite appreciate the mental image of a Slayer tiptoeing down the hall.

Imoen got to her feet and stealthily approached the door. She laid her ear against the wood with her pulse still racing frantically; what if it was still on the other side, waiting for just that? Another mental image appeared, this one less comical: a giant talon-tipped hand exploding through the door and closing around her skull.

More silence. Even thief-trained ears could detect nothing on the other side. Either the beast was gone or Cassie had somehow acquired an actual measure of grace and stealth. Probably the former, since ‘Cassie’ and ‘stealth’ weren’t words generally found in the same sentence.

Nevertheless, one couldn’t be too careful. Imoen cast stoneskins on herself before making any motion to open the door. The abjuration field constricted around her, forming an invisible and skin-tight suit. It wouldn’t stop everything, but it’d stop a lot.

She dispelled the lock and gingerly pressed down the latch. It released with a faint but audible click, and once more she froze. After several seconds of continued silence, she slowly opened the door.

The hallway looked like an earthquake had hit it. Splinters and fragments of wood littered the floor from the scores of inch-deep gouges that had all but gutted the door. It had held, but barely. Even small bits of rock and plaster were scattered across the tile from where claws had struck stone instead.

The creature was gone, but Cassandra was there. She lay on her back a few feet away from the door, human once more, the robe she had worn again ripped and tattered from the transformation. Her eyes were closed.

“Cass.” Imoen knelt down and turned the girl’s head to face her. She didn’t respond to her name or the touch. “Cassie, you okay?” She lightly tapped the girl’s cheek. “Back to normal now? ... oh shit... Cassie!”

Imoen’s voice grew frantic as she noticed the stillness of her sister’s chest. She placed the fingers of one hand to her throat and the others just beneath her nostrils. There was no pulse, no warmth of breath. She wasn’t breathing. Gods, she wasn’t breathing!

She grabbed the fighter’s shoulders and tried to shake her awake. “Cassie, wake up!” The next slap was not nearly so gentle; it left a red imprint on pale skin, but the eyes did not even flutter.

Imoen felt for a pulse again, found nothing, and shook the body once more. “Don’t you die on me, Cass. Don’t you die on me!” Her own heart was racing once more, now from a different sort of fear. Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them away angrily. “Dammit, Cassandra, don’t you fucking die on me!”

“Breathe... c’mon, breathe.” She tilted Cassie’s head back and opened her mouth. She’d seen Hull do the same at Candlekeep once, to a young boy who’d fallen into the lake. The boy’s lips had been blue and his flesh nearly cold, but Hull had brought him back from Kelemvor’s gates. Cassie was still warm.

Okay, Im, what’d he do next? Think! She held her hand over Cassandra’s open mouth, but the air was still. Her memory played over the boy’s rescue in frantic, choppy flashes. Down on the ground, mouth open, head tilted... and then Hull had shared his breath with the boy.

She pinched Cassie’s nostrils closed, covered her mouth with her own, and exhaled. The woman’s chest rose slightly, but still she did not move. She tried again a second time, with the same lack of result.

Oh gods, gods, she’s dead, she’s really dead. She was going to be alone again, lost again – and this time there would be no hero, no escape. Irenicus would– No. No! I can’t do that again. I can’t do that again. If Cassie died, so did any illusion of hope.

Imoen pulled away and smacked Cassandra’s chest in a sudden fit of anger and grief. “Gods damn you — damn you to the deepest pit in the Nine Hells!” Now the tears came freely, spilling down her cheeks and falling forlornly onto her sister’s skin. “You can’t leave me here. I won’t let you!”

Another shake of her shoulders was to no avail. Imoen leaned down once more and shared her breath, whispering prayers to any god that would listen. “Please, Cassie, please.”

Her chest rose and convulsed. The redhead’s body jerked with a rough instinctive gasp for air and she was immediately overcome by coughing and paroxyms. Her eyes watered from the violence of the spasms as she was forcibly returned to the land of the living.

Imoen’s tears began anew, but this time sprung from joy. She hugged Cassie as tight as she dared. Her sister tried to return the hug amidst the fit of coughs, achieving only partial, awkward success.

“Cassie, damn you,” she sobbed, half-laughing and half-crying. She thwacked her in the chest, prompting a whole new round of gasps and sputters. “Don’t you ever do that again!”

“Do what?” Cassandra managed to wheeze.

“Any of it! No more freaky monster stuff, no more death’s door!” She wrapped her arms around her and squeezed her tight. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again. If I weren’t so happy you’re alive, I’d kill you.”

Another fit of coughs, and resigned acceptance. “Yes, ma’am.”

Imoen held her in the embrace for nearly a minute before she finally and reluctantly withdrew and turned her attention more to the matter at hand. “Can you stand up?”

Cassie shifted around slowly, wincing several times as a myriad of aches and pains made themselves known. “I don’t think so. Everything’s tingling; half-numb.”

“Here, lemme help.”

Imoen got into a crouched position and braced herself under Cassandra’s arm. She rose slowly as Cassie tried to get to her feet. After several attempts they succeeded, but the warrior’s stance was wobbly and weak at best.

“I hate to use the same room, but I don’t think you’re gonna go very far,” Imoen said as she helped her sibling into the room she herself had hidden in earlier. “And if you didn’t wake up the entire asylum just now, then I think we’re in the clear.”

Cassie nodded and limped over to a clear spot near the northwest corner. Imoen helped her back down into a seated position, and Cassie realized belatedly that her clothing had again been destroyed. Whatever Irenicus had triggered inside of her, it was making very short work of her wardrobe.

“Lock the door?”

Imoen shook her head. “I used arcane lock when—just a second ago, but it’s spent.”

Terrific. Not only had the encounter caused enough racket to wake the dead, they couldn’t even bar the door.

“Cass...” Imoen reached out and touched her chin, guiding her to meet her gaze. While the rest of Cassandra had returned to normal, the blue of her eyes had not. They were black, as they’d been just before her transformation: solid onyx from side to side. “Cass, you’re okay, right?”

“I don’t know. I’m exhausted, and I feel like a herd of umberhulks just ran me down.”

“No, I mean up here.” She tapped her temple. “I mean, you sound okay, but... is it really all you, up there?” She was frowning, her eyes thick with doubt.

Cassie paused, considering. She felt mostly normal. As normal as she had since going through the ritual, at least. But the voice, the dialog in her thoughts: that didn’t seem normal. People did talk to themselves, though, and have internal discussions – Hell, she was doing it now. And after all the stress and chaos they’d been through, who was to say that such discussions were abnormal? “I don’t know, Im. I sound okay to me, too, but... after what just happened...”

“Do I look the same?”

That was an unexpected topic shift. “Uh...yeah? Why?”

She opened her mouth to say it, but then reconsidered and shrugged. Maybe it was an after-effect, or maybe it was just slow to fade. They’d probably be back to normal soon. And if not, she still had hold person ready to use. “No reason. I’m just paranoid I guess.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” She gave her sis a wink. “Hey, one good thing: looks like you’re already dressed for bed now.”

Cassie chuckled slightly, prompting an unexpected cough. She tapped herself on the chest to clear it. “When we get out of here, first stop is a tailor.” They both fell silent for a few moments until the fighter spoke again. “Do you really feel safe here?”

She shrugged a little. “Door’s still intact. Better than nothing.”

“I meant with me.”

Imoen raised one eyebrow with curiosity. “Well... safe is relative concept, I guess,” she admitted after a moment’s hesitation. “No offense, Cass, but, I plan on staying near the door just in case you wig out again – which you better not,” she tacked on sternly.

Cassandra shook her head. “I—It’s not random. I can kind of feel it coming on, I think. I just get so angry, and it’s like I can’t stop it.”

“You better learn to.”

“Yeah, I know.” She exhaled a soft, pensive breath. “I’m lucky I didn’t kill you.”

“And you’re lucky I didn’t kill you,” Imoen said in all seriousness. “I’ve only got a set number of spells a day, and my last two are hold person and disintegrate. And I know for damn sure that hold person isn’t going to work on a demon.”

Which left disintegrate. Cassie nodded slowly. “Well... just don’t slap me again,” she suggested with a weak smile.

The corner of Imoen’s mouth twitched in amusement. “I’ll try. And I’m sorry ‘bout that, by the way.”

“It’s okay.”

“Nah.” Imoen plopped down beside her and rested her chin in her hands. “It’s not, really. I overreacted. Yes, me.” She eyed Cassie, challenging her to make a comment. The other woman just smiled.

“So... yeah. I guess I kinda owe you an explanation,” she continued. “You—you hit some sore points, y’know? Well, no, obviously you didn’t know, you couldn’t have, but you still hit them. And it pissed me off, so I whacked you.”

Cassie nodded. Imoen’s face had taken on a shadow of sadness in the dim blue glow of the room. It painted her almost like a water-color, a tangible and visible echo of the growing sorrow in her voice.

“You asked what he did to me, Cass,” she said softly. “And I brushed you off. I keep laughing and joking like it doesn’t matter, ‘cause maybe if I do then it really won’t. But it’s still there, and it’s always gonna be there. And it’s not fair of me to take it out on you – even if you really deserve it sometimes.”

The reflexive smile she threw with the words quickly evaporated as she realized she was laughing off the issue yet again. Imoen sighed and shook her head. “Geez, I’m hopeless.”

“No, you’re right,” Cassie responded softly, taking her sister’s hand and squeezing it in reassurance. “I really do deserve it sometimes.” She offered a smile of her own.

Her words prompted a small, but this time genuine, smile. “Don’t encourage me, you dork.” Imoen returned the squeeze and scooted a little closer, happily accepting when Cassandra offered her open arms.

“Anyways... what I’m trying to say, you dummy, is that I owe you an explanation. And ‘sides, it’s only fair. You shared part of your story last night, so now I’ll share some of mine.”

“Are you sure? Mine wasn’t as personal, or as painful, I’d wager.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. If you want to hear it, that is.”

Another nod. “It’s important to me. I’d like to hear.”

“Fine.” The sorceress took a deep breath and straightened her posture, steeling herself against whatever was to come.

“Everything was fine, actually, until Irenicus took over the asylum. So I guess I should start there...”

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 4 - "Broken"

“So... he tortured me... but you knew that. He had these special knives he liked to use, and I know each one by heart now. I can tell just from the sound of the metal being unsheathed, the feel against my skin, the sharpness, the curve of the blade... There were three of them for each size – small, medium, large. One had these jagged teeth that just rip through flesh and bone. One was so smooth and sharp that you don’t even feel the cut. The other’s smooth, too, but with this special edge to the blade that lets you add a little ‘extra surprise.’ Salt, hot oil, acid... y’know, that kind of stuff.

The physical torture wasn’t too bad, though. Well, not after a while, at least. I just stopped responding to it after a while. Sounds weird, huh? But... it’s just flesh, y’know? Just flesh... I guess Irenicus figured that out too. He always told me – he talked a lot — that there’s an order you have to go in to really break someone apart. First you break the body, then you break the mind, and only then can you break the soul. So after a few weeks, I was too numb to care about the physical stuff. He’d broken my body. And that’s when the real torture began.”

It was a nice day. Not as nice as some of the days back in Candlekeep, back before this whole mess with Sarevok, but it was still a nice day. Imoen leaned up against the windowsill of her room in the Three Old Kegs inn and watched the bustle of the people below. It was high noon, and the residents of Baldur’s Gate were busy going about their business, buying this, selling that. The sky was clear with the occasional wayward cloud in the distance, and the swallowtails perched on the washerwomen’s lines were singing with every ounce of their tiny little hearts.

She smiled. It was definitely a nice day. “Hey, Cass, c’mere.”

“I’m busy.”

Figured. Like there was anything she could possibly doing that outranked a beautiful day like today. “Doin’ what?”

“Reading.”

Cassandra was stretched out on her stomach on the room’s single bed, propping her chin up and studying a small blue pamphlet of some sort. The rays of sunlight caught the strands of hair which framed her face and made them glitter and glimmer like fire and gold.

Imoen reluctantly stepped away from the warmth of the open window and went over to the bed. “Readin’ what?”

“Sword stuff.”

“Is that all you ever read?” She rolled her eyes and sat down on the edge of the mattress. “Military whoopity-do and hoo-hah? C’mon, Cass, it’s beautiful outside.” She winked and shot the woman a grin. “Get a life already!”

Her sister sent back an annoyed glance. “You weren’t saying that when it was me and my military ‘whoopity-do’ saving your butt. I like this kind of stuff.”

“Well.... you’re just silly, then.” Imoen snatched up the book and leapt off the bed.

“Hey! Dammit, Im, I was reading that!”

She danced out of the way of Cassie’s lunge as the older girl launched herself off the bed in an attempt to retrieve the text. Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she darted back to the window and held the book up as a challenge. The breeze fluttered the pages with ominous promise. “I dare ya.”

Cassie crossed her arms across her chest. “You wouldn’t. No, don’t!” Imoen had taken on a mock-offended look and dangled the pamphlet further out the opening. “You’re right — you would, you would.”

Imoen giggled and wiggled her eyebrows. “So whatcha gonna give me for it?”

“Oh, c’mon, Im, this is totally not fair. I was really enjoying that.”

“Heh! And I’m really enjoying it now too.”

Cassandra sighed in defeat. Imoen wanted to play, and when that girl got it in her head to play, there was no use in trying not to. “Fine, fine... what would you rather do than spend a perfectly wonderful day in a perfectly wonderful room with a perfectly wonderful bed, reading a perfectly wonderful book?”

“Well, gee, if you put it that way...” For a moment Cassie thought she might actually win this one, but Imoen’s impish smile dashed that dream. “Anything but read, really.”

“What’s so wrong with reading?”

“Well, for starters, you’re the one reading, which means I’m bored.”

Cassie had slowly and casually taken a few steps closer as they talked. Imoen tried to keep her smile from growing even bigger. Cass had a long, long way to go before she could sneak up on a sneak. Still, Imoen was willing to play along for now. It’d just make it all the more fun in about... oh, about thirty seconds.

“We could get you a book, too.”

“Nah. Still be bored.”

“Not even one with pictures?”

Imoen’s lips quirked in amusement. “Hey now, that’s low. I can read, y’know.” Cass had advanced another step, and was now almost within grabbing distance.

“Yeah,” she acknowledged, “but you prefer the ones with pictures.”

Cassie made another grab for the book, but Imoen had seen it coming a mile away. She tucked the book behind her back and switched it to her other hand. “Hah! Missed – hey!”

Cassandra had adjusted to the switch quickly – too quickly – and nearly managed to get her hands on it before Imoen could pull it away. The thief’s natural nimbleness saved the game, though, and now she kept the book firmly behind her, clasped with both hands, giggling as her sister tried in vain to grab it.

“Dammit, Im!”

She grinned and shifted to keep her body between the fighter and her goal. “Dammit, Cass!”

“Stop it!”

“Stop it!”

“Okay, that’s just immature.”

“Okay, that’s just immature.”

Cassie’s lips pursed together and her brows furrowed in a distinct look of displeasure. It only made Imoen giggle all the more. The fighter decided to switch tactics. She was taller than Imoen, if just a few inches, and correspondingly had a longer reach — and in this situation, that extra inch or so might be all she needed. She wrapped her arms around the redhead’s waist and backed her up against the window so she couldn’t wiggle away. With both hands now she tried to liberate the stolen text, but even though she could now get a grip on it, Imoen held it fast.

“Imoen,” she said sternly, “if you do not give me back my book by the count of ten, I am going to shove you out the window.”

Imoen considered that. It was an empty threat, of course; Cassandra definitely had the strength – and the opportunity, and the motive – but she’d never raise a hand against her and they both knew it.

“You wouldn’t dare. I’d scream all the way down, you’d get arrested for murder, and then I’d come back and haunt you forever and ever. And ever,” she tacked on with a meaningful look.

If there were such a thing as a Fate worse than death, being haunted eternally by Imoen's ghost certainly qualified. Pushing her out the window, then, was no option. Cassandra tightened her arms around the girl and slid her hands forward around her waist, coming to rest just above her hips – one of Imoen’s most sensitive areas. “I’ll tickle you until you pee.”

The movement of her hands sparked a strange warmth in Imoen’s stomach. The thief’s smile half-melted away from an unaccustomed blush of heat across her skin and suddenly it seemed her heart was beating a little faster. “It’d get all over both of us, and that’d just be gross,” she objected.

“Fine then. I’ll tickle until you pass out.”

Cassie was standing close – close enough that more than just her hands was in contact with Imoen’s body. The younger girl was forced to look up at her taller sibling, and for some reason Cassandra looked different now. The way her hair fell around her face, the planes of her features and lines of her face, close enough to touch... Imoen’s skin prickled with goose bumps. She stared up at Cassandra’s arctic blue eyes with a mixture of bewilderment and sudden excitement. “You wouldn’t dare,” she breathed.

Cassie pulled her closer, meeting her gaze with confidence and more than a bit of challenge. The hands around her waist drifted lower, evoking the same odd heat as they came to rest on her hips, and neither of them paid much attention to the thunk of the forgotten book falling to the floor. “Oh, I’d dare.”

Imoen’s heart skipped a beat and the pleasant tingle spread from her belly to her entire body. Her breath came quicker as her hands came to rest on top of Cassandra’s own. “Promise?”

“Rise.”

The vision shattered. Suddenly the warmth was gone, the sunlight gone, the room empty and cold. Cassandra’s visage flashed and vanished with the blink of an eye, replaced by the dim and forlorn grey of bare stone walls.

“It is time for another... test.”

It was the same voice, a masculine voice. One she recognized and had learned to hate. Imoen drew her knees up to her chest where she sat on the cell’s floor and tried to recapture the image. She didn’t look up, didn’t want to look up. She kept her gaze on the rough surface of the stone-block floor. Maybe this time he’d go away.

He didn’t. He never did. Minutes passed as he waited, as Imoen began to shiver and shake from the abrupt return to reality. She kept her eyes fastened to the floor, slowly rocking herself back and forth, and trembled. The shaking grew worse, soon claiming her entire body, and eventually the mental barricade she’d so carefully constructed fractured under the weight of his presence and the tears began to fall.

“Please,” she whispered, “please, I can’t take anymore...”

“Patience, Imoen. Soon it will all end.”

The sharp click of Irenicus’ boots crossed over to her, his shadow slithering across the floor towards her resting place. He stopped next to her and she could see him on the edge of her vision even as she desperately tried not to. When he reached down and took hold of her upper arm, she didn’t resist. Resisting didn’t change anything. Screaming didn’t make a difference. Nothing ever changed what would happen.

He pulled her to her feet like a limp ragdoll and guided her towards the door. A duergar servant stood there, holding it open, and leered at the girl as she was led past. It closed with a hollow metallic clunk and she heard the lock as it was levered back in place.

The torture chamber – the ‘examination lab’ – was only perhaps a hundred feet down the hall. The crisp staccato beat of the mage’s footsteps echoed off the walls as he led the way. He never looked back to ensure his subject was following, taking it for granted that she would. And he was right. Imoen had tried running, tried hiding, tried fighting. Nothing ever made a difference, and eventually she’d given up.

The door to the lab grew closer, and she wondered which knives he’d use today.

Irenicus made a small motion with his left hand; the door unlocked itself and quietly swung open. The room itself was well-lit from multiple small arcane lanterns which hung from the walls and a orb of perpetual light floating near the ceiling. Most of the walls held different instruments of various sorts. The northern wall held a collection of alchemical equipment: test tubes, vials of colored liquids, coils of glass tubing, shelves of materials both exotic and mundane. The southern wall, where the door was, held the furnaces, sand pits, and water baths used to smelt and cool. The eastern side was a makeshift library, where Irenicus had gathered the most import of his manuals that he used in his ‘experiments.’ The western side held the shackles, knives, and other instruments; Imoen knew that wall the best.

But today there was something – someone – else.

There was a girl, a little girl, clasped within the chains. She was small and blond, maybe four years old, with a round and precious face streaked with streams of tears. The leg irons and shackles had been heavily padded to fit her tiny limbs, and she began sobbing uncontrollably when Irenicus entered the room.

Imoen’s grey eyes widened. She’d seen that girl before, she knew she had, but the name escaped her. All of the torture instruments were still in their places; the syringes, the saws, the scold’s gag, the iron tongs. All the things that Imoen had come to know so intimately when she was the one in the chains. But surely—surely not even Irenicus—he wouldn’t. Would he?

She looked over at him. He stood straight with his arms held loosely at his sides, his tight, corpse-like flesh unmoved and unmoving. There was no emotion in his eyes.

“Wh—“ Her words choked. She took a deep breath. “What are you planning?” Whatever it was, she was sure it wouldn’t be pleasant.

“Not to worry,” he responded. “Nothing worse than what I have done to you.”

“She’s a child!”

“Exactly, Imoen.” His eyes never left the little girl. “Exactly.”

Irenicus strode over to the western equipment cabinet and retrieved his little wooden tray. That was where he kept the knives, and sure enough Imoen could see the glint of the metal blades, laid out in perfect order, perfect alignment. Was he really going to do to that girl the same as he’d done to her? Was there anything this monster wouldn’t do?

The little girl saw the knives, too. She tried to speak, but the tears and minutes, if not hours, of crying had robbed her of her voice. All she could do was sniff and sob and strain against the chains that held her. There was such terror in her eyes, such a plea for help...

“Take a good look at her, Imoen,” he said, picking up one of the knives. The sharpest one, the one with the thin, narrow blade. “Have you ever seen innocence?”

“Stop it.” She’d started trembling again, and she hugged herself tightly to try to quell it. “Whatever you want; I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“Innocence,” he explained as he stepped next to the girl, “is beautiful. It is sweet and it is charming.” He placed his empty hand on her hair in an almost fatherly fashion, and it evoked a whole new cascade of tears.

Imoen’s own tears welled up against her wishes as she saw the fear and confusion she knew so well, reflected in the girl’s weeping green eyes. “Please, please just stop it! This isn’t fair! I’m the one you want!”

“It is also weak, Imoen, just as this girl is weak. Just as she is victimized and at the mercy of a greater power, so are the innocent of the world fated for destruction at the hands of those who wield that power.”

He placed the knife to the girl’s throat. She screamed as it pierced the skin.

“No!” Imoen threw herself at the mage to try to stop him. She collided with an invisible barrier after only a few feet and rebounded with such force that she landed on the floor. “Fucking bastard,” she spat as she rose to her knees. “How could you!”

“How could I?” The surprise in his voice seemed sincere. “Silly girl, I haven’t harmed her. Her death serves no purpose to me yet.”

Imoen blinked and used the heels of her hands to wipe the wetness from her eyes. The girl was still standing, locked in the padded shackles, and still weeping inconsolably. The knife which Irenicus had placed at her neck – that Imoen had been sure would end her life – had instead cut a small, fingernail-sized crescent just above the girl’s collarbone. A thin line of crimson blood oozed from the wound.

Irenicus wiped the blood away with his index finger, and then studied the thick smear of life on his skin. His eyes lifted, found Imoen, and he crossed over to her with measured strides. The ethereal wall did not hamper him as he reached down and took ahold of her hair.

“Innocence is not life, Imoen. It is death. It is the destiny of innocence to be consumed and feed the power of the truly strong. You possess the curious quality of both: you are innocent, but within you is the seed of power which you must embrace – or perish.”

He tightened his grip in the red waves of her hair and forced the bloodied finger to her lips. Imoen struggled and twisted, but it only succeeded in smearing the sticky warmth even more. The metallic tang assaulted her tongue and made her stomach heave.

“Does it excite you to consume this innocence?” he asked. “Do you find the taste... agreeable?”

If looks could kill, she would have slain him where he stood. She spat a mixture of saliva and blood onto his embroidered robe. “I think it’s disgusting. I think you’re disgusting!”

“Disgusting...” He eyes narrowed, but he was unmoved by the insult. “If you think that, then you are not nearly hungry enough. Belegar!”

The same duergar servant from earlier appeared in the doorway a few seconds after his call.

“Take her away,” Irenicus instructed. “She continues to resist.”

The stocky dwarf-like creature nodded brusquely and hauled Imoen to her feet with surprising strength. She’d forgotten how compact and muscular these half-sized beasts could be. He shoved her out of the room, barking insults as he did, and within moments she was back in her cell. The door was closed, the lock set in place, and she was sealed into darkness once again.

What would happen to the girl? She almost didn’t want to think about it. He’d said that her death served no purpose yet – but in Irenicus’ hands, sometimes death was a better option. Especially if he was going to subject her to the same ‘experiments’ he’d done to Imoen herself. He wouldn’t – he couldn’t. She simply couldn’t fathom that anyone, even a corpse-faced freak like Irenicus, would be even capable of doing that to a child. To a little girl.

But he had. He’d chained her there, terrified her, cut her. That was torture, too, just spiritual rather than physical. He’d do it. He’d do it if it served his purpose.

Imoen shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. It wasn’t fair. Was this some sort of new trick, some new method of madness to break her even further? Wasn’t she broken enough?

Her stomach growled. She sighed and drew her knees to her chest again, laying her chin upon the tops. You’re not nearly hungry enough, he’d said, and just that mention had been enough to make the hunger cramps start again. He’d restricted her food ever since he took over the asylum from the Cowled Wizards, limiting her to one meal every few days – or sometimes one per week. Starvation had robbed her of her strength and was starting to take her health as well. She was always cold now, and her muscles protested even simple movement.

It didn’t matter though. If she just closed her eyes and thought hard enough, she’d be back in that tavern in Baldur’s Gate. The sun would be shining, the summer breeze blowing, and Cassie would be there to make things okay. She could forget all of this even existed, for a little while, if she just closed her eyes.

Imoen closed her eyes, and thought very, very hard.

The next morning there was no food, even though it had been nearly a week since her last meal already. The door grated open on metal hinges and the duergar servant – Belegar — sneered at her as he brought in instead a pitcher of water and a small wooden mug. She glared at him from where she sat in the corner. She hated that one. All of Irenicus’ lackeys were bad, but this one was cruder, smellier, and fouler than most. He seemed to take a special delight in making her life even more Hellish than it already was.

Imoen waited several minutes after he exited to make sure that he was done, then slowly got to her feet and went over to the pitcher and mug. Her throat was aching and her lips beginning to crack. And the water would at least help quell the hunger pains.

She carefully tipped the pitcher and watched as the liquid began to trickle down the spout and into the waiting glass, but her anticipation quickly turned to confusion. It was dark in the cell – it always was – and the water probably wasn’t top quality, but it looked even darker than normal. She finishing pouring, studying it with bewilderment, and then gingerly lifted the mug to her face. She sniffed it. It smelled stale and slightly pungent, with just a trace of copper. Metal wasn’t on her list of standard breakfast items, but she could live with a little contamination if it meant she’d get a drink.

The first mouthful of water touched her tongue and she immediately spewed it out onto the floor. She gagged and spit repeatedly to try to clear the taste from her mouth. Blood. They’d mixed the gods-be-damned water with blood! And she could guess whose blood it was. Her stomach heaved in protest and bitter yellow bile dribbled from her lips.

“Fuck,” she whispered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. That one simple word gave voice to her disappointment and anger. She curled her hands into fists. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” She raised her voice to a shout, pitching it for whoever might be listening, whoever was on the other side of that door laughing at this sick joke. “Fuck you, Irenicus! Do you hear that? I’m not gonna bend, I’m not gonna break, and you are not gonna make me! FUCK YOU!”

She flung the pitcher against the wall and was rewarded with a loud bell-like tone when the metal impacted stone. It didn’t make her feel any better.

Fine then. If they wanted to play that way, she could play that way. She could live without food, and she could live without water. Just gotta be strong, Imoen. Just gotta be strong. You’re stronger than him, you know you are.

She went back to her corner. There were no more visitors that day.

A second day came, and with it came another pitcher of water, tainted identically to the one before. Imoen spent the better part of five minutes screaming insults and curses through the door to her now-unseen captor, but if he heard – or if he cared – he did nothing to show it.

She kicked the pitcher as hard as she could, sending it and its contents spinning and spilling across the floor. Her stomach was tied in knots but the hunger pains had become dull compared to her thirst. She’d gone ten days without food, and now two without water. People could live a long time without food – she didn’t know how long – but water was a more precious commodity. Maybe a week? A little more, a little less?

She retreated to her corner again. She’d outlast this bastard. It’d be best to conserve her energy. Her head hurt, and the pounding at her temples was slowly and steadily increasing, and she’d noticed it was becoming harder to focus on things. She’d sleep it off. Sleep, and perchance to dream.

A third day came, then a fourth. The water kept coming, and she threw it back each time with vehemence and disgust. The headaches had become a constant thrum of pain and even just moving was nearly impossible. She was having trouble staying awake, and staying focused when she was.

“C’mon, Im,” she murmured to herself. “C’mon. Beat this. Beat…”

The words trailed off, and her head lolled forward as her consciousness slipped away again. She caught herself before the blackness claimed her completely and lifted her head again. Her eyes opened and she found herself looking at the ceiling. It was blurred and wobbled unsteadily. Dark splotches decorated the stone; splotches that jerked and moved in her vision as she tried to bring it into focus.

Imoen let her eyes drift close again. It was so tempting just to go back to sleep…

Focus, Imoen. Stay awake.

Magic. Magic required focus. And while her books and scrolls had long been lost, she still at least had her basic knowledge.

“Fire, water, air, earth...” The words came slowly, but came they did. She recited the primary elements and then made her way to the secondary and tertiary groups. “Metal, wood… wood, ele—acid. Acid. Acid. Ele—ele...“

The blackness descended again, settling over her mind like thick, wet wool. It clung to her, stifling and heavy, and threatened to drag her back down into the depths. Her brows furrowed and her chest tightened in concentration and effort. It receded unwillingly, and she snatched the last of the words from her memory.

“Electricity.”

The third group of elements remained unspoken as she passed out and slumped to the floor.

On the fifth day, she drank. And had she the tears, she would have cried.

Her clarity of mind began to return in the days that followed. The food returned as well, a small platter of meat and raw vegetables presented each day at what she assumed was noon, along with another pitcher of the blood-water. She drank the liquid and picked over the vegetables mechanically, staring at the floor and trying not to think of what she was putting in her mouth. The meat remained untouched. She couldn’t look at it. She knew what was in the water. She didn’t know – didn’t want to know—

Imoen pushed the platter away and closed her eyes, taking a deep, quivering breath as her stomach clenched in protest. She couldn’t even think about it.

“Smoke, ice, steam, plasma.” The tertiary manifestations of the natural elements. She recited them, calling to mind the tables and formulae used by the arcane arts, using it to shove aside anything and everything else. “Vapor, plant, flesh, mind.” The fourth and last set of natural elements. Now the non-natural. “Rei arcanae, et obscurae, et spiriti, et animi.” Slowly but steadily the academic recitation forced her mind to calm.

Another deep breath. She opened her eyes as she slowly let it out. It’d be okay. It’d be okay. She’d get out of here. How long had it been, anyways? Day and night were meaningless within the unchanging confines of the cell, and she hadn’t seen the sky since her arrest after escaping from Irenicus’ dungeon the first time. She only had a vague idea of how many days had passed: at least twenty. But whether it’d been twenty-two or sixty, she couldn’t say.

Well, twenty-two or sixty, either way, sooner or later this would be over. Cassie would get here. She’d get here as soon as humanly possible, come blowing open the doors, and taken Irenicus down… somehow. She would; Imoen knew she would. She had to. Any day now. Any day.

The low-pitched click of the cell door’s lock announced that she had a visitor. Imoen caught herself reflexively retreating to the rear of the room, to the corner she’d claimed as her own, before she managed to stop herself. I am not afraid of him. I am not afraid of him! The trembling that had seized her told a different story. Her heartbeat had tripled as her adrenaline spiked.

It swung open slowly, revealing the familiar forms of Irenicus and the duergar lackey. The latter was literally half as tall as the former, but probably twice as wide; the mage had a stereotypically lean and slender look, a life of studying scrolls and arcanery rather than the sword and physical arts. Still, Irencius was muscular for a sorcerer. The duergar, however, was obviously used to a life of hard labor and back-breaking toil. He was build more like a workhouse than a person.

Irenicus turned his head very slightly towards his servant and spoke to him in a guttural and yet oddly sing-song tongue; the creature’s native language, she supposed. He nodded up at his master, spoke in return, and was answered in kind. Irenicus’ expression – flat and dead as it always was – gave no clue as to the contents of the conversation. The duergar’s face was too shadowed to read.

At length he turned back to his captive. “I am sorry, Imoen,” he said. “I truly am. However, you have proven resilient beyond my expectations. We must continue to develop the rage within.”

Imoen’s brows furrowed in confusion. Irenicus, apologizing? She didn’t even know he was capable of such a thing. What was going on?

Her captor turned, his robe rustling softly, and he exited the room. The door closed and the lock slid home. The duergar stayed behind.

She eyed him distrustfully from where she sat near the far wall. “What’s going on?”

He shrugged and began to move towards her. She didn’t move; there was no point in retreating, and she wasn’t going to make his job any easier by standing up. If he was taking her to the torture chamber, then by the gods he’d have to haul her there by force.

“What, he’s not even gonna do it himself? How pathetic.”

The dwarf’s mouth curled in a rough approximation of a smile. “Nau,” it answered in an odd accent. “I dauna think ‘e could ayn ‘e wanted.”

The duergar’s smell reached her a second before he did; a powerful, pungent mix of unwashed flesh and filth. Grime was engrained in his hands and the cracks of his face, and his beard was matted with dirt and oil. No doubt Irencius worked him like a slave, and odor only confirmed it.

He reached out and grabbed her shoulder, but instead of dragging her to her feet like she’d expected, he sent her sprawling across the floor with one forceful shove. Imoen caught herself reflexively with outstretched hands and kept her face from slamming into the stone.

What the Hell? She tried to look over her shoulder, only to feel his foot be planted between her shoulders and shove her flat against the floor. She grunted as his weight forced her breath from her lungs. Her cheek scraped painfully against the rock. What the Hell?? A garden-variety beating seemed a bit pedestrian, considering Irenicus’ normal tastes.

Her arms were still underneath her; she tried to lever herself up but with no success. Imoen had never been a muscular girl, and the weeks of starvation had stolen what little strength she had. Even if he hadn’t easily massed twice what she did, she still wouldn’t have been able to move him. He pressed down, crushing her further. She gritted her teeth in pain.

The foot was removed and she gasped for breath. He was on her again within a heartbeat.

“Be still.”

Damned if she’d do any such thing. She had half-rolled to her back when the hands seized her again and roughly completed the motion. The duergar was leaning over her, pulling on her with rough and calloused hands. She growled and lashed out at him with her legs. He caught one in his chest, but it didn’t faze him in the slightest. The other he caught in his left hand and secured firmly under his arm. His right hand loosened the drawstring of his trousers, in which a distinct bulge had formed.

Imoen’s eyes went wide, and her struggles increased tenfold. This wasn’t going to be an ordinary beating. She started screaming and assaulted him with a flurry of kicks, using the resistance of the impact to shove herself further away. He grunted with displeasure, and as soon as he’d freed his member from the soiled pants, he seized her other leg and pulled her close to him once more.

“Get off me! Get away!” She fought with all her might, but he was far, far stronger. Her kicks were made useless as he dragged her forward, placed himself firmly between her legs, and forced her knees apart.

She switched to fists and swung at his head. The blows landed solidly, causing her knuckles to crack, but they seemed to hurt her more than they did him. He retaliated with a single, hammer-like punch that flooded her vision with a flash of light and made the world spin incoherently.

Imoen felt him adjust his position and push her robe up over her thighs, bunching it around her hips. It was the sole and only garment she’d been given. Tears began to stream down her cheeks, mingling with the taste of blood in her mouth. She could feel a thin warm trickle of it running from her nose.

“Please don’t,” she begged. “Don’t! Get off me!” She tried to shove him off again, to strike him again, to do anything to escape. It was ineffective, and another blow across her face sent her reeling. The world flickered, and for a moment she thought – she prayed – that she’d pass out.

“Be still,” he repeated, and then forced his way inside her.

She screamed again, from pain rather than fear. He adjusted position again and pushed deeper. Something inside her felt like it ripped. Pain spiked through her like hot irons in her nerves. She was crying, sobbing uncontrollably, flinging her fists at him with desperation. He barely noticed as he began brutally thrusting into her, each movement bringing a new lance of agony and anguished cry.

If only she had her magic, she could defend herself. If she had a dagger, had her strength back, she could attack. If it’d been any city but Athkatla, anyone but Irenicus, she wouldn’t even be here. If Cassie hadn’t abandoned her. If they’d never left Candlekeep at all.

Something else tore inside her, something beyond the physical. Something deeper. She felt it snap, and suddenly she didn’t feel anything. She was vaguely aware of the duergar on top of her, grunting and rutting like the beast he was, and for a moment she knew where she was, who she was... and then it all began to fade.

Somewhere she heard someone crying. Someone screaming.

But Imoen was back in Baldur’s Gate. The swallowtails were singing, and it looked like another nice day.

“I don’t remember much after that,” she concluded in a soft, almost inaudible voice. “He broke me... I swore that bastard would never break me, but he did.”

“I woke up after he was gone, and I was covered in blood. Some of it was probably mine; I mean, I know you’re supposed to bleed the first time you—“ Her voice choked as she tried to give voice to the violation. She covered her face with her hands and took several deep, trembling breaths before she gained the control to continue. Her eyes were red and shimmering from the tears she refused to shed. “—the first time you’re with a man.” Another unsteady breath, another pause to keep control. “But there was so much blood... It couldn’t all be mine. I hope I hurt him. I hope I scarred him for life.”

Cassandra sat in utter silence, stunned and horrified by what she’d heard. No wonder Imoen had told her to shut up when she’d joked on the topic of sex. And Cassie had pressed the issue, grown self-righteously angry, without the faintest clue about the wound she’d reopened.

“I remember the ritual, vaguely. I guess that’s when I started coming out of it. I remember when you found me in Spellhold, before Irenicus trapped you too. I thought it was a dream. Those dreams of you were all that kept me sane – or at least, kept me from losing it for good.”

She laughed self-consciously, almost bitterly. “Gods, I thought it was a dream. I was sure of it. I mean, there you were, after so long of wishing and hoping and praying you’d come... and suddenly, poof!, there you were. I didn’t want you there. Too many nightmares. Too many times when I’d dream you were there and then something horrible would happen, and you’d leave again, and I’d rot in that damn cell for the rest of my life. And then you really did leave...”

“Not by choice,” Cassie responded softly.

“I know, Cass. I figured it out when he dragged me back into the ritual room. He gloated the whole time about how he’d finally captured Gorion’s ward and finally he’d have his revenge, yadda yadda, standard madman stuff.”

Another brief silence fell as Imoen’s soft grey eyes studied the floor, as she gathered her thoughts. The tears had stopped, but her body quietly shook and trembled. She looked so vulnerable, as if any stray breeze would shatter her, but looks were deceiving. She’d been through an impossible series of nightmares and she’d come out alive and functional. Not many would have survived at all.

“Then the whole thing with Bodhi hunting us, and your Slayer changes... I missed you so much, Cass, and every second we’re in here there’s that chance that I’ll lose you again. I can’t go through that again. I can’t. I just can’t. I’d rather die.”

“Imoen, I—“

Cassie stopped. I’m sorry sounded so shallow and trite compared to the horrors that Irenicus had inflicted, to the damage he’d done. She’d make him pay for this. If it meant tracking him to Hell itself, she would make him suffer a hundred-fold for every second Imoen had been his toy.

“I will carve your name in his flesh for every scar he put on your body,” she finished. “I swear it.”

Imoen’s eyes rose and met her sister’s. Cassie’s eyes were still black from the Slayer change, and it lent a dark cast to the sincerity in her face. The older girl’s expression was closed and tight, an uncomfortable mixture of pain and acceptance at the story she’d been told.

“Thank you, Cass. I hope you do.” Her voice began to shake again, and wetness rolled down her cheeks. “I hope you flay that bastard alive.”

Cassandra reached out to embrace her, to try to give some measure of comfort, but Imoen held up her hands and warded her back.

“Don’t, Cass. Please don’t touch me right now.” She inhaled deeply and tried to bring her emotions under control once more. “I can’t talk about this anymore.”

Had the duergar’s touch tainted all others that would follow? “I just wanted to—“

“No,” Imoen interrupted, shaking her head and rising to her feet. Her trembling had increased, and now she shivered visibly even in the shadows of the room. “I can’t deal with this right now. I can’t — I won’t, I can’t.”

The fighter slowly withdrew her touch. Imoen offered her a shaky, fragile smile. “I appreciate it, Cass, I do,” she said. “But I’ve—I gotta hold it back, y’know? And if you touch me, if you hug me, I’m going to collapse. If I start crying in your arms, I’ll never stop. And I can’t deal with that right now.”

Cassandra nodded her understanding and acceptance. Imoen looked relieved.

“Just... let’s get out of here. And I can mend your clothes tomorrow; I know a spell that’ll work.”

Cassandra nodded again and got to her feet, following Imoen’s lead. “Okay.” She could do that. She could get them out of here. She could find the exit, get Imoen somewhere safe, and then track down that gods-forsaken mage and teach him what it was like to be at the mercy of a monster. Maybe she couldn’t erase the past, but she could prevent it from ever, ever happening again.

She’d kill him — or she’d die trying.

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 5 - "Beneath Midnight"

There were no further encounters as they made their way through Spellhold’s halls. The commotion of Cassie’s transformation seemed to attract no attention whatsoever, and it was not long before they puzzled out why. They made their way to the upmost level of the asylum, the main floor, and passed each room with increasing confusion.

The inmates were dead. Most lay inside their cell curiously unmolested, with neither mark nor blood upon them, almost as if asleep. The libraries and studies had been rifled through by a practiced hand, with only a few select manuscripts missing from each shelf. Labs stood still stocked with equipment, some experiments seemingly still in-progress, which Imoen, with her knowledge of arcana, was able to identify as alchemical solutions. Food lay out in several rooms, half-eaten or completely untouched; wardrobes were still stocked with clothing; storerooms still full of supplies. But there was not a single living person, not a single sign of violence.

Imoen had crept closer to her as they explored the halls, and now followed with one nervous hand grasping Cassandra’s tunic. The fighter had located a new set of clothing, a set of men’s traveling clothes, from one of the abandoned wardrobes. It was a little large on her, but not unattractively or awkwardly so, and it gave the younger girl all the more cloth to grip. Imoen’s gaze darted constantly from shadow to shadow; fear practically radiated off of her in waves.

“I don’t like this,” she whispered.

“What do you think happened?” the older sibling responded in a low voice.

“I dunno.”

“Well, I mean, all the food is still out, clothing still in the chests. Normally that would mean they left in a hurry.”

Imoen bumped into Cassandra’s back as the latter slowed to peak around a corner into the hallway beyond. She muttered an apology. “Why, though? Maybe they’re dead. They could be dead.”

“The only bodies we found were the inmates, though. No Irenicus, no Bodhi, no helpers...” Cassie pursed her lips thoughtfully. The hallway was empty. She started down it. “You know... Bodhi said ‘Irenicus will know of this’ when I, uh, changed the first time. Do you think that could be it? Was I really that frightening?”

“I think so – but of course, you were trying to kill me at the time.”

“Other than that.”

Other than that? Imoen gave her a scything look, which Cassie’s turned back utterly failed to appreciate. “Well, I can definitely see how finding out the person you left for dead ended up not only surviving, but also turning into an avatar of the God of Murder and ripping people apart like rag dolls, could be just a little bit disturbing.”

“Hrm.”

“Yeah.”

They came to a T-intersection, with one branch leading off to the north and the hallway they were in continuing straight towards another door a few hundred feet down. This time it was Imoen who slowed.

“Cass...” She tilted her head slightly, dirty auburn strands falling across her cheeks. Then her eyes widened. “I remember this! I remember this hall!” She released her grip on her sister and clapped her hands together, literally bouncing in excitement. “That’s the exit!”

She dashed over to the doors with Cassie just a few steps behind. They were closed tight, each one just over six feet in height, made of cherry-stained hardwood with brass and gold trim. Imoen reached them first and pulled on the left portal’s handle with no success, then the right. They remained closed. She made a wordless sound of frustration and pulled again, this time with both hands, but still the doors refused to move.

”Cassie!”

The warrior took hold of the other handle and tried to open it. It was either locked or stuck. Perhaps it could be forced. “Here, move. Get out of the way.”

Imoen obediently moved away from the portal to give Cassandra the space she needed. She wrapped both hands firmly around the brass grip and placed her foot against the wood of the second door. She used it as an anchor to bring the strength of both arms and legs to bear against the last barrier to freedom, straining with teeth bared in effort. The door creaked. Cassie relaxed, took a breath, and then yanked again, once more bringing all her strength to bear. It groaned unhappily but remained shut.

“Terrific.” Imoen glared at the double doors with a look that would have sent Bhaal Himself into hiding. “We find the gods-forsaken exit and it’s locked!”

“Locks have keys,” Cassie reminded her, releasing her hold and likewise eyeing the door in displeasure. “This one probably has one, too.”

“Oh yeah?” She put her hands on her hips. “Where?”

She shrugged defensively. “Somewhere. Irenicus and Bodhi had to get in and out somehow, didn’t they?”

“Did you forget something? Like, powerful mage? Teleport spells?”

“Bodhi wasn’t. And neither were his servants. Someone had to walk somewhere eventually.”

Imoen just rolled her eyes.

“Look, Im, it’s a door,” she said with frustration. “One stupid door. We didn’t come this far to be turned back now. Can’t you unlock it?”

“I told you: I can’t do jack crap without some decent tools.”

“Yeah, but magic. If there’s an arcane lock, there’s got to be an arcane unlock.”

Imoen pursed her lips into an unhappy pout, then sighed. “There is – it’s called knock – but it’s not in your scrolls so I can’t cast it.”

“It has to be on a scroll? Can’t you just cast it?”

“Nope. Magic formulas are really complex, Cass, and even with all the stuff I’ve studied I only have the really basic ones memorized. Anything else I gotta have something to study from. Gotta memorize the words and whether you twitch your pinky left or right.”

This time Cassie sighed. “Great.”

“Magic’s powerful, not perfect.”

“Obviously.” Cassie rubbed her hands over her face, muffling another sigh, and then looked back towards the hallway thoughtfully. “What about that library we passed? It might have more scrolls.”

Imoen shook her head. “Mundane texts; most of the magic stuff he kept in the examin—the torture chamber.”

“Well, where’s that?” If he left the key behind, it would probably be there as well.

She shivered involuntarily and motioned with her chin back the way they’d come. “Wait—Cassie!” Imoen grabbed her arm as the older girl began to walk back down the hall. “You’re not actually going in there!”

Cassandra turned and gave her a quizzical look. “Why not? He’s gone now.”

Imoen looked at her as if Cassie had just gone stark, raving mad. “Why in the Nine Hells would you want to?”

“Because he’s probably got magic books you can use, and maybe even the key to the door?”

“Cassie, please.” Imoen pulled her back again as she began to turn away. The color had drained from her face, leaving the thief-mage pale with sudden fright. “Don’t—don’t make me go down there,” she pleaded.

Cassandra took the girl’s hands in her own to calm her down. “It’ll take five minutes, if even that long. You don’t have to come; you can stay here, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay!” She pulled her hands away and balled them into fists at her sides, her face torn between fear and anger. “You’re not gonna just leave me here!”

“This might be our only way out!”

The redhead bit down hard on her trembling lower lip. Her eyes flashed between the hallway and her sister, then back again. “His study,” she blurted out after a moment. “Irenicus’ study, his office, he’d keep the best stuff there. We should check there first,” she said, pleading rather than suggesting.

If it wasn’t there, they could come back; another half an hour wouldn’t make a difference. And if they could avoid entering that hall all together... Some ghosts were better left undisturbed.

Cassandra nodded. “Lead the way.”

She did so. Finding the office wasn’t hard. Irenicus had taken over the old Coordinator’s office: the largest and most spacious on that floor. Apparently being a Coordinator – or the bribes you received as one – paid well. The room was richly decorated with plush, finely woven rugs and tapestries; skillfully carved furniture, and glittered with accents of gold. One large desk sat across from the room’s door. Bookshelves lined the walls, and another door led out from the far wall.

Cassie immediately went to the desk. There were papers set in tidy stacks across the top and she began to rifle through them with quick, cursory glances, looking for anything of possible importance. Some notes on accounting issues, how much to pay for what supplies, a note of shipping schedules and manifests – all mundane and useless to her. There was nothing hidden under the papers. She began opening the drawers.

The first one held nothing but writing implements, various inks, and a basic wax seal. The second one held more papers. She flipped through them as well, and caught herself as she saw her own name within the text.

Cassandra did not make proper use of the heritage given her.

She frowned and skimmed up the page. It was continued from the one before. After a few false starts she finally found the beginning of the note and began reading.

My condition grows worse, and what I remember of my 'home' is fleeting.
I see images of family whose names I cannot recall, and dream of emotions
I no longer feel vividly. On occasion I sense nature as if she is my mother,
as though never removed from her bosom, but such moments are few.
I bear the hallmarks of senility with the rage and power of a young elf to lament it.

Bodhi endured the curse much better than I do now, but she was more
focused and, more importantly, undead. She is now thoroughly seduced by
her vampiric condition, despite its previous failure to counteract the
death sentence she was under. She had embraced her mortality, excited
by the urgency of it, but now she is confused. Imoen's soul has
restored her, but her motives remain transparent, even simplistic. She
revels in her carnal nature, even as the elf within despises the
creature she has become.

Her eyes widened. “Imoen, come look at this.”

Bodhi has delivered more assassins than I had asked for. I disposed of
some in advance, but it seems such a waste. I think she has done this
on purpose, as she has taken to releasing the extras in the maze below
and hunting at her leisure. I marvel at her hunger, and how she seems
so alive in her undeath. Perhaps it is the soul of Imoen. I am quite
through with the girl myself, though she can still serve as bait.
Cassandra had best hurry.

Victory! I am restored! Cassandra has given exactly what I needed, exactly
as I demanded, and now I see where Bodhi has found such fire! I feel
the essence of the gods within me! Damn Ellesime's curse for the
weak-minded spell that it was; now I am free. Cassandra did not
make proper use of the heritage given her.

“Damn him,” she breathed in soft wonderment. “Im. Imoen.”

“Right behind ya.” The auburn girl leaned over her shoulder and scanned the texts as Cassie held them out for her. She gave a low whistle. “What a psycho. And he’s an elf? And Bodhi too?”

“Apparently.” Cassie handed the papers to Imoen and dug through to the bottom of the drawer. Nothing in this one either. “I’ll finish looking through the desk. Check out the bookcase, see if you can find anything useful. Books, scrolls – anything.”

The auburn girl nodded and immediately went to the tome-laden shelves, pulling out volumes and perusing their pages with a practiced and knowledgeable eye.

There were two drawers left in the study’s desk. Cassandra opened the first one and quizzically pulled out a set of oversized bracelets. Bracers, maybe? They were too big for the former and too small for the latter. They certainly looked expensive, though, apparently made of either platinum or possibly white gold, with interlocked runic designs covering every inch of the outer surface. Cassie pursed her lips. Unusually expensive oddities were usually trouble. She set them aside on the top of the desk.

The bottom drawer was locked. Figured. And she was in no mood to play. She planted one foot on the edge of the desk, grabbed the handle the best she could, and hauled backwards with all her strength. What had failed on the door worked marvelously here. A loud crack shattered the air and sent her lurching backwards as the lock broke and the drawer came free in her hands. Imoen turned sharply, arching one slim eyebrow. Cassie shrugged. The thief smiled and rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she went back to examining the texts.

“There’s some decent stuff in here, Cass,” she said, picking up a thick book bound with cracked red leather open flipping through the first dozen pages. “It looks like some are missing – probably his super-uber-mage stuff – but even if these are his leftovers, it’s a Hell of a lot better than your scrolls. Er... no offense.”

“None taken.” Inside the drawer was a small box, apparently solid. There was no obvious lid or hinge, no lines were the wood was joined. She gave it a curious shake. Something rattled inside.

Well, brute force had worked on the last one. She placed it on the floor, put one foot on top, and slowly began to apply force. It surrendered with a dull crunch with about half her weight bearing down.

“Cass.” Imoen had glanced over again at the sound. “Stop breaking things. What if that had something breakable inside, or it was trapped or something?”

Oh... Well, that was a valid point. Her foot was still in one piece, though. She picked up the box and gave it another shake, this one decidedly gentler than the first. The contents still rattled – and were presumably intact.

The break had made visible a thin line in the wood. She wedged her fingernails into the gap and tried to pull it apart. It creaked miserably then gave way, and opened into two equal halves in her hands.

“Im...”

The mage turned around once more, and her eyes widened as her jaw literally dropped.

Cassie smiled with satisfaction as she held up the small copper key. “Found it.”

“Sweet! Lemme grab some of these books and we can blow this joint!”

“Don’t rush it. We have the key now; make sure you get the really good stuff before we leave.”

“Oh, I will,” she assured her. “But you can’t imagine how grateful I am to finally have a way out of here.”

“What about these?” Cassie had pocketed the key and now held up the strange bracer-bracelets.

Imoen reached out and took one, examined it briefly, and handed it back. “Bracers of protection. Good stuff, hang onto that.”

“How can you tell?”

“The runes, silly.”

“Oh.” She regarded them dubiously. “What do they do?”

“They protect you. Do you really want me to start explaining magical theory again?”

“Um... no.”

She grinned. “Thought so. Just put’em on.”

“Hrmph.” She went ahead and did as instructed – she seemed to be doing that a lot lately – and wriggled the metal bands onto her wrists. They fit decently enough, and felt like normal metal. She clicked them together a few times. Nothing happened. Hrm.

It was a few minutes before Imoen finished going through the books and ended up with a set of five to claim as her own. “Here,” she said, handing four of them to Cassie. “Help a girl out.”

Each of the things easily weighed five pounds, maybe closer to ten. “I am a girl,” she pointed out indignantly.

“Yeah, but I’m girlier, so I win.” She gave her a playful whack on the butt. “Giddyup. Let’s get out of here.”

They backtracked their way to the exit, where the impassive double doors awaited them in silence. Cassandra shot Imoen a smug smile and dumped the tomes back in her arms despite the squeak of protest. “Have to have my hands free for the doors.”

Imoen was probably glaring at her, but from behind the stack of arcane texts it was hard to tell. “Just open the door,” came the muffled response.

Cassie fished the copper key from her pocket and inserted it into the lock. It stuck, but after a small jiggle it slid home. She turned it and tried the handle, and then blinked in surprise as it failed to open. She tried again, harder, but it made no difference. Frowning, she looked at the door, then turned the key the other way. Some sort of weird backwards lock? Another pull on the handle. Nothing. It failed to open.

“C’mon, these are heavy! What’s the hold up?”

Her frown deepened. Another pull on the handle, then another, and a third, with increasing frustration and force. “This isn’t the key. It’s not unlocking.”

“What?” The pile of books clattered to the floor. “What do you mean it’s not unlocking?” she demanded, coming over to the door. “That’s the key! These are the doors! This is the exit!”

“It’s not unlocking,” Cassie repeated, her voice rising slightly in response to Imoen’s accusatory tone. “You try!”

“Fine. Move.” Imoen knelt down and withdrew the key, studied it with a deep frown, then re-inserted it into the lock. She turned it first one way, then the other, with no more success than her sister.

“Great,” she hissed and dropped down to her knees. She brushed her hair back behind her ears and placed one against the metal lockplate. She turned the key again, seemingly randomly back and forth several times, before finally yanking it out of the keyhole and throwing it against the door in disgust. It ping’d off the hardwood and clinked onto the floor.

“It’s not the right key,” she confirmed sourly. “It’s not even catching the tumblers. It’s the wrong key. It’s the wrong god-damned key!”

“There’s got to be another key then,” Cassie reasoned. She knelt and retrieved the key. “Or another door.”

“A few hundred doors,” Imoen grumbled.

“Another key, then. Locks have keys. That’s how they work.” She sighed and ran her fingers through her red waves. They hadn’t been to the torture chamber yet. Dammit. That was the last place she wanted to go, and perversely probably the exact place she needed to.

“This sucks.” Imoen sighed as well, plopping down to the floor and picking up the books again. “What about that other door?”

“Which one?”

“In the study. Did we check that?”

The image of Irenicus’ office flashed back into her mind, zooming in automatically to the door that had been set into the rear wall, next to the bookcases, behind the desk. The one they hadn’t checked.

They exchanged looks, then as one scrambled to their feet, gathered up the remaining tomes, and dashed back to the study as fast as possible. Imoen reached it first and this time had the presence of mind to set the books on the desk before turning to her sister and raiding her pockets. She fetched forth the key without askance or apology, and went immediately over to the door. She sank to her knees and inserted the key with trembling hands and turned it.

“Cass—Cass, it’s not working! It’s not catching these tumblers either!”

Cassandra frowned and motioned her aside, then took hold of the knob and turned it sharply. It rotated freely, unlocked, and the door glided open noiselessly – and with the key still held in Imoen’s fingers.

Imoen pursed her lips, got to her feet, and walked through the door. She gave her sister a murderous glare. “Don’t say it.”

Cassie retrieved the key from the lock, tucked it in her pocket, and gave her the sweetest smile she could.

Imoen slipped inside the room and looked around cautiously. The room was surprisingly bare, with only a single tapestry on the wall and a small table next to a large oval mirror of some sort. A few trinkets lay carelessly on the tabletop. Gods willing, one of them was a key.

The rogue approached the table cautiously, eyes reflexively scanning the floor and walls for tell-tale signs of traps and protective mechanisms. Anything hidden with skill or magic probably wouldn’t be detected until it was too late to avoid, but she’d chance it if it meant getting out of this damned place.

She had just started to reach for the items on the table when the mirror next to it abruptly flared with a dark purple light. Imoen jerked her hand backwards and instinctively ducked, covering her head with her hands. The light faded almost as quickly as it had appeared, seemingly without any effect. She slowly uncovered her face and glanced around warily. The room was still intact. Nothing missing, nothing new. No obvious weirdness.

Cassie stood about a foot away looking similarly perplexed. “What was that?”

“Dunno. Trap?” Imoen pursed her lips. She didn’t have any spells handy for divining what – if anything – had taken place. Not even a simple detect magic.

“What’d it do?”

“I dunno,” she repeated, still frowning. “Do you feel anything?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Me neither.” Her eyes flicked back to the table. “I think... hold on.” Imoen slowly extended her hand towards the table again, this time keeping one eye cautiously on the mirror. This time nothing happened. That wasn’t it, then. She turned to her sister once more. “Did you do anything? Touch anything? Step on something?”

“I don’t think so. Pretty sure I didn’t.”

The thief-mage inched a bit closer to the mirror, table forgotten for the moment, and studied it. It was about six feet tall and half that wide, curved into a smooth and perfect oval. It was bordered in mahogany carved in an elaborate vine-and-leaf pattern, and amid the design were etched words in the Elvish script. The glass itself was black, probably set against some manner of opaque backing. Scrying mirrors used that a lot. Was that what it was? A divination tool?

“There’s writing here,” she informed her sibling. “Elvish. Figures, I guess.”

“What’s it say?”

Good question. The script was Elvish, but the words didn’t seem to be — at least, not the variety that she knew. “I’m not sure. I mean, it’s Elvish, or at least pretty close to it. But it’s not, y’know, standard Elvish. Maybe it’s an old dialect or something?”

There was a movement out of the corner of her eye, and the mirror swirled to life again: streaks of purple, violet, and black began to manifest in the glass. Imoen jumped backwards again with a frightened squeak. The mirror quieted again almost immediately, and Imoen whirled on Cassie.

“You!”

“What?”

“You moved!” she said, pointing an accusing finger. “What’d you do? Somehow you set it off.”

Cassandra held up her hands in a warding gesture. “Nothing! All I did was try to get a better look!”

“But what exactly did you do?”

“I stepped over here—“ she demonstrated, and another display of colors from the mirror immediately made her retreat. “What am I doing? Why is it reacting to me and not you?”

“I dunno.” The mage tapped a fingertip against her chin thoughtfully, studying the floor were Cassandra was standing. It looked normal enough, and tying a portable mirror to a non-portable floor just didn’t make sense at all. Why have a trigger in a place you couldn’t move, when the mirror could easily be moved to a whole different building? Or another city?

Her grey eyes wandered from the floor to Cassie’s foot, and then reflexively up the warrior’s body. The shoes were common enough, and the tunic. Barefoot versus shoes? But still, that’d mean the trigger was on the floor. Her eyes lit up as they found the bracers.

“Cass, the bracers. Take’em off, hand’em over.”

She raised an eyebrow but did as instructed. It was magic, and magic was Imoen’s game, not hers. Cassie tossed the bracers over to her sister without moving from where she stood. Im caught them without difficulty and then waved them at the mirror. It didn’t react.

“Hrm.” Her attention went back to Cassie. “Gimme the key?”

She fished it out of her pocket and tossed it over as well. As it arced through the air towards Imoen, the mirror began its kaleidoscopic display once more. The younger girl caught the key with a triumphant smile.

“Right key, wrong door – or other way around,” she said. “This key apparently goes to the mirror.”

“The mirror?” Cassie asked dubiously.

“Right. It’s probably a portal of some sort; wouldn’t need a key otherwise,” she reasoned.

“Like a portal out of here?”

“Could be. Dunno.” Her attention was back at the inscriptions on the wooden frame, now that she was assured the unusual colors were not a trap. “It’s just weird. It’s like not quite Elvish, y’know?”

“Im, the only Elvish I know is amin ner laure merna and amin hiraetha. Anything harder and you’ve lost me.”

She giggled. “Getting drunk and apologizing for it?”

“Well, and a few insults I picked up.”

“Mmm, I bet.” Imoen rolled her eyes, still chuckling. “Anyways, so... all this is, really, is one phrase written three different times. Magic number and all that. It says harl oloth, but Hell if I know what that is.”

“Can’t you take a guess?” Cassie asked.

Another roll of her eyes, this one much less amused. “Guessing in magic is a Very Bad Thing, Cass. But yeah, I can. The closest words I know would be herel and aroth. ‘Beneath midnight.’ Or maybe ‘before midnight’ – herel is kinda tricky.”

“Which means what? This thing only works before midnight? Or when it’s dark out?”

“You keep asking me like I’m supposed to know this stuff.”

“Well, you are the brains of the family.”

“At least you admit it.”

“Haven’t I always?”

“True, true.” The mage tapped her chin again, once more regarding the mirror. “Well, regardless, we don’t even know where this thing goes, so I’d rather find the right key to the real door.”

A search of the room turned up nothing, however, nor did a second search of the main study. A half-hour later found them once again standing before Spellhold’s exit, staring at the impassable doors with morose frustration.

Imoen let out a heavy sigh. “This sucks.”

Cassie nodded, sighing as well. She studied the doors for a minute or two, weighing the different possibilities. They had to get out, that was a given. And there had to be a way out, that was also a given. But so far they’d exhausted every possibility, and this was their second day without food. Doubtlessly they could survive without eating – Imoen had proven that – but the less time they spent in here, the happier both of them would be. And the sooner Irenicus would pay for his crimes.

“Im,” she said softly, wincing inside as she spoke. This was about the last thing on Faerûn she wanted to do. “We haven’t searched the torture chambers.”

“Nuh-uh.” She shook her head adamantly. “No way. I’d rather do the portal.”

“We don’t even know where that goes,” Cassie pointed out.

“Who cares? I am not going back into that room.”

“Imoen, be reasonable—“

“Hey, you be reasonable,” she countered, voice rising with anger. “You live in a cell for gods-know-how-long and have some bastard cutting you open and beating you every day. You do it, and then you see how much you want to go back to the one place you hate more than anywhere else on Faerûn.”

“Im–”

“I’m not gonna do it,” she repeated, shaking her head again. “I’m not. Give me the portal, hands down.”

“What if it leads to somewhere even worse?”

The redhead arched an eyebrow. “What,” she asked in a tone generally reserved for the especially dull or especially young, “could possibly be worse than Spellhold?”

Which was a valid point, Cassie conceded mentally.

“Well... do we go now, or stick around a while?” she asked. “The longer we wait, the more lead he has to get away, and the longer we linger here soulless. But neither of us is in the best of shape and another night’s sleep couldn’t hurt.”

Imoen placed her hands on her hips, lips pursed thoughtfully. “Y’know, as much as I hate this place, I think staying here for tonight is better. You’re right: we’re in crappy condition. And plus at least now I got some decent spellbooks to study.”

Cassie shook her head bemusedly. “How do you ever find time to sleep? All you do at night is study!”

“It’s a mage thing.”

“I guess so.” She ran her hands through her hair, brushing the tangles away from her face, and was abruptly aware of just how oily and fouled it had become. Cassandra’s brows rose as she realized another possible benefit of spending another night to recuperate. “Is there a wash basin around here?” she asked.

Imoen blinked at the abrupt change in topic. “Not that I know of,” she answered. “There’s some pitchers and bowls and stuff, and there’s create water in the scrolls you gave me – I guess we could fake it.”

“Anything. I’m dirty, I’m bloody, and I smell bad.”

The corner of Imoen’s mouth quirked in amusement. “I’ll see what I can do.”

They spent another half-hour getting settled in for the night. Cassie scoured the nearby rooms for spare sets of clothing for Imoen, since she’d already found some for herself. The younger girl needed something cleaner and more practical than the simple green smock she’d been wearing the last few days. She also found some stale but edible bread and a small sack of chestnuts that had already been shelled. Not gourmet fare, but better than nothing.

She returned to find her sibling had located two large pitchers and a good-sized bowl. They were set on the floor in the portal-room, while Imoen herself was seated at Irenicus’ former desk. She’d somehow cast or activated a magical light in the room, which lit both chambers with a soft yellow-white glow. One of the spellbooks was already cracked open before her, and she studied the contents with her elbows on the desk and her chin resting on both hands.

“Water?”

She made a slight motion of her head towards the rear room, not looking up from the book. “Mm-hmm. Pitchers.”

“Found some clothes for you. I think they’ll fit, at least.” Cassandra put the pile – three outfits’ worth – on the edge of the desk.

This time she did look up, and she smiled. “Thanks, Cass. I’ll try them on in a bit.”

“Okay. I’m going to wash up.” Or try, at least. With as much dirt and grime as covered her skin, it might take a few attempts.

Imoen nodded. “I’ll be here.”

“Thanks.”

Cassandra went into the portal-room and mostly-closed the door, leaving it slightly ajar. After everything they’d been through, she was just a little too paranoid to close it all the way. At least this way, if something happened they could hear each other, even if they couldn’t see each other.

She crossed over to the pitchers and small basin on the floor, casting a wary eye to the portal as she did. Of course Imoen had to study at the desk and stick the water in this room with the freaky magical device. Because nothing said ‘comfort’ like imagining what horrible thing might sneak through a mirror and attack you while you were naked.

Cassie took a deep, deliberate breath and let it out slowly. “It’s just a mirror, Cass.” Yeah, a magic mirror. As in, portal to the deepest bowels of the Nine Hells. Maybe she could turn it to face the wall? “Just a mirror,” she told herself sternly. “Relax.”

It was easier said than done. She caught herself eyeing the black void of the glass several times as she undressed, starting by laying her weapons within easy reach and kicking off the boots. She unbuttoned the men’s tunic she was wearing, folded it carefully, and placed it on the floor, followed by the breeches. The damn portal was still in the corner of her vision as she poured a bit of water from one of the pitchers into the basin and used her hands to scoop it up and over her body.

It wasn’t warm, but at least it wasn’t icy cold — a little cooler than room temperature. She tried to keep her bare leg over the basin as she filled her palms and sluiced the liquid over her calf. It streamed over her flesh and back into the basin, carrying with it a tinge of red and brown as the dust and blood flowed with it. She used her hands as makeshift washcloths, scrubbing herself down as best she could, gradually making her way from calf to thigh, then switching to do the same to her other leg.

When she was done with both limbs she regarded the now murky basin water with distaste. It’d be best to dump it and refill with fresh, but there wasn’t a drain or convenient disposal anywhere. She sighed. Fuck it. I want a bath. She tipped it over, letting the fouled water flow across the floor. It’d dry eventually.

She refilled it and paused again as she realized that her upper body was going to be much harder to clean and keep the water in the basin. Of course, the floor was already wet now. She could crouch.

Cassandra did so, again cleaning herself as best she could using only the water and her own hands. The water darkened much more quickly this time, and with a great deal more of the reddish tint. She discovered cuts and bruises she hadn’t even realized she had. She dumped the basin once more and picked up the pitcher to gage how much water was left. She’d used it sparingly, and had about a third of the container left. Not much, but enough to at least to wash the worst of the filth out of her hair.

It was a harder task than she expected, having to pour the water slowly with one hand and use the other to comb the tangles out of her matted mane. At least it’d be its proper color again when it dried.

“Hey, Cass, I found a—oops.”

Cassandra dropped the pitcher as her hands reflexively flashed to cover herself. It shattered on the stone floor and sent shards and the little remaining water spilling across the room.

“Imoen!” She glared a death-wish over her shoulder at the young thief-mage standing in the doorway.

“Sorry – hey, when’d you get a tattoo?”

“A little privacy?” Cassie demanded.

“It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”

“IMOEN!”

“Okay, okay, geez!” Imoen rolled her eyes, smirking, and dutifully turned her back – without leaving the room. “Better?”

Cassie growled. “No!”

Imoen’s smile grew even wider. She’d probably pay for this later, but it was priceless for now. Always been a flaw of hers – pleasure for now, pay for it later. Oh well. Cassie’s face was probably the same shade as her hair about now.

“Anyways, you should shut the door if you want privacy.”

Cassandra kept one eye on the door as she quickly scooped up her clothing and pulled on the breeches as fast as humanly possible. She was still wet, but she could dry off later. “And you should knock before coming into a room.”

“The door was open.”

“I was taking a bath!” She pulled the tunic over her head and tugged it down in place. “And well you knew that!”

“You said you were going to wash up,” Imoen corrected her. “You didn’t say anything about stripping down to your birthday suit.”

“But—“ Dammit. Cassie shook her hair out and quickly combed it through with her fingers. Imoen was right – as usual. One of these days, Cassandra was going to win an argument.

“Can I turn around yet?”

“Yeah, fine, whatever.”

The redhead did so, still with a mischievous smirk on her face. “That was so worth it.”

Cassie flipped her a rude gesture.

“Anyways,” Imoen continued, “I found some more notes in Irenicus’ desk, and a few relating to that portal. It does lead out of here – unfortunately, he’s not real clear on where exactly it goes. Ust Natha.”

“What’s that?”

She shrugged. “City, country, mountain – I have no idea. It has that same vaguely-Elven sound to it, but I don’t recognize it.”

“So we could end up leagues from here.”

“Yeah, but we’ll be out,” Imoen smiled happily. “Cool, huh?”

“I guess so.” She still wasn’t pleased with the idea of blindly leaping into a magical vortex.

“Spoil sport,” her sister accused. “Well, I’m happy about it, so nyah.”

She left the room and flopped down at Irenicus’ desk again, pausing to stick out her tongue at her sibling when the older girl came out of the portal room. Cassie returned the gesture as she walked over to where their gear lay on the floor.

“Ewww!” Imoen pushed Cassie away when she passed too closely to the desk. “Not over here, you’ll drip all over my book!”

Cassandra took the opportunity to shake her hair out, sending a spray of droplets over the protesting girl.

“Brat!”

“Serves you right,” Cassie responded with a smirk.

Imoen’s lips puckered in a pout, but she stayed silent. Well, for about as long as Imoen ever did.

“You clean up nice,” she commented, eyes flicking up now and then from the arcane text. “Smell better, too.”

“Heh. Now if we could just get you clean.”

One dark eyebrow arched up. “I smell like roses, thank you.”

“Dead ones.”

Another glare, but apparently the mage couldn’t focus on the book and still toss insults at the same time. So there were limits to her mind after all. She settled with an ominous promise. “Just you wait.”

“All talk, no action,” Cassie answered, crouching next to the sacks and searching for something semi-soft to lie on. Nothing. Figured. She sighed and stood back up. “I’m going to sleep in here,” she stated.

“You’re going to bed already?”

“Hell yes. I’m exhausted.”

“I’ll try to study quietly then.”

“No problem. If you need anything, I’ll be here.”

The grey eyes flicked up from the manuscript again, this time accompanied by a soft smile. “Thanks, Cass.”

“Anytime.”

A sudden vertigo seized her stomach and nearly doubled her over. She was plunged into darkness, utter and absolute, which did nothing to steady her equilibrium. She took a reflexive step to try to catch herself. It worked, but just barely.

“Im,” she whispered. “Imoen?” It was pitch black.

“I’m here,” a voice responded. “Just a sec.”

A moment later a small globe of light appeared, revealing the world around them once more. Well, what little 'world' there seemed to be. The floor they stood upon was raw, natural rock, littered with pebbles and boulders of various sizes. It was greyish-black in the dim light. They had appeared in some sort of large chamber, with no walls of any type visible within the radius of the glow. The ceiling, if there was one, was lost in the blackness overhead. Darkness enveloped everything beyond a mere twenty feet or so. It was eerily silent.

Imoen held the light overhead and looked around curiously. Cassandra’s hand went instinctively to her sword. This didn’t feel right.

“This is Ust Natha?” she whispered.

“I guess,” Imoen answered. “It’s the other end of the portal at least.”

“Where in the Nine Hells are we?”

“I see the same thing you do.”

Cassandra frowned. It was so quiet – too quiet. No birds, no insects, no wind even. The air smelled stale and musty. “Are we in a tomb? Or a cave?”

Imoen arched an eyebrow at the choice of words. “Well, we’re out of Spellhold,” she said somewhat defensively.

Terrific. Out of Spellhold, in to gods-knew-what. Not much of a trade-off. “We need more light.”

“This is all I have.”

“Can you make it brighter?”

She shook her head.

Terrific. Bloody damn terrific.

Imoen had crouched down and was looking carefully at the stony earth. Cassandra approached her and knelt down as well, raising her head every few seconds to scan the area around them. The hairs on her arms had pricked up and the darkness put her on edge even more than usual.

“What’re you doing?” she asked quietly.

“Looking for clues,” Imoen answered. “If Irenicus manifested here as well, he had to have walked off somewhere. Footprints, maybe. Or at least some clue as to which direction he went. Elves have better vision than humans, but even they can’t see in pitch blackness. He’d have to have some sort of way-sign or something to guide him.”

That made sense. Except, of course, Irenicus had known where he’d end up, had gods-only-knew what magic prepared, and might have even had someone meet him here for all they knew. But it was worth a shot. Cassie rose back to her feet and decided to keep watch while Imoen investigated. She’d always had a better attention to detail anyways.

A few minutes later, the mage spotted something.

“Here,” she said, pointing to an area of slightly-flatter-than-normal dirt about five feet from where they’d appeared. “Partial boot print. And there’s a way-sign over here. At least, I think that’s what it is.” Something had definitely been carved into the boulder she was examining, but what exactly it signified was another issue.

“So what does that mean?”

“That he went roughly that-a-way,” she answered, pointing to what was presumably the northeast.

“Now is this like, ‘I’m definitely sure he went that way’ or more like ‘I have no idea, but I’m guessing’?”

Imoen put her hands on her hips. “It’s a ‘I’m pretty sure but I suppose I could be wrong.’”

Well, it was better than nothing. Cassandra held out her hand. “Give me the light. I’m going in front.”

Imoen handed over the glowing orb. Interestingly it gave off absolutely no heat, and weighed about the same as a small apple, despite its much larger size. “Y’sure you’re not a little overprotective?” the mage asked.

“Probably,” Cassie responded. “Comes with the job.”

“Almighty warrior?”

“No.”

“Big sister?”

“No.”

“Well? Aren’t you going to tell me?”

Cassandra turned around and looked at her for a moment. Her eyes were blue again, albeit it dark blue now – whatever the Slayer changes had done to her was slowly fading. Hopefully by tomorrow morning they’d be completely back to normal.

Comes with the job. It came with wanting to rip Irenicus into twenty separate pieces and burn each one to ash. The chaos of the last few days had thankfully kept the worst of her thoughts from her mind, but the underlying motivation was still there. She still caught her mind wandering from time to time, especially on that fragile border between wake and sleep — wandering to how it felt to have Imoen’s body against hers, flashing back and forth between the tears and smiles she’d seen, imagining the horrors the Imoen had been through.

It came with failing to protect the one person she swore she’d always be there for. And it came with making sure it never happened again.

“No.” She turned around and started into the darkness, carrying the small, precious light.

Imoen stood in surprise for several seconds before hiking the hem of her robe and hurrying to catch up.

No? Cassie never told her no, about anything.

They walked for gods-only-knew how long. Days with no vision of the outside world, and now this strange, static darkness, gave no hint as to whether it had been one hour or five. The globe of light had dwindled to half its original size, and Imoen could judge the time somewhat by the duration of the spell itself. It lasted seven hours on a standard casting; they were probably around the 3 or 4 mark when a voice called out to them.

“Tazgh na! Doghti srir.”

Both sisters froze in place. No speaker was visible, but with the light shrunken as it was, they could only see clearly for ten feet in any direction, and with steadily darkening shadows another five more. Cassandra automatically moved to place Imoen behind her. If something was coming, then by the gods it’d have to come through her first.

“Doghti srir!” the voice repeated. It was high-pitched but presumably masculine. “Tanan och srita na.”

“What is it saying?” Cassie whispered.

“I dunno,” Imoen whispered back.

That they’d chosen to speak instead of attack was a good sign at least. The voice's owner wasn’t hostile – or at least, not interested in just killing the pair outright. And if it was a graverobber or thief, he’d find precious little loot.

“Hello!” Cassie called back. Imoen smacked her in the back with a hiss of disapproval, but the fighter ignored her. “We don’t understand you,” she continued, speaking slowly and eyes peeled for any sign of movement from the shadows.

It was silent for a few seconds. “Hello?” she called again.

“Hilo,” the voice responded hesitantly.

“Who are you?” And where are you? She still couldn’t see anything but the all-consuming blackness.

“Sor dan,” it answered. Another pause. “Kaman tong yes? Sor dan den tok.”

Kaman tong? Common tongue? It clicked. Whoever the speaker was, they were at least trying to communicate. Sor dan... sword down? She looked at the weapon in her hand and lowered the point to the ground, maintaining her grip just in case. She wasn’t about to go unarmed.

“Sword down,” she answered back. “You speak Common?”

“Kaman yes tok na gud. Ste. Ste.”

Stay. That was easy enough. Imoen was still pressed against her back; she wasn’t going anywhere.

Another minute passed, then the sound of footsteps could be heard approaching from the darkness. Cassandra’s sword hand twitched, but she kept the blade down. There was no use being hasty, especially since they apparently had no trouble seeing through the darkness.

A small dwarfish-looking man stepped into the edge of the light, holding his hand up to shield his eyes. He was dressed in some manner of hide – leather armor, but not any type of leather she was familiar with. It was drab grey with darker splotches, with metal rivets set into the chest. He carried what appeared to be a pickaxe and had a helm upon his head. A large nose, small dark eyes, and full black beard regarded them curiously.

Cassandra felt Imoen go rigid against her back and her hands tighten into a death-grip on her tunic. “Duergar,” she breathed in a panicked voice. “Cassie!” It quickly rose to a note of terror. “Kill it!”

The fighter’s eyes narrowed and a surge of anger swelled in her chest. She raised the sword, pointing the deadly tip at the little man. “Stay back,” she ordered.

He frowned. “Sor dan! Sor dan!”

Imoen’s heartbeat thundered so strongly that Cassie could feel it pulsing against her back. The sword remained level.

“Zi pa tazgh nasr,” the creature called into the darkness. “Dazgh sriri felgen!”

There was an answering click from somewhere in the darkness. Then another, and a third. Reinforcements.

“Sor dan,” he repeated.

Cassie pursed her lips and slowly lowered the blade. “Mage armor,” she whispered to the girl behind herself.

“I told you, that’s self– oh.”

The dwarf stamped his foot on the ground. “Dan.”

She could hear Imoen chanting softly behind her, then a chill rushed through her body as the magic field solidified in such close proximity. At least she was protected now. Cassandra kept her eyes on her opponent as she slowly crouched down and laid the sword flat on the ground. She rose once more, drawing herself to her full height and fixing him with a dark gaze.

Kill it, the voice in her head whispered. The same voice she’d heard yesterday after she’d transformed into Bhaal’s avatar. The unexpectedness of it shocked her and the resulting spike of fear and adrenaline made her heart race. But if the voice only appeared before she turned... and Imoen had better spells now, she could protect herself better if necessary. If necessary.

Could she change on purpose, though? Her heart was pounding, but the rage she’d felt before was not there. Where did the voice come from, then? It certainly wasn’t her — or was it? She took a deep breath and concentrated, trying to reach down inside herself, where that cold emptiness had been ever since Irenicus had performed his ritual. It didn’t feel so unnatural now. A little strange, but tolerable. Forgettable, even.

The coldness reached back, along with a thrum of eager energy. The inner voice hissed in satisfaction. Oh yes, there was definitely something there.

Cassandra grinned ferally. Reinforcements or not, she knew the Slayer was powerful enough to take them. If it could take down Bodhi, it could take down a dwarf. Give me a reason, you bastard.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Why did you put down your sword?”

Cassie shook her head. “I don’t need a sword. I can take them.”

“Are you insane?” the redhead hissed. “You’re not even wearing armor!”

“I don’t need it.” The dwarf was eyeing them warily, but apparently without comprehending the conversation.

“You are insane! What’s wrong with you? You get a god-complex?” The question clicked things into place, and a hot anger filled Imoen’s next words. “Don’t you dare, Cassandra. Don’t even think about it!”

Two more short humanoids, similar to the first, stepped into the edge of the light. Both carried compact crossbows, loaded and aimed at the two women, as well as the same bulbous nose and ink-black bushy beard.

“Wait...” Imoen peered around Cassandra’s shoulder, squinting to see better at the distance. A shiver ran through her, and her body tangibly relaxed. “Oh, thank the gods,” she breathed. “Svirfneblin.”

Kill it. “Svirf-what?”

“Those aren’t duergar.” The relief in her voice was evident. “Those are svirfneblin. Deep-gnomes.”

Well, they’d be dead either way in a few minutes; the details didn’t much matter. Cassie inhaled deeply and felt something shift inside of her as the coldness inside expanded and began to spread, tingling, into her arms and legs. It felt like a brisk winter day rushing through her blood. Almost.... enjoyable. A smile curved her lips.

“Hold on...” There was a rustle behind her as Imoen moved about. Another soft sound of chanting and a small crinkling sound. “There. Can you understand me now?”

“Yes,” the middle svirfneblin answered in a surprised voice.

Cassie’s eyebrows shot up. More magic?

“We don’t mean any trouble,” the mage continued, stepping around her sibling to make herself more visible. The mage armor would stop most attacks, if it turned ugly. “We’re just trying to find the way out of here.”

The gnomes exchanged curious looks. “Out of where?” the one of the left asked, lowering his crossbow slightly. Cassandra’s heart sank in disappointment. They were going to be reasonable.

Out of where... well, that was a good question. “Ust Natha?” Imoen offered hopefully.

The curiosity turned into bewilderment. “Ust Natha be quite far from here. You are already out.”

“Where are we then?”

“Granitehome is our city. It is not far. We do not often see surfacers.”

Surfacers? As opposed to...? Perhaps they really were underground.

Suddenly Imoen’s eyes widened. Svirfneblin... dark... underground... holy shit. Her mouth went dry. “Before midnight,” she whispered to herself. “Beneath midnight, beneath night...”

Cassie’s quirked eyebrow was now directed at her sister. “What’re you talking about?”

“I mistranslated,” she said. “Oh gods dammit, I mistranslated the whole thing!” She put her hands to her face. “Beneath midnight. Beneath night. Under dark.”

The warrior’s blue eyes widened in comprehension.

Maybe there were things worse than Spellhold after all.

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 6 - "Revealing"

The svirfneblin had led the two humans back to their village, and given them a surprisingly warm welcome considering the circumstances of the encounter. Imoen’s tongues spell had eased the meeting quite a bit, since even the most fluent of the gnomes spoke only halting, awkward, and heavily-accented Common. The two had been granted beds for the night, free of charge as the village’s guests, and for the first time in a long while they were free to sleep without needing to keep watch. Of course, that hadn’t stopped Cassie from taking the under-sized chair and jamming it firmly under the doorknob, just in case.

The fighter had hauled the mattress off the bed and onto the floor before doffing all but her trousers and promptly passing out on the first soft surface she’d slept upon in weeks. Imoen was sorely tempted to do likewise, but she’d elected to stay awake a bit longer and change her spell selection. Infravision was going to be a necessity down here, as well as light, and tongues. She’d made a list of what she hoped were fairly good spells for the coming days, and was working on memorizing the last of them. Otiluke’s Resilient Sphere.

The mage sighed. Hopefully she wouldn’t need it. Whatever was happening to Cassie ranked pretty damn high on the “Not Good” scale of things, and she had no doubt that any further Slayer transformations would push it clear off the chart. Even if Cassie could control it – which Imoen highly doubted – it still didn’t mean it was a good idea. The first time she’d felt great; the second time she’d almost died. What about the third time? How many times until she didn’t change back?

Imoen set the spellbook aside with another soft sigh. Her head hurt. Three hours of memorizing incantations, arcane gestures, spell components, and the like, was entirely too much. She needed a day off — or at least a night off.

She stretched her arms overhead, arching her back, then propped her head up on her hand and glanced over at her sleeping sibling. Sleep would be nice, but she just wasn’t tired yet. She pursed her lips thoughtfully and drummed the fingers of her other hand lightly against her thigh. Her eyes lit upon the sack of supplies that they’d continued to carry, and then shifted back to Cassandra’s form.

Imoen got to her feet and crossed over to the sack, rummaging through it a few seconds before withdrawing the diary. She’d wanted Cassie to read it, but the older girl deserved her sleep after the last few days, and reading a few entries by herself wouldn’t kill her. She could ask questions in the morning if she wanted to.

She flipped forward a few pages, found what appeared to be a good place, and then started reading.

Tenth-and-first day, ere Eleint (Day 4)

We picked up a warrior-priest called Anomen before venturing towards the slavers. He seems neither especially bright nor especially strong, but he has a valuable mix of abilities. And more importantly, he is willing to assist us for honor and righteousness, rather than a share of the reward. Typical aspiring paladin.

His addition proved to be invaluable, though, as we ran into a patrol of bugbears in the sewers and very nearly were killed for it.

And... I had a dream last night. Of Candlekeep, Imoen, and that blasted mage. He says I brought them to the dream, which implies that what I see is real. And if so, then time is all the more urgent. Imoen has said I will come too late.

Tenth-and-three day, ere Eleint (Day 6)

Anomen has saved us again. Truly I underestimated him. On our way to Nalia’s lands, we came across a poisoned man and promised to deliver him to his friends for assistance. A bothersome group, and apparently good friends of Jahiera (is anyone surprised?). However, I have now over ten-thousand gold, primarily thanks to those filthy slavers and their easily-busted chests. At this rate I shall have my “assistance fee” within two weeks of Imoen’s arrest. I am making excellent time. Gods willing, it will be time enough.

Again, I dream. Irenicus, again, telling me of the death in my blood with which I am already too familiar. “Follow,” he said, and I would receive the gifts of my blood. And then Imoen was there, standing gagged and bound by his side by ropes of lightning-like magic. They constricted around her, scorching her flesh and slicing into muscle. She whimpered behind the gags and looked at me with such terror.

“Follow,” he said. “If only to protect the weak who fell because of you.”

I don’t wish to write any more this week.

The next entry was undated, and the handwriting noticeably more jagged and uneven. The body of the page was wrinkled in spots and slightly discolored, and the ink had bled into the fibers of the page. Water damage, she realized.

Another dream. A different one. No Irenicus this time.

I dreamt of Candlekeep, and of Imoen. Of a time when we were children. I’d nearly forgotten... has it been so long? Or just so much has happened?

Then, like now, I promised her I’d take care of her. I promised I’d always be there for her. That—

The rest of the line was violently scratched out in a black blob of ink. It picked up again in a new thought, a few lines down the page.

Gods, what a wretched being I am. Chaos follows in my wake, just as Alaundo predicted, and Imoen is just one more innocent I’ve doomed. She’s better off without me and my twisted dreams. Better to have never met me at all.

Imoen very slowly closed the book, a thoughtful and somewhat pained expression on her face, then traced the cover with her fingertips. She sighed softly and pushed it away.

If only Cassandra knew how wrong she was. There were a lot of things that could have gone better, a lot of things Imoen regretted, but knowing Cassie had never been one of them. They’d fought, sure, and traded angry words more than once growing up. They didn’t always get along. But one thing she knew was that they loved each other, and nothing would ever change that. They had killed for each other, and they would die for each other. And if Cassandra thought for one single moment that Imoen would be better off without her... well, it was a stupid idea altogether.

Imoen got to her feet and went over to her sibling, who was still sleeping soundly on the small mattress. There wasn’t really enough room for both of them on the mattress, and Imoen was short enough that she probably could sleep on the other bed – if she wanted to. Instead the thief tugged the mattress off the other bed and dragged it over next to her sister.

Cassandra stirred slightly as the younger girl adjusted the makeshift bed. Imoen sat down behind her, folding her legs beneath her, and soothed the fighter back to sleep with gentle strokes to her hair. They were both clean now, after long-overdue baths.

The auburn girl exhaled softly and she continued to stroke Cassandra’s red waves. They’d both been through so much lately. A lot of things she wished they could just forget.

Her gaze went to the woman’s bare back. She’d elected to sleep without a tunic, wearing only the oversized men’s trousers. More comfortable that way, she’d said. It had revealed the tattoo inked over the fighter’s spine, trailing from just between her shoulder blades all the way down to the small of her back. She hadn’t had it when they’d left Baldur’s Gate.

Imoen’s fingertips traced the letters. The black ink had raised the skin slightly and roughened the texture of the flesh. It was healed, but recently so. She must have gotten it within her first few weeks in Athkatla. The script was Elven, but the word it spelled was in the Common tongue: Remember.

It was an odd sentiment to engrave on one’s skin. What exactly did she want to remember? If anything, given the tone of the diary and recent events, Imoen figured she’d want to forget. As if forgetting were that easy.

“You suck, Cass,” she murmured as she wriggled down into a prone position behind her sister. “Why’d you have to come and get me?”

She wasn’t complaining, exactly. Well, not at all. But from the scars that crisscrossed Cassandra’s skin, the words in the diary, the look in her eyes – it’d cost the fighter a lot more than twenty-thousand gold to get to Spellhold, and literally cost her her soul to get them both out.

Imoen continued to trace the lines of the tattoo as she thought. Maybe the “Remember” had something to do with the dreams she’d mentioned. It was easy to forget dreams if you weren’t careful.

Her lips curled into a faint smile as her own dreams came to mind. Baldur’s Gate. The Three Kegs Inn. She probably had a few dozen variations of these fantasies that she’d carefully sculpted during her imprisonment. The sensation of Cassandra’s skin under her fingers brought back to mind the image of them at the window, and Cassie’s threat to tickle her to death. She felt different in real life than in the dream. Warmer, but not as soft – muscular and taut from the struggles she’d been through, small cuts and scars giving texture and depth to skin. More real. So much more real.

Her fingers drifted off the letter “M” and over her sister’s shoulder. The skin here was pale, but half-way down her arms a light tan was present. She avoided the half-healed scratches and trailed down Cassanda’s tricep. Her mind was half in her imaginary world once more, an easy transition after so many weeks of practice. And in the tavern room, Cassie was holding her, fingers poised to make good her threat. Imoen shivered slightly and unconsciously caught her breath as dream-Cassie’s hands glided over her waist in a decidedly non-ticklish fashion and caressed the mage through the light fabric of her summer robe. Her scent was subtle and heady, skin with a hint of sweat; the smirk on her lips was self-assured. Cassandra pulled her closer, brushing her fingers over Imoen's cheek, and the sorceress felt her skin prickle in response.

“Im?”

Imoen jerked her entire body backwards in surprise. The startled reaction brought Cassandra from half-slumber to full wakefulness, and she was sitting up, tensed for a fight, before Imoen’s heart started beating again.

“Gods dammit, Cass!” She whacked the woman on the shoulder, quite a bit harder than she’d intended. “You scared the Nine Hells out of me.”

“Me?” Cassie frowned and rubbed the now-stinging patch of skin. “What was that for?”

“You just—scared me,” she muttered defensively. Had she really just been thinking that– that Cassie was...? A faint blush rose in her cheeks. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was, until you bolted like a startled rabbit,” the fighter grumbled. “Mostly, at least.”

Imoen’s grey eyes widened. “You were awake?”

“Not until you started tickling me.” She yawned, raising a hand to cover her mouth. “C’mon, I’m tired. Let a girl get some sleep.” The fighter laid back down and fiddled with the covers until they were back in a decent position, then folded back one corner for her sister.

“I wasn’t—uh—“ She trailed off uncertainly. Imoen pursed her lips, then gave in and slid back in under the blanket. Tickling. Sure.

Cassie yawned again and flipped the covers back up to cover them both, and then curled one arm back under her head and draped the other across Imoen’s waist. “’Night,” she murmured, her voice already thick with sleep.

“Good night,” Imoen responded quietly, and curled one arm under her own head. Her heart was still pounding a little at the unexpected shock of Cassandra’s voice. She wasn’t sure she really wanted Cassie snuggled up to her right now, but it’d just keep the girl awake longer and make her more aware if she objected. They always slept like this on the road back on the Sword Coast.

Besides... it felt good. Safe-good, secure-good. Not like-that-good. And it was her first human contact in – what, a few months now? The first touch of someone who really cared about her, the first peaceful, not-about-to-die night with another human being. She was just starved for human affection, and starvation made people act crazy sometimes.

Cassie’s deep, steady breath set up a gentle rhythm in the silence of the room. Imoen stayed awake a few minutes longer, examining her emotions: comfort, security, happiness. That was all... wasn’t it?

Nearly ten minutes later, Imoen finally felt slumber tugging at the edges of her mind, and the lullaby of Cassie’s presence pulled her into sleep.

When she awoke the next morning, Cassandra was no longer in bed. Imoen’s brows furrowed together as she slowly came out of the slumber and registered the lack. The sound of quiet yet forceful breathing was nearby, and it only took a tilt of her head and a yawn to locate the fighter near the facing wall, doing some morning exercises.

Cassie was doing pushups – the real kind, the soldier kind, not the little girly version that most women did. She lowered, paused with her nose touching the floor — or as close as she could get before her breasts got in the way – then levered herself back up to her starting position. She’d put back on her breast band, but was still without a tunic, and the movements highlighted the firm muscles in her arms, shoulders, and upper back. Imoen smiled lazily and stretched her own body underneath the blanket, using the back of her hand to muffle another yawn.

“How many ya at?” she asked after a few more seconds, still watching the steady flex and power of the woman’s form.

Cassie paused in the lowered position, glancing over without turning her head, and then pushed up again. “Average is thirty or thirty-five,” she said, then completed another. “I can do forty-five on a really good day.”

Imoen arched an eyebrow. Hell, she’d be lucky if she could do five of those before she had to use her knees instead of her tip-toes. “How many today?”

Cassie frowned, not answering, and then made a small motion with her head. “Come here.”

“Eh?”

“Come here,” she repeated, still holding herself in the upper position. “I want to try something. Get on my back.”

The auburn girl giggled as she wriggled out of the covers and got to her feet with another stretch. “When’d I get promoted to exercise-equipment?” She made her way over to her sister and gave her a good-natured smile. “Do I sit like a lady or cling like a monkey?”

“Do you even know how to sit like a lady?”

“Hush, you.” Imoen straddled her sister’s back and then carefully laid flat, stomach-down, and hooked her arms under the red-head’s shoulders. “Now what?"

Cassie slowly began to lower herself again, still balanced on her toes and now with her sister’s weight as added resistance. She paused at the bottom, arms and back trembling with the effort, and then with a grunt raised herself back up. Twice, three times... Imoen’s eyes grew progressively wider with disbelief as the count went up to six before finally Cassandra couldn’t raise herself anymore and collapsed flat to the floor.

She lay there in a silence a moment, frowning unhappily as she caught her breath, then answered. “Sixty-three.”

“Sixty–! You are so lying.”

“Am not.”

“Well... then that’s pretty damn amazing. I thought you said your max was like forty-five or something?”

Cassie got her arms back under her and pushed up with a loud grunt of effort, and somehow managed to lift herself once more from the floor. Imoen reflexively tightened her arms and held on for dear life as her balanced shifted from the unexpected movement, and she ended up pulling them both to the left and toppling them onto the stone.

“It was,” Cassie said. She didn’t sound too pleased with shattering her old record. “You can let go of me now, you know.”

Imoen rolled her eyes and smiled. “You’re kinda crushing me, you big oaf.”

The red-head took stock of the situation and realized she was indeed now laying half-atop her sister. Which didn’t mean Imoen couldn’t let her go, although it would make it awkward to get up.

Hrm. To play, or not to play? Her mind came to a decision almost instantly. Playtime had been all too rare in the past months. Cassandra lifted her hips and used her legs to wriggle herself backwards, pushing even more of her weight onto Imoen’s chest. The wizard’s protests soon gave way to wheezes and oofs of labored breathing.

“Get off...you...ogre!”

“Say please.”

“Hell no,” she gritted out, and started freeing her arms so she could push Cassie away.

The warrior felt the movement and seized Imoen’s hands with her own, interlacing their fingers and holding them firmly. “Then say that I’m the greatest person in the whole wide world.”

“No!”

“How about: ‘Imoen has a monkey’s butt’?”

“Dammit... no...” She wheezed out the words and glared at her sibling.

Cassie rolled her eyes. Fine. She twisted her hips to bring her body around so that they were now chest-to-chest, and quickly maneuvered to bring herself into a standard pin position. Imoen tried to take advantage of the movement to wiggle herself out of the predicament, but Cassie just grinned and followed her motion for the scant few inches before the mage could no longer move beneath her weight. Now face-to-face and with her sister firmly pinned, she gave Imoen a smirk.

“Now you’re just being difficult,” she accused.

Breathing wasn’t nearly as hard now that Cassie had distributed her weight a bit more forgivingly. Being the smaller one had always been a disadvantage in wrestling matches. Imoen gave her an imperial glare. “Get off.”

Cassie’s smirk remained. Imoen hated to lose. She’d probably pay for this later, but for right now, she was going to milk it for all it was worth. “That’s rude, you know.”

“Yeah, well...” She tried to free herself again, but her struggles only encouraged Cassandra to adjust her position to immobilize the girl further. The fighter easily wrestled her arms down and pinned them over Imoen’s head where they were even more useless than before.

The sensation of Cassie’s hands against her flesh brought the vision from the fantasy to mind once more, and Imoen’s breath stopped on her lips. She blinked in surprise as the familiar scene around her took on a new shade of feeling that it’d never had before. She was suddenly aware — too aware — of how Cassie’s body felt against her, and the strange exciting vulnerability it evoked.

“Well what?” Cassandra asked with a smile, and the voice made Imoen shiver.

“Get off,” she repeated as a sensation of panic began to rise.

“Not until you say—“

“I mean it! This isn’t fun anymore!”

Cassie’s humor faded, and was quickly replaced with concern. She instantly rolled aside, freeing her sibling from the pin, and then moved to a crouch next to her. “Are you okay? I was trying to be gentle.”

Imoen shook her head and felt her cheeks redden self-consciously. “I’m fine,” she said, waving away Cassandra’s attempt to touch her shoulder. “I just—kinda... freaked out,” she muttered. It was true enough. “I’m sorry.”

The red-head’s brows knitted together in confusion as her mouth dipped into a frown. She studied Imoen uncertainly for several seconds before the younger sibling just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Let’s go get breakfast,” Imoen offered, getting to her feet and trying to avoid Cassie’s dubious gaze as she quickly got herself decent to go outside. “You’re hungry, right?”

"I guess," she answered.

“Good enough.”

Breakfast was an awkward affair. Communicating had been easy enough, due to Imoen’s tongues spell, and the food had been decent, if strange. But the mage had spent the better part of the meal picking at her food and feeling like an idiot; Cassandra spent it giving their svirfneblin hosts uneasy looks. They were both relieved, the former more than the latter, when one of the gnomes came in with a summons for them.

Cassandra led the way, still glancing around at the wandering villagers with as much dubious suspicion as they regarded her. Something had changed, overnight. It was barely noticeable when looking at things, but people were almost outlined, somehow. Glowing in her vision. Not all of them, just a few, and it seemed to be intermittent. Most of the svirfneblin had a faint muddy-yellow color that flickered around their forms. She kept switching her focus, moving her gaze, trying to figure out if the trick was something in vision or something wrong with her eyes. The aura stayed consistent, at least somewhat, and didn’t move when she did. It was centered on the people.

And Imoen had lit up like that earlier, before breakfast. Bright, vivid yellow that had faded almost as instantly as it’d come. Was this another side effect of the Slayer transformations?

They came to a small, nondescript dwelling that was literally carved into the side of one of the cavern walls. The entire city was built in such a fashion – moulded and sculpted within the rock, rather than constructed out of it. It gave the impression of a nest of termites or an ant den, with gnomes scurrying in and out of their holes. At any moment the whole colony could swarm over the unwelcome visitors and carry them off into the depths. Cassandra shivered and stepped a bit closer to Imoen as the mage chit-chatted with their escort.

The little svirfneblin man knocked on the house’s wall with his hammer, and a few moments the round stone doorstone was rolled away from the entrance. Cassie pursed her lips doubtfully as she compared the height of the two women against the four-foot tall door. Fortunately the occupant stepped out rather than inviting them in.

“Ah, so you’re the surface-dwellers, come to Granitehome,” he said, his voice pleasant but his expression not quite a smile. “I am Goldander Blackenrock.”

“Yup. How’re ya? I’m Imoen, this is Cassandra.”

He took Imoen’s offered hand and looked on in bemusement as she shook it up and down. “I’m well, thank you, thank you. And you and your kindred?”

“Been better,” Imoen quipped before Cassie had a chance to speak. “We were kinda hoping we could get your help with that.”

“Yes, my watchmen mentioned as much. You seek the other two surfacers from the week past.”

“They were here?” Cassandra asked. “In Granitehome?”

The elder gnome shook his head. “Stone firm, no. But our watchmen took note of their passage. We keep a sharp eye out for glitter.”

Cassie arched her eyebrow slightly at Imoen, who didn’t seem to notice. Whatever the tongues spell did, apparently it didn’t handle idioms all that well. “Where are they, then?” she asked.

“Ust Natha. But you won’t be mining that vein without help.”

“And just how much is this help going to cost us?”

Imoen elbowed her sharply in the ribs and gave her a warning look. “Sorry, sir,” she smiled.

“I will help as I can, but I have a matter which takes importance,” Goldander said.

“Figures.” The muttered response was immediately rewarded with another hard jab and a glare. Cassie let out a small hiss of pain and tried to discreetly step outside of Imoen’s reach.

“Spare your tone,” the elder said with a disapproving look. “We are not weak. There is no shame in knowing when you are outmatched. Too much svirfneblin blood has been shed over this already. I will give you details of the task first, and you may decide if you wish to accept. I tap rock that you will."

“As you can see, our Granitehome village is quite empty,” Goldander continued. “I have sent the majority to deeper climes far from here. It was no longer safe, and it is our own fault. We tunneled too deep recently, and unearthed a monstrosity. A strange cavern that yielded death, a monster we have not seen outside of dreaming. The task I ask of you is simple to explain, but difficult in deed. I ask that the beast be killed, and the tunnel be closed.”

“Can’t you just collapse the tunnel on it?” the fighter asked, trying to keep the growing annoyance out of her expression.

“The tunnel will readily collapse, of that we are sure. What is unsure is whether that would kill the beast now that it is awakened.”

“Awakened?” asked Imoen hesitantly. “Please tell me that you mean it was hibernating and not otherworldly.”

“As I said, it is a beast out of dreams, or nightmares, if you prefer. It is not of the rock. I do not know what to call it.”

“Fine, whatever. Find it, kill it.” Cassandra knew the drill well enough. Everyone else on Faerûn wanted the same damn thing. “Now about what we need–”

“Cassie!”

The red-head ignored her. “What about the other two surfacers?”

“I know of them,” he repeated, “but you will have a hard time finding them. They passed within the city of the Drow, Ust Natha. Now before you ask, I may know a way into the Drow city. Well, I know a being that might help you.”

“A ‘being’?”

Goldander frowned. “She could see you safely inside, but after that you would surely be dead. If such is the risk you would take, I will gladly point you in her direction. I’m sure she will see to your concerns if you approach politely, but I fear I must restrict your access until the needs of my village are met.”

“Fair enough.” Cassie sighed again and unsheathed her sword. “Where do I find this beast you need killed?”

“The passage is to the northeast, guarded by one of my best breachgnomes.” Goldander produced a small scroll from a case on his belt, and handed it towards Cassandra. Imoen quickly intercepted it and flicked it open.

“Stoneshape?”

He nodded to the mage. “Aye. When the beast is dead, use this to bring the cavern down upon it.”

“Fine. We’ll need supplies though.”

Goldander nodded again. “Aye, the market can supply you. I’m afraid our weapons and armor will be useless to you though.”

“Why’s that?”

He gestured towards her somewhat vaguely. “Svirfneblin armor would not fit a surfacer, nor a sword fit your hand.”

Cassie frowned. It was a valid point, but not one she’d anticipated. The gnomes were half her size, and nothing made for their warriors would fit her. The weapons perhaps were more adjustable; a gnomish longsword could serve as a shortsword perhaps, but the grip would be made for smaller hands, and the balance for a different physique. Her present weapon was more suitable.

“Fine,” she said after a moment. “We’ll be back.”

She turned and walked off without a farewell, and Imoen had to jog to catch up with her. When she did, she scooted in front of the warrior and blocked her path with a frown.

“Cassie, stop. What in the Nine Hells do you think you’re doing?”

“Going to kill the monster, obviously.”

“Right now?”

Cassandra stepped around her and continued towards the northeast passage. “Yup.”

Imoen swiftly moved to intercept her again. “No, no, no. You’re being a big dumb hero again.”

The older woman sighed and obediently stayed in place. “Look – we need to find Irenicus and Bodhi. To do that, we need to get into Ust Natha, and to do that we have to make these damn midgets happy.”

“Okay, granted, but marching into a tunnel to face down gods-know-what with nothing but your ego and a sword, is stupid.”

“Im, I can handle it.”

“Are you retarded?” she demanded frustratedly. “This Slayer thing is messing with your head. You were never this hot-headed before.”

“No, I’m not retarded, I’m just tired of running errands for half of Faerûn,” Cassandra snapped back. “You know how many favors I’ve done? Kill this, find that, fetch that. For once I’d like someone to say, ‘Sure, I’ll help’ without expecting me to kill something, steal something, or fuck someone.”

“So you’re gonna rush off into the unknown and get yourself killed instead?”

Cassie brushed past her and started walking again. “Relax. I have no plans on dying.”

“Like anyone ever does?”

The tunnel wasn’t too far of a walk, and Imoen’s continued objections didn’t slow down her sister at all. The svirfneblin guard was stationed at the tunnel’s entrance, and moved aside almost immediately when Cassie brusquely told him why they were there. Imoen tossed him a hasty apology as she followed the warrior into the darkness.

“Cass... Cass!” She grabbed the woman’s sleeve. “Dammit, slow down! I swear to Mystra Herself, I’ll slap hold person on you if I have to.”

She turned around with an impatient sigh. “I have walked into a den of vampires and came out more or less intact, so I don’t see why—“ Her brows knit together as her gaze landed on her sister, then she quickly looked around the tunnel, then down at her own hands.

“What’s wrong?”

The frown remained as she looked back at Imoen. The aura was back, but different this time. Mostly yellow, but faint and almost translucent, with small tendrils of black lacing through it like veins. “Did you do something?”

She shook her head. “No, why?”

“I–” Cassie looked down at her hands again. They looked perfectly normal. Back at Imoen, where the glow continued, but now fainter. “I—I don’t know.” What was going on?

“Do you seriously not see why I’m worried about you, Cass?” Imoen demanded, putting her hands on her hips.

The red-head scowled at her, but didn’t answer. She’d deal with it later. Instead, she started walking again, and soon came to the opening to the last-dug chamber. It was only half-finished, the pickaxe-scored walls rough and ugly. At the far side of it, where it had been most recently worked, a large sinkhole had collapsed into the floor and now yawned like an open maw.

The pair stopped just inside the chamber opening, and Cassie felt Imoen habitually press against her side. A glance around showed no obvious inhabitants.

“Do you see anything?”

Imoen shook her head. “Nuh-uh.”

Cassandra disengaged herself from her sister and stepped forward softly, tilting her head and looking around the room. As she approached the pit on the far side, she could see thin, dark crimson vapors which exuded from the depths. She paused and inhaled slowly, sampling the air. It had no scent, but nevertheless it seemed to sting her nose. The cold void inside her stirred to life.

“Something’s here,” she whispered. A trickle of adrenaline leaked into her blood.

“Where?”

“Sshh.” Cassie motioned her into silence. The hair on her arms began to prickle. “Stoneskins. Protective. Whatever.” Imoen nodded and began her incantations.

The sense of unease increased, and Cass found herself leaning forward in anticipation as her breath began to quicken. She could see over the edge of the pit only fractionally, and the depths were so dark that it revealed nothing of the vapors’ source. The voice was quiet, but the cold sensation within her swirled and rustled eagerly. She couldn’t wait to use it. A grin curled her lips.

The creature exploded out of the hole with a high-pitched howl. It emerged in a flurry of wings and tails and lashing appendages, flailing chaotically. Cassie jerked backwards to shield herself even as she reflexively swung her blade; it met nothing, hit nothing, and with her balance gone she staggered backwards just to keep standing.

A bolt of crackling blue-white lightning shot forth from near the doorway and struck the creature in the chest. It issued another high-pitched whine and dove down to the ground, settling down on what appeared to be four limbs. The hind ones resembled that of a dwarfish lion, with powerful muscles and thick, long claws; the front ones seemed at least nominally human, although powerfully built and the hands tipped with jagged nails. The body itself was short and squat, with mottled pinkish-yellow flesh that was wrinkled into large rolls of excess skin. The creature’s face sat atop the its shoulders; not on its head, for it had none, nor a neck, but rather a human face stretched and distorted flat across the surface where the neck should have been. It burbled at them incomprehensibly as flecks of spittle flew from its lips.

One of the creature’s two tails lashed out. The long, thin appendage lashed past Cassie like a whip, and attacked the mage behind her. The tip collided with Imoen’s stoneskins and failed to penetrate them, but the impact knocked her backwards. The other tail darted out and whipped across Cassandra’s chest. The fabric of her tunic did nothing to blunt the force; the cloth ripped and a bloody gash was opened in her skin.

A volley of magic missiles launched forth, but they fizzled and died harmlessly when they struck the wrinkled flesh. Imoen gritted her teeth, dodged a second attempted slap from the tail, and began to cast flame arrow. Fireball would have been better, but with Cassie that close she’d fry them both.

The redheaded warrior snarled and lashed out with a counterattack. The tentacle she’d aimed at snaked out of the way and retaliated with a lash to her face. She growled as the rage inside leapt out; a second slash connected and sliced deep into the flesh. The stretched face gibbered miserably and the tail-whip withdrew. It stopped just out of range, and then flashed forward and tried to coil itself around the woman’s neck. The flat of her sword deflected it.

The flame arrow manifested in the air in front of her, and a mental command from Imoen sent it streaking like a meteor towards the creature’s body. The energy dissipated as soon as it struck with no visible effect. Imoen hissed her frustration through gritted teeth. Whatever this thing was, it was magic-resistant.

The blow did succeed in attracting its attention, though. The tail flicked out once more and succeeded in its attempt to wrap around her waist. It coiled twice and then constricted with a massive pulse of muscles. She could feel the pressure build up, but thankfully the rigidity of the protective magic prevented it from collapsing her ribs. It held her securely but harmlessly, even as it tightened and constricted. Uncomfortable, but hardly dangerous.

“Let her go!” Cassie’s enraged shout echoed through the cavern. Obviously it didn’t look quite so harmless to her.

The creature stopped, half-turning in surprised towards the warrior, still gibbering and mumbling through the warped, boneless face. The second tentacle flung itself forward and burst through the slash of her sword, sending the fighter flying backwards and crashing to the ground. The weapon clattered against the stone and skidded to a stop a few feet away.

Cassandra rolled with the impact and brought herself to her feet almost instantly. She growled and ran forward, leaning to scoop up her sword as she passed it, and hurled herself towards the beast with a shout and a hard overhand swing. “I said, let her go!”

One of the front limbs rose to block the attack. The sword flayed open the shoulder area, but Cassie herself was caught by the taloned hand. It squeezed, making her grunt in pain, and then flung her away once more.

And then it gently set Imoen back on the ground and released her.

Imoen blinked and for a moment just stood there in surprise. Her sister was getting to her feet, more slowly this time, and holding her side with an expression of pain. As soon as she regained her bearings and sighted her foe once more, the expression switched to one of rage. She charged it again, deflecting another attempt from the tail with her blade, only to have the second tentacle, now unoccupied, fling her back once more. She went to the floor a third time.

“Would you fucking stop that?” she demanded as she levered herself off the ground.

Fireball would work now that the two were separated – if Imoen could keep Cassie from charging in again. “Cass, wait!”

“Wait?” The warrior looked at her in disbelief, eyes shifting rapidly between her and their opponent as she tried to concentrate on both. “For what?”

“Stay out of range,” the auburn sorceress instructed. “I’m gonna fireball it.” She reached into one of her pouches and pulled out the small pinch of sulphur needed for the spell, and began the incantation.

Cassie frowned and moved over to a position where she could more easily guard her sister from any incoming attacks. It hadn’t been too long into their adventuring career when she’d figured out that Imoen was most effective when she was free to concentrate on her spells, and Cassie ran interference against anyone trying to disrupt her. The trick of it was getting out of the way in time once the spell activated.

The tentacles stayed back as the beast regarded them curiously, but it seemed to know something was going on. She wasn’t sure how intelligent it was. The strange babbling sounds continued as it shifted and lowered the front half of its body to allow its face to see them. It let forth another miserable whine and the tails shot forward. Cassandra raised her blade immediately and hacked into the nearest one. It connected, but it was a glancing blow, and the second tail darted past her to strike the sorceress again. Again the stoneskins intercepted it, and Imoen’s voice quavered, but she kept both her concentration and her footing.

Cassie growled and prepared for another attack, but Imoen stepped just to the left of her line of vision and raised her hand. With a shout she finished the last word of the chant, and a small spark of fire flew out of her fingertip. It raced across the space between the mage and the monster and exploded in an inferno of raging flames. Cassie reflexively raised her arm to shield her face, but the blast only lasted a few seconds before the fire died down into nothingness once more.

The creature was still standing; indeed, it seemed more annoyed than hurt. Other than a slightly more reddened hue to its baggy skin, it was unaffected. It moaned and began to advance forward towards the two girls.

The warrior charged forward once more, this time avoiding the lash of the tails, and buried her sword up to the hilt with a loud cry. It sank into the creature’s chest and the beast wailed and trembled. The tails whipped forward and curled around her arms, trying to yank the woman loose, but Cassandra hung onto the blade determinedly and continued her forward momentum. Her shoulder slammed into the abomination’s flesh and her boots skidded and dug in for purchase against the uneven rocky floor.

Imoen’s mind raced for some sort of working which would help. She didn’t have anything strong enough to push the beast backwards; nothing to augment Cassie’s strength. The range was about right, though, for the one spell that did come to mind. She fished the components out of her pouch and crumbled them between her fingers as she started chanting. This machismo shit was going to get Cassie killed, sooner rather than later. If they survived this, they were going to have a long talk about not charging into mortal danger.

Cassie growled and gritted her teeth as she pushed herself and the sword further into the creature. The tails tightened painfully around her bare flesh as it tried to pull her away. She leaned forward, keeping her grip on the blade, and drew it up as hard as she could. The flesh was as tough as old leather and just as hard to cut, but slowly the wound widened as she strained against the resistance.

Imoen finished the chant, and dark moisture began to seep from the ground beneath the creature’s feet. The oil spread in a slowly but steadily growing pool, perhaps an inch deep, miring it in a puddle of thick, liquid grease. It didn’t seem to notice, or at least didn’t seem to mind – but if it tried to move, or if Cassie could make it, then it would find its traction a lot less stable.

The puddle continued to spread outward, and Cassandra was close enough that it enveloped her feet as well. Her foot slipped, and with it her balance and resistance against the beast’s strength. The tentacles hoisted her in the air, leaving her sword buried inside it, and for a heart-stopping moment she saw the gaping pit behind it as it held her overhead. It flung her forward, away from the hole; she felt weightless for a moment as the air rushed past her, and then she slammed full-force against the wall with a bone-jarring impact.

Cassie’s body fell to the floor, and Imoen immediately stepped between her and the creature, which was now trying to advance forward once again. The grease worked against it as well as it had the human, though, and it stumbled and wavered as it tried to find traction on the now-slick floor. The auburn girl gritted her teeth and started her next spell, determined to throw anything she could at this thing while she had the advantage.

A glowing white orb swirled into being in front of her chest, and a blast of arctic ice and wind howled forth. It struck the beast head-on, and as its footing slipped once more, the strength of the wind began to push it backwards. It curled its front hands and tried to maintain a hold on the rocks, but Imoen narrowed her eyes and tightened the weave of the spell. The radius of the cone of cold narrowed, channeling the force through a smaller conduit, and the cold howl rose in volume. The wind whipped through the chamber in a fury, lashing her hair around her face, and her breath began to fog in the now-chilly air.

The creature leaned into the blast and tried to take another step, but the force of the wind was too great. It stumbled and fell to its knees, skidding backwards several feet as the tempest continued. The hind legs disappeared into the hole, and for a moment it screamed and gibbered as its hands scrambled for purchase. Between the oily slickness, scream of winter storms, and its own ponderous body weight, there was no way for it to recover. It tumbled into the depths with a high-pitched, inhuman cry.

Imoen released the spell, and the energy flowed out of her and left her shaken and empty. She’d forced that harder than she should have, held the weave too long. Her hands trembled as she pulled out the scroll and began reciting the words written thereon. The creature’s scrabbling efforts to emerge again could be heard from the recesses of the pit, but she blocked it from her mind and continued.

The spell completed, and a soft tremor rumbled through the cavern. The grease-slicked earth softened and liquefied, flowing together like dark, murky water, and the hole slowly began to shrink. The beast’s cries became more urgent as it was gradually sealed in, and as the last bits of earth knitted themselves together, it was silenced completely. The cavern’s floor was intact and solid once more, as if the svirfneblin had never mined its depths.

For a few seconds Imoen stood motionless, save for the soft, white plume of frosted breath. Her entire body gradually began to shiver from the exertion of arcane energy and sudden icy chill. The cavern remained silent, though. Goldander’s scroll seemed to have worked.

She heard movement behind her, and turned her head sharply to glance in that direction. Cassie. Shit. The red-head was on her knees, doubled over but at least conscious, breath rough and raspy. Imoen lifted the hem of her robe and hurried over to her sibling.

“Cass.” She knelt down next to her and took her by her shoulders. “Cass, are you alright?”

The warrior nodded her head, but her position and the hair dangling in front of her face masked her expression. She brought her hand to her face as she coughed, and Imoen saw the flecks of blood as she lowered it again.

Imoen put her fingers under Cassie’s chin and tilted her head up. The bright blue eyes were dazed and half-closed, and blood trickled from both her nose and the corner of her mouth. The tails had lashed a long, thin line across her right cheek, and a wide swath of blood was smeared down her temple and over the side of her neck. The hair by her ear was matted with crimson, doubtlessly from where she’d collided with the rock.

“Oh Hells, Cass,” she muttered, using the thumb of her other hand to lift the woman’s eyelids and check the response of her pupils. “Can you understand me?”

Cassie moved her face aside, trying to break the contact, but Imoen refused to let go. The eyes remained unfocused, but the older girl nodded unsteadily. “Fine,” she murmured, almost too soft to be heard. Even her teeth were bloody. “I’m fine.”

“I bet the svirfneblin have a healer.” Imoen shifted her position and draped Cassandra’s arm across her shoulders, braced her own around her waist, and then gritted her teeth with effort as she half-helped and half-pulled the woman to her feet. “Y’ok? Can you walk?”

Another nod as she muffled another cough with her free hand. “Fine,” she repeated with a slight slur. “Really.”

The thief-mage ignored her and guided her into a slow walk. Cassandra’s steps were unsteady and halting, but gradually normalized as they made their way half-speed back out of the chamber and down the connecting hallway. It was nearly five minutes before they made it back to the junction where the breachgnome had been posted.

Imoen’s tongues spell was still active. One good thing about simple spells: they had amazingly long durations. She motioned the gnome over with a toss of her head. “We need a healer.”

His eyes traveled back to the passageway, where no doubt he had heard at least some of the conflict. “Is it sealed?”

“Yes,” she answered impatiently. “C’mon: healer.”

He motioned down another section of the tunnel. “Quickest way is this way.”

Cassandra tried to pull her arm away as they followed the svirfneblin down the passage. “Im, I’m okay.”

Imoen gave her a scolding look. “Are not; just wait until you see yourself in a mirror.” Her voice did sound steadier though, and her steps were more certain.

The redhead sighed and fell silent again. Another ten minutes brought them back to the main guest-inn of the village, where the two had slept the previous night. The breachgnome stopped at the doorway after rolling the entrance stone aside, and addressed Imoen. “I’ll fetch Felda and Goldander,” he said, and the mage nodded shortly and guided her sister through the low archway into the main chamber. Once they were back inside their sleeping quarters, she finally relinquished her hold on Cassie’s waist and helped her sit down once more.

“Here, let me look at you,” she said, crouching and tilting the woman’s head up once more. Cassie submitted to the touch with a slightly exasperated look. Her eyes were open fully now, clear and focused. Her mouth had stopped bleeding and she’d spit out most of the blood. The trickle from her nostrils had also stopped. The only fresh blood was a small, thin line trailing down her temple.

“Thank the gods,” Imoen breathed. “Cass, I swear, you take more abuse than any man I know.”

“I’m not a man.”

“You know what I mean, dork.” She licked the pad of her thumb and used it to wipe away some of the dried life. Cassie wrinkled her nose and tried to bat her away. “Hold still!”

“Im, come on—stop it, that’s gross!”

“Just hush,” she ordered, and continued the cleaning. “I swear, Cass, having you is worse than having a child. You can not rush into things like that! You’re lucky I saved your ass.”

“Yes, mother,” she grumbled, then jerked and gasped as a spike of pain went through her temple.

Imoen smirked as she dabbed a bit more gently this time. “Accident. Sorry.”

Cassie gave her a glare.

A knock sounded on the doorframe, and the two looked over. Goldander and an elderly female svirfneblin stood just outside the room. Imoen flashed them a smile and motioned them in. The female went straight to Cassandra – the healer, she guessed – while Goldander focused his attention on the mage. He arched an eyebrow.

“You sealed it?”

A nod. “Yup.”

“That was... faster than I expected.”

“Yeah, well, when Cassie gets it in her thick skull to do something, she doesn’t waste time.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Was it an easy task then?” Imoen shook her head emphatically, and he seemed somewhat relieved. “Well... you both seem to have come out intact, which is more than I can say for my svirnfeblin patrols.”

“I had magic,” she said with a small nod, and a glance over to her sister. “Cassie took a beating.”

“Felda is the best healer in Granitehome – who’s still in the village, at least,” he assured her. “Speaking of which... I’ll return shortly.” She nodded again in acknowledgement.

The healer took about fifteen minutes to dress and clean the fighter’s wounds, and pronounced that, considering the circumstances, Cassandra had come out in surprisingly good shape. She had suffered a significant blow to the head, but no bones had been broken and any remaining dizziness or lightheadedness would pass after a day or two.

The gnomish elder returned about halfway into the process, holding a small pouch in his hand. He handed it to Imoen while Cassandra looked on in curiosity.

“You’ll need this,” he said. “Fulfilling my part of the bargain. The woman you need to see is temperamental, and likes her solitude. This will bypass the initial magic wards.”

“A wizard?” Cassie asked.

“Same vein.”

“How do we find her?” This time it was Imoen’s question.

“Oh, it’s easy enough to find. I’ll ask a watchman to guide you out of the city and point the way.

“Thank you so much!” the mage gushed. “You can’t imagine how nice it is to meet someone who hasn’t tried to kill us.”

“And you’re going to Ust Natha?” he asked with amusement.

“Not a nice place, I take it?” Cassie asked. Felda tsked and ordered her back into silence.

“Nice enough if you like daggers in your back. But Adalon can help you somewhat there.”

Imoen nodded. “Is she expecting us?”

He shook his head. “No, but she’ll know you’re coming.”

Mmm. Fair enough then. “Anything else we should know?” she asked him.

Another shake of his head. “Naught but to be careful. Surfacers rarely last long here.”

The two women nodded, and Imoen said the majority of their goodbyes while Cassie continued to be fussed over by the svirfneblin healer. Eventually she too was finished, and left the room after giving strict orders for the human to stay in bed for the rest of the evening.

“But I’m going to get bored,” Cassie complained as the door swung shut.

Imoen gave her sister a smirk. “Serves ya right, pulling off bravado like that.”

“Well, at least you can entertain me.”

“Me?” She laughed. “Who said I’m staying here? I feel perfectly fine, other than being tired.”

“Well, what better things do you have to do? This place isn’t exactly a bundle of fun.”

“And you think you are?” she smiled. Cassie flipped her a rude gesture, which only made Imoen giggle more. “Don’t make me cast sleep on you again.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Her eyes sparkled. “You do need the rest. Doctor’s orders, y’know.”

“I’m not tired,” the older sibling complained.

“Well, it’s either sleep, or be bored. I’m not gonna sit here and coddle you all night.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I know.” Imoen fell silent a moment, lips slightly parted, and tilted her head quizzically as she regarded Cassandra with sudden interest. “....huh.”

Cassie glanced over her shoulder, but there was nothing there. She furrowed her brows. “What?”

Imoen leaned forward, frowning slightly. “There’s something in your hair. Hold still a sec.”

Her hand reached out and brushed against Cassandra’s cheek before tugging gently on a strand of hair. Suddenly a heavy fatigue fell over the warrior, and her eyes began to drift shut against her will.

“You’re so easy to dupe,” Imoen giggled as the world began to fade. She smiled gently and waved good-bye. “See you in the morning. Nighty-night.”

The two hit the marketplace the next morning after breakfast. They didn’t have very much money, other than what they’d found while rummaging through Irenicus’ belongings. It wouldn’t buy armor or weapons, but it would buy some more food. And Imoen had her spells, and Cassandra had the protective bracers. It’d have to do for now.

Cassie kept thinking as they wandered around the market place. Two things they did need were actual shoes, as well as an actual pack to carry their gear. The sacks which Bodhi had tossed in after them were functional enough, but awkward to carry and kept a hand occupied which could be better served holding a sword. Packs could be sealed and strapped over the shoulder or back – out of the way, and much more portable. And a new sword, since her old one was entombed with the monster.

Imoen kept up a steady stream of chatter with the shopkeepers as they browsed. She didn’t seem to notice the flicker of colors around the gnomes’ bodies. The colors weren’t as pronounced as earlier, but the hue was the same. Cassie furrowed her brow as she looked around the market place. Why did some have the aura and some didn’t?

“Im…”

Imoen broke off her conversation with the bearded gnome and flashed a smile as she turned around. “Yeah?”

“Did you…start seeing things, after your ritual?” the fighter asked quietly, trying to keep her voice low enough to avoid easy overhearing.

“Seeing things?” She giggled. “Like… little fuzzy puppies? Polka-dot frogs?”

Heh. That was a definite no. Cassie smiled. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Nope, sure didn’t. Why, ya seeing things?”

She debated how to answer that. She didn’t want to make it out as being more drastic than it was — especially since she didn’t know what it was. Finally she shrugged. “I’m not sure,” she replied.

Imoen’s eyebrow arched up. “How can you be not-sure if you’re seeing things?”

“I’m not sure,” she repeated, and this time got a roll of the eyes.

“Well, what are you seeing?”

“Colors.”

“Colors?”

Cassandra nodded. “Yellow, specifically. Like... auras, almost. Around people.”

The eyebrow crept a little higher. “That’s... different, I guess. Sure you aren’t just suffering malnutrition or one too many vampires whacking you on the head?”

“Could be,” she admitted. “That’s why I asked. If it was from the ritual, I guess you’d have it too.”

“Hrm. You weren’t seeing these before? When’d it start?”

“Today, I guess. I didn’t notice it until we were wrestling earlier.”

Imoen’s mind backtracked and immediately hit on the memory. The faint pinkness crept back into her cheeks. “Uh... just color?” she asked hopefully. “Nothing else?’

She shook her head negative. “Not that I can tell. It’s just ... well, what do you think it is? You’re the witch.”

Imoen shot her a dark look. Cassie knew damn well that ‘witch’ wasn’t a flattering term. “Well... there are spells that let you see auras, like detect magic and detect evil and stuff like that.”

“Do you see colors?”

“Yes, but you also get information with it. Like if you have a detect magic going, stuff that’s magic will glow and if you look at it and concentration, you can get a feel for whether it’s abjuration or transmutation or something. Or if you detect evil – well, you know it’s evil, y’know?”

Cassie pursed her lips, then frowned slightly. Nothing had come with the colors so far.

Imoen shrugged, picking up a pair of boots from the merchant’s stall and inspecting them as she talked. “I hallucinated some when I was in that cell — hunger and such’ll do that to ya. So that’s also a possibility. But you’re not seeing things, just colors, right?”

She nodded.

Imoen plopped down on the ground and slipped off her sandals to try on the footwear. “Don’t sweat it then. At least, not yet. Unless you’ve spontaneously developed the ability to detect evil or something, I think it’s just your mind playing tricks on you.”

She wiggled her feet inside the shoes, and then got up and took a few steps around to test the comfort. “Not bad... hmm. But on the other hand, you should definitely let me know if something changes. I mean, no offense, but you’re not exactly yourself lately.”

Too true. “I will. Do they fit?”

“Yup, pretty good.” She sat back down and pulled them off, slipping on her sandals again. “How much money do we have?”

Cassie grinned. “Doesn’t matter. Goldander said it’s free. Guess there’s some perks to being heroes.”

“Hah! Sweet!”

Come noon they were on their way out of the city, complete with the elder’s promised escort and all the gear they could think of needing. Shoes, packs, a sword, some spell components, rations – the essentials, to travel light, but they took advantage of the gnomes’ generosity as best they could. Money was tight, and neither knew when their next chance for supplies might be.

The svirfneblin guard led them back across the bridge that connected the town to the main cavern ways. Imoen cast infravision on both her and her sister once they exited the dim lights of Granitehome and returned to the blackness. The effect was more like seeing in black and white than anything: colors were bled out, replaced with just the contrast of the lighter warmth against the cool dark background.

They walked in silence. Imoen’s occasional giggles and whispers were quickly hushed by the watchman’s stern gaze; even small sounds carried extremely well in the stillness of the caves. The boots they’d purchased from the gnomes muffled their footsteps much better than their previous ware had, and save for the sound of their breathing and the occasional kicked pebble, it was entirely quiet.

Unfortunately the Underdark was not as impressive as the stories had told. Perhaps it was simply because they lacked the senses to appreciate it, but impassive stone walls and the occasional patch of fungus hardly seemed as dangerous, dire, or majestic as the bards claimed. The steady wash of blacks and greys hardly seemed beautiful, and the occasional lizards and slime molds definitely weren’t awe-inspiring.

Imoen was bored almost instantly. Only the guide’s frequent frowns and Cassandra whispered threat of shoving a mushroom in her mouth kept her from breaking into campfire songs. But finally, after nearly an hour of seemingly random turns, circles, and meanderings through the darkness, the gnome motioned them to halt. He pointed to a large bridge that lay ahead, barely on the edge of their vision.

“Cross the bridge,” he instructed. “Ye’ll see a large fork in the way, half to fore-left and half to fore-right. Fore-left will take you to Lady Adalon. Fore-right is the way to Ust Natha.”

Cassandra looked at him dubiously. “If we’re this close, can’t we just go into Ust Natha?”

“Not alive,” he responded simply.

Well, Adalon it was then. “Then she isn’t going to kill us, I presume? It’s safe?”

He shrugged. “She probably won’t. There’s no such thing as ‘safe’ unless we’re in Granitehome’s walls. But I’ve brought ye this far.”

“And we appreciate it,” Imoen assured him. “Thank you very much.”

“Hope ye make it,” he said, and then turned and walked away.

The fighter watched him go with a mixture of amusement and trepidation. “Not the best send-off I’ve had,” she said aloud. “Or the worst.”

“Well, I didn’t see any vicious animals or anything on our way,” Imoen answered, “and we’re almost there, so…” She shrugged. “Let’s keep moving.”

Cassie nodded, and took the lead once more.

The bridge was made of stone, a single span somehow carved or shaped over the chasm it straddled. It was plain, lacking adornment, but had obviously been sculpted by skilled hands. It didn’t appear to have any joints or joinings, no supports or columns. However it had been constructed, it was a single, unified piece, straight as an arrow, and literally as sturdy as stone. The length was perhaps seventy feet, and the width around fifteen. There’d be no danger of falling off short of being pushed or having the Maid of Misfortune personally shake your hand.

The warrior stepped onto it cautiously and motioned for Imoen to stay behind her for the moment. It definitely seemed stable. Maybe she was overly paranoid. She motioned once again with her head, and went forward at a more normal pace. They crossed in a single-file line, one behind the other. They were only about ten feet from the opposite side when something warm and grayish-white moved in the distance.

Cassandra hesitated only a second before sprinting across the last bit of the span and gesturing for Imoen to follow. The lead wasn’t necessary — the thief-mage dashed after her the moment she realized the change. Left, the gnome had said, and the fork in the path wasn’t too far ahead. The gray-white shapes in the distance paused, and then began moving towards them rapidly. They’d been spotted.

Something whistled past Cassie’s head just as she reached the junction of the paths, and clattered off the stone walls behind her. The noises were higher-pitched than expected; something smaller than an arrow, perhaps a bolt or a stone. Either way, the creatures coming toward them were armed and hostile.

She grabbed Imoen by the shoulder and pushed her up against the wall of the split, safely on the other side of the fork’s dividing line. “Get out the pouch,” she whispered, and the girl nodded and began to rustle through her pockets to retrieve it. Running would do them no good if they were fried by magical wards. Hopefully Adalon’s wards were strong enough to stop the attackers – and that the woman didn’t mind having them led to her house.

Cassie quickly looked around the corner, up the other side of the fork. Four humanoid figures were coming down the tunnel at a run; dark patches decorated their bodies where clothing masked the heat. The blue-eyed woman hissed under her breath and glanced back at her sister. She had the pouch out, and was fumbling to get it open and pull out the contents inside.

She grabbed Imoen’s hand and pulled her into a run again. The fork continued straight for several hundred feet, but if they could keep a lead then their odds would be better. Ranged missiles could still cross the distance easily enough, but the further the shot, the worse the chance of hitting.

Another projectile whizzed by a few seconds later as their pursuers rounded the bend and started up the left branch of the fork. The tunnel curved sharply to the left once more, and the two humans took it without slowing. They skidded to a stop in front of a yawning black void that seemingly manifested out of nowhere, and which swallowed the rest of the passage in darkness. It couldn’t have been a cave entrance or natural passage in the stone; the infravision didn’t penetrate it, and the surrounding rocks, which should have been visible, were nowhere to be found. From all visible signs, the tunnel just simply ceased to exist.

Imoen took advantage of the pause to finish retrieving the contents of the svirfneblin’s pouch. As she withdraw the small gem within, the entire area was lit up in a bright yellow-white light, easily as strong as the mage’s light spells — and easily enough to make them a large, glowing target for the people behind them. But it did force back the strange blackness in front of them, which seemed to shrink away from the glow like a living beast and flowed to the outer edges of the illumination. A passageway became visible which angled down into the floor at a steep but manageable grade.

Terrific. Stand and be shot, or run into gods-only-know where. Mysterious passages were quickly climbing Cassandra’s list of least-favorite things.

She drew her sword and risked another look around the corner to their attackers. The pursuit appeared to have stalled; they lingered half-way down the passage but seemed reluctant to come closer. Perhaps they were familiar with the magical wards. Cassie nodded to Imoen. “Go. Be careful.”

The darker-haired girl nodded back and headed into the tunnel, with Cassandra only a few steps behind. The darkness shrank in again as soon as the light-gem’s glow completely entered its grasp, and quickly cut off any access to the exit. They were encased in a bubble of light, unable to see anything but the twenty-odd radius around them.

The floor evened out after about sixty feet and became horizontal again. Another ten feet and the darkness lifted. Imoen stopped with an audible gasp.

They were in a cavern – one truly enormous in size. It was lit with an ambient silver light that had no visible source. The ceiling arched over them in a smooth, polished span, easily over two hundred feet high, and the walls curved in a roughly circular shape for three times that length in each direction. A small village could have lived here with space to spare. The stone was worked with skill and artistry, decorated with embedded gems of various colors, which glinted softly and changed hues as the two women’s gazes wandered across the room. A deep, crystal blue lake filled part of the cavern, and a collection of gold and silver artifacts completely filled one of the cave’s many alcoves. Even more impressive was the occupant.

The dragon’s massive silver-grey wings unfurled and the snake-like neck lowered, bringing the creature’s smoothly scaled face down to their level. Green reptilian eyes, each one as large Cassandra’s head, regarded them unblinkingly.

Cassie swallowed hard. “We’re…ah…we need to talk to—“

She fell abruptly silent as a long serpentine tongue snaked out and tasted the air in front of her. The mouth opened, revealing ten-inch long serrated teeth, and a low rumble vibrated the entire chamber.

Imoen squeaked in surprise. “Lady Adalon?”

“SILENCE!” The shout shook the walls and made both women reflexively clasp their hands over their ears. “You will speak when spoken to, human,” the dragon growled.

Imoen shot her sister a panicked look. “Cassie!” she whispered.

Cassandra could do nothing more than discreetly shake her head. Retreat wasn’t an option, and she doubted they could out-fight a dragon even with the Bhaal essence inside her. There was no easy way out of this one.

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 7 - "Dreams About You"

“Cassandra of Bhaal,” the dragon rumbled slowly, drawing out the sibilant 'ss' into a hiss. “And Imoen of Candlekeep. I have watched your progress with great interest.”

So, my reputation precedes me. Cassie felt her lips twitch in amusement, despite the gravity of the situation. “I must be grand indeed, to have attracted the attention of a dragon.”

“Silence!” it roared, spreading its wings until the tips brushed each side of the cavern. “I will tell you when you may speak!”

Imoen shot Cassandra a murderous look, then bowed her head and did a low curtsy. “Our apologies. You honor us, Lady.”

“I’m sure I do, but flattery is not why I have allowed you to come here. You are here to serve a purpose.”

“Of course,” Cassandra grumbled, but the warrior’s snide mutter was too soft to carry to the beast’s great ears.

“The two you seek,” Adalon explained, “this Bodhi and Jon Irenicus – I believe they have made a deal with the drow in Ust Natha for their own safe passage... and a way to tip the scales against the elves of the world above. Irenicus bargained with my most prized possession. He violated my lair and stole from me. They have taken my eggs.”

Imoen’s soft gasp of shock brought Cassie’s inquisitive eyes to her. The look of sympathy on the girl’s face was genuine. The fighter frowned. If Firkraag and Adalon were the standard of draconic politeness, this sounded less like a crime and more like Irenicus doing the world a favor. On the other hand, Imoen knew a lot more about dragons than she did, and wouldn't react that way for nothing. Maybe it was better to let her take the lead.

“I have been informed that to move from my lair is to cause the destruction of my eggs,” said Adalon. “It is the final straw in a long list of atrocities I have been witness to. You must retrieve them for me. Do this, and I will reveal a safe escape route to leave the Underdark, one that emerges close to where Irenicus plots his next move.”

That, at least, was a worthwhile offer. The redhead nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“If Irenicus delivered the eggs to the drow,” Imoen said thoughtfully, lips pursed in concentration, “how would we get them back? We can’t just walk into the city unnoticed, Lady.” She cut off Cassie’s response just as the older sister opened her mouth. “And an open attack would be a total disaster.”

The large reptilian head nodded slowly. “I do not ask you to assault the city, rather to enter it with subtlety. You will take the identity of a group of drow I dispatched recently, a party from another city destined for Ust Natha. I will transform you, and you will be able to pass among the Drow with ease. They will not see through the fiction I create. When you arrive at the gate, tell them you are from the city of Ched Nasad, and that you seek sanctuary within Ust Natha.”

Now both women were frowning. “What if they cancel the spell?” Cassandra asked.

“And even if we look like drow, we sure don’t act like them.”

“My magic is flawless,” Adalon snapped. “And improvise on your behavior. They are in the turmoil of war at the moment and will overlook much. You will not be discovered by any other means than your own mistakes, so be careful not to make any.”

“Well that’s reassuring.”

The head drifted down, coming within a few feet of Cassandra’s own, and a low rumbling growl filled the cavern. “This is your only offer, human. Fail and it will be the death of you.”

Cassie swallowed her retort and simply nodded. This wasn’t the day to make another enemy.

After eyeing the fighter for several seconds, the creature seemed satisfied with the silence. The head lifted again, high up on the serpentine neck, and now regarded them both with intelligent eyes.

“It’s unusual for two unHoused females to travel alone. It would serve the disguise better if one of you would play the part of the slave.”

“Cassie will!”

“I will not—“

“It is done. You now resemble the denizens of the Drow city, complete with a house insignia that will not draw undue attention. I suggest you act like Drow when speaking to anyone you meet.”

Imoen was gone. In her place stood a svelte, ebony-skinned elf with stark white hair and dark red lips. Adalon’s spell had gifted her with a more typically drowish physique: a few inches’ added height; a fuller, more voluptuous figure; and a more angular elven face. Imoen clasped her hands together over her mouth and stared at Cassandra in wide-eyed shock. Her distinctive, girlish giggle was an ill fit to her new dark elven countance. “Oh. My. God.”

“You will be able to speak the Drow tongue as if you were born to it,” the dragon was explaining. “And you answer to new names as well.” It nodded its head towards Imoen. “Inolin will be yours. It is a fair match for your surface name. And Veldrin is a common enough name for a man.”

Cassie was busy studying her hands. They looked the same, except for the color. Her skin was jet black now, and a quick tug at her bangs revealed white shot through with strands of cream and silver. Did she really look like a drow? Was she taller? Her fingers went to her ears and found rounded, elevated points where human ears had none. Then her mind suddenly registered the dragon’s speech.

“What? Wait—for a man?” she demanded, furrowing her brows in confusion. “Why do I get a male name?” Suddenly her own eyes widened as she registered a change in her voice. It sounded deeper now, even to her own ears.

Oh, shit. She looked down reflexively, hands coming up, and both saw and felt the flat and muscled surface of her chest, lacking its former feminine adornment. She bit her lip and felt adrenaline start to rise as her hand now automatically went between her thighs. Surely—

There was a bulge. A very masculine bulge. Cassandra’s hand jerked away as if it’d touched fire.

“WHAT THE HELL?”

Imoen’s giggle grew even louder. Her cheeks were bunched so big from her grin that they looked like small round apples. Her shoulders shook from the force, and at Cassandra’s startled exclamation the giggles exploded into all-out laughter. Her merriment echoed through the chamber, and Cassandra’s scowl did nothing to abate it.

She whirled on the dragon. “Change me back!”

“No, no, don’t! This is great!”

“Shut up!”

Adalon’s booming voice cut the squabble short. “Argue elsewhere,” she snarled, again sending a rush of cool hair swirling through the cavern at the irate motion of her wings. “I have provided the means – now you had best provide the results. Get out.”

The dismissal was final. Cassandra stalked out of the cave with a scowl worthy of Talos himself. Imoen’s peels of laughter followed her all the way through the darkness. They emerged from the lair, now cloaked in their drow disguises, into the stale air of the Underdark caverns.

“Omigod. I think my breasts are bigger!”

Cassie reflexively looked over at the sound of her sister’s voice, and found the unusual site of a drow woman peering down her tunic at an admittedly fuller-than-normal bosom.

“At least you have breasts,” she grumbled.

“Haha yeah!” Imoen shot her the world’s biggest grin. “Y’know I always wanted a big brother.”

“Oh shut up.”

“Oh, don’t be sore about it,” Imoen consoled, patting her new ‘brother’ on the shoulder. “Look at the bright side: now you can pee standing up!”

“Dammit, Imoen–”

“Uh-uh-uh,” she tsk’d, shaking her head. “Inolin. Gotta use our new names.”

“Whatever.”

“Aw, c’mon. Be a sport about it.”

‘Veldrin’ glared at her and continued walking without response. Her—his, Imoen corrected mentally—physique hadn’t changed much, other than the obvious. He’d always been fairly muscular as a woman, but now the more feminine curves and softness were gone, bringing the muscles into much better view. Same height, though, about the same build. Her- his hair was a bit shorter, still with the beautiful, almost metallic shading, only now it was cream and strands of silver instead of red and strands of gold. She’d been too busy teasing to see how the enchantment had changed Veldrin’s face.

Heh. The grin was back, twice as big, as Inolin fell instead step behind her new brother. Cassie had a penis. This was going to be sport for years.

“Hey, and you’re my slave now, right?” she quipped. “Males being the inferior sex and all?”

“I am not male.”

“Your dingle says otherwise.”

Veldrin’s low growl of annoyance was audible even from ten steps away. “I can’t believe you volunteered me for this shit.”

Inolin shrugged, still smiling. “Didn’t know she was gonna slap an outie on you. But I kinda like the idea of you as my personal servant, don’t you?”

“No!”

The grin widened mischievously. “Better get used to it, bro.”

“Dammit, Im, I’m a man!”

The mage laughed and skipped ahead gleefully, closing the distance between them until she could lace her arm with Veldrin’s. “You make a cute boy,” she winked.

“You are never getting cookies again. Ever.”

Grey eyes widened in mock-horror. “That’s mean!”

“You don’t need any more sweets.” Veldrin’s eyes, still blue, looked over at his friend with a small smirk on his dark lips. “Being Drow put twenty pounds on you, easy.”

Inolin’s mouth dropped into a surprised ‘O’, her look of horror now genuine as she stopped and looked down at her new form. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

He shrugged nonchalantly and kept walking. “If the pants fit. Or don’t.”

Her bosom was noticeably fuller now... and she did have a bit more curve. But that was a nice thing! And just ‘cause a few parts of her body had filled out didn’t mean that the rest of it had.

“I am not fat!” A blush of heat flushed her cheeks as she quickened her pace to walk with him once more. “I’m just voluptuous.”

“Whatever.”

“It’s true!” She scowled at him. “Hey, I’m the woman here; you can’t disagree with me.”

The warrior snorted his dissent. “Like Hell I can’t.”

The scowl turned into a pout, and the dark-skinned woman grumbled. “She gave you a man’s pig-headed brain, too.”

Cassie’s lips twitched in amusement.

They rounded the fork in the path, this time taking the right-handed branch towards Ust Natha. It was easier to see now, with their new drowish eyes. Things glowed in a soft kaleidoscope of blues, greens, purples, and dull yellows. At first Veldrin had thought they were auras, similar to what he’d seen in the svirfneblin village. These were different, though: softer, and without the same mental ‘taste’ of the others. His eyes instinctively transformed these new glows into knowledge of heat, moisture, and magical ambience. Inolin’s soft musing and frequent pauses to more closely examine some of the more vibrant glows, confirmed that she saw them as well.

“Amazing,” she breathed, reaching out to gingerly touch a purple-and-pink streaked rock. “Beautiful, too. If you have the eyes to see it, at least.”

“Yeah. More colorful than before.”

Inolin rolled her eyes, smiling slightly. Such poetry. ‘Course, it was more colorful, but there were nicer ways to put it than that. She wondered if there was a pattern to the hues. The spectrum of heat radiation was easy enough to see, from her experience with various magical effects that modified eyesight. The other tints were more mysterious. There were radiation ‘hot spots’ in the Underdark, from the tomes she’d read, but these were soft, ever-present lights, not random blasts of colors around a focal point.

The pastel and neon glows ceased abruptly as the ground fell away some fifty yards ahead, and a large chasm split the path in twain. A wide, stone-wrought bridge arc’d seamlessly out of the rough rock of the path into a smooth and polished span to the other side. It had obviously been crafted with either great skill or great magic, if not both; the railings were carved into thin spider-web motifs, incredibly realistic, and astonishing in the fine grace which had been coaxed out from the stone.

Veldrin’s booted foot touched the stone of the bridge, and a shout split the silence of the air.

Two drow males rushed out of the darkness, both aiming for Inolin. The sorceress had instinctively triggered her stoneskins and was already extending her hand towards the first of the attackers, aiming her assault. Veldrin’s steel hissed as it escaped its sheath, but a sudden tingle of warning made him turn back towards the bridge. A third male, armed with a short spear strapped across his back and a crossbow in his hands, hovered in mid-air a few feet away from the ledge. A click, a whistle of air as Veldrin instinctively jerked out of the line of strike, and something small and hard ping’d off the rock face behind him.

The figures that had chased them into Adalon’s lair — they’d laid an ambush, and their quarry had stumbled into it.

Veldrin crouched down, shaking the pale bangs out of his eyes, and quickly realized there was nothing to be done about the third male. He was out of range of melee, floating as he was, and he couldn’t fight what he couldn’t reach. Inolin could handle that one, once the other two were dealt with.

One finger extended, and the dark sorceress spoke a single word that carried the force and authority of arcane mastery. The weave lashed outwards, shimmering and rippling faintly through open air, and struck the first male head on. It swirled around him and constricted like a python surrounding its prey. For a moment he was stunned, held in place by the enchantment, but the strands of energy seemed to slip and falter as they sought to tighten further. Jaw clenched and red eyes livid with anger, the drow somehow managed to move despite the bonds. They fought and struggled, man against magic, and though he moved as though through thick water, nonetheless he moved.

The second male grabbed her from behind and for a split second she panicked as a long length of glimmering steel slid across her throat. The pain didn’t come, nor the splash of blood bright into the cool air. Inolin quietly and quickly breathed thanks to Mystra, and then threw her elbow back into her attacker’s gut. His breath huffed out in surprise; this was one wizard who wasn’t afraid of some hands-on work.

A quick, dark form darted forward, colliding full force with him. Cassie – Veldrin, dammit, Veldrin — used his momentum to slam the drow into the cavern wall, knocking loose what breath was left. He held the male there with his forearm levered powerfully and firmly across the man’s neck. The latter gasped for air and fumbled for the weapons at his belt, but the silver-haired warrior snarled and crushed his throat with increasing weight.

Inolin registered the fight out of the periphery of her vision, as her attention went back to the first attacker. He was still semi-enspelled, still moving as if through molasses. It made him an easy enough target. She traced a necromantic rune against the air, watching it pulse with dull red energy as it gathered strength. Whatever had spared him from the first enchantment did him no good on the second. His eyes rolled back in his head and his now-lifeless body drifted to the floor in the same strange slow-motion.

Something flashed by above her, and the woman instinctively ducked down before it took her head with it. A humanoid body encased in dark purple armor flew past with a scream of shock and fear, and disappeared into the depths of the chasm. The terrified echoes rebounded for several seconds more as Inolin automatically cast her gaze around for the next combatant.

Veldrin was looking as well, but the third male who had been hovering over the canyon, was missing. A quick survey of the surroundings betrayed no notion of his presence; either he was gone, or very well hidden. Veldrin frowned and approached the lip of the chasm warily. Inolin was right behind him.

“Think that was it,” she said with a hopeful tone, after a minute of cautious silence.

“Yeah.” The warrior looked over the edge, where the second male’s body had disappeared, and sighed. “Dammit. I wanted to kill him.”

“Kinda bettin’ you did,” his sister responded, making a soft whistling noise as she pantomimed something falling through the air. “Long fall, quick stop.”

“Mmm. Maybe.” He frowned slightly. He’d been hoping for something more bloody.

Inolin turned away from the void and knelt down next to the drow she’d killed, her thief’s instincts kicking into play. “Let’s see what goodies he’s got.”

The older sibling grumbled once more in disappointment before turning his attention as well. “Armor,” he said instantly. “They were all wearing it. Should fit, if we’re drow now.”

“Yup yup.” Nimble fingers were already unfastening belts, straps, and pouches. “Some sorta scale-mail, looks like.” She laid aside a longsword, a small hand crossbow, and a clutch of darts. “Weapons, naturally. Anything interesting on this guy?”

Another few minutes of rustling pockets and discarding belongings, and she sat back with a beaming smile of triumph. In her hands she held a ring, a small amulet on a silver chain, and a bottle of black liquid.

“Ring of Magic Resistance,” she grinned, slipping it onto her left hand. “Don’t mind if I do. Teach him to avoid Power Word: Stun. Dunno what the black stuff is, I’ll take a look at it later. This thing—,“ she jingled the necklace “—might be magic, dunno. Looks promising.”

Magic was nice, but Veldrin was more interested in the armor. The metal was something she’d never seen before, a dark, deep purple hue with lighter accents that swirled like oil or Damascus in the scales. The metal plates themselves were rectangular and sewn firmly and in tight overlap onto the leather backing. Good quality construction, and much better protection than what he was wearing now.

While Inolin finished searching the body, he pulled the scales on over the set of clothes already worn. They didn’t have time to strip the body completely, woolen underpad and all, but the simple tunic and breeches would keep the armor from chafing. And they could hopefully take some downtime to fine tune things, once they got into Ust Natha.

The longsword the male had been carrying caught the fighter’s trained eye. He arched one pale eyebrow and lifted it by the hilt. The size and weight was about as expected, but the design of the drow’s blade was something he’d never encountered. Set at staggered, almost random spaces along the flat of the blade were backward-curving spines, each an inch or two in length. There must have been about a dozen in all. For a moment he furrowed his forehead in confusion; then suddenly the mental image appeared of the blade thrusting into flesh, being withdrawn, and the spines dragging out shredded loops of guts and gore.

Ah ha.

He grinned and retrieved the drow’s odd sheath as well.

“I could have sworn I saw another one,” Inolin was saying, brushing herself off and standing up again.

Veldrin nodded as he belted on the new equipment. He fastened the new sword across his back, leaving the old in its place on his left hip. “There was. Gone, though.”

“Great. Off to get reinforcements, y’think?”

“No.” He frowned, pausing, and thought back to the fight. “They—“ The frown deepened. “They didn’t have the right colors.”

One snow-white eyebrow arched up. “The auras?”

“Yes.” But how did that equate to motive? Veldrin’s dark lips pursed in thought as he replayed the thoughts and sensations once more through his mind. “I don’t know. They were purplish, like the armor. And yellow, right before they died.”

“Yellow being death? No, no, you said that the svirfneblin were yellow, and me too, at one point.”

“Yeah...” Death didn’t feel right. Afraid of dying? A sudden click, and rightness inside the coldness, told him he was right. Fear. The yellow glow was fear. The svirfneblin had been afraid of them. And Imoen....?

So what was the black he’d seen streaked through Imoen’s yellow? And what was this new purple hue?

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly, still considering the words. “Yellow... I think is fear.” Purple felt more... prideful, somehow. Desirous, but not lustful. Kingly?

Had Imoen been afraid of her?

“Purple I’m not sure,” Cassie finished, still frowning. “It just doesn’t seem aggressive enough. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“Mmm... well, hope you’re right.”

“I am. I think.”

It took them only another few minutes to make sure Veldrin’s newly harvested armor was securely in place, and for Inolin to tuck her new belonings into various pouches for later examination. The two continued to walk, keeping a sharp eye out just in case, up the path towards Ust Natha.

Inolin bit her lip as they traveled. Cassie’s auras weren’t going away. And there wasn’t any spell effect that she could think of that would detect fear. Remove fear, yup. Cause fear, yup. Something tingled at the back of her head. Wasn’t there a spell that would reveal general states of mind? Not telepathy, but maybe something like detect emotions? She couldn’t remember.

The word brought its own flash of memory as Cassie’s tattoo lit up her mind.

“Hey Cass—Veldrin. That tattoo you got. What’s it mean?”

His head reflexively turned as he tried unsuccessfully to look at the tattoo himself. “Mm?” He hesitated. Imoen could read Elvish easily enough... “It’s just... a reminder, I guess. Of what all has happened.”

“Anything specific?”

“No.”

“Cassie.” Imoen’s words were soft. “Don’t lie to me.”

He slowed his step, and cast his glance over to the woman behind him. Changed as she was now, she was still Imoen, no matter how black her skin. The grey eyes that looked back regarded him with a mixture of expectation and disappointment: disappointment that Cassie would lie.

Veldrin averted his eyes. Why was he trying to protect her, anyways? There was nothing he could say, nothing he could tell her, that would be worse than what she’d been through already. It was far too late to be the knight in shining armor.

“Jaheira,” he admitted. “And some others.”

Silence, then a question. “Is she dead?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

He turned away again. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Can’t you tell me?”

“It’s in the diary.”

“I’d rather hear it from you.”

“Well I don’t want to talk about it,” he responded, with more resentment than he’d intended, and instantly regretted it. It wasn’t Imoen's fault.

Cassie sighed. “Hey, c’mere,” she/he said, motioning her closer with a small motion of his head. When she approached warily, Veldrin slipped his arm around her waist and pressed his lips to the top of her head. The sisterly gesture felt more awkward as a man.

“Ask me about something else,” he compromised as they started walking again. “It’s not something I like to think about.”

“I dunno what you like and what you don’t,” Inolin answered defensively. “How am I supposed to know what’s okay and what’s not?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“You mean you’ll get all hostile over it.”

“I’ll try not to. Promise.”

The girl eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then held up one hand, the littlest finger extended. “Pinky swear?”

He did likewise, curling his finger around hers and giving it a tug for good measure. “Pinky swear.”

“Fine.” She snuggled up to him for a moment, a reflex, before abruptly breaking away. “Umm.. actually, I don’t think drow get all buddy-buddy.” A sigh. “Stupid drow. Stupid staying in character.”

Veldrin’s lips tilted in a half-smile, and he shrugged. “Temporary.”

“It better be; black-and-white is totally not my color.” She made an expression of playful distaste, but her features instantly became serious again. “The dreams. Tell me about your dreams.”

“Which ones?”

“In your diary. I read some more last night, about Jahiera leaving.” Cassie’s expression tightened, but Imoen pushed the subject. “Do you still have nightmares?”

“No.”

“Cassie, you pinky-swore!”

“I don’t have nightmares now. They’re over.”

Her eyebrow quirked up skeptically. “Really?”

A short nod. Imoen’s expression didn’t change.

“Tell me about them.”

“They’re over. It doesn’t matter.”

“Like Hell it doesn’t,” Imoen responded, with more fire in her voice than he’d expected. “Those dreams tortured you—“ She ignored his snort of disagreement at her use of the word. “Emotionally, at least. The things you wrote in that diary, they shook you, they scared you, maybe even scarred you. And I know you don’t wanna tell me about it ‘cause I’m the little sister and you want to protect me, but dammit, Cass, I’m an adult now.”

She stopped him with her hands around his elbow, and forced the dark warrior to turn and face her. Her face was serious, and her eyes caught his with a determination and strength that gave weight to her words.

“Being strong all the time is gonna kill you, Cass. Let me be strong for you.”

Cassie fell silent. Those dreams... the dreams that had woken her up in a sweat sometimes, both of pleasure and of despair. Nightmares and memories of blood flowing like rivers all around her; the flayed and decomposing corpses of former friends, beckoning to her, promising her.... And they weren’t gone, not entirely; they never would be. You could never forget something like that.

But Imoen was an adult, and had been through things just as horrific. And these fantasies, these bright moments in a sea of pain... wouldn’t these be understood? The desire to feel love’s embrace when death was your constant companion – it was normal enough. The drow brows furrowed again, this time in confusion. It felt almost non-chalant now. Had the knowledge of Imoen’s torture really cast things in such a different light? The shame, the sickness of what had transpired in those nighttime reveries – it seemed childish. Blown out of proportion.

Inolin waited quietly, and it was several minutes more before Veldrin spoke again.

“They started about our childhood,” he started, voice thoughtful, almost dubious, as if he didn’t believe his own words. “Hanging around Candlekeep.... there was this goblin, inside the walls somehow, and it attacked you. Got you in the stomach with something, maybe a dagger. I whacked it over the head with a rock and killed it, then I had to carry you over to the healer. Then you appeared, the real you, the adult you. You asked me if I’d still protect you,” he said, the words taking on a tone of sadness. “If I’d still be there for you. Why I hadn’t come.”

“Come?”

“To Spellhold.”

“Oh.” She pursed her lips, then drew the corner of the lower between her teeth. Now wasn’t the time to admit that her dream-self’s accusatory questions had been real enough in her own mind. “What else?”

“There were others. You were in all of them. Things from our youth, and then always you coming to me, asking me why I hadn’t come.”

Veldrin began explaining them in detail: the summer swim at Graven’s Lake, the campout at Old Sisters’ Hills. Still, some details were harder than others, and it was only when Imoen’s eyebrow crept up and her sparkling eyes regarded him in expectation, after he’d long finished speaking, that he finally gave forth what he’d held back.

“We kissed. You asked me why I hadn’t saved you, if I’d forgotten my care for you... and then you hugged me, put your arms around me, and kissed me.” The memory of it, the intensity of it, made him thankful for his dark skin. “I could still feel it when I woke up.”

“Kissed.” The eyebrow edged higher, now nearly hidden in her hairline. “Like sisters.”

“No.”

“Like...? More?”

He nodded. He kept is face as still and blank as he possibly could to mask the roiling turmoil building in his stomach. Such things weren’t spoken about, weren’t done – dreams or not.

Imoen tilted her head, causing the pale strands of her hair to scatter across her shoulder. “And.... that’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Just a kiss?”

“Two or three. But yes.” This time it was his eyebrow that edged up. This wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. Imoen having a silent, thoughtful reaction to anything was unusual.

She shrugged. “Well, it’s weird, but understandable. People have weird dreams sometimes, eh? I bet you were just freakin’ out over missing me.”

He frowned slightly. “Don’t you find that a little... disturbing?”

“Heh. After some of my dreams, Hell no.”

“What did you dream?”

“Huh? Er—,“ Imoen actually stopped walking for a second, eyes widening in surprise, but she recovered quickly and brushed it off with her typical light tone. “Nothing, just you know – dreams are weird sometimes. All sorts of crazy things, especially when you’re already a little coo-coo.”

“Like what?”

“Y’know, like that time you dreamt that every book in Candlekeep grew legs and started chasing you?”

“No, no — I mean, like what did you dream?”

Her lips pursed in a small circle. “Nothing, I told ya. Just stuff.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, c’mon, Ca—Veldrin. Dammit. Never going to get used to that. Anyways, can’t you pester me about it when we’re not wandering around the Underdark and there’s a freakin’ city of Drow nearby?”

“That didn’t stop you about pestering me about mine.”

“Psht. Double standards are the mistress’s prerogative,” the mage returned with a smirk. “And you, bro, are my lowly male slave. Oh!” The playful glint reappeared in her eyes, and Imoen’s lips spread into an impish grin. “We’ll have to get you one of those little thong things that just cover your twig-and-berries, and you can follow me around on a chain.”

“Don’t get too ambitious, Im,” he warned with a meaningful look. “Slaves have a tendency to rebel.”

“Not my slaves.”

“Wanna make a bet?”

“Hey, I’m like the best mistress ever!”

“Ever, huh?”

Inolin grinned. “Totally! I’ll get you a cute little diamond-studded collar and a big pink cushion to sleep on, and you’ll be my very own pet drow. Always wanted one of those.”

“And let me guess: I get the honor of obeying your every whim.”

“Of course. You want to keep your mistress happy, dontcha? We sophisticated ladies need a lot of attention.”

Veldrin stopped and made a low, extravagant bow. “Yes, mistress.”

Her grey eyes widened with a laugh of delight. She reached over and patted the top of his head. “Good boy—HEY!” The laugh became a squeal of protest as her brother hefted her over his shoulder like a bag of grain and started walking again. “You goober! Put me down!”

He shook his head, smiling faintly. “Nope.”

“That’s a direct order from your mistress!”

“Sorry, milady, but I have to locate a suitable carpet first. Couldn’t have your high and mighty feet touching the ground like those of us slaves.”

“Ooooh!” She growled and slapped her hands against his shoulders, trying to wiggle free. “Meanie! This was my game!”

His grin widened. “And now it’s mine.”

“Fine!” Inolin crossed her arms and resigned herself with a pout to the jostling as Veldrin carried her across the floor of the cavern. Sooner or later he’d get tired of carrying her, and then she was totally going to get him back for this. “Stupid boy.”

“And whose fault is that?”

The sulky silence in response made him chuckle.

Imoen’s self-imposed pout lasted nearly a full five minutes before the monotonous rise and fall of the scenery behind Veldrin’s back got to her. With his stupid Bhaalspawn strength, he could probably – and would probably – carry her the entire way to Ust Natha.

“C’mon,” she whined. “Let me down.”

“What do I get if I do?”

“A cookie?”

He shook his head, making the silver-shot length tickle over her hips. “You don’t have any cookies.”

“I’ll get you one when we get into Ust Natha!”

“I doubt the drow have a booming business in snickerdoodles.”

“Pfft.” She grumbled. “What do you want then, creep?”

“A footrub.”

“No! I’m the mistress here, and you never paid me back for the last two I gave you!”

“Footrub. Going once–”

“You have the nastiest feet in all of Faerûn!!”

“Going twice—“

“Oh c’mon, pretty please? Pleeeeeeease!”

“Actually—“

Imoen’s heart jumped up at Veldrin’s reconsiderative tone. “As long as it’s not a footrub!”

“You were saying about those dreams?”

The heart missed the landing, stumbled, and fell on its face. “I changed the subject like ten minutes ago!”

He nodded, and his answer was almost annoyingly cheerful. “Yup.”

“You suck.”

“Dreams?” he prompted again.

“Is the option for a footrub still open?” she grumbled.

“Not since you’re being so difficult about it, no. I mean, come on, your dreams couldn’t possibly be any weirder than mine.”

“Wanna make a bet?” But the muttered response was too quiet for him to hear.

“And besides,” he continued, “do you really want to be carried around like a burlap sack for the next three days?”

“Fine, fine, whatever. Just put me down.”

“You’ll tell?”

“Yeah, you dork, I’ll tell.” Fortunately her crossed fingers were safely out of view.

The scale-clad warrior halted, and returned her to her feet with graceful ease. The thief-mage’s annoyed gaze studied him for a moment while he simply smiled back, then she hmph’d and returned to his side.

“Okay, first rule of being my slave is that you do not ruin my teasing.”

He laughed. “I don’t think you’ll be teasing me once we’re in Ust Natha.”

“No,” she admitted, “but still!” One slim finger poked him in the shoulder. “I’m the imp extraordinaire here, not you.”

A smile. “Yes, mistress. Now stop trying to change the subject again.”

“Gah! You are impossible.”

“Dreams.”

“You are, you know that.”

“Imoen.”

“Okay, okay!” She blew a rebellious strand of hair of her eyes. “Lemme think for a second.” A ‘second’ ended up being about two minutes before she finally settled on a suitable narrative.

“I guess—well, it’s just that, y’know, spending time with Irenicus, in the cells...” Hrm. That start had sounded a lot smoother in her head. She tried again. “It wasn’t too pleasant, as you can imagine, so... I’d daydream. I mean, at first it was just to kill time more than anything, ‘cause it got incredibly boring being locked in a room for twenty hours a day, especially when the other Spellhold inmates disappeared. So I’d remember back to Candlekeep, kinda like you did, and think of all the fun stuff we’d do, and like I’d think of Baldur’s Gate after we killed Sarevok, and we were hanging out and relaxing.”

Veldrin nodded but stayed quiet, just letting her talk.

“After a while I started making up stories about what we’d do when you finally rescued me. Like...” she paused, selecting one of the many scenarios out of her memory. “Like there was this one where we went down Nashkel to that little fair they had down there, remember? And we’d watch the shows and you’d buy me some sweetbuns, and I’d volunteer you for the clowns.”

She grinned at that, the mental image of Cassandra being dragged into a jester’s act over her loud and repeated protests. Cassie’d hated clowns ever since a particularly horrible birthday party back in Candlekeep.

“So yeah, that’s about it,” she finished with a shrug and a smile. “Dreams. Ta-da!”

Veldrin tilted his head curiously. “I thought you said they were weird. Weirder than mine, even.”

“Well...uh... not those ones.”

“What were the weird ones, then?”

“Hey, isn’t that Ust Natha up ahead?”

He rolled his eyes skywards. “Imoen!”

“Alright, jeez. And it’s Inolin, remember.” She pursed her lips again. “I don’t really... feel – uh – comfortable, really... with these. Kinda... uh. Personal.”

“And mine weren’t?”

She gave him a scathing glare. “You’re not being very understanding.”

“Just tell me. I’m curious, and you know you can tell me anything.”

“I know I can,” she muttered, “but that doesn’t mean I want to.”

“What’s so bad about them?”

She shrugged defensively. “I... it’s just personal, okay?”

He hugged her close with one arm, and for a second she was tempted to shrug it off. Instead she accepted the embrace, still feeling awkward, and sighed to herself. C’mon, Im.

“It was while I was in Spellhold,” she said softly, reluctantly, “when it got really bad. When they’d put me back in the cell and I’d hurt so much I couldn’t move, and I just wished I would die. My dreams... I guess it was kinda like yours. I just missed you so much, Cass. I wanted so badly that you were there and everything would be okay. So in my dreams... you were. You made things okay.”

The hug tightened in reassurance and understanding. “You dreamt of being rescued.”

She shook her head. “No, just that you were there. Or that we were both somewhere else, I guess. Well, I don’t guess, I know, ‘cause they were my dreams, of course.” Imoen took a deep breath and pressed a little closer. “Those dreams... they started in a verdant forest. They — The dreams, not the forest, that was always the same– were always alike, but never the same...”

He nodded, and stayed silent. She was getting nervous, and any comment would only make it worse.

“I was laying on the floor — well not 'floor', but ground – and my body ached all over... did I tell you about the wounds? Yeah I did. I was laying there, aching on the ground — heh I said it right this time, you see? – and I’d always see a figure emerging from the underbrush.”

“As it approached, I realized it was you.” A small, genuinely happy smile crept onto her lips. “Heh. It’d be pretty stupid of me talking about this if it weren’t you, right? But as I watched you come closer – and you always looked great, by the way, totally fashionable – I felt so relieved that you were there, such an incredible feeling of hope and warmth...”

She sighed, and her tension began to gradually fade as she immersed herself in the memory. “It was so intense. Like more real than anything I’ve ever felt before in my life. And you’d — you’d approach me, and kneel down next to me, and you’d be smiling, and then you took me in your arms and held me really tight, without saying a word. You held me and then I broke down and cried... I cried so much, just let it all out, because you were there and I was safe now... All the pain faded away.”

“I just kept crying in your arms, feeling my sorrow go away as you... you, uh, c-caressed my hair, and face, and– and skin.” The self-conscious stammer was back, and without conscious knowledge, Imoen had drawn herself away from her sibling’s embrace, and now walked close but separate.

“And... ah... then it ended. I woke up in the cell again, and realized you weren’t there, never had been, and I was still just as trapped and tortured as I was before. But I was happier. At least for a while.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Veldrin said quietly.

She glanced over at him, her gaze lingering for a moment as she studied his face. It was still Cassie in there, under the strange colors and more chiseled, angular features. Still the woman of her dreams.

“No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t.”

The hairs across her arms began to prickle, and her eyes were immediately drawn forward again as the familiar tingle of magical energy was identified. The tell-tale shimmering swirl of a dimension door was manifesting before them. Imoen grabbed Veldrin’s hand to stop him from the reflexive drawing of his sword. He looked askance at her, and she shook her head.

“I’m the leader, Veldrin” she whispered.

A single drow male manifested from the vortex of the spell, wearing a dark scarlet and obviously ceremonial fashion of armor, and holding a long, double-tipped polearm that pulsed with faint red energy.

“Halt!” he commanded in a firm and practiced voice. “There are no scheduled patrols this day. Identify yourselves and speak your purpose. Intruders will be killed where they stand.”

Inolin’s dark hand flashed out and collided solidly with the side of Veldrin’s head. He stumbled backwards from the unexpected force of the blow and his hand went immediately to his temple as he stared at his sister in shock.

“Idiot!” she hissed. “Did I not tell you we’d be late due to your incompetence?”

Veldrin’s jaw dropped open in surprise as Inolin then whirled on the newly-materialized male.

“Stand down, worm!” she ordered, betraying no hint of any hesitation or fear. “I am Inolin of Ched Nasad, and you will let me pass.”

The staff was lowered, and the male bowed slightly. “My apologies, mistress, I merely follow my duty in questioning you. You are welcome to pass, Inolin of Ched Nasad. Your arrival has been expected.”

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 8 - "Stepping Stones"

“Chazhecha leureucha ajeli!”

Anomen ducked and raised his shield as a swarm of small, bright-red spheres of energy flew forth from the mage’s hands and zinged towards him like angry bees. They struck home regardless, darting around his shield, looping and twisting through the air to find his most unprotected spots. The armor protected him from the worst, but the impact still knocked him off-balance, and the crackle of arcane energy burnt like fire.

Suddenly Cassandra’s form was in front of him, trying to shield him, but the next wave of magic missiles wove around her, paying no attention, and slammed into the paladin again. He let out a hiss of pain and a less-than-gracious curse word.

“Jaheira!” the redheaded warrior shouted.

“Busy!” the half-elf’s sturdy voice returned from somewhere to Cassandra’s left. The chaos of chanting and shouting and the ringing of metal and war made further exchange impossible. The druid had engaged Baron Ployer the moment his treachery had been revealed and was determined to take down her old rival. Unfortunately that same treachery was giving the slaver a strong advantage. Three mages had teleported into the room, barred the door magically, and begun hurling spells like child’s play. The whole room smelled of sulfur and ash from burning hands, flaming arrows, and gods only knew what else. Smoke was beginning to fill the air from burnt hair and acid-etched armor.

Cassie swung her sword at the yellow-robed wizard before her as he began another incantation. They’d come prepared; her blow connected solidly, but bounced off his protective abjurations. Stoneskins, most likely, from the faint greyish hue of his skin, and a pain in the ass, for sure.

A triumphant shout caused her attention to dart to the side. Anomen’s opponent had fared for the worse, and the noble knight was pulling the spikes of his morningstar out of the ogre’s carcass. It was a summoned beast, the muscle serving the mage, but its death was an important victory. Without his pet, the sorcerer would be a much less formidable foe.

“Dammit! By the horns of—“ The oath was cut short with a sharp gasp of breath, and it seemed that for a moment the entire room went silent. For a moment, just a moment, nothing moved at all.

A deep chill grabbed hold of Cassandra’s heart and squeezed viciously. Suddenly everything was moving half-speed, dreamlike, unnatural, as she spun around, too slowly, Jaheira’s name half-formed on her lips. The woman was still standing; Ployer’s sword jutted from her chest where it had found a fatal flaw in her armor. He was grinning like a cat from ear to ear and watched her, even as Cassie did, as Jaheira sank to the floor.

“Good riddance, bitch,” he whispered.

The world kicked into play again, and suddenly the clang and chaos of melee rang loud and clear once more. The redheaded warrior was on him in an instant, assaulting him with a barrage of enraged blows from her spear that jarred his form with every contact and pressed him to retreat. Ployer kept speed well for his age, meeting when necessary, feinting when not – conserving his strength against the Bhaalspawn’s rage.

“Cut your losses, my dear,” he advised her in his rich, slow voice, breathless as it now was. “I have what I wanted.”

A sharp, violent stab to his gut was parried away. “You killed her!” Another, then a third, each thrust forward with increasing anger. “You killed her!”

“Watch it, whelp,” he snarled, blocking the weapon and trying to move inside her reach where the spear was useless. Cassandra adjusted to match him before he could. “Or I’ll send you to Hell with the Harper.”

She brought the butt of the shaft up hard and fast, using it like a quarterstaff, but again he managed to dodge and counterattack. His hand snuck in next to her wrist, still holding the pommel of the sword, and he hooked the hand-guard over the wooden haft and twisted his whole body at once down and away. One end of the spear was abruptly yanked out of her hand, and in an instant he was within her guard, once again smiling in smug satisfaction. “Too late.”

Cassie’s now-empty hand flashed out with unnatural speed and closed around his throat. The baron grunted in surprise as she dropped her weapon entirely and seized his sword arm as well. A grip, a twist, and he grimaced and groaned as his muscles wrenched in unnatural ways and his sword clattered to the ground. She reached inside herself, down to the thrum of energy that was the hallmark of her heritage, and let her fury shape it. Ployer’s eyes widened as he felt it. He struggled and writhed to free himself, but few could match the strength of a Child of Murder — especially one intent on fulfilling the name.

The tendrils of Taint unfurled and reached into him, hooking their invisible barbs into his life essence, and began pulling it inexorably into the blackness. The Taint fed on it, sucking it in, draining him dry bit by bit. His face blanched and the smugness was wiped away, replaced by a fear so pure it was beautiful. Cassie inhaled, baring her teeth at him in a growl, and coaxed the Taint to its fullest. The hooks dug in deeper, and pulled and sucked at his soul with slobbering, lustful greed. It only took a few seconds before his struggles stopped entirely and she dropped his corpse to the floor.

Yes, she agreed as she retrieved her spear. Too late.

Anomen stretched out his hand, reached towards the ceiling, and his thundered command-word brought down a bolt of fire on one of the mages. The man was less prepared for divine retribution than he was swords and staves, and his screams of agony told of its effectiveness. His hands flailed desperately at his now-flaming robes; parchments and spell components ignited and set off a chain reaction of sparks and explosions as their destruction released their stored energy. The tongues of flame flickered in hues of orange, yellow, blue, and green, and even Anomen was forced to retreat from the unexpected heat. The wizard’s cries grew more and more shrill, and when his flesh began to bubble and roast Cassie finally tore her eyes away.

The gruesome sight had caused a second mage to stutter over his incantation, and the magic fizzled with a small crackle of sound and flash of dim white light. He started a new one immediately as he saw the mistake had caught her attention. His feet carried him backwards in scampering, desperate steps as he tried to stay out of range of the blue-eyed woman and the six feet of wood and steel she wielded. She closed on him quickly, stepping over fallen bodies and splintered furniture, ignoring the smell of charred flesh. The screams had stopped. The spear lanced forward, hard and true, and pierced his abdomen from front to back. Cassie twisted the haft; the ridges of the head caught and tore at the soft entrails and dutifully yanked them free of their host when the spear withdrew. The man’s face stared at her in shocked surprise. He was young, very young – barely older than her – and he seemed to lack the comprehension of what had just happened. He sank to his knees, looking down at his stomach and the thick ropes of bluish-grey intestines that shouldn’t have been there. Then he looked back up at her.

“Sanenneuceu,” he finished in a mumble, and fell to the floor.

The sound of the word continued to echo. Somehow it carried over the chaos of the fight, past the screams and shouts of the combatants, and wrapped itself around his killer’s form. Cassie took a step backwards and shook her head to clear away the ringing in her ears. It didn’t help; the echo grew louder, more insistent, and pressed against her skull with mind-numbing force. She shook her head again, this time more forcefully, but there was no relief. The sound of his voice threaded its way past her senses, into her brain, slithering like a worm past the hands that she now clapped over hear ears. She could hear nothing else now, not even the thunder of her own breath. The volume continued to grow unmercifully until even her vision began to succumb to the force. Blackness ate away at the edges of her perception, quickly closing in towards the center, until finally she was cocooned entirely in just the one, single word.

Suddenly it shattered. As quickly as the numbness had come, it was gone. The caster was still on the ground, staring at her with dead eyes. But the sounds in the room had changed; the shouting and clanging of sword and armor had stopped. Her senses seemed unfogged now, and her mind alert. The fine hair on her arms prickled in unease as she turned to face the battle once more – and found it over.

Three new bodies littered the ground where none had lain a moment earlier. A second ogre, its head obviously reshaped by the fighter-priest’s heavy mace. A smaller creature, probably a type of hobgoblin, whose ribcage had suffered a similar fate. Anomen’s form lay a few feet distant. It was blackened, armor as well as skin, except where the flesh had split to reveal the bright pink layers beneath. The air was thick with the smell of char, and small wisps of smoke still rose from the corpse.

Anomen? She almost said the name, but her lips were so numbed from shock that it found no voice. What spell had the boy-mage cast to do this?

A dozen small arrows of searing pain slammed into her back and pushed her forward from the unexpected impact. She caught herself reflexively by jamming the butt of the spear into the floor and using it as a brace. Then the redhead whirled, weapon up and at the ready. Further pain shot up her leg as her weight shifted, and with a surprised gasp she went to the floor. The pain ignited lingering remnants all over her body, and it forced her to double over from the sheer power of the sensation.

What happened?

Her mind raced to figure it out before her opponent attacked again. These were new pains, new wounds; she felt the exposed fire of a fresh burn across her left shoulder and the lancing agony in her leg suggested fractured or broken bones. Her eyes burned from smoke and heat. Small droplets of blood fell mutely to the wooden floorboards beneath her hands — blood that was probably her own.

The sound of chanting reached her ears. She knew it, knew it instinctively through the confusion that still clouded her mind. Ployer’s mages. She had to get up.

Cassandra levered herself to her feet, her body fueled more by will than muscle. Her leg threatened to give again, and a warm, thick wetness leaked down her calf. It was hard to breathe; her chest struggled and fought her efforts to draw in air. She was wounded and wounded badly. Something had happened inside the mage’s last word.

Let it flow, her mind whispered. Use it — use your strength. The Taint. Her god-born energy that no other mortal had.

She called on it. The chanting still continued, and if she didn’t act now she might not live to get another chance. The warmth rose up, tinged with the chill touch of the dead god inside her, and her muscles became firm once more just as another volley of magic missiles buried themselves into her arms and chest. She staggered but held her feet. Consciousness wavered and threatened to give way into darkness, but the sharp energy inside her held it back. It was a necessary evil that she hated to use – but things were unfinished. Jaheira was dead. Anomen was dead. Imoen was missing.

Her eyes refocused, and the arctic-blue gaze found the yellow-robed mage whom she’d faced earlier. No one else was still standing. His skin was pinkish-white again, healthy if smeared with blood and ash. The stoneskins had expired. He was vulnerable, if she could reach him before he cast again. Taint or no Taint, her body was failing.

She lifted the spear and advanced stubbornly, grimly, towards the retreating mage. He hadn’t started his next incantation, but his hands fumbled nervously near the pouches on his belt. He circled to her left, trying to get further distance – and then broke and bolted for the door.

Cassandra reacted immediately and jutted forth the butt of her spear to block his route. He skidded to a stop, robes fluttering in the wind of his haste, and quickly retreated in the other direction with a panicked spark in his eyes. She narrowed her eyes, partially in determination and partially in confusion. Why wasn’t he casting? What was he waiting for? It was only when he finally retrieved the object from his belt – a small, nearly useless dagger – that she realized the answer. He was out of spells.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he sputtered. “I-I don’t want to – don’t kill me! Please!” The whine was high-pitched from fear. “It was just a job. Just a job! I don’t hate you.”

Her eyes narrowed further, and his face paled as the blood fled in fear.

“I—I’ll give it to you,” he bargained desperately as he inched towards the door again and his knuckled tightened to white on the hilt of his dagger. “My payment, all of it. And Simon’s and Johannes’! All of it!” His retreat was cut short as the redheaded woman angled the spear again. His voice grew more and more frantic. “Anything! Anything just please don’t kill me, please just let me go, please, please!”

The expression on his face, the terror in his eyes, and the tell-tale ammonia scent of the wetness that soaked his robes... suddenly it made Cassie smile.

The smile turned into a chuckle, and the chuckle into full-out laughter. The mage froze in his steps and stared at her in disbelief. She kept laughing, despite the blood on her legs, despite the smell of death, despite the tingle of Bhaal inside her. She kept laughing while the wizard, too, began to smile uneasily. The awkward, confused hopefulness on his face just made it more outrageous. The entire situation, all of the events since they’d come into Athkatla, everything that had transpired since she and Gorion had stepped outside of Candlekeep’s walls – suddenly she was struck by the ridiculousness of it all, the futility, the hopelessness.

The piss-wet mage was chuckling as well, uneasily participating in the warrior’s mirth. His eyes darted nervously from side to side seeking an escape even as he did. He had no clue. He never would.

“I hate you,” she told him from behind her smile. The laughter still shook her, but the merriment of it was gone. Immediately the humor fled from his face as well.

“I hate you.” The smile stayed, but tears welled up in her eyes and the feeling of hopelessness began to take over. She gripped her spear tightly in both hands and let the emotion run where it would. She was too drained to do otherwise. The wetness spilled down her cheeks and the warrior’s chuckles were interspersed with half-choked sobs. The energy of the Taint began to recede and leave her empty and frail. Her body began to shake not from laughter but from despair.

“But I—“

She jammed the spear forward before he could say it. It sank into the softness of his gut and she jerked it violently from side to side to rend and rip as many of his vitals as possible.

“I hate you,” she repeated, not even sure herself whether it was laughter or weeping that made her muscles shake. Another jerk, and she lifted the body completely off the ground, and then with a snarl threw it as hard as she could towards the wall. She felt the wet resistance of tissue against the barbed head as his internal organs gave way and the spear came free of his stomach. He collided with a dull thunk and sank to the floor, unmoving. “I hate you. I hate you!”

She herself sank down, metal armor grating in protest, and dropped to her knees. The spear clattered to the floor, now unattended. She was laughing again, crying again, wishing she could kill him again, kill them all, kill herself. Anything to change what had happened.

“I hate you!” The scream echoed from the empty walls and fell on dead ears. She screamed it over and over again, screamed it at whoever was listening, at the gods themselves. Imoen was gone. Jaheira was dead. Anomen. Gorion. Minsc. Dynaheir. Xan. Countless others she had killed or led to their deaths, one by one or in groups, over and over and over again.

“I hate you! I hate you!” She screamed it until her throat was so raw that coughs racked her lungs and blood flecked the hands that sought to quell it. She screamed it at the curse of fate that brought such things.

“... I hate you...” she whispered, finally empty of rage, empty of sorrow, empty of anything, and sat numbly in the midst of the carnage. Tears trickled down her cheeks and one by one died against the wooden floor. “I hate you.” She closed her eyes and wished she could join the still bodies beside her. “I hate you, Cassie. I hate you.”

Day the Twenty-Eighth, ere Eleint (Day 21)

Jaheira and Anomen are dead. We met a man named Ployer with a grudge against Jaheira. He cast a curse on her via hired mages, and we sought him out to prevent her death. Or that was the plan. We found him, but he was prepared for us. Stupid, stupid, stupid. We walked straight into his trap. Him, his pet mages, fireworks and spells going off all around us. How they died I can't even say. Was it the arc of flame, the lightning strike, the ogre they summoned from thin air?

Jaheira nearly dispatched Ployer before dying, and Anomen and I killed two of the mages before he fell. That left me, and I advanced with the wish to die with my comrades. One more bolt of energy, one more twinge of magic, and I WOULD have died.

But the mage had run out of spells.

I cried and laughed in mingled pain and joy as he tried to run away and I skewered him with my spear, hefting him aloft and throwing his crumpled body against the wall. I cried and laughed and screamed and sobbed that I yet lived. And I sat down. And I stayed there until nightfall, mourning.

During the night I gathered Jaheira and Anomen's belongings and, little by little, returned it to the Copper Coronet. And I let no one carry with me. It was my burden. My guilt. My fault. I sold what was useless to me, but I kept their weapons and their armor. I will need new companions to assist me. New lambs to take to slaughter.

Among the carnage I found a lock of Jaheira's hair tucked inside Ployer's pocket, braided and tied with small ribbon. I kept it.

Gaelen Bayle's house was not a far walk from Ployer's residence. In the early hours of dawn, I beat on his door until he answered, and threw at him sacks of money until his bloody price lay at his feet. "There is your twenty thousand."

Then he gave me a name. Aran Linvail.

“E-e-excuse me...”

Cassandra paused in the process of placing her goods on the store’s counter for purchase. This trip to Barterman’s Adventurers' Mart had been fruitful – a small collection of extremely select, and extremely expensive, items. Linvail had ‘generously’ offered to let her keep five-thousand of the twenty-thousand gold fee in order to pay for needed supplies and for her ‘significant emotional distress.’ Her counter-offer of giving him significant physical distress hadn’t been well received.

She closed her eyes, focused for a moment, breathed in slow and steady. The past week had been a maelstrom of chaos inside her head, and her emotional footing was slipping under the assault. The wild urges to do something, hit someone, scream, cry – anything, really, to provoke a reaction, to cause a scene. Purpose and determination had gotten her nowhere but four carefully-carved gashes across her right thigh, where she’d inscribed a single cut for each of the friends she had lost. Gorion, Khalid, Jaheira, Anomen. Somehow seeing the knife seperate the skin, seeing the blood trickle down... somehow it had calmed her. The tears of grief had stopped. Control had returned, at least momentarily.

Breathe out. She didn’t want to talk. She had work to do, death to meet. But she turned around regardless to face the stammering voice. Long blond hair, wide blue eyes, and the tell-tale pointed ears and angular features of elven blood. The colorful and intricately braided robe she wore struck a memory.

“I—I don’t know if you, ah, r-r-remember me,” the girl said sheepishly, almost physically shrinking away as Cassandra’s sharp blue gaze focused on her. “My n-name is Aerie and I—“

“From the circus.”

Her face brightened. “Yes! You s-s-saved us from Kalah.”

The redhead nodded once. It seemed distant now, although it had only been perhaps two weeks before. “I remember.”

“I just wanted—” Her brows drew together, and the child-like eyes scanned over the rest of the store. “Where is your friend?”

Jaheira. Her name was Jaheira. “She—“ Wait. Cassie’s eyes narrowed slightly as the memory of the circus tent came back more clearly. Hadn’t the girl said she knew some magic? You could use her. “She left.” The answer came out fluidly, the pause barely noticeable. “We’re going to meet up again later.”

“Oh.”

“Is there something I can do for you?”

Aerie shook her head emphatically. “Oh, n-no, I just wanted to tell you h-how grateful everyone at the c-c-circus is. You were great. If there’s ever anything we c-can do—“

“There is, actually.”

“R-r-r-really?” Her eyes widened even further, if that were possible, making her look even younger than she really was. Although, Cassie reminded herself, as an elf that probably still meant a century or two. “Anything! Well, a-almost anything. We don’t have a lot of m-m-money...”

Cassie shook her head. “I have money. I need magic. You mentioned you knew some, right?”

A vigorous nod. “My uncle Quayle t-taught me everything he knows, and he used to be quite the m-m-magician. And Baervar lets me h-heal.”

Heal? “Baervar?”

“My g-g-god.”

Ah, a cleric. That would be useful. Very, very useful. Especially if... “You’re a wizard and a priest?”

“Well, I t-try to be... B-but if you’d rather talk to Uncle Quayle I c-can—“

Cassie shook her head. “No, no, you’ll be perfect.” Aerie’s face lit up again in happiness. She seemed very eager to please. That was perfect, too. “That’s exactly the kind of help I need.”

“Great! What do you need me t-to do?”

The warrior glanced over to Barterman, who had been staying close by to one of his most profitable customers yet far enough away to stay politely out of the conversation. “Keep this for me,” she instructed, patting the pile of equipment she’d assembled on the counter. He nodded in acknowledgement.

Then she turned to Aerie. It seemed a shame to take someone so innocent into all this, but fate didn’t care about innocence. Fate simply pushed forward, blind, deaf, and dumb, oblivious to the people crushed beneath. The girl’s awed, almost adoring expression almost made her wince.

It’s necessary.

“Let’s talk while we get you some gear.”

“You owe me,” Cassandra stated flatly, her palms placed solidly on the top of the table.

“Owe you?” Nalia De’Arnise rose from her chair as well, and also leaned forward over the banquet table, refusing to back down. The four guards that were stationed around the hall went on alert and Cassie saw at least one put his hand on his blade.

“Yes. I—“

“You did next to nothing,” the noblewoman interjected angrily. “Sir Delryn led the expedition, he drove out the trolls, he saved my lands. You let my father die with your procrastination and refusal to do what needed to be done when it needed to be done!”

“I practically showed Anomen how to hold the right end of a sword,” Cassie shot back. “And I recall not once but three times hauling him away from death at the hands of a troll he was far too eager to fight. Jaheira and I cleared out the umber hulks, and we took care of Torgal. Yes, we were too late to save your father, but we did save your lands. And might I remind you it is my reputation that keeps the Roenalls from taking those lands from you now.”

“You’re insufferable,” the noble gritted out, sitting back down in her chair with a huff of breath.

“I’m right.”

Her green eyes flashed over to the warrior, and the fingers which had been tapping out a frustrated tempo on the table top, stopped. The look quite plainly warned her not to press her luck. “So what is it, exactly, that you want?”

Cassandra slowly lowered herself back on the padded chair before answering to avoid seeming too imposing. Honey caught more flies than vinegar. “You. Your help.”

“Against vampires? Absolutely not – I’m no fool.”

She shook her head. “You won’t be fighting them directly; that’s my part. I need your ability to ward me with magic, and your skill with a trap. I’m sure there will be at least a few. I’ve already recruited a cleric who’s waiting for me at Athkatla. If you can protect my body, she can protect my soul – and if necessary, she can heal me. And if necessary, you can teleport us out.”

Red-painted lips pursed thoughtfully. “And you’ll do what you do best, I assume?”

This time a nod. “Swing a sword. A very expensive, very powerful sword.”

“Vampires won’t fall to swords alone.”

“I have wooden stakes and holy water.”

“And if that’s not enough?”

“Then I’ll die trying,” Cassandra answered honestly. “And you and Aerie will get out, go home, and forget about it all. But this is the last thing between me and Spellhold — I have to do it. All I want is a fighting chance to succeed.”

Nalia fell silent, her eyes lingering on the redhead for several seconds before re-directing to the table top. One manicured fingertip traced the lines of grain in the highly polished surface. Cassie let her think.

“I agree,” she said in a soft, firm voice some two minutes later. “I’ll help you. You might be one of the most annoying women I’ve ever met, but your heart is in the right place. There aren't many people who would do what you’ve done, to save a friend.”

Cassie kept her expression neutral.

May the gods forgive them if they have.

“Careful. Careful.”

Cassandra held up one hand, motioning for her companions to keep behind, as she descended the stairs by side-step, her sword held low and ready. Nalia obediently fell quiet, and Aerie’s frail hands sought out the noble’s arm as she pressed nervously closer.

“I-I’ve never been in a c-c-crypt before!” she whispered.

A sharp gesture from the redheaded warrior silenced her as Cassie reached the bottom of the stairs. It smelled old and slightly rancid, a mixture of new and ancient death. It was pitch black beyond the pool of afternoon light which spilled in from the open doors, and utterly silent.

She motioned for the other two women to join her, still keeping her eyes focused on the room before her. They’d chosen to come in the afternoon, trying to balance the necessities of not being caught by cemetery wardens and not facing vampires after darkfall. They had a few hours; hopefully it would be enough. With any luck the monsters were still sleeping.

The pool of light shrank into a tiny sliver and then vanished as Nalia pulled the doors closed once more. Seconds later a glowing orb of light appeared in Aerie’s palm and once more the room was visible. They stayed still until their eyes adjusted to the dimness.

“Nalia. Aerie.”

The De’Arnise heir stepped forward, cloaking herself in stoneskins as she did. The ripple of grey energy leeched the color from her skin and clothing until she resembled a living statue. As a flustered afterthought, Aerie did the same. It was obvious which of them was more used to dangerous situations.

“What do you think?” Cassie whispered to them, lifting her chin towards the back of the crypt’s forechamber and towards the hall that could be vaguely seen extending into the darkness.

“I’m n-n-n—“

“Be careful,” Nalia said. Aerie fell silent with an embarrassed blush. “If they have the spies you say they do, then likely they’ve made preparations. They’d know you were coming, just not when.”

The fighter nodded. “Traps?”

“It’s difficult to judge in this kind of area. The stonework makes it hard to set things up on a whim, but tombs and catacombs like these are famous for being built with grave robbers in mind. I doubt we’ll find anything especially made for us.”

“Anything I should be looking for?”

The brunette shook her head. “I can go first. I know what the signs are. But if I see anything alive – or that used to be – you get the honors.”

Another nod. “Fair enough.”

“W-what should I do?”

“Watch our backs,” Nalia instructed, a half-second before Cassie could say the same. Aerie glanced back reflexively, nervously, towards the doors.

Nalia began to move forward cautiously, with more stealth than the Bhaalspawn would have thought possible. Apparently all those stories about sneaking out of the Keep and skulking around the Copper Coronet were true. How she could see in the darkness beyond the range of Aerie’s magelight, Cassie didn’t know. With magicians, though, anything was possible.

She stopped not yet thirty feet distant, just before the entrance to the hall. “Pressure plate,” she announced confidently, pointing towards the ground. “Don’t step on this row of stone.”

Cassie and Aerie approached cautiously, each peering at the spot where the mage-thief was pointing. “Already?”

Nalia shrugged. “People tend to be protective of their final resting place.”

“You’ve burgled many ancient tombs?”

The faint smile on her lips vanished. “Hardly,” she responded archly. “I read books – something I wager is beyond you.”

Cassie rolled her eyes – a motion she hoped was hidden in the dimness of the crypt. “Keep going,” she instructed, letting the barb fall, and motioning both Nalia and Aerie over the booby-trapped stonework. “Hopefully there isn’t one of these around every other corner.”

The rest of the hallway was, indeed, clear. It stretched forth another fifty feet before a brick archway opened into a cavernous room. They stopped just before the entrance, trying to see what was beyond, but with no success. The chamber was enormous, chilled, and black. Whatever ceiling or walls there might have been could not be seen, and even the stone flooring seemed to drop away in places.

Cassandra knelt down cautiously and extended her sword towards the blackness. She met no resistance, and the understanding made her heart lurch uncomfortably. “No floor,” she whispered.

“There’s a path,” Nalia countered, pointing out the three-foot-wide stones that could still be seen leading into the void, flickering in the light of Aerie’s orb.

“I-i-illusionary?” Aerie’s thread-thin voice asked.

The sword went out again, and tapped as expected against the rock. Cassie shook her head. “Real. But what’s supporting it?”

“And what if we f-fall?”

“Linvail said these were the directions,” the redhead reasoned out loud. “I don’t think he’d set me up to fail considering what’s at stake.”

“You trust the King of Thieves?” Nalia asked, arching one sculpted eyebrow.

She shrugged. “I’ll go first. Aerie, hand me that light. You can make a new one.”

The globe was passed over, and with weapon still in hand Cassandra edged her feet onto the narrow walkway. The width would actually be quite comfortable in most situations, but just the knowledge that she was suspended Gods-only-knew how far above ground, with no support or brace on either side, made her stomach tremble and made each step seem as if she were walking a tightrope.

Slow, Cassie. Steady.

She was fifty feet out, then seventy-five, when the path suddenly branched. A gentle curve arced from north to south, but fortunately the path grew no narrower. North had been her instructions from Linvail, north to the grand doors where his promised aid supposedly awaited. She motioned back to her followers, using gestures instead of words, beckoning them forward and then pointing to the direction they must go. Nalia nodded. Aerie was wringing her robe between nervous hands.

The northern curve stretched at least twice as long as the initial path, and more alarmingly had a slight rise to its slope. It was steady, though, and the stone even and with good grip beneath her shoes. As she neared the end of the path she could make out where the stones joined floor once more, and another short but solid hallway began. A small bluish light, its size hard to judge in the blackness, floated beyond the range of the magelight. A low rumble originated from somewhere near it.

“Down, Fleshy, down!”

A man’s voice gave a soft but firm command. Cassandra slowed her step and heard her compatriots do likewise. There was a slight tap of something hard against the stone of the tunnel, and the blue light grew larger. The illumination revealed two figures lurking at the end of the tunnel – a youngish, dark-headed man in wizards’ robes, and a hulking brute of a man standing beside him. The larger one looked to be a mass of nothing but muscle – a chest fit for a bull, legs like tree trunks, and arms made of knotted biceps and thick, rope-like sinew. He gave forth another low rumbling growl.

The young man picked up his staff – the top of which was the source of the blue light – and gave the other a firm whack. “Behave!”

Piotr and his golem will be waiting for you. They will open the doors. Linvail’s words came back to her. Was this the pair she was looking for?

“Piotr?”

"At your service," he responded, with a haughty tone that didn't match his words. "You are Gorion's ward?"

Her eyes narrowed. Nothing good ever came from people who used that name. "Cassandra," she corrected.

"Cassandra. And these lovely ladies?" His eyes traveled over her shoulder to the two magic-users.

Does it matter? "Aerie. Nalia." She motioned briefly to each one in turn, and each woman gave him a small nod of acknowledgment. Aerie was blushing. "The door?"

"Yes, of course." The mage turned back around to the towering golem and once more rapped the butt of his staff against the ground. "Fleshy!" he ordered imperially, "Open the doors!"

The creature turned with an awkward, ponderous gait, shifting from foot to foot until it had succeeded in facing the portal. It was a large, ancient-looking set of double-doors, bound and reinforced with iron, and barred with an immense ingot of metal. It was certainly older than any of its current visitors, and likely older than their ages all combined.

"Gently! Gently!"

The command stopped the golem just in time. It had hefted the massive bar from its slots effortlessly, and was seconds away from simply casting it onto the stone floor. Instead, at its master's behest, it set it up against the wall with a muffled but not thunderous clunk. Next it placed one hand on each of the wooden slabs and pushed inwards. The doors groan, creaked, and whimpered as they were forced to reveal the secrets within.

A faint thump reached Cassie's ears, then another, and a third in rapid succession. The golem let out a roar and charged forward. The startled mage sprinted after it, yelling and commanding it to stop.

"Fleshy! Stop, you ignorant hulk! Fleshy!"

Abruptly he stopped, well behind his creation, and slid to the floor. The women exchanged looks of alarm, and as one readied themselves for battle. The hiss of Cassandra's drawn steel cut through the chants of transmutation and abjuration, followed by arcane charge crackling through the air as the spells' weaves solidified and became active.

She scooped up the fallen mage's staff and threw it into the inner chamber. It bounced off the floor and spun around, casting wild shadows across the walls as things were lit, unlit, then lit again. The golem was roaring in rage and hurling forth massive, powerful punches — but at what, could not be seen. What was in there?

"Nalia. Aerie." She pointed each one towards a different side, dividing them so that they could see the most area and that no enemy could take them both down with a single shot. Cassandra advanced in the middle. The staff had settled to rest, and she could see now what had felled its owner: a single arrow, jutting out from his ruined, bloody eye.

She entered the room swiftly, pale eyes sweeping and taking note of the situation even as she moved to the wall and along it. A moving target was harder to hit. Her quick scan of the room registered no enemies, though, no archers with bows drawn. She could hear the twang of bowstrings, the thunk of wood and steel entering flesh.

Abruptly in front of her something moved. It was a partial-face helm, with flaps curving down to protect the wearer's cheeks and a metal flange to protect the nose. She started backwards and swung her sword forward out of instinct. It connected, but where it connected was only empty air. Nonetheless it caught, drug through the space as if through thick molasses, and came out the other side. The helm stayed where it was: floating without a wearer, the empty eyes staring at her at face-level.

Something else moved. A set of gloves floated up to what should have been chest-high, and aimed the bow they were holding directly at her. An arrow was already nocked, and one spectral hand pulled the bow taut. Cassie swung again, her body reacting confidently even though her mind was less sure. The sword cut through the empty air where the archer's arm should have been, dragging heavily through the liquid resistance just as before. It should have severed the arm; she realized too late that if it did, the tension on the bow would be released just the same.

The bolt fired, but her footwork from the strike had moved her out of the way. She thrust the blade forward one more time, aiming for the invisible stomach. It sank in, and this time it seemed to have an effect. The syrupy weight of the air dissipated, and the helm, gauntlets, and accompanying bow collapsed to the ground.

"Grimwarders!" Nalia shouted. "Undead!"

"O-okay!"

Undead. Not an invisible opponent, but a supernatural one. It must be the magic in her blade that did it harm. The purchase was paying off.

Spells started exploding through the rest of the room, targeting the remaining spectral archers. The golem continued to flail about wildly, uncontrolled, bellowing in rage and pain. Although it itself was a creature of magic, it was insufficient to harm the grimwarders; its fists passed through empty air, or dented the helm without harm to the energy that inhabited it. It had managed to disarm several of the ghosts, though; the bows and arrows were material things, and shattered just as readily under the golem's furious blows.

Cassandra dispatched one more, and the sound of metal clattering to the ground told that the mages were equally as successful. They were down to only two left when the golem was struck with an arrow to its face. It howled and swung wildly, crashing its fists into the second door, the one that separated the entryway from the deeper chambers of the crypt. The second door was neither so large nor so strong as the one they'd just opened, and the wood exploded in a shower of splinters and chunks. From somewhere within the crypt, an alarm bell began to sound.

"Well just bloody fantastic," Nalia hissed, firing forth a bolt of yellow energy that exploded against the last grimwarder's chest and sent its metal accouterments tumbling to the ground. "There went our surprise."

The golem was already rampaging through the next room, accompanied by the sounds of wood, clay, and gods knew what else being smashed to bits.

"Come on," the red-head ordered, motioning them to follow. They still did have one element of surprise — Cassandra was fairly certain that no one was expecting a wild mountain of muscle to come barging into the room. It was one extra ally, and she planned on taking as much advantage of that as she could. She scooped up the mage's staff again, using its light to show the way. "Over here!"

It was the opposite way of the golem, but the women followed her without question. Nalia had used her contacts at the Government District to obtain blueprints of the tomb from the historical archives, and they'd agreed that the most likely place that Bodhi and her spawn would hide, would be in the main burial chamber. The mage's out-of-control pet would be a massive distraction, and a far more obvious one than three women moving swiftly and silently down the halls. By the time any guardians or minions figured out who the real threat was, hopefully it would be too late.

They'd all memorized the route, just in case. It was too easy to get separated or lost, whether by accident or by malicious intent. Left, left, straight through, right. They ran, leaving the sounds of chaos and destruction behind them. There was too much urgency to inch along, checking for traps; it would simply have to be risked. They needed to be in and out before the sun went down, and that would not be long away.

Something exploded in front of them. The narrow walls of the hallway acted like a funnel for the flames and super-heated air, bottling the power into conduit much too small. The heat raced forward, and Cassie dove to the ground out of instinct. Nalia and Aerie flattened as well, the former landing directly on top of Cassie herself. The blast hit in a wave and roiled over them in wave upon wave of scorching fire, then disappeared into sudden silence.

"What the fuck was that?" the warrior demanded, trying to move as quickly as possible out from underneath the woman atop her.

"F-fireball!"

"Well no shit."

"She means the spell," Nalia clarified. "Arcane fire. That was close."

The noble was on her feet now, and surprisingly look unharmed. A quick look at Aerie confirmed that the elf, too, had escaped unscathed. Whatever protective spells they had cast upon themselves must have protected them, and Cassie realized with suddenly clarity that the tingling redness on her skin and faint smell of burnt hair could have been worse: Nalia had used her own body as a shield against the flame.

A movement, shrouded in faint blue-white light, approached from the end of the corridor. It was a roughly humanoid shape, but too far away in the darkness to determine if it were alive, dead, or undead. Cassandra wouldn't have been surprised at any of the three.

There was another flash of light, and this time what came down the hallway was a jagged, blinding arc of lightning. Cassie flattened herself against the wall, out of the electricity's path; the mages attempted to do the same but without the years of reflex to aid them. The bolt struck Nalia full-force as she twisted to the side and threw her arm up to shield her face; the stoneskins abjuration around her exploded into shards of glittering energy. The static charge from both spells crackled and dissipated around Aerie's body, failing to penetrate her protections.

"Cassandra!" the De'Arnise heir yelled. "A little help!"

"How the Hell am I supposed to fight a mage?"

"Think of something!" she snapped, hurriedly tracing some manner of figure in the air and fetching something from her pouch of material components. Within seconds the color leeched out of her skin and clothing, leaving her uniformly pale gray as a second stoneskins activated.

Aerie was casting as well, and with a gesture of her hand the glowing figure at the end of the hall ceased to glow. "G-go! I dispelled it!"

The redhead pushed herself away from the wall and sprinted down the corridor. Twenty feet from her target she hurled the staff like a spear, both to light up her opponent and to feint out their reaction. The person — clearly a person — dodged nimbly out of the way, chanting loudly as they prepared their next move.

The light revealed a woman, tall and thin, dressed in elegant antique white robes. Her dark hair was long and held back from her face with a golden circlet. Despite the classical beauty of her face, it was anything but friendly; the bitter, hateful smile revealed long vampiric fangs.

A ripple of blurred air enveloped the air around the woman, and suddenly there were four people where before there had stood only one. The three extras were identical to the pale sorceress, down to the rustle of their robes and expression on their lips. They were crowded in tightly in the narrow confines of the walls, but seemed to move freely despite it. Cassandra hesitated. She'd seen magic-users pull a similar trick before. Three of these four were nothing but illusions meant to distract an opponent; one was real. The blurring of space distorted vision, though, making it impossible to tell fantasy from reality. The third in the back, which appeared to be the woman she'd originally faced, could easily no longer be the true threat.

She went for it anyway. She charged forward into the throng of duplicates, swinging in a wide arc. The blade passed through some of the women before colliding with something solid. The hit lacked the soft give of steel-to-flesh; the mage, predictably, had some manner of melee protection. Even as her strike landed the crowd was moving, re-arranging, seeking to protect the masquerade. She was lost within a see of dark hair and blue eyes flashing back and forth before her. All of them were casting, using identical movements and a chorus of voices; she couldn't predict from what direction the result might manifest.

A warm feeling of pressure washed through her, and it didn't originate with the vampire. She didn't bother to look over her shoulder; she'd hired Aerie and Nalia to do what they did best, and trusted in their abilities. Either they were trying to protect Cassie or weaken her opponent; either way, it was good.

The undead finished her chant, and all eight hands stretched forth at once. A cloud of miasmic yellow fog swirled forth from the ground and traveled forth in a whirlwind. Cassandra turned her face to the side and covered it with one forearm. It passed over her with no sensation; no grit or dust abrading her skin. A strong heave of nausea gripped her stomach as the vapors entered her nose, but she held it back along with the rest of her breath. She dared not breathe it in.

Another shout from behind her; another wave of goosebumps burst to life across her skin as the energy rolled back and forth from mage to mage in an arcane duel. The vampire's duplicates shimmered violently then dissolved into an indistinct haze of water-colored fog which soon disappeared completely. Cassie aimed at the remaining figure and thrust forward with all her strength. Again the blow was deflected by the vampire's magic.

Suddenly she vanished. The blue-eyed warrior cast around frantically for where the woman had gone, but there was nothing. Had she teleported away? Was she invisible?

"Nalia...!"

"Working on it!" came the noble's rushed reply.

Still she scanned, and still saw nothing. An unseen foe had a huge advantage, and the defender likewise a huge problem — especially if the enemy did not need to be close to be deadly.

"Work faster!"

Aerie rushed forward. Cassandra had almost forgotten about the girl; Nalia, with her known skill and more visible personality, was much more present in her thoughts. But the elf had her own magical talents, not only in the arcane but in the divine; she had to remember that, to keep it in mind. She touched Cassie's forehead with the symbol of Baervaer that she wore around her neck, and whispered something that the red-head didn't understand. At the same time, the same warm rush as earlier washed over them — this time originating from in front of them.

Directly in front of them.

The vampiress was visible again as soon as the holy symbol touched Cassie's flesh, and stood not three feet away. She was busy casting yet again, holding a fragment of bone and some manner of dust in her hands, crushing the latter against the former.

"Bloody Nine Hells! She dispelled us!"

It was Nalia, and Cassie didn't understand exactly what it meant. From the woman's tone she could tell it wasn't a good thing. Now that her opponent was visible again, though, it didn't matter. What she could see, she could fight.

This time the strike landed and sank into dead flesh. The vampiress screamed in rage and jerked backwards; her severed left arm fell to the floor. Two more spells whistled past the warrior's form, each one seeming to consist of nothing more than a small colored spark. The first one struck the witch and immediately spread to encase her entire body in a vaguely yellow glow; the second made contact a half-second later, and exploded in black, crackling energy against her chest. When it ended, Cassandra could see the walls behind the vampiress through the hole it'd left behind. The woman collapsed, presumably once more truly dead, the remaining bones in her torso unable to support the weight. They cracked with a sickening snap as her body folded over.

"Status!" Cassie barked.

"I'm f-fine."

"She dispelled my stoneskins," Nalia said sourly. "Again. And I'm pretty sure it took Aerie's protection from normal weapons with it. We're vulnerable to physical attack."

Aerie nodded.

"Can you re-cast them?"

"No," they said in unison, then Nalia's more forthright nature drove Aerie into silence. "I'm out of stoneskins," the brunette said. The elf nodded sheepishly in agreement.

"Can you continue?"

"I'll be fine," the noble assured her. "Just keep yourself between me and whatever attacks us. I can still throw lightning bolt and finger of death from twenty meters."

They moved on, stepping over the fallen body. Cassie glanced down skeptically, but it neither moved nor twitched. She could always come back and stake it later. Around the last corner in their memorized map, Cassandra skidded to a confused stop. A wall stood where no wall should have.

"What is this?" she asked in frustration, running her hands over the surface. The stones were cold and dry, caked with old dust and mold. It wasn't illusionary. It must have been built after the original tomb, but that still could have been a century or more in the past.

"Here, let me see." Nalia stepped forward and moved Cassie out of the way. Aerie hung back, casting her gaze around uncertainly for any other surprises.

The rogue noble ran her hands also along the brickwork, but with more intent than the warrior had. Her fingers explored the crevices and irregularities with a soft and experienced touch, racing over the stones with what appeared to the untrained eye to be careless haste.

"Here." She pressed on one of the bricks. It moved inwards about two inches, and a click could be heard from the other side. "And here." She motioned Cassandra forward, and gestured at an area of wall. "Slide it. It's a hidden door."

The fighter re-sheathed her blade and handed the light-staff to Nalia, set both hands against the indicated area, and pushed steadily and forcefully to the side. It slid with surprising ease, and Cassie realized that this section of the wall had been nothing more than a thin piece of sheetrock with an elaborately-done facade to blend in perfectly with its surroundings. Behind it she glimpsed the main burial chamber, its details masked by shadow.

Nalia smiled triumphantly as she stepped through to the other side. Cassandra followed close behind. "Hidden door, hidden lock. You'd think they'd come up with something more diffi–"

A spray of hot liquid caught Cassandra straight in the face. She stopped, her body instantly rigid, and dared not even to breathe. The scythe-like blade began to retreat back towards the wall, some invisible spring or lever or being drawing it back into its hiding place. Nalia's head fell to the ground with a wet thump. Her body followed a moment later.

"W-what–?"

"Trap," Cassie whispered. The blood leaked down her face, wet and thick with metallic scent. She seemed frozen, unable to move, even though her mind felt unnaturally calm. All she had to do was move before the scythe was back in place, before the trap was re-armed.

It's just another body. Another lamb to the slaughter. Nalia's eyes stared up at her, the pleased smile now frozen on her lips.

She had to move. She had come too far to let one more death dissuade her.

"Come on," she ordered, stepping through the doorway and catching the horizontal haft of the blade before it could retreat completely. "Step through. Now!"

"Where is– Oh my g-g-g-"

"Aerie!" The mechanism controlling the blade was too strong to hold back, and in another two seconds it would be ready for the next victim. Cassandra released it, grabbed the elf's arm, and roughly pulled her through. "Move!"

The girl was white, shock-white, and could do nothing but stare at her counterpart's fallen body. It was likely the first death she'd encountered, and doubtlessly the one most sudden and gruesome to behold.
Cassandra was breathing again, and her mind functioning with a sick determination towards the goal that was finally in sight. She knelt down, grabbed Nalia's legs, and pulled the body towards her, away from the deadly scythe. Blood still spurted out of the severed veins and arteries in time with the last few beats of the woman's heart.

The sorceress was wearing baubles, carrying things that might make a difference. She didn't know all of them, and knew that Aerie wouldn't have the strength of mind to go about identifying them in the current situation. She grabbed what she did know — a ring of protection, an amulet that protected against a vampire's soul-draining touch, and the two healing potions off the woman's belt. She moved quickly, mechanically, before her conscience could realize what she was doing.

Aerie realized, though. The horrified stammer was laced with an edge of panic. "What are you d-d-doing?"

The warrior left the items on the floor for the moment and rose and turned to face the cleric. "Look at me," Cassandra bade her, catching the girl's face in her hands. The blond recoiled from the sight of her blood-streaked countenance. Cassandra held her fast. "She's dead. We're not. She can still help us! We have to keep going."

"I d-don't think–"

"No," Cassie cut in sharply. "Do what I tell you. Don't think. If you think, you will fall. We can think later. Right now, I need you to listen and to do."

She nodded jerkily, unsteadily. It looked as if she were about to either pass out or throw up. They didn't have time for either of those.

"Okay?" Another nod. Cassie pressed the point home. "Do exactly what I tell you. I will get you out of here."

"O-okay."

The blue-eyed fighter held her for another few seconds, searching the elf's pale eyes for signs of doubt. There were plenty, but she was fairly certain that she'd follow where Cassie led. She released her, knelt down, and gathered up Nalia's items.

"Here, take this. Protective amulet." She slipped the ring on her own finger, then divided the healing potions, one to each of them. "We're almost done," she said again, reminding herself as much as she was Aerie. "Almost done."

She pushed past the robed woman and glanced once over her shoulder to ensure she was still moving. She was. They moved to the center of the burial chamber, where the still-glowing light of Piotr's staff could give them the best view of what was inside. The room was indeed large, easily a hundred feet in length and just as wide. The walls were lined with coffins, mostly carved of antique marble, some of dark-flecked granite, and a few here and there of wood. There were no signs of inhabitation, despite Lindvail's claims that this was a thriving nest of undead. It looked like no one had been here for ages.
Her eyes went to the floor. There should have been nothing but the centuries of dust and occasional skittering of rats, but that was not the case. The dust was heavily disturbed, pounded and scattered by either many feet or few feet many times. Someone had been in here. Someone had been in here often.

Cassandra slung her pack off her shoulder and set it down on the ground, kneeling next to it. She opened it hurriedly and fetched out the dozen-odd wooden stakes and three precious vials of holy water. All of the later and four of the former she passed to Aerie, and then took one stake for herself.

"Here. Hold these. Whenever I use one, I need one back. If you see something move, scream."

The elven girl nodded vigorously. Screaming would not be a problem.

Cassie went over to the first of the many coffins. Moving the heavy stone lid would be an effort, even with her enhanced strength, and certainly not something she could do with one hand. She transferred the wooden stake to her mouth, gripping it between her teeth, and then brought both hands to bear on the marble slab. With a hard grunt of effort, she pushed all of her weight into it, and was rewarded with the plate sliding with a grainy rumble to the side.

A second push sent the lid to the floor with a loud clack of stone-against-stone. Inside, as she'd both hoped and feared, lay a body. Not the decayed, ancient remains of some long-forgotten noble, but the pale and almost fresh-faced body of a young woman with long brown hair.

Cassie set the point of the stake over the woman's heart. She didn't have a mallet, but she suspected that her gauntleted hand would do just as well. With a shout, she brought her fist down as hard as possible on the flattened end of wood. It pierced the flesh easily, sank deep inside the woman's chest, and stopped only when the point hit the resistance of stone beneath.

The woman didn't react. For a moment Cassandra wondered if she'd staked a true corpse instead. Then a small hissing sound began to emanate from somewhere on the body, along with an overpowering odor of decay. The woman's fair features began to disintegrate as the warrior watched. Her hue changed from pale to grey as small holes began to appear in the flesh; her cheeks sank in, her eyes becoming hollow and gaunt in their sockets. Death reclaimed the vampiress with startling speed, eating away skin and muscles, drawing back her lips in a death's-head grin. The hair fell free of a now-desiccated scalp. Within two minutes it was over, and where once had lain a sleeping beauty now lay a rotted corpse.

It worked. With that knowledge in mind, Cassandra worked quickly. To each successive coffin she went, taking a stake from her companion's grasp, holding it in her teeth, and heaving the lid free of resting spot. One of two of the boxes lay empty, presumably either waiting for a new occupant or waiting for their current one to return. The sun should still be out, albeit weakly, but it would not last long. Things would be waking up soon. One by one she slammed the stake through those that slumbered, making sure they would never wake again.

She shoved the granite top off the tenth coffin. A flurry of noise and movement erupted out of it, a chaotic swarm of black and brown flashing before her vision. She jerked backwards in surprise as the bats flew around the room, diving and swooping past her in a melee of motion. Aerie let out a startled squeak from somewhere behind her. She stabbed forth at the beasts with the stake, but it was a useless attempt. Some collided with her arm or her chest and flew elsewhere, but she could do nothing to actually fend them off.

Abruptly the hurricane of wings was gone, and the blinding mass of bodies with it. Cassie spun around, chest heaving to catch her panicked breath. Aerie was there, still standing, although she'd dropped the remaining stakes. She had cast something on herself that made her glow with a faint bluish light; doubtlessly some type of protective spell that she triggered out of fright or surprise.

"You are becoming quite a pest," said a feminine voice from her other side.

Cassandra's head whipped around to face the speaker, and found herself confronted by a female vampire with short, wild black hair and dark, smoky eyes. Her skin was the typical pale of her kind, with dark red lips. The outfit she wore could be considered revealing at best: a form-fitting corset and bustier that hugged her curves with a lover's embrace. From Linvail's description, she had a name for the face: Bodhi. She was beautiful.

"I had hoped we could work together," she continued, casually and unconcernedly stepping closer. "Your skills are... impressive. Extremely."

"Cassie!"

Aerie's voice dragged her focus to what was at hand, and the fighter realized she'd even begun lowering her sword in front of this most dangerous opponent. She shook her head, clearing out the sudden, unusual distraction, and brought the blade to bear again.

The vampiress chuckled at the redhead's obvious switch in behavior. "Don't be hasty," she purred, giving Cassandra a hungry once-over with her eyes. What kind of hunger wasn't clear. "We could get to know each other." The tone of her voice ensured that the offer was not entirely platonic. And for some reason, despite all she'd been through, the warrior found it tempting.

"You're trying to charm me," Cassie accused.

"I never try to charm," she responded with a sultry smile.

"Shut up."

One dark eyebrow arched up on the perfect alabaster skin. "You could use some manners." Bodhi was moving, circling slowly, like a cat closing in for a kill. Cassandra matched her movements, keeping the sword between them. Aerie stood somewhere off, either forgotten or ignored. The undead did not seem concerned.

Abruptly she lunged, moving with a speed unlike anything Cassie had ever seen. The warrior dodged out of the way, attempting to deflect her with the sword, but the vampiress was gone just as quickly, no longer where she'd been a second before.

A movement out of the corner of her eye alerted her, but not fast enough to dodge this time. Bodhi's hand raked across the shoulder of her armor, and the angry screech of metal echoed through the chamber. Cassandra thrust out one hand, found something solid, and pushed it away. There was a blur of movement, and again she was gone from view. Cassie risked a glance at her shoulder and saw four shallow but definite grooves now etched in its surface. How the Hell..?

"Aerie! Do something!"

"W-what?"

"I don't know! Whatever you did last time!"

"She's not inv-v-visible or you'd s-see her!"

It seemed like rather contradictory logic. A soft, throaty laugh of amusement floated through the air from an invisible source. Cassandra's bright eyes scanned the room from side to side, but saw nothing. The vampire was playing with them.

Aerie began chanting, and Cassandra unconsciously backed her way closer to one of the chamber's walls. The less angles the creature could attack from, the better. She kept the sword at the ready, priming herself to strike at even the slightest movement.

"Surprise!"

The sword collided with stone, sending off a hail of sparks, as Cassie aimed for the voice.

"Over here."

Another swing, and another futile attempt.

"Stop it," she growled. "Come out and fight!"

Aerie's chant finished, and a warm, white light began to radiate outwards from the priestess' body. It filled the chamber with a sense of comfort, of peace, and of tranquility. Cassie looked at the elf with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. How the Hell was feeling at peace supposed to help her kill undead?
A cloud of mist began to seep out of the floor, floating upwards and coalescing into a roughly human shape. It wavered back and forth, stretching out parts here and parts there, but continued to condense into a smaller and more definite form. It was less than a minute before Bodhi stood once more before her, this time lacking her lazy smile of satisfaction. Her lips were twisted in an angry snarl, and her dark eyes livid with rage.

"How dare you!" she spat, not at the warrior but at the elf.

She lunged again, this time at Aerie, who screamed in fright and cast forth the first spell she had available. A rain of bright white sparks began to cascade out of the empty air. They fell on all three combatants, but with radically different results. Where they touched Aerie they disappeared with neither smoke nor sound, simply vanishing upon contact. They fizzled as well on Cassie's hair and face, leaving behind a slight sting as if from a tiny insect, and a slight feeling of nausea that increased as the rain continued.

With Bodhi, however, the results were dramatic. When each spark touched, she screamed in pain. The white specks landed on her skin and instantly began to sizzle and smoke, each eating a fingertip-sized hole in the vampire's skin. She howled in rage and launched herself at Aerie one more time, this time tackling the cleric to the ground with angry insults and curses. Aerie began screaming again, more and more shrilly. The chaos made it impossible to tell exactly what was happening, but the fighter knew that this was her chance. Bodhi was short-sighted and let her rage dictate her actions; Cassandra noted this carefully in her mind.

She swung her sword down in a hard, vicious arc. It sliced into the undead's back. The sight of the wound was surreal and unnatural; flaps of flesh folding back, exposing bloodless tissue and pale, dead muscle, so obviously devoid of life. Her own shouts of effort joined the cacophony, and she swung and stabbed over and over again, trying anything and everything to put an end to the noise.

After the fifth strike Bodhi rose, hissing like a wild cat, and whirled to face her blue-eyed assailant. The beauty which had so captivated her earlier was gone; her face was pitted with blackened holes where Aerie's white rain had fallen, and the gashes and slashes across her body laid bare the bones and tendons underneath.

Cassandra gave her no time to react, no time to formulate a plan. The sword lanced forward, entering the woman's stomach and exiting several inches out the other side. She twisted it with all her strength, first one way then the other, and then yanked the blade free. She was panting and sweating from effort, every muscle and nerve on fire with fear and anticipation.

Bodhi's hands immediately went to her stomach. But far from looking mortally wounded, she instead looked extremely annoyed. Her fingers felt the edges of the wound, then one hand went to her back to feel were the sword had pierced clean through. The annoyance turned to anger.

"You will regret this," she promised. Her ravaged and destroyed flesh gave the threat a demonic visage to match. "Whatever is left of you after Irenicus, I will rip to shreds."

Cassie stepped towards her, determined to finish the job, but the vampire had powers beyond mere human muscle. Whatever Aerie had done appeared to have thwarted her somewhat; at very least, Bodhi was no longer disappearing and reappearing. But the supernatural speed and strength was undiminished, and at the first sign of Cassie's movement the woman leapt backwards, landing crouched and cat-like, regarding her with hateful eyes.

"See you soon," she whispered with a feral smile, and then with another jump she was lost in the darkness of the crypt.

Cassandra stood mute, numb, unsteady. It was over. She had killed the vampires, but lost their mistress. She wasn't sure what Linvail's reaction would be to the news.

"Aerie."

There was no answer.

Cassandra took three trembling steps over to the prone woman. Whatever spells the elf had cast upon herself had not held up to the vampire's assault. Deep gashes ran along her shoulders, over the curve of her neck, spilling blood along the elaborate embroidery of her robe. She was still alive though, breathing through trembling lips, eyes wide with shock and fear.

"C-c–"

"Ssh." She fetched the vial of healing draught off of the cleric's waistbelt and uncorked it, then propped up the blond's head with one hand and held the reddish liquid up to her lips. "Drink. Aerie, drink this."

She tried. About half of the potion actually made it, with the remnants dribbling down her chin. Cassandra wiped it away with the flat of her hand, and then noticed something that made her freeze. Two round, distinct puncture wounds, slightly less than thumb's width apart, set directly over the main artery of the neck.

"Oh, no, Aerie..."

The fragile eyes looked up at her, still lost in pain and confusion of a life lived in shelter until now. Cassandra put down the flask and hid her face in her hands, trying to control her thoughts, trying to calm down. She'd been bitten. If she died, she'd turn within a few hours, becoming yet another of Bodhi's minions. If she survived, the process would take longer but the end result would be the same. Either the unnatural poison in her blood would claim her, or Bodhi would return to finish the job.

The potion was beginning to take effect. The bleeding had stopped, and the edges of the wounds were beginning to slowly knit themselves back together in ragged pink lines. With any luck, the process would complete before the loss of blood took her life.

I hate you. She didn't know to whom the thought was directed. Bodhi, certainly, for the destruction she'd wrought; Irenicus, for making it necessary; the gods themselves, for allowing it to happen.

She picked up one of the remaining wooden stakes, only partially aware that she did so. It felt as if she were watching someone else, some actor on a stage, as she positioned it over the prone elf's heart. She knew it had to be done, but the knowledge was abstract. Exhaustion, shock... She felt no emotional reaction, though she knew well she should. Shouldn't she? Shouldn't she?

"C-C-Cass–"

She slammed her hand down on the stake. Aerie said nothing more. Cassie sighed and sank backwards, letting her weight rest against the rough stone of the wall. Everything felt suddenly a hundred times its weight.

Spellhold. That was what her goal was. That was what Linvail owed her. She levered herself away from the wall's support, retrieved the glowing mage-staff, and slowly rose to retrace her steps. Spellhold. Imoen. The two words looped through her mind endlessly, driving her onwards towards the surface. She left Aerie's body where it lay.

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 9 - "He Who Fights Monsters"

If the inn had a name, no one knew it. It had existed as long as Ust Natha itself, tucked away in the corner of the city, attracting clients with the promise of pleasures of every possible description. If asked on the street, any drow would say that the heart of Ust Natha was the Temple of Lolth, and that the most important rituals took place there in the sight of the Spider Queen. In actuality, the twists and turns of the Pleasure District were the veins of the city, the scores of citizens and slaves who meandered them were the blood, and the massive spider-webbed inn its grotesque and pulsing heart.

A thunderous roar of voices arose from the crowd that was gathered around the slave pits – cheers, moans, screams, and insults. The Master of the Pits, Sondal, grabbed Veldrin's hand and hoisted it into the air.

“The victor!” he shouted, raising another round of cheers. “Three weeks and undefeated! Veldrin of Ched Nasad!”

Veldrin grinned. Even though his muscles were burning from exertion and he was nearly breathless from the strain of the fight, he felt wonderful. Powerful and invincible. The crowd's attention only increased the rush of pride and satisfaction.

“Again!” a voice shouted from the mass of bodies. It was quickly echoed by another, then a third. Soon the entire crowd writhed with a new and fresh lust for blood. “Again! Again! Again!”

Sondal released Veldrin's arm and gestured towards the crowd. “Males and honorable females, I beg your patience until tomorrow. There may be only two matches per–”

“No.” Veldrin cut him off with a hand on the man's shoulder. “I will fight again.”

Sondal objected. “But, my lord, surely you are in need of rest!”

“I will fight again,” Veldrin repeated, raising his sword high in the air. The audience erupted into a cacophony of approval. The sound was intoxicating and stoked his adrenaline to new heights. “I will fight again!” he bellowed.

Sondal's dark red eyes scanned quickly over the crowd; his business instinct was far too shrewd to let such a lucrative moment escape. “Veldrin will fight again!” he shouted. “Ten minutes, ladies and gentlemen! Place your bets! Fifty to one! Veldrin will fight Tebrekturek!”

“Fifty to one?” called a disbelieving voice. “One-hundred to one!”

“Fifty to one!” Sondal repeated firmly. “Veldrin is undefeated!”

“It's his third fight in the hour!”

“Suicide,” another muttered. “Hundred to one.”

“Fifty to one! Take it or leave it!” the Master of the Pits barked.

Veldrin caught his arm as Sondal turned away and started collecting money from eager, outstretched hands. “What is a tebrekturek?”

“Nabassu. Juvenile, lucky for you.”

“Nabassu?”

“Nabassu,” Sondal confirmed, grabbing another handful of coins and passing back a betting slip in return. “Get into the pit. Six minutes!” he called, and disappeared into the crowd.

Nabassu, tebrekturek, whatever. The name didn't matter; it would bleed just the same. Veldrin flourished his sword in one hand, habitually testing and adjusting his grip, and advanced into the arena.

Although everyone called it the 'pit', it was a bit of a misnomer – the arena was more of a large, circular cage than anything. Despite the delicate appearance of the web-motif construction, the bars and gates were enchanted and magically reinforced, and once the doors were closed only death would open them again. The ground inside was the rough, unfinished stone of the natural cavern floor. A careless or inattentive step could mean a loss of balance or ill-timed stumble, both of which would send the crowd into an uproar.

Veldrin paced around the interior impatiently. The terrain was nearly second nature now, after nearly three weeks of challenges. He couldn't even remember why he'd first stepped into the arena, but the rush of excitement and energy had proven addictive. The umber hulk had fallen easily; the drow fighters had as well. Even the weaponmaster Lasaonar, famed as he was in Ust Natha, had been no match for Bhaalspawn strength and speed. Scoffs had become whispers, whispers become rumors, rumors become cheers. Veldrin from Ched Nasad: the perfect warrior. Fame had brought new challenges; each additional victory had brought new admiration and respect from the throngs of Ust Natha. The tendrils of Taint quivered in excitement at the very thought of a new battle, of new blood on his blade.

“Two minutes!”

He took in a deep breath; the scent of death was still in the air from the previous duel. The drow crowd was a sea of flickering, every-changing auras beyond the bars: purple, red, brown, and black. The Taint unfurled, gathering itself, spreading slowly into every nerve and muscle. His lips drew back in a cross between a grimace and a smile. The cold seeped into his essence, so beautiful that it hurt.

“Males and honorable females! The duel begins!”

The doors of the Pit swung abruptly closed, slamming together and locking with the harsh ring of clashing metal. The hunt was on.

There was no point in standing still. Veldrin broke left in an easy jog, bouncing lightly, shifting his weight back and forth on the balls of his feet. The arena wasn't that large, but there was still room enough to hide. If the tebrekturek was smart – or a coward – it'd probably try to conceal itself first.

He circled around. The air was as still as death itself. Outside the arena the crowd was going wild, with flailing arms, shoving and screaming, but the sound was held back by the magic of the pit. Sondal brooked no interference with his gladiators, and the fairness of the games was part of what made it both so exciting and so popular.

A cage came into view around the large central pillar, and Veldrin slowed his step. It was huge – even larger than the one that had held the umber hulk. He would have had to stand upright atop another man's shoulders to be able to touch its ceiling, and it was wide enough to easily stable a full-grown horse. Enormous metal shackles, fastened to the cage floor with chains easily three fingers' thick, lay ominously empty. The cage door was open; its former occupant was gone.

Blue eyes shifted, scanning the area. There was no cover large enough to hide such an enormous creature. It had to be out here, somewhere. He flexed his fingers on the hilt of his sword. There was nothing. No sound. No movement.

A second later a small, almost inaudible rustle caught his ear. Granules of sand and tiny pebbles of broken rock trickled over his armor, and a sinking feeling settled in his stomach. He looked up.

Five hundred pounds of flesh collided with Veldrin head-on as the nabassu dove off the side of the pillar and attacked him. The impact knocked him prone and smashed his face into the unforgiving stone floor. A huge, taloned hand closed around his head and hauled him upwards. The body rushed into view, a blur of thick, muscled legs, a broad torso, against a backdrop of leathery black wings. There was a flash of teeth and yellow eyes, and Veldrin instinctively thrust his arms forward to block. The jaws stopped short of snapping shut on his chest and crushing his ribcage, now held only inches at bay by the drow's gauntleted hands.

Veldrin gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate his power first on the creature's massive maw. It was elongated and wolf-like, filled with two-inch long, dagger-like teeth. Two hate-filled bestial eyes glared at him from the wrinkled red muzzle, only growing more enraged as he continued to resist. His muscles trembled and his blood thundered as he pit raw muscle against muscle, and somehow held the jaws back.

Suddenly he was flying backwards as the creature howled with anger and flung him away like so much straw. He hit the ground and rolled with the impact; the drow armor, light and flexible, bent to accommodate. Within seconds Veldrin was back on his feet, and for the first time was able to get a good look at his opponent. What he saw took his breath away.

It was the demon from the staircase. From his dream in Spellhold.

“No one chains Tebrekturek,” it hissed as it stalked forward. The claws clenched and unclenched, eager for flesh.

Veldrin brandished his blade. “No one throws me around.”

The demon charged forward; Veldrin screamed a war cry and did the same. They met head on; Veldrin angled the sword at the creature's legs and ducked under the massive arms, pivoting on his feet and spinning around to slash the blade across the demon's hamstrings instead. The blade was highly enchanted and perfectly balanced: a gift from House Despana to their new champion. It bit into the thick red hide and was greeted by a spray of black ichor. Tebrekturek roared and unfurled its wings with a powerful snap of its muscles; the whirlwind of air, dirt, and leather made Veldrin stagger backwards.

“Mortal.” The nabassu advanced with its teeth bared in feral warning. The yellow eyes focused on the drow with unnatural intensity, and a sudden wave of nauseousness turned Veldrin's stomach inside out. He fought back the sickness and dropped instinctively back into a defense crouch. The taste of bile was bitter and raw in his mouth. “Little black nothing.”

A second wave of power rolled over him as the demon's stare narrowed. It prickled his skin and made the hairs on his arms stand at attention. For a moment the world wavered; a thick, unnatural blackness crept over his senses and wormed its way into his brain. It burrowed deeper, ravenous with hunger, and a sharp, paralyzing pain numbed his muscles as it began to feed.

The demon's massive hands reached forward. Veldrin's muscles ignored his mental commands. Only with great effort did he manage to lift his arms, and even then they shook and quivered. Tebrekturek smiled with its rows of razor teeth and closed its talons around the fighter's hands. They disappeared entirely in the creature's enormous fists.

“Pathetic little drow,” it whispered, and began to squeeze.

Something cracked, and if Veldrin had been able to scream, he would have. The blackness inside made it impossible. The demon's gaze pierced him to the core and held him there, immobile, as the creature savored the slow crush of flesh and bone. On the edges of his vision he could see the patrons of the Pit milling about, faces contorted with rage and excitement as they shouted and screamed beyond the wall of silence.

Another crack; another spike of agony. Veldrin dropped to his knees. The demon moved closer, pushing him downwards with superhuman strength and grinning in delight. Outside the arena money was already changing hands as people threw down their betting slips in disgust. Veldrin of Ched Nasad had been defeated.

No. No one defeats me! The enraged thoughts swirled through his mind, but his body failed to respond. The pressure increased, and Veldrin met the burning yellow eyes with his own fury. The coldness of the Taint lurked under the surface, and the drow's dark lips curved in a tight, bitter smile as he released it from its prison. It surged upwards in an exhilarating rush of ice and darkness. No one.

“Yield,” Veldrin whispered.

The nabassu's lips drew back in a snarl, and a vicious clench of its claws crushed the bones of Veldrin's fingers. The warrior's withered smile stayed in place. The numbing worm inside his mind writhed and twisted, but now it sought escape from the new unnatural power that seeped through his essence. Abruptly the Bhaal-spirit lashed out, striking like a viper, and the demon's power recoiled as if struck by hot iron. The presence was gone, his muscles released from its hold. His mind was clear and sharp.

The demon blinked. Mortal flesh quivered and squirmed inside its grip as bones and muscles reknit themselves. Now only one of them was smiling.

“Let me go,” Veldrin demanded.

“You stink of Gehenna,” the nabassu growled. “What are you?”

“Your master, beast.”

It barked in amused disbelief. “Master? You are no Demon Lord.”

Veldrin braced his foot against the rocky floor and pressed upwards. The demon had the advantage of leverage as well as superior muscle and weight; it seemed impossible to move, even with Bhaalspawn strength. They strained against each other; Veldrin's skin was soon slick with sweat. The nabassu grunted with effort and its bestial face contorted with frustration as the mortal continued to resist.

Abruptly Veldrin switched tactics and dropped down, at the same time pulling forward with all his might. Tebrekturek suddenly found that the resistance to its strength was gone, and its own force combined with the drow's muscle catapulted it forward. It smashed to the ground some ten feet distant, sending up a cloud of dust and dirt. Veldrin rolled to his feet and retrieved his blade. By the time he was ready, the nabassu had regained its feet as well. He charged it with a cry of battle before it had a chance to re-assess the situation.

“Fool!” it growled, lashing out with a sweeping strike. The fist missed Veldrin by only inches as he dove back to the earth and rolled one more, this time coming to his feet directly in front of his opponent. He thrust his blade forward; it sank into flesh and was rewarded with a howl of pain. He moved and struck again, slashing and stabbing in a whirlwind flurry of blows, until abruptly one of the clawed hands seized the sword and yanked it free of his hands. It arched through the air, a glittering spiral of blue-violet damascus steel, and clattered to the earth somewhere in the distance.

The talons closed around Veldrin's throat. The Bhaalspawn lashed out with a punch to the lupine muzzle. He struck again and again, growling and panting, hammering his fist into the leathery red flesh in raw, raging fury. Red and black clouded his vision; the rush of blood in his veins drowned out all other sound. The hiss of the Taint urged him onwards, whispering, shouting, demanding. A chorus of voices, the cacophony of a million souls, raged at him to kill it kill it no mercy blood for blood death for death kill it now. Something cracked as he slammed his gauntleted hand into the creature's face again. Another strike; another crack. The pressure around his windpipe choked off his air, but the voices drove him on regardless. No mercy my lord Lord of Murder kill it – a spray of blood hit him the face, blinding him with a shower of thick ichor – kill it NOW – the cracking continued as he pummeled it with both fists – no mercy for the weak no mercy.

The beating continued long after clawed hands released his throat and Veldrin was able to draw breath once more. The wet and bloody smack of flesh against flesh was a music, a primal rhythm that echoed throughout the arena. His blood sang with it and his strikes beat percussion accompaniment. It was a symphony of beauty, and the sound filled him with joy.

“Veldrin! Stop it now!”

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he spun around with a furious growl. One hand grabbed a handful of cloth and yanked the person closer; the other balled back into a fist and drew back in anticipation.

“Cassandra.” The name was whispered, barely audible, but the foreign sound shook him with shock. Inolin – Imoen, his sister, Imoen – regarded him with cool gray eyes, unfased that her robe was caught firmly in his grasp. She raised her voice for the benefit of the onlookers. “How dare you lay a finger on me!”

The chorus of voices went quiet; the seductive, icy embrace of the Taint began to ebb away, leaving him empty and hollow. He looked around in confusion. The arena had been reopened, and now a half-score heavily armed drow warriors ringed him, weapons at the ready. Sondal stood several yards distant, and the audience remained outside, quiet and attentive. Their auras flickered in a rainbow of hues: jealousy, lust, greed, all weaving in and out of the steady dull-yellow fear. Everyone, everywhere he looked, was terrified.

“Release me.”

His eyes fell back on Inolin. It took nearly three attempts before his hands finally obeyed the command to loosen and let go. Her aura was yellow as well, but spiked through with thick, jagged cracks of red-brown anger: piss mixed with dried blood.

“The winner!” Sondal announced suddenly, raising his arms high but making no move to approach. He thrust one finger towards the warrior. “Still undefeated: Veldrin of Ched Nasad!”

A murmur arose from the crowd, low at first, but slowly growing. Sparse, scattered cheers; low applause. Soon the throng had recovered from its shock and the cheers became louder and more sincere. The auras shifted and darkened, taking on the dark purple hue of rich wine. They were proud: proud of his victory, of having such a champion in their midst. Veldrin let out a shout and raised his fist high. The crowd roared with approval.

“Veldrin.” Inolin's tone was neither approving nor amused. “Come with me.”

“But I–”

“This is not a discussion, male,” she snapped.

Male? Veldrin shook his head, trying to clear out the weak, lingering whimpers of the voices. Drow males obeyed. They were drow. He was male.

Inolin turned away in a flutter of dark scarlet robes and strode with firm steps out of the arena. The drow warriors kept their weapons trained on Veldrin and gave only the barest of nods to her as she passed. Sondal bowed low, nearly doubling himself over in his display of deference.

“Thank you, Honorable Mistress.”

“Veldrin is hereby forbidden from participating in the Pits,” she stated.

A low murmur of discontent arose from the nearest section of the audience. The sour look on the Pit Master's face was visible from twenty paces. Veldrin had brought him more profit from the fights in three weeks than he'd earned in the entire previous year. “Yes, Mistress.”

The crowd parted respectfully as the pair exited the arena, and for the first time Veldrin turned to see what had caused such a commotion. The body of the nabassu was visible for a split second before the ranks of the warriors closed and blocked the view. The lupine head had been reduced to a lumpy mash of bone fragments, brains, and bloody flesh. Had the gore not rested just above the fallen shoulders, it would not have been identifiable as a head at all.

“What in the Nine Hells do you think you were doing?” Inolin demanded once they were back in their room on the inn's second level. “Are you really that stupid? It's one thing to draw attention to yourself, but noooo, that's not good enough for Ms. Almighty Bhaalspawn. You have to go and kill a nabassu with your bare hands.”

Veldrin bristled defensively. “I had a sword. He disarmed me and–”

“Your bare hands, Veldrin. Do you think people aren't going to notice that?”

“Would you rather it was me that died?” he fired back. “I could have been killed!”

“Well if you wouldn't have gotten in the stupid Pit to begin with, you wouldn't've had that problem!”

“Don't yell at me, Im–”

“Stop calling me that,” the wizard hissed. “We've got a job to do, Veldrin. We're supposed to be laying low and blending in!”

“Blending in isn't going to help us figure out where the eggs–”

“Shut up! Gods and minions, Vel, what part of 'secret' don't you understand?”

The rage reignited. “How about you let me finish a fucking sentence for a change?” he demanded, taking a step forward.

Her eyes narrowed, and abruptly the air was sharp with the tension of magical energy. “Don't threaten me.”

“Don't talk to me like I'm stupid.”

“If you had a single ounce of brain in that vacuum between your ears–”

He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her backwards, forced her up against the wall and pinned her there with his greater mass. She instinctively and immediately began the arcane motions and gestures of her craft, but Veldrin was far too familiar with mages – friend and foe – to let her complete them. He seized her hands and trapped them against the wall as well.

“I said... don't talk to me like I'm stupid.”

Her aura flared with sudden fear, but her voice was steady and firm. “Let go of me.”

He snorted. “So you can magic me with something? I don't think so.”

She was angry. The low glow of yellow was almost lost under the tar-like layer of thick red-brown. She tried to free herself, straining against his grasp, but the movements were abortive at best. Her hands remained pinned. The attempt only succeeded in making her hair fall over her eyes, which she shook back with an annoyed jerk of her head. “Let me go, Veldrin.”

Her body tensed and pressed against him as she struggled, and a different kind of tension answered in his own. The flush of heat across her cheeks was suddenly captivating; the small, vulnerable flutter of her heartbeat bewitching. Her breasts brushed his chest with the barest of movements as she breathed, but it was enough to make his pulse jump. As a female the reaction was easily hidden, but his new body was less subtle. His cock began to stiffen in response.

Inolin felt it as well. A second's confusion flashed across her face, then she went rigid as she registered not only the existence but also the origin of the new pressure against her hip. Her aura dissolved into a kaleidoscope of confused chaos, shot through with thin, vivid threads of lust.

“Let me go,” she repeated.

“I'm in charge here.” The dreams and fantasies which had haunted him since Athkatla, since Baldur's Gate, since their youth, flooded back. The desires so long kept hidden demanded recognition now that his soul – his conscience — no longer blocked the way. The almost inaudible murmur of the voices rose again in excitement. “I hauled you out of Spellhold,” he reminded her, leaning closer. Her scent was soft and intoxicating. “I saved you from Irenicus.” He was fully hard now, straining against the unnatural confines of his breeches.

Inolin lifted her chin in defiance. “So what?”

“You owe me.”

“Like Hell I do.”

“You owe me,” he repeated, their faces now so close that could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. She tried to recoil, but there was nowhere to go. “And you want it,” he whispered. The Bhaal-essence hissed in serpentine agreement. “I can see it.” His hand dropped to her hips and there slid slowly up her thigh.

The red glow of lust abruptly darkened and grew, surrounding the younger sibling in a cloud of fury. “Get away from me.”

“You want it. It's branded on your soul.”

“Take your hands off me,” she whispered viciously. “Or I swear by every god in Faerûn that you will never touch anything again.”

Veldrin's eyes narrowed. The possibilities flashed through his mind: graphic images of them together, their love making, raw and wet. The visions only made the rock-hard length of his member even more demanding. Inolin met his gaze with quiet, dark sincerity. Whatever lust or desire had been there was gone. The only color present in her aura was deep maroon rage, so bright and strong that even through the heat of his want he hesitated. Her promise was sincere: she would show no mercy.

“You aren't worth it,” he growled, still only an inch from her face. He released her and backed away, leveling an accusatory finger at his sister. The voices whimpered and moaned in protest. “You aren't worth it!”

“Get out,” she ordered. The electric snap of magical energy once more charged the air now that her hands were free.

“You're nothing, Imoen!”

“Get the Hell out!”

Veldrin stalked over to the door and yanked it open, pausing only long enough to spit his disgust in her direction. “I should have left you in Spellhold,” he shouted. “I should have left you to rot!”

The door slammed closed. The entire room trembled in protest, and then it was still.

He brooded at the bar, nursing his sixth glass of drow mead. Figures moved and shifted at the edges of his vision as the clients danced, fought, and dined, but they kept their distance from the still-armored male. The initial adoration, the fawning, the sycophantic sweetness, had quickly lost its charm, and soon his admirers had found themselves face to face with the same dark rage that had spawned their flattery. Being on its receiving end proved much more disturbing than distant observation.

The Voice whispered to him. It had not been silent since the encounter with the nabassu. The seductive, sinister hiss was ever-present, playing through his brain in a constant stream of subtle noise. It was unintelligible, mysterious – words-but-not-words, thoughts-but-not-thoughts, meaningful and empty all at once.

A delicate, thin-stemmed glass of translucent turquoise liquid slid across the counter top and came to rest in front of him. Veldrin glanced up in surprise. The barkeep offered a shallow smile. “From the male over there,” he said, tipping his chin towards another table.

Veldrin turned around, brow furrowing. The room swayed and tilted under the influence of the six drinks he'd already downed, and finding the designated patron was a challenge. After a moment of concentration, he found it: a table near the edge of the bar's seating area, occupied by both a male and a female. More sycophants. He downed the contents of the glass in a single gulp and then pushed it back to the bartender. When he looked up again, the male of the pair was standing in front of him.

“Honorable Lord,” he said, bowing low.

“Go away.”

“Just a moment of your time, if I may, my lord.”

The cold embers of anger stirred as Veldrin studied the other through wine-blurred eyes. “You don't have a House insignia,” he muttered after a moment.

“No, my lord, I do not,” the other male admitted. “My House is insignificant, and the Despanas and Jae'llat do not take kindly to interlopers. I am Urlroos Quarra, Third Son of House Quarra, Ninth House of Ust Natha.”

“Leave me alone.”

Urlroos made a small motion to the barkeep, and within seconds another glass of mysterious blue-green liquor appeared at Veldrin's elbow. “I assure you that my proposal is both short and rewarding.”

The warrior shook his head. “Not for sale.”

“Not your martial talents, my lord, although they are without a doubt beyond compare. People say you are the best warrior since the Descent itself.” Urlroos glanced meaningfully back to his female companion, who sat watching the affair from the table. “That is Alaunrae Quarra, First Daughter of House Quarra. She would like to engage you for... intimate purposes.”

Veldrin rubbed his face with his hand, trying to keep up with the string of words. They tripped over one another in his consciousness, increasingly drowned out by the Taint's hissing frustration. “What?”

“She wishes to breed with you, my lord.”

“Breed?” That was a word he knew. “With a drow?” he asked in astonishment.

“Not with just any drow,” Urlroos corrected. “With you. A child of your seed, male or female, would be worth much to our House. We are prepared to pay – and, of course, we offer you a rare experience. The First Daughter is willing to allow you... certain privileges, in the bedroom.”

“Not interested.”

Urlroos took the glass in his own hand and offered it forth. “Another drink, my lord? Marimerra wine: a delicacy you are sure not to forget. As will be your night tonight, should you consider our offer.”

The female was approaching, now that the ice had been broken. She was slender and well-formed, with graceful curves and fine, feminine features. Her cheeks and eyelids had been painted with a dust of mica that glittered and shone as she moved. The coy smile on her lips was subtle, secretive, and inviting.

“Veldrin,” she said with a small tilt of her head, extending her hand to him. Drow etiquette was to bestow a kiss on the fingers, but he wasn't in the mood to be polite. The male's continued refusal to back down was quickly stoking Veldrin's ire, even through the muddled haze of drink.

“No doubt it irks such a powerful male as yourself to be at the female's command in the bedroom, always caring for her pleasure and never for your own,” Urlroos was saying. “But while we cannot offer you the prestige or wealth of House Despana, we can offer, shall we say, forbidden pleasures. The First Daughter offers herself to you, in exchange for your seed.”

“Meaning?” Veldrin asked sourly.

“Meaning that you can do anything you want to me, dear Veldrin,” Alaunrae purred, caressing his arm with her bare palm. Her other hand suddenly pressed between his thighs, stroking the hidden bulge. “Anything and everything.”

“I am available at your request as well, my lord,” Urlroos informed him, “should you enjoy male companionship as well.”

It was too much, and too surreal. The rush of blood to his nether regions only thickened the alcohol-induced fog in his brain. Now it threatened to shut down entirely, especially under the female's continued ministrations. She wet her lips with tip of her tongue when she felt the object of her attention begin to swell in response.

Veldrin shook his head and forced himself to his feet. The motion was far too abrupt, and it was more through blind luck than any amount of dexterity that kept him from falling flat. He grasped the bar with both hands as the world slowly steadied itself again.

“No, I can't,” he slurred, shaking his head again. Anger mixed with desire in his loins, and only made the offer all the more tempting. The whispers in his mind grew more insistent, filling his brain with visions. Shut up, he willed, but the Taint ignored him. Just shut up. “I can't,” he repeated. “Go away.”

“Are you a eunuch?” Alaunrae asked curiously.

“What?”

“Do you still have your manhood, sweet Veldrin?”

Show her, the Voice insisted. Pin her down. Make her scream. “Of course I do.”

“I thought so,” she replied, her hand now growing more insistent. “You certainly feel ... able.”

“I am,” he stammered, then realized that he'd not yet had the chance to put that particular statement to the test. Take her, the whispers urged. Take your reward, what you deserve. “I think. I think I am. I mean– I–”

Explanations weren't working. The overload of sensation, the alcohol, the Voice, the conflicting demands of his mind and body, made it impossible to think straight. He gave up the attempt and tried escaping the situation instead. His body was functioning, even if his brains were not. He retreated from the bar with quick, stumbling steps, barely avoiding a collision with a servant boy, and was nearly to the door with a flash of color stopped him. Red. Dark red. Not the color of blood, but the color of hair. Imoen's hair. Imoen was here?

A hot flame of anger leapt into his chest as he quickly fastened on the only explanation. The little witch was spying on him! She must have followed him. The proposition was likely her doing, designed to trap him, humiliate him. He'd teach her. She had to learn that no one belittled him – not even her. The auburn beacon disappeared behind the swinging doors which separated the kitchen area from the clientele. He followed it automatically.

“Hey! You can't go in–”

He shoved the male aside and entered the kitchen; the doors flew open as he stumbled through. The staff consisted of two males and one female, all human. A swarthy-skinned man with a spotty beard was gutting the remains of an Underdark reptile while the other male tended the grill. The red-haired woman was stationed slicing vegetables and mushrooms, and now paused in her labor with a started squeak.

“Imoen.” Veldrin crossed over to her with strong, if unsteady, steps. She started to back away, only to bump roughly against the counter top and spill a handful of small, bulbous roots onto the floor.

She recovered herself and dropped into a low curtsy, trembling slightly as his hand landed on her shoulder. “My lord?”

“What the Hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

Imoen scrambled to her feet, eyes still fastened to the ground. “My lord? N—nothing.”

He grabbed the front of her tunic with one hand. “You're spying on me!”

Her eyes flashed up, full of fear. “No! No, my lord, I swear! I would never!”

Were her eyes green, or was it just a trick of the light? Veldrin cupped her chin in his hand and took a closer look. In the edges of his vision one of the males had disappeared, while the other stood watching uneasily. Imoen looked different somehow – a bit older, a bit more tired. She'd put on a bit of weight since... when had he last seen her? Spellhold? No, no – after that.

Her denial was sincere enough. There was no mistaking the earnestness and emotion in her words, nor the shimmer of frightened tears in her eyes. Maybe he'd been too quick to judge her. She'd probably come here looking for him, to apologize and set things right.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurred. His thumb brushed across her cheek as he wiped away a lone teardrop. She was still trembling. He'd been too hard on her, lashing out in anger when all she wanted was to soothe things over. “It's okay,” he whispered softly as he stroked her hair. It was soft, just like her skin. “It's okay.”

The touch didn't console her. If anything it seemed to upset her more, and now the tears spilled down freely as she tried once more to back away. He tightened his grip and stopped her. “My lord–” she began.

He kissed her softly, cutting off her words. Even her lips quivered with delicate uncertainty. “It's okay. Sssh, it's okay.” He kissed her again, repeatedly, whispering apologies and reassurances, pulling her more tightly into his arms. She'd been through so much... If she only knew how he felt about her, how important she was, how precious – if she only knew, she wouldn't be afraid anymore. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gotten angry.” He cradled her in his arms, trying to soothe her.

“Please,” she whispered in a trembling voice. “Please stop.”

There was no reason for her to be concerned; even had the drow known of their blood relationship, it wouldn't have mattered. Drow siblings were often intimate, and no one thought it was unusual. It wasn't wrong here. It wasn't forbidden.

“Sssh,” he said again, bestowing another kiss. His erection, still half-hard from the First Daughter's attention, stirred awake once more as his adoration of her swelled within his chest. He could show her how much he loved her. He could pleasure her, please her, and make the pain of the past go away.

Imoen's hands grasped his shoulders. Her lips met his roughly as she whimpered in response.

“Hey! Hey you! What in Lolth's name do you think you're doing?”

The words registered only as distant noise through the fog of drink. Imoen was pushing at him, twisting, trying to get away. The resistance only increased Veldrin's determination. The Taint's chorus of voices babbled in excited encouragement: take her, your right, your prize. She was safe with him; she just had to realize it. She had to realize how much he loved her.

“Get your hands off my slave!”

A pair of hands grabbed his arm and tried to haul him backwards. Veldrin turned and planted one hand firmly in the man's chest and shoved him away. The force of the push knocked the man prone and sent him skidding several feet across the polished floor before he collided with a granite wall. Imoen started screaming.

“It's okay,” he repeated, grabbing her around her waist as she tried to dart aside. “I'm here.” He made the point clear with another kiss, this one firm and desirous. The way she moved her hips; the way she pressed her breasts against him; the scratching of her fingernails over his skin... It wasn't the most romantic of places, but with the staff gone and the unwelcome intruder ejected, it was private enough. If she wanted it here, then here it would be.

Veldrin hoisted her up onto the counter, knocking the produce aside. Her skirt was knee-length and loose; it slid easily as he pushed it over Imoen's thighs. The sight of pale skin and the barely-visible edge of simple cotton underpants flooded him with a hot wave of lust. His member was rock-hard and aching, and suddenly he realized that he could give Imoen what she wanted, something that Cassandra never could: the pleasures of being with a man.

“Stop!” she screamed. “Please! Please!”

Veldrin fumbled with the fastening of his armor, trying with wine-addled fingers to free himself from the codpiece, his breath quick and shallow. His entire mind was consumed with one thought, one image: Imoen underneath him, moaning, as he finally made his desires clear. There was no more shame, no more hesitation, only the need: raw, primal, and instinctive.

Something cracked with amazing force over his head, turning his vision black from pain. He whirled around instinctively and lashed out with backhanded strike. It connected, and Veldrin's sight returned just in time to see a body collide with the shelves of liquor and spices. A dozen delicate glass bottles burst from the force of the impact.

Another assailant charged him; Veldrin intercepted the man and grasped him with both hands, abruptly reversing the man's trajectory and launching him out of the kitchen's double doors. The would-be attacker smashed into one of the servants, sending both men and the tray full of drinks tumbling into a table full of patrons. Soon the four drow were on their feet as well, screaming their displeasure at the interruption.

Veldrin turned his attention back to Imoen. There was a flash of movement, a whip of pale skin and red hair, and a strong, well-placed kick knocked him backwards.

Imoen drew her knees up to her chest, her eyes distant, lost in memories that
only she could see. “I kicked him. I screamed, I kicked, I punched, but nothing
helped. He was too strong.”

He stumbled and nearly caught himself, but the unexpected flash of memory jarred him even more than the blow itself. Veldrin collapsed, stunned, to the floor. The girl was gone in a heartbeat, running from the room as quickly as her legs would take her. Outside the sound of angry voices was escalating.

She'd kicked him. Veldrin shook his head, but the thought remained. She'd kicked him. She'd screamed – had she punched? — and kicked him. He got unsteadily to his feet, bracing himself against the preparation table. She'd run away.

“Bastard!” A middle-aged drow male had appeared in the door way. Beyond him the vague outlines of a handful of others could be seen. “You've ruined my kitchen! This is going to cost you. I don't care if you are Despana's high and mighty champion!”

“Go away,” Veldrin muttered. Something felt wrong. Imoen... where was Imoen?

The man wasn't done with his tirade. “You can't just go around raping a man's slaves! That's my property, not yours! If you damaged her, by Lolth, you'll owe me three replacements!”

Rape? No. No, it wasn't possible. He'd never–

“Go to the Lust Chambers next time you want to fuck some human whore. But stay the Nine Hells out of my kitchen!”

He felt sick. His stomach clenched in sudden protest as he stumbled towards the door. Bile filled his throat. He'd almost raped her. He would have. Oh gods, he almost had.

“Hey! You can't leave yet!” The man blocked the doorway as Veldrin approached.

“Get out of my way,” Veldrin ordered, trying to keep himself steady. The sound of Imoen's – no, it wasn't Imoen, it couldn't have been – screams echoed through his mind. He had to get out of here.

“You're staying right here until the City Guardsmen–”

“I said get the Hell out of my way!” Veldrin roared. He slammed the man aside and rushed through the door, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else but there. A score of curious patrons had gathered around the kitchen's entrance to witness the commotion; some now scattered from the warrior who came barreling out, while others grabbed him and tried to restrain him before he could flee.

A grunt and surge of muscle sent another male flying through the air. Clients scattered to avoid him as he crashed down two yards away. Angry cries and heaves of strength sent his would-be captors in all directions; the sound of shattered glass and breaking tables echoed throughout the cavern. Soon a path lay clear and unobstructed: the remaining patrons left him in peace as he exited the tavern in a staggering run.

The distance back to his quarters couldn't have been more than a few hundred yards, but the thick mass of revelers, spies, servants, slaves, and masters made it seem like thousands. He shoved his way through, unceremoniously pushing both male and female aside in panic. He had to get out. He had to get back to his room, alone, away from others. An intense claustrophobia narrowed his vision; the world suddenly consisted of nothing but stone walls and hot, glowing bodies. There was no space to breathe, no air, and another scream and violent push sent the crowd scrambling and bodies flying.

Stairs. He was at the stairs. Veldrin started up them, tripped and fell, regained himself and tried again. They refused to stay still under his wild movements. The sickness seized him a second time, making him retch a mixture of food, drink, and stomach bile onto the dark stone. On hands and knees he forced himself forward, inch by inch, up the treacherous walkway. Soon it leveled out and he recovered his feet once more. The door was only a dozen feet away.

He greeted it with both fists, slamming them into the stone portal. It shook but remained firm as he cried out in frustration and rage. The exterior handle was little more than a small nub of carved stone; neither pushing nor pulling on it made a difference.

Suddenly the door opened, and Veldrin found himself face to face with a startled drow female. Her surprise quickly turned to fury as she recognized him.

“Go to Hell!”

He jammed his hand against the door before she had a chance to close it. “Imoen–”

“Gods dammit!” she hissed, eyes narrowing. “Call me Inolin. You're going to get us both killed!”

“No.” He shook his head in denial. “Never do anything to hurt you. Never, I swear.”

She frowned, regarding him with a mixture of anger and wary caution. “What's wrong with you?” The expression twisted into disgust as a whiff of air gave her her answer. “Great. You're drunk.”

“Please, Imo–”

Her hand flashed out. She grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him inside the chamber, slamming the door closed again with a deep and heavy thud.

“By Tyr's eyes, Veldrin, if you say my name just one more time...!”

“I'm sorry,” he muttered, leaning up against the wall for support as his legs sagged beneath him. “Didn't mean to, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry.” The memory of the bar, the girl at the bar, the Imoen-who-wasn't-Imoen, came back again, and this time it brought with it tears of shame and sorrow. “I didn't mean to,” he repeatedly forlornly. “I'd never hurt you. Never, never, never.”

Inolin regarded him skeptically, hands braced on her hips. Her brother had slowly slumped to the floor and now sat there, head in his hands, rocking back and forth. Saline sadness painted wet lines down his face and dripped silently onto the floor.

Despite the anger and hurt she'd been nursing from his earlier words, she couldn't ignore his obvious distress. Cassandra had always been the strong one, the one who pushed on and kept fighting no matter how helpless she felt inside. Imoen could count the number of times she'd seen her older sibling cry on one hand – and even then, she'd never seen him like this. Not in Candlekeep, not in Baldur's Gate, not in Spellhold or anywhere in between. Not since the night Gorion had died. “What happened?” she asked softly. “Are you okay?”

“I didn't mean to!” he moaned, burying his face in his palms. “I didn't mean to, Im, I didn't mean to. I wouldn't have– but I wanted– I just–”

Shaking sobs cut off his words, and Inolin crouched down before him. She reached out and placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Just calm down. You're safe now.” There was blood splattered over his armor, but it was impossible to know whether it was his. “Just tell me what happened. Are you okay?”

He looked up, fixing her with a wide-eyed and half-mad stare. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no, there's something wrong with me.” His eyes went to her, then to his own hands. “There's something wrong with me,” he repeated. The tears began again, and his voice jerked erratically as he struggled to keep speaking. “I can hear it. I can hear it and it won't go away.”

Inolin wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a tight hug. “Sssh,” she whispered, stroking one hand over the white-silver hair. “It'll be okay, sis,” she promised, squeezing Veldrin close again. She wasn't sure if it was true, but she'd settle for a necessary lie. “It'll be okay.”

“What's wrong with me?”

“Sssh. C'mere.” She guided him slowly to his feet and led him over to the double-bed. He swayed unsteadily from the whirlwind of wine and emotion. He followed with small, awkward steps, trying unsuccessfully to wipe his face clean with the back of his metal gauntlet. Once he was seated Imoen busied herself with the buckles and clasps which held the drow plate armor on; deft hands and determination removed the largest pieces in less than two minutes. His sobs shook his entire form as he moaned her name over and over again.

“Imoen... Imoen, I'm sorry.”

She sat down next to him, and Veldrin immediately embraced her. Whatever rage, whatever hatred, had been there earlier, was now complete wiped away. His strength was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and he could do nothing but sob into her shoulder as she tried to comfort him.

“I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't want to hurt you.”

“I know,” she answered quietly, cradling him in her arms. “It's okay. I understand.”

“I love you.”

Imoen leaned back, guiding him to lay his head against her chest as she held him and whispered soothingly into his hair. “Sssh; try to go to sleep. You'll feel better tomorrow.”

“I love you, Imoen,” he murmured weakly. “I love you so much.”

A sudden flower of warmth filled her chest, and her eyes now welled with tears of their own. “I know, Cassie,” she whispered, pressing her lips against his forehead and squeezing him as tight as she could. “Believe me, I know.”

“How... touching.”

Imoen's eyes flashed open at the sound of Phaere's voice. The Despana noble stood next to the long granite wardrobe that housed the pair's belongings, examining one of Imoen's scrolls with interest. A handful of guards – six of them – had entered the room as well, and now ringed the bed with bristling metal and stern gazes. Inolin attempted to sit up, but Veldrin's still-sleeping form, half atop her, made it impossible. He stirred only briefly at the disturbance.

“How did you–”

“Get in?” The woman's bright crimson eyes glanced over, accompanied by a small smirk on her wine-dark lips. “It's not polite to lock one's door against one's employer, but I forgive you – this time,” Phaere informed her, placing the scroll back in its place. She now turned her attention fully to the prone pair, crossing her arms across her chest and leaning back against the dresser. “Both still fully clothed,” she observed with a delicate arch of one brow, then, as her nose wrinkled: “What is that smell?”

Inolin pushed Veldrin off her and quickly got to her feet. “I apologize, Phaere. We thought that we had been given time to rest, and Veldrin... overindulged.”

“So I've heard.” Her expression hardened as her eyes fell on Veldrin's bleary, half-awake form. “Get him up.”

The Despana soldiers seized Veldrin's arms, forcibly hauling him out of the bed. The man's befuddled lethargy was rapidly replaced by alarm. Inolin quickly moved to intercept them before a more physical reaction manifested.

“Don't.” Phaere's sharp warning was accompanied by one dark hand in the middle of Inolin's chest, holding her back.

“What's going on?” Inolin demanded.

“It seems that Veldrin caused quite a disturbance last night – more damage than I'd think one man was capable of,” the First Daughter replied, giving Inolin a small push backwards. “I have heard nothing complaints since daystart. I've soothed the loudest of them with palms full of gold, but it is... inconvenient. I do not like to be inconvenienced.”

The guards had managed to wrestle Veldrin to the door and now forced him out into the hallway beyond. He struggled.

“I can explain–” he began.

“I certainly hope so,” Phaere interrupted coldly. “We'll talk. Alone,” she specified as Inolin moved to follow, and three additional guards moved in to block the mage's advance.

This time it was Inolin who attempted to interject. “Phaere, wait–”

Phaere followed Veldrin and his Despana escorts out of the room. He tried to see around her, tried desperately to catch Inolin's eyes and find some clue or reassurance, but it was impossible. The door was blocked by Phaere's body, and his sister was nowhere to be seen.

“You'll get your pet back soon enough,” Phaere informed the unseen female as the door slid closed, sealing her and three of the soldiers inside. “And maybe next time you'll keep him on a shorter leash.”

Veldrin had stopped struggling. His head pounded like a herd of horses in the aftermath of the drink and even the faint light from the faerie-fire markings around the tavern was enough to force him to squint his eyes. Phaere regarded him with disgust.

“Get him clean and sober,” she instructed her soliders, “and then bring him to me. Oh, and Veldrin...” She raised the haft of her snake-headed whip, using the butt against his chin to gain his full attention. “If you so much as breathe in a way that my guards do not like, I will have you bound, gagged, and thrown to the driders. Understood?”

He nodded, and she seemed satisfied.

“One hour,” she over her shoulder as she walked away. “Don't be late.”

The guards pushed him forward, and Veldrin mutely fell into step. His occasional glances behind him, back to the door and his sister somewhere behind it, were met with brandished weapons and orders not to turn around. It was still early morning, judging from the faerie-fire clock in the distant center of the city – a fact which immediately explained why his stomach was still twisted in knots and his head throbbed with every step. Even a Bhaalspawn body had limits on how much alcohol it could withstand.

The very motion of walking hurt, and soon Veldrin found himself staring at the walkway instead. The smooth, black granite was a welcome change from the hurrying slaves, sudden drop-offs, and assorted glows, magical and non-, that made up the normal city view. He walked as directed, trying both to think and not-think about the night before. Phaere had heard something; what, exactly, he wasn't sure. If she had questions, he'd have to answer them. He wasn't sure that he could admit what he'd done – what he'd almost done – without his stomach emptying itself once more in protest. And if she asked why, what could he answer? Nothing with Imoen's name. A lie would be dangerous, though, if it was discovered.

The Despana mansion was huge: the second-largest building in Ust Natha, surpassed in size and ornateness only by the Temple of Lolth itself. The exterior guards parted as their cohorts approached, and Veldrin was led inside. News of his impending arrival had evidently preceded him: a line of six servants stood ready just inside the entrance, armed to the teeth with brushes, towels, perfumes, and gods only knew what else. He was immediately pulled aside into a small side chamber, where a steaming tub of water awaited.

The next fifteen minutes passed in a flurry of hands and motion. The servants stripped off his soiled garments and forced him into the bath, scrubbing and washing him with soapy cloths until every crevice of his body was clean. Once the headmaster was satisfied, Veldrin was dried off and anointed with scented sprays before given a clean pair of breeches. A new tunic was not among the accessories provided, but a layer of warm oil smeared over his arms, chest, and torso served as an unexpected replacement.

Phaere's personal quarters were impressive, and fully in line with her status as the First Daughter of Ust Natha's most powerful House. The interior was richly decorated with fine tapestries and paintings done in elaborate drow fashion: embroidered and embellished with tiny magical enhancements and bioluminescent threads that glowed faintly in the darkness. The different hues of heat and light produced a beautiful weave of radiation that was carefully and selectively blended into the natural shadows of the room. Wooden furniture – rare in the Underdark – was present in copious amounts, as were pottery and vases of glass, ceramic, and china. There could be no doubt that whoever lived here was among the most elite of Ust Natha's inhabitants.

The First Daughter herself stood next to one of the large bookcases, a thick tome in her hands, and glanced over briefly as the door opened and Veldrin stepped inside. A small smile curved her lips.

“Ah... it is you again.”

Veldrin said nothing, instead bowing slightly. The herbal concoction forced on him in the hallway had settled both his head and his stomach, but it had done nothing for his nerves. Under normal circumstances being called away privately, without Inolin, wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest – but these were not normal circumstances. How much damage he'd done in the tavern the night before, and exactly what details had reached Phaere's ears, he wasn't sure. She knew enough to be displeased, however, and he'd not yet forgotten the sight of her displeasure on Soulafein's scarred and bloody back the week before.

“You're lucky that my mood is improved, male,” she stated offhandedly as she closed the book and slid it back into place. “I was pondering having you tortured for my amusement, but the whim has passed.”

He bowed again, deeper this time, trying to fall back into his drowish character. “I am not worthy of your kindness.”

“No, you are not, but spare me the empty platitudes. Your little display last night was impressive, but stupid. Tell me why you thought it a wise idea to assault the citizens of this city, Veldrin. Do you think you're above our laws?”

Drow have laws? He certainly hadn't seen any evidence of that in the weeks of the masquerade. “Of course not, Mistress. I have no excuse for my behavior.”

She arched an eyebrow and walked towards him. Her more formal attire from earlier had been replaced with a long, sheer white gown that clung to her skin like the spidersilk it resembled. One side was split up to her hip, and as she approached the smooth, black skin of her thigh glimmered from under the fabric.

“No excuse?” she repeated curiously.

“No, Mistress.”

“Not even your misguided lust for the human?”

The reminder, even as blessedly bland as it was, made him wince. “That was... a mistake.”

“Mm. I see.” Phaere now was within arm's reach, and she circled him with slow steps. He turned his head to keep her in view, unwilling to let the spider go unseen.

“The only reason you are still alive is because I find you useful, Veldrin,” she commented as she walked. “But even your usefulness does not make you invulnerable. You may be the champion of House Despana, but if you insist on acting foolish, our favor will be withdrawn – and without our favor, even your impressive fighting skills will not be enough to save you. You have made a great many enemies.”

She came to face him again, an arm's length apart, looking up at him with bold self-assurance despite his greater height and mass. Phaere trembled before no one, especially not a male – and very especially not a powerful male.

“You are going to make it worth my time to have covered your mistakes, my dear Veldrin,” she informed him. “And I hope for your sake that you are as talented in the bedroom as on the battlefield.”

He balked as she took his hand and turned to lead him towards her bedchamber. “Most Honored Phaere... is this really necessary?”

Annoyance flashed through her crimson eyes. “Of course it is necessary, fool. The fact that I command it makes it necessary.”

Directly refusing her was impossible: no Drow male would dare deny a female's desires, much less those of the Despana's First Daughter. If he was to maintain Lady Adalon's charade, it would require a more subtle approach. Unfortunately, subtle approaches didn't seem to be his area of strength.

He stopped once more at the bedroom doorway. It was decorated simply but effectively with paintings with bold, dramatic lines and small sculptures made of precious metals and gemstones. Inside lay a large and luxurious bed.

“Phaere, I–” He searched desperately for some manner of excuse that sounded plausible, but none presented itself. “I can't,” he settled on dejectedly. “I'm sorry, I can't.”

The impact of her hand across his cheek echoed through the room and left an angry, stinging imprint on his flesh. “You dare tell me that, when last night you had to be dragged away from soiling yourself with a common slave? You would rut like a beast between human thighs but refuse the First Daughter of Despana?”

“No! You misunderstand me,” he hurried to assure her. “But I belong to another, Mistress. Should she discover this–”

Phaere's eyes narrowed, but this time her expression was one of spiteful amusement. “That sorceress you travel with? You needn't worry about her. We females understand that, under certain circumstances, one must give up their toys.”

“But Inolin–”

“Inolin is not here,” Phaere reminded him sharply, then, in a softer, more coaxing tone: “Put her out of your mind, dear Veldrin. She has more than enough male companionship during your absence.”

Veldrin's mind flashed back to the muddled confusion of his awakening: Phaere's entry; being forced outside by the guards; Inolin trying to follow. Three of the Despana lackeys had held her back, and when the stone door had finally closed, all three had still been inside. His mouth went dry. What instructions had Phaere given them? What was going on, now that he was away?

“If she's hurt–”

“That, Veldrin, depends on you.”

You're drow, Cass. Play the part, damn you. Phaere was watching him intently. The stupid or careless never lived long enough in drow society to become powerful and feared, and she was second only to Matron Andulace herself in this city. He could not make the mistake of judging her as he would a human or an elf. Any risk was too much of one when dealing with such a viper.

“If she's hurt, I'll have her whip on my back for a week,” he finished, faking a smile. “A fate I'd prefer to avoid. But what she doesn't know won't hurt me.”

“Excellent." Phaere smiled as well. "I shall show you, my dark Veldrin, why an evening with me is worth more than an eternity with another woman.” She attempted to lead him to the bed once again, and this time he followed. “Come. I am anxious to begin.”

Could he perform? Veldrin watched her as she unclasped the small hooks at the shoulder of her dress and let it fall gracefully to the floor. It stirred no emotion this time, despite her attractiveness. As Cassandra he'd had precious little sexual experience, mostly limited to awkward teenage trysts. Surely Phaere would notice.

"There is one more thing I'm curious about, Veldrin," she said, languidly walking over to him and reaching to unbutton the front of his tunic.

"And what is that, Mistress?"

"My spies have been quite busy after your unfortunate loss of judgement yesterday. So, tell me, Veldrin..." Her crimson eyes glanced up as she fixed him with a cruel and shallow smile. "Who is this 'Imoen' who fascinates you so?"

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 10 - "Crumbling Down"

This was bad.

Inolin sat on one side of the room's double bed, trying to control the ever-growing agitation inside her. Phaere and Veldrin had been gone nearly two hours, and the more time that ticked by, the more nervous she became. The Despana guards, in contrast, were as calm as a frozen lake. They'd spoken just enough to inform her that they weren't to be spoken to, before taking up residence in the various corners of the room. They were as still as wax sculptures and just about as interesting. A little conversation would have helped take her mind off things. She'd tried, of course; being told to shut up didn't mean that she was going to shut up. The soldiers were true to their word, though, and her repeated queries about where Veldrin was being taken and what Phaere had planned had been ignored.

Hopefully Cassie—Veldrin—was being just as tight-lipped. If he let one wrong word slip, if he forgot just one minor detail of their charade, the whole house of cards would come crashing down. She could only imagine what he'd done or said last night in his drunken stupor, and that imagination filled her with dread. She cursed herself for not keeping him awake, not pressing him for details, but even if she had the night to play over again, she wouldn't have done it any differently. Veldrin had needed her, and that always took first priority. She just prayed that it wouldn't backfire into something worse.

A sharp rap at the door made her jump. Even the guards started. One of them intercepted her with a scowl of warning as she reflexively stood up from the bed. She was suddenly seized by the decidedly non-drowish urge to stick her tongue out at him.

"Open the door," Phaere's voice, tense and irate, demanded from the other side.

The soldier nearest the portal immediately moved to comply. He had barely managed to disengage the lock when the stone slab was flung inwards. His involuntary shout of surprise was cut short with a grotesque crunch as his body forcibly stopped the door's motion. He slumped to the ground, his chest and face smashed flat, blood frothing from his nose and mouth.

Imoen jumped to her feet, only to duck down in pure reflex as something large and humanoid hurtled towards her. Phaere crashed into the stone dresser, shattering the mirrored back-panel and likely several of her bones as well.

Veldrin stepped into the room. His armor from earlier was gone, replaced by a simple pair of dark red leather breeches. His body shined with sweat and his eyes were wide and wild as they darted around the room.

The two remaining guards had recovered from the initial shock and now charged the unwelcome intruder with weapons drawn. Veldrin intercepted the first by sidestepping and lashing out with a vicious punch to the face that connected with an audible crack of bone. The second guard thrust his blade forward; Imoen let out an involuntary squeak of terror as it bit into Veldrin's side. The Bhaalspawn warrior grimaced, grabbing the drow's sword arm and wrenching him forward. It took only one small step for the male to come within Veldrin's reach, and the speed and strength of divine blood was impossible to counter. Veldrin's hands closed around the drow's head and snapped his neck with a single, lightning-quick twist.

"Veldrin!" Inolin darted forward. "What in the Nine Hells are you doing!?"

He turned towards the door and quickly shut it again. "Get your stuff," he ordered. "We need to leave."

"Well, we sure as Hell have to now!" she retorted angrily. "What the Hell is wrong with you? You just—Gods, you just killed the First Daughter of Despana! Not to mention three of her guards!"

He was already moving, shoving Phaere's body aside and ripping open the drawers of the dresser, throwing items apparently at random onto the bed. "She knew!" He grabbed their packs and threw them on the bed as well. "She knew your name! She—they—know who we are! We have to get out of here. Here." An armful of arcane scrolls landed on the bed, scattering in every direction. "Pick the best. Move!"

Inolin automatically scooped up the scrolls, but her rage was focused entirely on her brother. "Great! Just fucking great, Cass! You had to go drink yourself into a stupor and say something, didn't you? What the Hell are we supposed to do now? We can't fight an entire drow city, and if you think for one second they're just going to let you walk out after killing Phaere—"

"They don't know that yet."

"Well they'll sure as Hell figure it out!"

"I'm sorry, okay?" he shouted back. Inolin rolled her eyes. "Scream at me later; right now just pack your stuff and go!"

She gave him a dark glare, but the words had the desired effect. She quickly glanced through the scrolls and stuffed a half-dozen of them into the bag, along with a set of clothing and any odds and ends that seemed useful. Within two minutes their bags were crammed full and ready to go. Veldrin had shrugged on a shirt before shouldering his pack; now the small, dark stain of blood leaked through it from the wound in his side.

“Are you okay?" Imoen asked, slipping on her pack as well. “And what about your armor?"

“I’m fine.” His eyes tracked to the set of drow scalemail next to the bed, and Veldrin bit his lip indecisively. Going out in the Underdark without protection—assuming they got out of the city without any problems—was crazy, but it would take a good ten minutes to have the armor properly fitted, even with Imoen's help. The quicker they were out of Ust Natha, the less the chance that someone would suspect the Phaere's departure from her chamber had been under duress. And if someone came to check on them or found the bodies...

"Leave it," he said finally, picking up his sword and buckling it and its protective sheath around his hips. He would risk going unarmored, but there was no way he was going unarmed. "We don't have time."

Inolin nodded. She opened the door and peeked quickly outside. The coast was clear. She jerked her chin towards the world outside, gesturing for Veldrin to follow. Within seconds they were both on their way down the stairs, the door firmly closed behind them.

"What's the plan?" Inolin queried softly as they descended the staircase. They walked quickly but purposefully, trying not to make their haste too obvious. Her earlier anger was now muted, shoved aside by the necessity of keeping focused and calm. She could indeed scream at Veldrin later—and she fully planned on doing just that.

"Get out of the gates," he answered. He glanced around, registering the environment, watching for any signs of pursuit. So far there were none. He wasn't sure how many people were aware of Phaere's plan to seduce him, but the servants had seen him leave with her in tow, as had a few house guards. Only his hand on Phaere's waist and the numbing tendrils of Taint he'd threaded into her had ensured her cooperation. "Solufein mentioned a tunnel to the surface by the kuo-toa caves."

"Which requires going through the kuo-toa," Imoen pointed out.

"Maybe, but they're pretty easy kills."

"If there's less than five, sure, but if we walk into a nest of two hundred, we're screwed."

"Let's hope we don't."

Inolin arched an eyebrow but kept her silence. Veldrin seemed to have his head back on straight: clear-thinking and calm. Well, as calm as one could expect considering he'd just killed the second most important woman in a city full of drow. The chaos and crying of the night before was gone, although likely not forgotten. Hopefully he would stay stable until they reached the surface. Speaking of surface...

"What do we do when we get out?"

"What do you mean?"

They were almost to the bazaar. The wide, circular market was always filled to the brim with customers—or more usually, the customer's slaves. The merchants and craftsman were already in full swing: shouting, selling, haggling, and cursing as the tide of money ebbed and flowed. Drow, humans, elves, and goblins mixed and mingled, all with an air of vague sadness and fear that seemed so ever-present among the servantile class. Beyond the bazaar were the city gates; beyond that, freedom.

"Irenicus and Bodhi," Inolin reminded him. "We still have to find them, and right now Adalon's our only lead. She sure isn't going to help us if we skip town without her eggs."

He frowned, deftly sidestepping an overburdened kobold slave who was trudging home with a year's worth of embroidered fabrics strapped to his back. "I don't know," he admitted. "We'll find something."

"They aren't stupid, Vel. If they don't want to be found, they aren't going to found."

"I know where Bodhi's lair is—"

"Was," Imoen corrected. "If she's smart, she's not there anymore."

"Was," Veldrin said distractedly, accepting the correction. "I can check there. I have contacts in Athkatla. He's an elf; maybe the elves know—"

A loud, piercing chime broke through the air. Both siblings stopped in sudden confusion, then turned to each other with panicked understanding as they identified the sound. They'd heard it once before, when a cadre of mindflayers had teleported within the walls: a city-wide alarm.

"Run!"

Veldrin grabbed Inolin's arm and pulled her forward, but the mage was already moving. Something, somewhere, had been discovered. Whether or not the blame had been placed on them was unknown, but they couldn't risk sticking around to find out. Once the alarm sounded, the city went into lockdown: a defensive reaction against the threat of invasion. They had to reach the gates before they were closed and barred.

They sprinted through the crowd, eliciting scores of curses and yelled protests as they knocked aside sellers and shoppers alike. The resulting chaos, coupled with the alarm, quickly made the fleeing pair the focus of attention. A few brave bystanders tried to intercept them, but Veldrin was not inclined to heed their demands: a stiff arm or well-placed elbow sent them back into the crowd, howling in pain.

Spirals of blue-white energy swirled into existence near the gates as no less than five dimension doors materialized. The vague, shadowy forms within quickly solidified into a drow war party: a priestess of Lolth with short-cropped hair and rich purple robes, braced by four male fighters armed to the teeth with swords, hand crossbows, and polished platemail armor. Two of the males immediately split off, running to the gate's enormous stone pillars and running their hands over its surface. Intricate patterns of runes and icons lit up under their touch; the magic activation raced over the surface of the columns like cracks spiking across a frozen pond. Soon the entire gate glowed with arcane energy. The massive gates began to close.

The priestess raised her whip; the three viper-like heads hissed and writhed. "Stop!"

The fleeing pair didn't slow. The remaining two drow soldiers readied their weapons and charged forward with a cry of war. Veldrin growled and launched himself forward with all his strength, dodging around the first attacker's blade and slamming his fist into the man's chest. The metal of the armor groaned and distorted under the impact, leaving a grapefruit-sized dent. The force of the blow sent him sprawling on his back on the polished granite pavilion. The second male advanced as Inolin caught up from behind.

"Keep going," Veldrin ordered her, pushing her forward as she passed. "I'll catch up!"

"But—"

"Keep going!"

"No! You come, too!" she yelled, grabbing his arm. The two guards who had activated the gates had turned their attention back to the fugitives, and now had their hand crossbows loaded and knocked. The Lolthian priestess was chanting, but amidst the chaos of the interrupted bazaar and the shouts of the drow fighters, it was impossible for Imoen to identify what spell was being cast. When dealing with unknown magic, getting out of the way was the best defense. "Releuch stash teni!"

A glimmer of white light enveloped them as Inolin's dimension door took hold. There was a flicker of movement, a slowing of time, as the arcane weave shifted them into the Ethereal Plane and transported them some five hundred feet before shifting them back again. She was running before the spell had even completed, her feet becoming solid and gaining traction again as their forms became firm once more.

"Come on!"

Veldrin wasn't as quick to realize what had happened. Instead of a snarling drow opponent he now faced a familiar spiderweb bridge. The gates were gone; the sound of the marketplace dislocated and faint. He glanced reflexively over his shoulder. Ust Natha lay behind him, the mighty gates slowly but surely sealing it off from the world beyond. The drow war party had adjusted quickly and now their shouts announced that the chase was on.

"Veldrin!"

His sister's voice yanked his attention back to the bridge. She was poised at its mouth, gesturing at him frantically to follow. He was wasting the small, precious lead that she'd given them.

He ran forward. Even if he were to stop and fight, doing it in front of Ust Natha was suicide. One war party would be joined by a second; soon five opponents would be replaced by fifteen, then by thirty. They had to get out of range of the reinforcements and fight the battle on their own terms, if at all.

Inolin started running against as soon as he reached her. Together they sprinted across the bridge, heading deeper into the wilderness of the Underdark. The terrain just outside the city itself was familiar and safe, warded by protective glyphs and marked with wayrunes from centuries of use. They had traveled the paths a half-dozen times in their service to House Despana, and now they covered the ground in record time. They ran as quickly as possible; there was no time to think, no time to speak, no time to look back for signs of pursuit. The kuo-toa caverns were far to the west, through nearly four miles of increasingly hostile territory. If Soulafein was right—and if he was to be trusted—it was the only exit to the surface within a week's journey in any direction.

The path split in three as they neared the edge of Ust Natha territory. Inolin broke to the right, following Veldrin's form. The smoothed and worn rock of the drow paths gave way to jagged outcropping and fungus-covered ledges. The waysigns fell away as well, leaving the trail unmarked and unrecognizable save in the vague patterns of memory.

Something darted out of the darkness in a flurry of wings and leathery skin. Veldrin jerked back instinctively and tried to guard his face. Bats were a common nuisance—and common snack—in the underground caverns and grottos, but this one was nearly twice the size of any he'd seen before. It flapped around erratically, making high-pitched noises that he suddenly realized were speech.

"Where you go!" it demanded, looping around in the air once more and coming to a rough, awkward hover in front of him. The rough-scaled skin was a dull brick red, and the shape that of a miniature dragon, no more than a foot and a half in length. A long, whip-like tail lashed back and forth in agitation. "Where you go!"

"What the Hell?" Veldrin scowled and tried to bat it away, but the thing kept circling and looping back, darting in front of him no matter which way he turned.

"Why you run away!" it screeched angrily. "Lady Adalon watch you! You no run until she has eggs back!"

Inolin had closed the distance again and now stood just behind her brother, her chest heaving from exertion. "Pseudodragon,” she gasped between ragged breaths.

Veldrin tried to dodge around it again, but the flurry of wings and stinging strike of the tail drove him back. A growl and a quick, vicious backhand, connecting with the sound of flesh against old leather, sent the creature hurtling back into the shadows with an ear-piercing shriek.

"Go!" He pushed Inolin forward, casting a glance over his shoulder as he did. The blurry, heat-red forms of their pursuers were entirely too close for his liking.

"I can't," she protested, shaking her head. Her physical condition had improved somewhat with three weeks of regular meals and nightly sleep, but the damage of her earlier starvation was not so easily undone. "Need to catch my breath."

"I'll carry you."

Her objection was cut off as Veldrin scooped her up and slung her over his shoulder. He was off again, starting off at a quick jog and quickly gaining speed as he adjusted to Inolin's additional weight. Behind them the shrill, angry screams of the pseudodragon drowned out the sounds of pursuit.

"Not comfy!" Inolin squeaked between oofs as the repeated up-and-down jostling forced the air from her lungs.

"Sorry; need my sword hand free."

A long, low rumble rolled through the cavern. It grew quickly, transforming from a background growl into an earth-shaking roar of rage. Somewhere in the darkness, Lady Adalon was displeased.

"Cassie! Run faster!"

"Is there a dragon behind me?"

"Not yet." She didn't bother commenting that half a dozen drow were behind them. Although the Ust Natha guards were still chasing them, they were steadily falling further and further behind. They must have ran at least half a mile before Veldrin had picked her up, and even the best conditioned soldiers couldn't run indefinitely weighted down with swords and metal armor. Veldrin was less encumbered—well, except for a hundred-odd pounds of little sister—and had the advantage of Bhaalspawn strength and speed. Never in Imoen's life had she been so thankful that Cassie was half-divine.

Veldrin didn't slow as they passed the junction near the svirfneblin village. Two breachgnomes on patrol near the northern bridge watched them pass with small, suspicious eyes. They passed through a thick, overgrown field of fungi, smashing and toppling them rudely over in a cloud of spores and dust. Cave lizards darted out of the way; spiders big and small kept their distance. Veldrin's hot, labored breath and the rapid pounding of his footsteps formed the background of their flight. His lips had drawn back in a grimace of effort; his heart thundered and his muscles burnt in protest. Abruptly, with no warning, something in his system overloaded, and the entire world went black as his vision failed.

He skidded to a stop, extending his free hand out in front of him. There was nothing. Darkness as thick and palpable as soup surrounded him in a sea of void.

"Whoa! What happened?" Imoen demanded from over his shoulder. "Can you see anything, Cass?"

"I'm blind."

"Shit," the mage hissed. "They blinded us. No, wait." Her thoughts raced, calling up formulas, numbers, and tables. Blindness had a far too limited range; darkness required touch. The drow weren't anywhere near close enough to have cast either of them. Was it Adalon? Had the silver dragon come to avenge their betrayal? "Put me down."

Veldrin did so, and somewhere in the darkness he could hear Inolin rustling through her pockets. She cursed, muttering under her breath, as she searched frantically for the right components. Seconds ticked past, each one stealing with it precious time.

Leave her. The Bhaal essence unfurled slowly, with serpentine grace, and whispered the suggestion in his mind. The mental image of him running easily and free, while Imoen disappeared in the darkness.

No.

She is weak; leave her.

I need her. I can't even see.

You don't want to see, it corrected with a hiss.

A small light blinked into existence, held by a small, pale human hand. Veldrin's eyes raced up: a cream-hued arm, cloaked by the deep, scarlet folds of a mage's robe; a youthful, familiar face framed by shoulder-length auburn hair. Her gray-green eyes stared at him with shock.

"This is so not-good," Imoen moaned in dismay.

The older sibling looked down at his—her—own hands. They were Sword Coast white, not drow black. Her chest once again filled out her shirt. Adalon's spell was gone—and with it, apparently, their drowish eyesight as well. Getting out of the Underdark had just gotten a lot more complicated.

There was no point in giving Adalon—or the drow—a chance to make things even worse. Cassie picked Imoen up again, over her squeal of protest.

"Hey! I can run!"

"Not as fast as I can," the fighter pointed out.

The kuo-toa caverns loomed ahead. Small spiked poles appeared, jammed into the more earthy areas of ground, and were topped with heads of a dozen different species. Half-decayed goblins, mummified drow, and skeletal humans stared at the intruders in silent warning. There was no clear line, no absolute border that separated the kuo-toa land from the rest of the Underdark, but the scattered heads made the message clear: don't come any further.

Cassie ignored it; she had no other choice. The path ascended sharply, rising into the blackness towards an unknown end. She gritted her teeth, digging her feet in for traction and forcing them both upwards. After nearly two hundred yards of climb the path leveled out again, splitting off into a dozen tiny footpaths marked by scores of webbed feet.

The faster they were through here, the less chance they had of being spotted. Cassie broke back into a run, following the main way: a flat, gradually rising expanse of earth scattered with broken stones and pebbles. As the path continued, it grew steadily steeper once more. Soon her muscles were burning from the effort of scaling the rocky trail and her lungs laboring in vain to draw enough air. After nearly three miles of running at top speed, even her enhanced stamina was being pushed to the limit.

Her steps faltered; she stumbled, catching herself against a nearby stalagmite. She braced herself against it, gasping for breath; her vision flickered and swum as the thunder in her chest threatened to explode. She had to slow down, stop, and recover.

"Put me down, Cass," Imoen demanded. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"Fine." They had to keep going. Stopping meant death. She pushed herself away from the rock and forced her legs to move. "I'm fine."

Leave her, the Voice hissed again. She is useless.

Shut up.

You can go faster without her.

"Shut the Hell up."

"What?"

Cassie shook her head. "Nothing." She was almost to the top of the rise; at the edges of the light, the floor leveled out once more. She bared her teeth and focused on the point. Another fifteen steps brought her to the top, and there she finally collapsed. Imoen wriggled off her shoulder as Cassie rolled over on her back to catch her breath. "Is there anyone behind us?"

Imoen glanced down the crooked, stone-strewn incline. There was nothing, save the endless wasteland of cold, gray rock. "No."

"Then maybe you should look in front," said an angry feminine voice.

Cassandra's eyes flashed forward, locking on the sight of a huge metallic object, easily twice as wide as she was, rushing down towards her head. She instinctively rolled to the side, doubting even as she did so that she would be able to gain the clearance necessary to avoid being crushed. The tail crashed into the ground, sending up an explosion of dust and vibrating the entire cavern to its very core. A numbing pain shot through both of Cassie's legs; she bit her lips against the urge to scream and tasted blood as her teeth pierced her own flesh.

"Cassie!" Imoen had avoided the impact by letting herself slide down the path; now she scrambled back to the top.

The tail was rising again; its thick, silver length snaked out from behind an equally massive body. Adalon was hunkered down in the narrow confines of the passage, her wings folded tight against her body in order to fit. The dragon's emerald eyes glittered with rage.

"Run!" Cassandra shouted. Imoen darted over to her, but the warrior pushed her away. "Run!"

"No! Cassie!"

"Run!" The tail was poised. Cassie grabbed Imoen with both hands and shoved her as hard as she could. It launched her forward nearly fifty feet and sent her sprawling to the floor between Adalon's muscular, clawed forelegs just as the tail crashed down again.

"Cassie!" Imoen scrambled to her feet. Nothing could be seen through the cloud of dirt and debris and the mass of draconic flesh. She held the sleeve of her robe over her mouth and nose to filter out the dust as she screamed Cassie's name again. "Cassie!"

There was no answer.

Adalon's massive body shifted as the dragon tried to turn herself in the narrow tunnel. Imoen jerked backwards as the huge, taloned foot next to her lifted and flexed. A low rumble filled the cavern once more, mixed with an ominous chorus of cracking and groaning stone. A chunk of shale sheered off from the wall and shattered into dozen pieces. Another quickly followed, then a third; each block larger than the last. The cavern was collapsing.

Imoen ran. It was the only thing she could do. She tore herself away and sprinted between Adalon's legs, relying on the dragon's bulk to protect her from the falling rocks, and the rocks to protect her from the dragon. She cast as she ran, fumbling for components in her robe and trying desperately to keep ahold of them with her sweat-slicked fingers. Stoneskins and true sight were followed by obscuring mist, and hopefully a few extra seconds' lead.

The path remained blessedly level as she fled onwards. Here and there in the shadows stood small mud huts next to pools of putrid, foul-smelling water, but their kuo-toan occupants—if there were any—left her unmolested. The fish-men were cowards at the best of times, and no doubt Adalon's appearance and the subsequent cave-in had sent them scattering in all directions.

The main path turned north, and she followed it blindly. Behind her, the sound of falling rock had subsided, and Adalon had gone ominously quiet. No roars of anger, no thrashing or scraping of scale against stone. Was she dead? Was Cassie dead?

No. Don't think about that! The image refused to be shaken, and Imoen couldn't resist the need to glance behind her. Maybe, just maybe—

There was nothing. No Cassie, no Adalon.

Run. Cassie's final words echoed in her mind, and Imoen tore her eyes away. She had to reach the surface. There she could plan; she could find help, mount a rescue mission, come back and—and something. She'd think of something.

The tunnel curved once more to the west, opening into a large, hollow chamber that was alive with chaos. Shouts and explosions echoed off the walls; torches, mage lights, and the crackle of spellfire spawned demonic shadows that leapt from place to place. Fighting figures: some dressed in green-tinted armor and flowing white robes; others the familiar black skin, white hair, and purple armor. Swords flashed, spraying blood across the rocks; enchantments flickered; military commands and divine chants filled the air. Imoen ducked behind a boulder, her heart pounding. Had the Ust Natha patrol somehow gotten in front of them?

No. The figures were fighting each other.

Realization dawned, and Imoen darted forward again. Elves. Wild elves. If there were wild elves in the Underdark, then the tunnel to the surface must be nearby.

The conflict was focused around one central point: a shadow-shrouded passageway leading further to the north. She ran for it, weaving around dead and dying bodies, dodging blood- and sweat-soaked warriors. Booms of thunder rocked the cavern as lightening bolt and flame strike arced through the air.

The elves were losing. Too many of the fallen bodies had pale skin and blond hair; little by little, the survivors were forced to yield ground. Imoen ducked, stumbled, and fell to her knees as the crackle of arcane energy split the air above her head. She hissed a curse as jagged rocks and pebbles cut into her knees and the palms of her hands.

A hand seized her arm and hauled her to her feet. She whirled around and came face to face with a grim-faced elven soldier, his eyes wide in shock as he registered that the person he'd grabbed was human, not drow. He recovered quickly; the sword in his hand, aimed for her throat, went back to his side instead.

"Get out!" he shouted in Elvish over the roar of war. "We're retreating!"

She didn't need to be told twice. Most of the elves were breaking away as well, relying on the mages and cleric to slow down pursuit as they fled back to the surface. The drow warriors closed in, but a steady barrage of slow, acid fog, and move earth held them, temporarily, at a distance. Imoen fled with the rest, running into the tunnel and merging with the mass of armored, bloody bodies.

Ahead there was sunlight. The tiny, almost imperceptible glow of light grew larger and brighter with every footstep. The scent of fresh air and smoke wafted down the tunnel from the surface world up above. A series of soldiers manned the sides of the tunnel, shouting directions, pulling those who stumbled back to their feet and pushing them towards safety.

"Go! Go! Go!"

The tunnel curved sharply, and the pure, sharp sunlight suddenly struck Imoen blind. She stumbled, only to be grabbed by firm hands and pulled the rest of the way. The touch of sun on her skin was burning hot after being so long confined in cells and caverns. The hands released her without warning; she stumbled, falling to hands and knees. Beneath her hands were long, cool blades of grass.

Her eyesight returned gradually. She was outside: an alien landscape of blue sky and towering trees. The wide, yawning mouth of a cave gaped behind, vomiting up scores of battered and beaten elves, their elegant green armor fouled with blood and gore. Around the cave stood a half-circle of elven war-mages, chanting and casting in unison. Each syllable, each motion, was perfectly synchronized; the air stank of magic and crackled with gathered energy.

A tall, blond man, his tabard bearing a commander's insignia, grabbed hold of one of the soldiers who had just exited the cave. "How many are still in there?"

"Thirty," he gasped. "At least thirty."

"Shit. Three minutes!" the commander bellowed. "Three minutes and we collapse the tunnel! Get everyone out!"

The flow of fleeing soldiers continued, but groups of four or five now became a trickle of one or two. Imoen counted as they came out. Five. Seven. Eight. Ten.

"Two minutes!" The thirteenth found his way out. Over fifteen of his comrades were still mired in the depths.

"Imoen!"

Her head jerked up as her heart leapt into her throat. “Cassie?”

At the bottom of the tunnel was a small, faint figure, lacking the metallic glitter of armor. They struggled, trying to scale the incline.

"Cassie!" Imoen raced forward, but a score of gauntleted hands grabbed her and hauled her back. “Let me go! That's my sister!"

"You can't go back in there!"

"One minute!"

"No!" Imoen yelled. "Don't collapse it! Not yet!"

The mages continued chanting; the dull monotone of the holding pattern now rose in pitch and volume. They were casting. Cassie was on her feet, running towards the surface. She wouldn't be fast enough.

"Cassie!" She yelled the name as loud as she could, throwing herself forward against the prison of hands. Tears of fear and panic traced hot, saline paths down her cheeks. "Cassie, run!"

The red-headed warrior was nearly half way, darting around obstacles with impossible speed and agility. There was no way a human could move that fast, not even Cassandra.

"What the Hell is that thing?" someone demanded.

She's changing, Imoen realized. She lacked elven eyes to see into the darkness, but she could imagine what they saw. Cassie was changing, tapping into the power of the Taint in a race against time.

"Now! Kill the tunnel!"

"No! No, you can't!"

The chant completed; the mouth of the cave groaned and rumbled as the greater stoneshape warped the very fabric of the earth. Chunks of the tunnel ceiling crashed the ground as the entire passageway shrank and folded in on itself. The figure within dodged around them, still over a hundred yards from freedom.

"Cassie!" Imoen struggled wildly, kicking and clawing, but the soldiers held her firm. The structural integrity of the rock finally gave way, and the entire system collapsed in a landslide of stone and earth. The ground continued to reverberate as shockwaves echoed into the caverns underneath.

"No! Cassie!"

It was done. The cave—and everything inside it—was gone.

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 11 - "Light"

A faint glow of reddish light manifested in the darkness. It grew slowly, gradually absorbing the blackness until there was nothing else left. In the middle of the red appeared a sliver of white. She blinked; the sliver expanded into a round globe for a split-second before winking out of existence entirely. Another blink and it returned, this time muddied with colors of green, red, and brown. The vague blurs became smudges; smudges became lines; lines became shapes. The world around her came into slow, inevitable focus and revealed a smiling, familiar face.

"Hey," Imoen smiled, leaning forward over her. "You're awake."

Her head felt like it'd been cracked open and stuffed full of cotton. "Am I?"

"Looks like."

Cassandra closed her eyes again. The world disappeared, leaving her with a vague feeling of nausea as the blackness rushed in to replace it. She forced them back open before the sensation of sickness could rise into her throat. "Where are we?"

"In a tent, in the Forest of Tethir."

Cassie tried to lever herself up on her elbows to look around, but Imoen gently yet firmly pushed her back down. "A tent?"

"Yup."

"Tethir?"

"Yup." The sorceress shook her head as Cassie tried once more to rise; her steady hand on the warrior's chest again forbade the movement. "Nuh-uh. Stay put."

It seemed a reasonable enough suggestion, considering the sluggish fog in her head. Cassie lay back down and breathed in slowly. The air was fresh and cool, smelling of faint rain and greenery – a strange, foreign odor after so long underground. Around her were pale linen walls, propped up on tall wooden staves, lashed together by leather cording: an actual physical tent, not one crafted by Imoen's magery. Sunlight shone through from outside, flooding the shelter with soft beige light. It hurt her eyes.

"How long have I been unconscious?" she asked, looking over at her sibling. "The last thing I remember is—" Her mind flashed backwards, filling her thoughts with screams and scenes of violence. The fighting pits, the argument with Imoen, the red-headed servant girl crying and begging to be left alone. Phaere smiling seductively and leading him – her – to the bedroom. Panic. Running. Thunder. Blackness. The sound of the end of the world. "—screaming," she finished softly. "Just screaming."

Imoen reached out, smoothing the red waves of Cassie's hair out of her eyes. Her lips bore a small, sad smile. "Four days."

"Four?" She sighed. "Damn."

"The elves collapsed the tunnel after they dragged me out," Imoen explained. "Had to; it was the only way to seal off the drow. You were still inside." She brushed back another rogue strand. "The leader—Elhan—he wanted to just leave you there, but apparently I'm pretty convincing when I'm hysterical. I think I invented more Elven curses in that one hour than Elhan had heard in his whole life."

The corner of Cassie's mouth tilted in a knowing smile.

"So they dug you out. It took until noon the next day. You were about halfway through the Slayer change when it collapsed; I'm guessing that's why you survived at all. The battle mages slapped every restraint spell they had on you, even though you were barely breathing and had lost enough blood to feed every vampire in Faerun. I went into hysterics again, and Elhan set his healers on you mostly just to shut me up."

"Poor guy."

The gray-eyed sorceress smiled. "Hush. I'm not that bad."

"I beg to differ. So does Elhan."

"Hush," she repeated, giving Cassie a light tap on the cheek. "I'm telling a story. Anyways, so yeah: they spend the next two days chanting and rubbing you with gods only know how many types of poultices and herbs. Yesterday morning Elhan said he couldn't delay anymore and called them off. The elves packed up and left to go back to Suldanessellar. They let me keep the tent, and I stayed here with you."

"The end?"

"And then you woke up. The end."

"I love happy endings."

"Dork." Imoen curled her fingers around Cassandra's hand and squeezed tightly. Her smile widened as Cassie squeezed back. "How do you feel?"

The fog had receded; the light had somehow dimmed to a bearable intensity. "Decent, all things considered."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Cassie studied Imoen's face. She was human again, now that Adalon's spell had been broken: dark auburn hair grown down to her shoulders; the pale, cream-colored skin dappled with freckles here and there. Gray-green eyes danced with vitality, but the shadow of sadness dimmed their shine. A lack of sleep and excess of worry were clearly visible in the faint, dark circles underneath, even through her happiness.

"What's wrong, Im?"

"Huh? Who said something's wrong?"

"You don't have to say it; I can see it."

Imoen's smile slowly faded. "My aura?"

Cassie shook her head. "No, just sisterly insight."

Her hand withdrew from Cassandra's as she breathed in deeply and sighed. "You always could see right through me." She rubbed her eyes, then ran her fingers through her hair, sighing again. "Wanna go to the lake?"

"Huh?"

"There's a lake nearby," Imoen repeated, tilting her chin towards the world beyond the tent walls. "Y'know, sunshine and fresh air."

That was a change of subject. "Sounds nice, I guess."

"Good. 'Cause we need to talk."

The lake was tucked away next to an aspen grove, shadowed by the thin, towering trees and glittering under leaves of yellow, orange, and gold. The white-dappled trunks were reflected almost perfectly in the clear, still water, broken only occasionally by the ripple of a hungry fish darting to the surface. The landscape smelled of life: rich, fertile earth and the subtle sharpness of autumn grass. The sun hovered bright and high in the western sky, offsetting the chill of the gentle northern breeze. Birds called forth to each other in melodious, trilling songs: leafbirds, sparrows, and warblers.

They sat in silence near the edge of the bank. Imoen sat between Cassie's legs, leaning back against her sister for support while the latter's arms rested around her waist. The mage was still clad in the drowish clothing she'd worn on their last day in the Underdark, as was Cassandra. Somewhere in the four missing days, though, the clothing had been cleaned and restored to something near its former finery.

It'd been so long since they'd been among nature – for Imoen even more so than Cassandra – that for the first half-hour they simply sat there, mesmerized by the simple majesty of it all. Serene, tranquil, calm: they were words strange words nowadays, words that they'd had far too little cause to use in the chaos of their lives. Here, though, it was almost perfect. Perfectly peaceful, perfectly relaxing... almost.

"Your eyes are black, you know," Imoen informed her softly. Her voice was so muted, so gentle, that it seemed she was almost afraid of breaking the lake's hypnotic beauty.

Cassie tilted her head. "Black?"

"From the Slayer change." She didn't turn around, made no attempt to move away. "Your eyes turn black, then your body starts changing. Your skin turns kinda gray, you grow horns and all that stuff. The first time you changed, you changed back pretty quick. The second time you did, but your eyes didn't—it took a few hours. This time, though, they're black. Completely." A small pause. "I think it's permanent."

Cassie pursed her lips. "I don't feel any different."

"Do you see any different?"

A quick glance around. All the colors were right; the shapes were right. Shadows fell where they were supposed to. "Not that I've noticed."

Imoen gave a small shrug of her shoulders. "I dunno, Cass. I'm no priest; give me a spellbook and some components and I'll knock your socks off, but demons, devils, and dead gods aren't my thing." She sighed, instinctively taking the warrior's hand in hers and lacing their fingers together. "I'm worried about you, you know. I really am."

"I know," Cassie responded quietly. "I'm worried, too."

"You can't keep this up. You're losing control."

"I know."

"I'm not even sure who you are anymore," Imoen admitted. "I mean, are you Cassie, or are you Veldrin? Are you you or are you Bhaal? And if you're okay today, then what about tonight? Or tomorrow, or next week?" She bit her lip; in the past four days she'd turned the thoughts over and over again in her mind, but now they jostled and crammed into one another, fighting for the chance to be expressed. "You scare me, Cass. Sometimes you really scare me."

"I know." Cassie sighed, squeezing Imoen's fingers. "Maybe... maybe you should leave. Maybe I should leave."

"What??" Imoen half-turned in surprise, fixing Cassandra with a shocked glance. "Are you nuts? No way."

"None of this would have happened to you if you'd have stayed in Candlekeep," she pointed out. "I'm a walking death sentence, Im, whether I mean to be or not. Gorion's dead, Jaheira, Xan–everyone. You'd be better off alone."

Imoen shook her head. "It wouldn't solve anything."

"But you could go back to Nashkel—"

"Boring."

"—or Candlekeep—"

She rolled her eyes. "Even worse."

"—or Baldur's Gate," Cassandra persisted stubbornly. "Start over. You'd be safe." Safe from me.

"No, I wouldn't," Imoen argued. "I'm Bhaalspawn, too, Cassie: as soon as someone figures that out, they'll be after me with pitchforks and torches. And I don't blame them. If you weren't my sister, I wouldn't've thought twice about killing you."

A faint, wry smile ghosted across her lips. "I appreciate your restraint."

Imoen glanced over her shoulder and gave Cassie a dark look. "That Slayer thing? Seriously freaky, Cass."

"I was just joking."

She turned back around, her attention returning to the scenery. "You shouldn't laugh about it."

"It's either that or cry."

Imoen didn’t answer, at least not immediately. Her typically carefree, devil-may-care attitude was absent, as it was all too often in the last months. The events of Baldur's Gate, the darkness and bloody struggles they'd been through — they were taking their toll. It'd always seemed impossible that Imoen would ever grow up, but now it was happening. Perhaps it was inevitable, but Cassie a pang of loss nonetheless. If Imoen had to grow up, she would have wished it in a more pleasant way than this.

“You remember what I said in Spellhold?” the sorceress asked.

“You said a lot of things in Spellhold.”

“When I said that if I was gonna to die, I’d rather die with you.”

She remembered. The simple poignancy of the statement was impossible to forget. “Yes.”

“I meant it.”

“I know you did.”

“No, you don’t know. I mean it,” Imoen said with quiet determination. “I know you wanna protect me. I know you’re all ‘big sister’ and ‘hero’ and all that. But you can’t protect me, not anymore. And I don’t want you to.”

Cassie bit her lip, an uncomfortable tightness gripping her chest. “Imoen—“

“No, Cass. Listen to me. Things have happened. Things have changed.”

“Because of me.”

“Because of life," Imoen corrected. "Because of what we are." She squeezed Cassandra’s hand reassuringly, offering a small smile. “It doesn’t mean you’re a failure. It just means that there’s things out there that are bigger than you. ”

“I have to try, though,” Cassie countered. “I know I can’t protect you against everything, but I have to try. I hate seeing you get hurt. I hate even the thought that it might happen."

“It’s not your decision, Cass,” Imoen informed her firmly. “How do you think I feel, when some monster rips you open? I meant what I said: if I’m going to die, I want to do it with you. Not before you, not after you: with you. I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself for me, Cassie,” she said. “You’re all I’ve got. Where you go, I go. We’re a pair.”

Cassie tried once more to argue some sense into her sister. “The only reason you’re in any of this is because where I go, you go! You’d be safer without me. You’d be happy—“

Imoen shook her head. “Uh-uh. I’d be miserable.”

“But you’d—“

“I’d be miserable,” Imoen repeated. Her hand rose and cupped Cassandra’s cheek as she stared into the Bhaal-tainted depths Cassie's eyes. “You’re sweet, Cass, but this isn’t your choice. Where you go, I go.” A smile quirked the corner of her lips. “Deal with it.”

Cassie sighed. Imoen was determined not to listen to reason. “You’re stubborn,” she accused.

“You’re one to talk. ‘Sides, you know I’m right.”

“Do not.”

“Do so.” Imoen stuck out her tongue and turned back around, settling back up against her with a pointed thump. “I’m always right.”

“Not al—“

“Always!”

A small smile quirked her lips. Imoen would never grow up completely.

The brief glimpse of frivolity didn't last. The silence thickened nearly as soon as it fell, bordering somewhere awkwardly between comfortable and not. There was a slight tenseness to Imoen's body, and her smile had faded away with unnatural quickness. Whatever weighed on her mind was still there, exerting its inexorable pressure. Cassie pursed her lips, now unseen behind Imoen’s back, and debated whether to say anything. After a moment she decided against it: pushing Imoen usually just resulted in her shutting down further.

They sat together, watching the sun slowly and steadily descend towards the horizon. One minute stretched into five, then five into ten. Finally a soft sigh escaped the mage's lips, along with a quiet confession. "I've been seeing things, Cass."

The older girl tilted her head. "'Things'? What do you mean?"

"Auras. Emotions. Anger. Hate."

The words made Cassandra's blood go cold.

"It started a few days ago," Imoen continued. "Suddenly the elves were glowing like you wouldn't believe. Red, black, some yellow here and there. I couldn't figure it out until I remembered what you'd said about seeing colors and all."

"Are you sure it's the same?"

"I'm positive."

Imoen had never shown any symptoms that Bhaal had sired her: no nightmares, no rages... nothing to suggest that she was anything other than a normal, healthy girl. No one–not even Cassandra–had even suspected that Imoen was Tainted. Irenicus had changed all that. Through his experiments and torture, he'd unlocked the darkness in both of them: bringing Imoen's to the surface, and making Cassandra's all the more virulent. Even then, though, Imoen had seemed so...normal. Somewhere deep inside had been the not-so-secret hope that Bhaal's blood, if it did run inside her veins, was somehow too diluted to take hold.

Cassandra tightened her arms around her and pressed her cheek against her sister's. She could imagine what must be going through Imoen's mind. Would she too become a Slayer? Would she lose herself to the evil in her blood? The Taint had always been stronger in Cassie, but whether that was a blessing or a curse remained to be seen. Perhaps dealing with it for so long had made her more resistant. Perhaps Imoen could learn from her sibling's struggles and slow her own descent. Or perhaps it would attack her in an different way entirely.

There were no answers, no comforting words. Cassie knew the Taint too well to offer empty platitudes and false promises that things would be okay; Imoen was too intelligent to accept them, if she had tried. They had to find Irenicus and make him reverse the ritual. They had to regain their souls. If there was a chance to survive the darkness, it lay there.

The breeze tugged at Imoen's hair. Small strands of dark, shimmering red fluttered back only to be caught, tamed, and teased into the air once more. Her eyes were focused on the lake, on the reflected reality within. It shimmered almost imperceptibly as tiny ripples from insects and fish crawled across the surface.

The previous four days had been a whirlwind of emotion. The first few hours after the cave-in had inspired the purest, most terrifying fear she’d ever experienced: that Cassie was gone. Even after Elhan’s men had recovered her body...just the thought of the words was enough to make Imoen shudder. Her body. Lifeless, blood-smeared, and broken. Black despair had gripped her heart tight, and she’d almost not dared to believe it when her trembling fingers had pressed against Cassie’s throat and found the barest flutter of life.

She stayed by Cassie’s side constantly, illogically convinced that should she leave, even for a moment, the warrior would slip away forever. The emotions that had roused, the strength of her feelings, had surprised her as much as the elves. Even the sunlight and the trees, the promise of fresh air and a return to normal life—it had all been empty. She would have stayed there, in the tent, for the rest of her life if it had been necessary. She wouldn't have thought twice.

"I had a dream like this once," Imoen murmured. "In Spellhold. That we were by a lake – that one a little east of the 'Keep – laying in the grass like this." Cassie could see a faint, sad smile tug at the corner of Imoen's lips. "The trees, the air, the birds, the smells... it's almost perfect."

It was another change of topic, but this time Cassandra didn't mind. "What would make it perfect?"

Imoen breathed in slowly, leaning back into the fighter's embrace. Now that she had Cassie back, now that Cassie was herself again, she didn’t want to let that dream slip through her fingers. Life had become too precious in its uncertainty. Today, tomorrow, the day after: at any moment, it could all be over. "In my dream, you kissed me."

It was silent. Cassandra’s touch was soft and hesitant as she tucked the rebellious strands of hair back behind Imoen’s ear and pressed her lips to her sister’s cheek.

Imoen turned toward Cassie as the fighter’s lips withdrew, smoky gray eyes fixing her with soft warmth. "No,” she murmured. “Not like that."

The world fell still. Cassandra returned the gaze, her mind suddenly stunned into silence. Her own dreams, so long suppressed and kept hidden, flickered in the shadows of her thoughts. She'd admitted to the fantasized kisses, but Imoen didn't—couldn't—know how far those dreams had truly gone.

Her entire life, from her earliest memories, Imoen had been the center of Cassandra's world. Playmates as children; best friends growing up. It hadn't been until the confused fumblings of puberty that Cassandra had realized that the attraction was more than what sisters were meant to feel. A single flashed smile was enough to ignite her soul with joy; the sound of impish laughter made her heart soar. A touch here, a hug there; a trick, an apology, a fight–Cassie had treasured it all. A secret hoard of memories, cherished more dearly than any amount of gold.

Her hand rose instinctively, almost of its own accord, and came to rest against Imoen's cheek, her fingers gently cupping the mage's jaw. Imoen watched her, silent and expectant, her lips barely parted, the faintest shimmer of moisture visible in the sun. She didn't move away as Cassie drew closer, almost not daring to breathe. She didn't move away as their lips met in a first, delicate touch.

For a few precious seconds the whole of reality existed within that single act. The rhythm of breath, the shared heat of contact: the entirety of being compressed into a half-dozen heartbeats. It was only with great difficulty that Cassandra pulled herself back from the edge and let the kiss come to an end.

Imoen's eyes had drifted close; now they again fluttered open. The two women were less than a hand's-length apart, and now the sorceress studied Cassie's face, her gaze searching for some unknown sign or token. Cassandra neither moved nor spoke, trapped by the irrational, frightened certainty that should a single word be uttered, the moment would shatter like so much glass.

Imoen leaned towards her, linking their lips once more in a tentative embrace. Her fingers brushed against Cassandra's cheek. Their mouths moved together slowly, experimentally, seeking out and exploring a multitude of new sensations. Imoen's touch on her skin grew more confident as Cassie's fingers slid into her hair. The auburn waves felt like sun-warmed silk.

Time was no longer measured in heartbeats, but in eons. Imoen pressed closer; Cassandra's arm tightened around her waist. With their eyes closed, their senses attuned only to each other, the world beyond their small patch of grass faded into obscurity. The only scent was that of soft femininity; the only sound that of quickening breath. The tip of Imoen's tongue traced Cassie's lower lip in a series of shy, curious touches, gaining a subtle boldness when the redhead responded in kind. Soon the hesitancy was gone: there could be no more uncertainty, no doubting that the desire was one-sided.

Imoen shifted, guided by Cassie's hands, turning to face her sibling more directly. One hand caressed Cassie's cheek, cupping her jaw, pulling her deeper into the kiss; the other trailed over the fighter's shoulders and upper arms, left bare by the tunic's sleeveless design. A shiver of warmth ran over Cassie's skin; her fingers sought out Imoen's waist, brushing over her hips, following the curves of her body beneath the barrier of the mage's robe. A small sound of pleasure escaped Imoen's throat; she shifted again as she tried to increase the contact between their bodies. The kiss ended with a startled squeak as the movement tilted Cassandra's center of balance and toppled them backwards into the grass.

"Sorry," Imoen whispered with a small, self-conscious smile.

Cassie grinned. "No problem," she whispered back.

The sorceress' eyes searched hers. They both lay still, exquisitely aware of the tingling warmth between them, the proximity of their lips. Cassie's hands rested lightly on the mage's hips; she inhaled deeply, trying to steel herself against the desire to re-ignite the kiss. The tide of warmth inside her was nearly unbearable: the aching need to touch, embrace, protect, and please. Should Imoen have asked for the stars themselves, Cassie would have torn them from the sky just to please her.

"I'm not really sure what to do," the younger girl admitted.

Cassandra's fingers smoothed back a wayward lock of hair. "We don't have to do anything."

Imoen wet her lips, gently biting the lower one. "I want to. I just—I don't know if— if I can, you know? After—"

Cassie cut off the sentence with a finger against her lips. There was no need to give voice to what had happened. "You don't have to," she repeated simply. "We don't have to."

Silence. A myriad of emotions flickered through Imoen's eyes: affection, desire, uncertainty. Cassandra stroked her cheek, brushing her fingers gently over her chin, her jaw, her lips. Imoen leaned into the touch, the hypnotic warmth of it, the unspoken promise that it held.

It was Cassie. Despite everything that had happened, despite everything still to come, it was Cassie. When Gorion had separated them, taking Cassandra away, Imoen had followed. They had always been inseparable, and the chaos of his death had only strengthened that bond. Time and trial had transformed friendship into something more: a deep devotion, an overriding love, before which everything else was expendable. Their trust in each other, that unquestioned, immutable connection, had been their solace in the worst of times, a bright beacon in the stormy seas of Fate. It had kept Imoen alive in Spellhold: the certainty that, somehow, Cassandra would come. It had been the single diamond thread that kept her hope from failing.

The caress trailed down her throat, eliciting a small tremble of pleasure. When the finger returned to her mouth, Imoen met it with a kiss. She wrapped her hand around her sister's and squeezed it, pressing it against her face and bestowing upon it a dozen small touches of her lips. Every thought, every worry, slowly dissolved in a cascade of joy. Let the storm howl, let the gods rage—as long as she was with Cassie, she could never be afraid.

“I want to.”

She leaned down and cupped Cassandra's face in her hands, transferring her kisses to the warrior's mouth. This time there was no hesitation. She tasted like heaven; like seven different kinds of divine. One of Cassie's hands curled deep in her hair, pulling her closer; the other slid over Imoen's back, provoking a rustle of protest from the embroidered lines of her robe.

"Soch enroni," Imoen whispered, running her fingertip down the front of Cassandra's tunic. The cream-colored fabric unraveled under her touch, the threads releasing their hold on each other and shrinking away from her flesh. Cassandra raised an eyebrow in inquisitive challenge, to which Imoen responded with a mischievous grin. "I'll fix it later.”

Cassie's hands traveled up her chest, seeking out the small buttons that held the robe closed. "Useful trick."

"Yes, it—hey!"

Rapid-fire pops of protest filled the air as Cassie gave one strong tug and ripped the buttons apart. "You can fix it later," she smirked.

"Brat," Imoen accused with a kiss.

"You're one to talk."

Imoen rolled her eyes with a playful smile. Her hands slid slowly over Cassie's stomach, exploring the smooth, taut surface. Small scars from old wounds gave it texture and realism that her dreams could never match. She bit her lip, her smile taking on an impish edge, as her fingers discovered the bottom swell of Cassie's breasts. They were small — a perfect match for the fighter's boyish, athletic body – but well-formed and soft. Each one fit perfectly in her hands, and Cassie drew in a sharp breath as Imoen's touch grazed her nipples.

"Sensitive?" she murmured.

A small pinch of the hardening nubs elicited another gasp as Cassie answered. "A little."

Gray eyes twinkled. "Good."

Her hands drifted down Cassie's chest and came to rest on the curves of her hips. She leaned down, gently running her tongue over the tips of Cassandra's breasts. Cassie's fingers explored her body with a feather-light caress, slowly pushing the torn robe off her shoulders and down her arms. Their touches were soft, a strange mix of familiar and exciting. They'd seen each other's bodies before — massages and embraces were nothing new. What was new was the tingling heat and small, sudden breaths; the coyish smiles and tensing muscles; the slow blossoming of desire. Soon the laughter gave way to sighs and moans; the playful teasing to a more earnest caress as the need between them grew.

Imoen's robe had been cast aside; Cassandra's tunic now lay somewhere forgotten in the grass, thrown in the opposite direction of her breeches. Imoen sat atop her, her pale thighs astride Cassie's hips. Her eyes were closed, her expression enraptured, her lips delicately parted as she sighed in pleasure. Her hips had somehow begun to move of their own accord, rolling in slow, firm motion against Cassie's center. It was instinctive and unconscious; a primal response to an animal need. Cassandra's hands held her hips, anchoring her and steadying her; the warrior's quickened breath and matching motions confirmed that she shared the fire.

One of Imoen's hands slid along Cassandra's arm, coming to rest on top of her fingers. Wordlessly she guided their hands lower. Over the curve of her hip, across the soft skin of her abdomen, slowly, eyes still closed, drawing out the exquisite sensation inch by inch. She arched up, allowing access to the small patch of dark curls between her thighs, and now moaned as Cassie's fingers slid between her woman's lips.

"Oh, gods," she whispered, voice aimed towards the heavens above.

Cassie could only agree. The feeling of Imoen's desire was indescribable: slick, wet wanting; the seductive feminine nectar of sex. The motion of the mage's hips now pressed her center firmly against Cassandra's hand as she moved; the rock of her body became slower, more demanding, as Imoen now clenched her sister's shoulders for support. Her chin dropped down, spilling her hair across her chest in a cascade of rich, dark red. Her eyes remained shut as she rode Cassie's hips with strong, rhythmic rolls.

"Not inside me, Cass," she murmured. "Please."

Cassie moved her finger back up, stroking instead over the small, hidden nub. "Better?"

"Yeah—oh...oh my." A grin curved her lips and her eyes opened, fixing on Cassie with a pleased gleam. "That's—" She gasped, her entire body jerking, and the grin turned into a surprised, joyous laugh. "Oh, gods. You are evil."

"You like it," Cassie smiled.

"I love it," Imoen affirmed with a playful kiss.

The evilness continued. Imoen's delighted laughter echoed over the lake, interspersed with soft sighs of pleasure and whispers of encouragement. They rocked together, giggling and teasing, their bodies slick with sweat and glowing with energy. Gradually the laughter faded, replaced more and more with hot, quickened breath, and the teasing words transformed into breathless moans. Imoen squeezed Cassie tight, taking hold of her shoulders and pulling her up against her body. Cassie's lips sought out Imoen's nipples, now exquisitely stiff and responsive in the afternoon air.

"Cassie... Cass... Cassandra." Imoen whispered her name in a dozen variations, savoring the taste of it on her tongue. The whispers became cries of passion, pleas not to stop, as Cassandra's fingers brought her closer and closer to climax. Imoen's hands grasped her hair and tightened almost painfully as a deep shudder ran through her body. She came without restraint, without shame, voicing her release for the world to hear. Her entire being trembled, her hips still rolling in long, delicious waves, until gradually her body slowed and she collapsed, shivering, on top of Cassie's prone form.

"Wow," she whispered. "That was... wow."

Cassandra smoothed back the sweat-damp strands of Imoen’s hair. Her own need wasn’t sated yet, but it could wait. Imoen was more important. “Are you okay?”

A glowing smile. “I’m great.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure, silly.” She laid her head on Cassie’s chest, letting her body recover. Small, pleasant shocks still rippled through her muscles, making her smile grow even more. “Gods...”

"Was…was it good enough?"

“Good enough?” She laughed. “Gods, Cassie, that was amazing.”

Cassie’s smile of relief was genuine. “Thank Sune.”

Imoen looked up at her with surprised curiosity. “You mean you haven’t… well, you know… before?”

She had, but the awkward advances of teenage girls paled in comparison. “Not with someone who mattered.”

Imoen grinned and tapped the tip of Cassie’s nose wit her finger. “Flatterer. Don’t worry, though; I definitely have no complaints.” The smile faded slightly as a different train of thought occurred to her. “Do you? Did I—“

“No,” Cassie assured her. “No complaints, absolutely none. I just—I just—“ I’ve just dreamt about this so long. “You’re important to me, Imoen,” she said, matching her gaze. “I want to make you happy.”

Imoen’s lips touched Cassandra’s once more, this time lingering with pleasant warmth. “You have, Cassie. You do. You make me happier than anything else in Faerûn.”

“Really?”

“Really. And I want to make you happy, too.”

“You do, Im.”

“No, I want to make you happy,” she said meaningfully, her voice taking on a low, sultry tone. One finger slid down Cassandra’s stomach, and Cassie’s heart—and certain other parts of her body—suddenly tightened in excitement. “After I catch my breath, I want to make you very, very happy.”

And as the sun descended behind the aspen grove, amidst the giggling, stroking, kissing, and laughter, that was exactly what she did.

"How long've you known?"

"How I feel about you?"

"Yeah."

The first few stars were visible in the sky above them as they lay, now clothed once more, next to the aspen lake. The twilight palette of indigo, pink, and violet was slowly fading into a uniform wash of deep, dark blue. Somewhere behind one of the scattered clouds, the first-quarter moon was hidden. They lay next to each other, Imoen nestled into the crook of Cassie's arm, as they listened to the night birds call out in the darkness.

"Since forever," Cassie answered.

"That it wasn’t just as sisters?"

"A little later. Since I was fourteen or fifteen."

Imoen's fingers were tracing small circles on the back of Cassandra's hand. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I was afraid," she said quietly. "Because it wasn't—isn't—normal. Those romantic epics and tales of love in books and bards' songs? None of them are brother and sister, or sister and sister. I only found a few that even had two women in it at all."

One auburn eyebrow arched up. "You looked?"

A wry smile. "Obsessively."

Imoen chuckled. "And here I thought you were just being an egghead."

"Nah. You read for fun; I read when I have to."

"So why aren't you afraid anymore?"

Cassie drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Good question. I don't know. I guess—Maybe—" She shook her head. "I don't know."

"Because you lost your soul?"

"I don't think so. I know I was still worried about it in Spellhold."

"And later?"

"Later I was less afraid."

"So it could be 'cause you lost your soul.”

"I guess so," Cassie responded. "I'm not sure. Why?"

A shrug was her only answer. Cassie turned her head towards her, arching an eyebrow questioningly. "Why does it matter?" she asked again.

Another shrug. "It doesn't, I guess."

"You guess? C'mon, Im."

"Just—" Imoen sighed and looked away. "I just— Well, what about when we get our souls back?"

"What about it?"

"How will you feel then?"

Understanding dawned. "You think I only feel this way because my soul is gone?"

A third shrug, this one more defensive. "It's a possibility."

"Imoen." She touched the mage's cheek, guiding the girl's gaze back to her own. “It has nothing to do with the Taint. It has to do with you. I lo—I like you because you’re you. Whether or not I have a soul doesn’t change that.”

"But we never would've done this before," Imoen protested softly, her eyes searching Cassandra's. Her sibling's jet-black gaze was unreadable, and a harsh contrast to the tenderness of her touch. “What if it does change?"

"Do you want it to?" Cassie asked quietly.

She bit her lip and fell silent. "I don’t know," she admitted after a moment. “I don’t know.”

More silence; Cassandra wasn’t sure how to respond to that. She’d dreamt about Imoen—loved Imoen—long before any symptoms of Taint had manifested, long before she’d ever heard the word ‘Bhaalspawn.’ But the darkness had always been there, lurking inside her. Who was to say that Imoen wasn’t right? Perhaps the only reason she felt this way was because of that Taint. Perhaps if it went away…

"Do you love me?" Imoen asked. “Like… really love me?”

Cassie looked away, trying to quell the sudden bitterness in her stomach. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it does.”

“Mm.”

“Dammit, Cassie, don’t be like that. It matters. I—You’re the first—” A quaver of emotion made her voice tremble. She cut herself off, collecting herself before continuing. “You’re the first person that I’ve with, Cass. So it matters to me.”

Her sister’s gaze returned, the black eyes foreign and strange. “You shouldn’t even need to ask that.”

“Do you?” she pressed.

The ghost of a smile drifted across Cassie’s lips, but it was a sad, sorrowful wisp. “Of course I do.”

“As more than a sister?”

“Yes.” When Imoen didn’t say anything, Cassandra turned the question around. “Do you love me?”

“Cass—“

“As more than a sister?”

“I think so. Yes.” She let out a huff of breath, blowing a lock of auburn hair out of her eyes. “I don’t know. Things are crazy. I mean, c'mon. We're sisters—" she held up one hand, raising her fingers as she counted things off "—we're Bhaalspawn, there's some crazy elf mage and his crazy vampire sister trying to kill us, you've been going all Slayer-y, and Spellhold and Ust Natha aren't exactly great places for a family reunion or a romantic getaway. In fact, tell me just one thing about the last year that's been remotely normal."

Cassie's lips tilted in a wry smile. "I thought today was pretty nice."

Imoen shook her head emphatically. "Doesn't count."

"Why not?"

"'Cause it's still part of the whole Irenicus mess."

"So?"

"So," Imoen explained, giving Cassie a dark look, "we're soulless, you're still all Slayer-y, and you said yourself that you never found a single love story between two women in all of Candlekeep."

"Oh, I found some," Cassandra corrected. "Just not where they... you know."

"Were sisters? Had sex with each other?"

"Okay, okay, I get the point." Cassandra sighed and laid her head back. “It’s not normal. But still,” she continued, her voice taking on a more stubborn, argumentative edge, “so what if it’s not normal? If we love each other—if–“ she stressed “—then who cares if we’re sisters, or if we’re women, or whatever? Fate didn’t give us the choice to be normal or lead normal lives. It just said, ‘Hey, you’re a Child of Murder, deal with it.’”

Imoen arched an eyebrow. "Point. But no one else realizes that. You know what people are gonna think?"

Cassie shrugged. "I'm Bhaalspawn; people assume the worst no matter what I do."

Another good point. Imoen sighed as well. "That's not fair. You're a great person." She glanced over. "But I like you better with blue eyes."

A huff of amused breath. "Yeah, me too."

A comfortable silence drifted down between them as they gazed up at the now-inky night sky. A host of constellations glittered above: the five stars of Belnimbra's Belt, Mystra's Circle, and the proud, upright V-shape of the Horn. A tiny blue-green dot marked the position of Karpri, one of Toril's four sister planets. Imoen snuggled closer, letting herself be drawn in as Cassie's arm tightened around her shoulders. A quick swim and playful water fight had washed away the smell of sweat and sex, leaving behind only the soft, natural scent of skin.

"What d'ya think Gorion would think?"

"About what?"

Imoen gave a small shrug of her shoulders. "Us. Everything."

Cassandra pursed her lips thoughtfully. Gorion had been the closest thing she'd had to a real family, to a real father. His guidance had been her foundation as she grew; his approval the one thing she'd always sought. He, like all the inhabitants of Candlekeep, had been reserved and quite in demeanor, but his pride, happiness, and love for his adopted daughter had been evident in small glances and gentle words. Imoen had been a bit more standoffish, a bit more rebellious and self-assured, but Gorion—"Mister G"—held a special place in her heart as well. His death had left them alone and lost far too young in a hostile world.

"I think he'd be heartbroken to see what's happened," she answered slowly, choosing her words with care. "He gave his life trying to protect us, trying to make sure we never heard the word 'Bhaalspawn' or what it meant. He wanted us to be normal. But we're not, Im, and we can't be. Gorion knew that—he had to, he knew everything." She fell silent again for a few moments as she gathered her thoughts. Imoen stayed silent, listening. "And I think that—I hope that—he'd be okay with things. Yeah, this probably wasn't what he—what anyone—had in mind, but he wanted us to be happy. He died to give us that chance."

"Y'think so?"

"Honestly? Yeah."

"Mmm. Hope you're right."

"Me too."

Imoen stifled a yawn with the back of her hand as she curled even closer. Her fingers wandered once more under the torn fabric of Cassandra's tunic, seeking out the warmth of skin against skin. Despite whatever uncertainty she had, she’d still enjoyed it—something she hadn’t been sure was even possible. If Cassie had been a man, she couldn't have gone through with it with the memory of the rape still there, lurking underneath her skin. She traced the soft flesh of Cassandra’s stomach, giving a silent prayer of thanks that Adalon’s spell had worn off. "I'm tired."

Cassie pulled her closer. "Then go to sleep."

"You should carry me back to the tent."

"Carry you?"

"I'm tired.”

"So am I," Cassie rejoined.

"Yeah, but you've got that Bhaalspawn super-strength thing going on," she said, covering another yawn. "You could carry me to Amn and barely break a sweat. All I got are those stupid auras."

She chuckled. "True. Fine; get up."

"Get up?" Imoen protested indignantly. "But…I'm tired!"

"Up." Cassandra gave her a small push. "Up!"

The mage grumbled in displeasure, but now that her nap had been disturbed there didn't seem to be that much to lose. She got to her feet and brushed the small bits of grass and leaves from her robe. The front of it was ruined; even a thorough search hadn't located all of the missing buttons. The mending spell would likely need some tweaking to make it whole again.

"Sometimes you are such a pain in the butt," Imoen complained as Cassie got to her feet.

Cassandra scooped her off the ground in one fluid movement, hefting Imoen into her arms and cradling her against her chest. "All part of my charm."

Imoen giggled, looping her arms around Cassie’s neck as they began the trek back to the tent. "Yeah, I guess it is."

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 12 - "De'Arnise"

"There it is."

The strong, proud walls of the De'Arnise keep jutted out of valley, a silent stone warden overlooking a sea of ripe, golden grain. From this far away the main castle seemed small, almost overwhelmed by the press and crowd of surrounding farmland. Here and there were tiny specks of movement: peasants and farmers traversing their fields or calling upon the grand keep itself. The sunlight glinted off the metal of farm tools and livery.

Cassandra and Imoen lay on the crest of a hill roughly a mile away. After seven days of solid travel, five of which on foot, they had finally reached familiar territory. The chance to rest, refuel, and get a change of clean clothes would do wonders for the two tired and foot-sore girls.

Imoen let out a low whistle of appreciation as she peered down the slope. "And you own that? Like, the land and everything?"

"Technically." Cassie licked her lips. She hadn't been back since her initial confrontation with Bodhi—the confrontation which had cost Nalia De'Arnise her life. She'd informed no one, never recovered the body, so single-minded had been her determination to reach Spellhold.

"Technically?"

"I'm not around much." A thin strip of cloth hung from her belt, ripped from the sleeve of her shirt when they'd departed Tethir. Cassandra tugged it free and handed it to Imoen. "Let's get this over with."

"You don't sound too cheery," the younger sister noted.

Cassie didn't respond. The cloth dropped over her eyes, obliterating the outside world with a wash of dirty beige. Imoen tugged it tight and fastened it with a simple knot.

"There. Turn around. See anything?"

She did so, stopping at where Imoen ought to be. Now the mage was only visible as a shadowy, humanoid figure through the film of cloth. "Not much."

"Looks good from here." A pat on her shoulder, follow by a hand taking her own. "What's our story? Léoma of Silverdale? Ulomin and Carodei?"

Over the past week they'd used a half-dozen different aliases, all drawn from the musty old tomes of Candlekeep. It was safer—and more suiting Imoen's flair for the dramatic—than announcing their true identities.

"No story. They know me already. Being blinded won't be such a stretch."

"Just plain ol' Cassandra of Bhaal?"

"Cassandra of Candlekeep. They don't know about Bhaal."

Imoen pursed her lips. "I doubt that."

"Just get me down the hill."

"Okay, okay. Here." Imoen's slender arm slipped around her waist, her other hand still grasping Cassandra's own. "It's pretty steep, but it's all grass. No loose rocks and stuff."

The first few steps were always the hardest after being blindfolded. The first few days had been harder still, learning to navigate based on sound and feel, relying on Imoen's eyes instead of her own. It was practical, though, despite appearances: travelers had more sympathy for a blind girl and her guide, more willingness to share a ride or a meal. Such charity would have be scarce indeed had Cassandra's Bhaal-black eyes not been masked.

By now she'd grown used to it, and Imoen's small pushes and pulls on her body were translated automatically into steps and stops. They navigated the slope with small but confident steps, using the tufts of dying weeds as footholds. Most of the grass was still green, but autumn's touch was visible here and there as swathes of aging brown. The last harvests would need to be done soon, before the frosts began.

"Annnnnd flat." Imoen reached the base two steps ahead of her sister, guiding the latter back to even ground. The main trade road was some hundred feet distant; a slow convoy of vegetable-laden wagons crept along its length. Perfect. "Looks like we can catch a ride. Keep walking, I'll be right back."

The mage broke into an easy jog, hiking up the hem of her robe in both hands. It didn't deter the myriad of small burrs and thistles, which grabbed ahold of it all the same.

"Hey! Hey, mister!"

The wrinkled, white-haired farmer glanced over at her with rheumy eyes. His hands on the reins trembled, whether from age or infirmness; by all rights he was far too old to be driving his own crop.

Imoen slowed once she reached the flat, pounded earth of the road itself. A glance behind her assured her that Cassie was following, albeit it slowly, across the grassy plain.

"Hey, mister. Are you going to the De'Arnise Keep?"

"Ignore her, Beadley!" called out the bald, portly driver behind him. "Just keep drivin'."

"Oh c'mon! I don't want money or nothin'. But me and my friend, we've been walking for days." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder; Beadley's watery blue gaze followed automatically. "We'd really appreciate a lift."

The wagon was slowing, but baldy wasn't through. "Beadley! Keep movin'!"

"What'd we ever do you do, grumpy?" Imoen retorted, putting her hands on her hips and sticking out her tongue. "You got a thing against girls?"

"I got a thing against scamps like you begging off innocent, hard-working folk like us."

"We aren't beggars! C'mon, you're going to the Keep anyways, right? Just give us a lift. It won't slow you down, and then you've done your good deed for the day."

"Sod off!"

"Imoen." Cassie had made it to the road, and now reached out in the general direction of the mage's voice. "What's going on?"

"It's okay." Imoen reached out and took Cassie's hand, glaring defiantly at the sour-faced driver that was ruining her plan. "Someone's just had a bad morning and now he's taking it out on us."

He glared back. "Beadley! Move!"

"Hold your horses, Poffert." Beadley's thin, quavering voice barely managed to keep aloft. He gave a small jerk of his head. "Climb on up, girly. You and your friend, too."

Imoen let out a whoop of joy and quickly clambered up the side of the wagon, turning to help Cassandra up in turn. Poffert's face reddened with indignation; it made his already-pudgy features swell to the point of explosion. Beadley's cart was moving again, though, and baldy held his tongue.

"Thanks a ton, Mister Beadley," Imoen gushed, flashing him her best and brightest smile as she settled down amid the sacks of potatos, carrots, and cabbage. "We really appreciate it. Not everyone's nice to strangers."

"I normally ain't that nice, either," the old man admitted. "But anyone who has the sass to talk to Poffert like that can't be all bad."

"Oh, she's got sass alright," Cassandra confirmed.

A quick elbow to her ribs silenced her. "Hush, you."

Beadley pursed his lips and gave a sharp shake of the reins. "Never met a woman who don't."

The remainder of the journey to the Keep took a quarter of an hour, all of which Imoen filled with a steady stream of cheerful banter and the occasional smug smile shot back at Poffert's displeased scowl. Cassandra made herself as comfortable as possible on the sacks of produce and tried to listen, but Nalia was foremost in her mind. It'd been over a month; questions must have been raised. The heir of De'Arnise and the Steward of the Keep both disappearing? If Nalia's death had been discovered, it was easy to guess where the blame would fall.

A small, warm hand closed around Cassie's own. "C'mon, Cass, we're here. Turn around. Put your foot here. Yup; little lower. Annnnnd....jump!"

She pushed herself away from the cart; the earth met her feet a second later. Imoen sprang down as well, landing with considerably more grace next to the dusty road.

"Thanks, Mister Beadley!" The auburn-haired mage waved enthusiastically as the produce cart continued its slow roll towards the marketplace. A frail, wrinkled hand rose in silent acknowledgement.

"Well... we're here!" Imoen clapped her hands together, rubbing them briskly. 'Here', in this case, was just inside the keep's main gate, where the trade road split into two directions, circling around the massive stone walls. A small, carefully groomed courtyard separated the De'Arnise home proper from the general populace outside. That, and a guarded, reinforced wooden door. "How do we get in?"

"In?" Cassandra turned her head, reflexively trying to look around. "Aren't we already in?"

"Almost. There's a big wooden door with metal bands around it, and a soldier guy next to it with a big pike. I'm guessing that's the way into the main hall."

"Sounds like it. Open or closed?"

"Closed. Got a plan?"

"Point me in the right direction. I can handle it from here."

"You got it."

Imoen cupped Cassandra's elbow and gave her a quarter turn. The guard's eyes were already on them: amongst the farmers and traders, the blind woman and her hyperactive guide stood out like lightning on a clear summer night. His thin lips pressed into a frown as they approached.

"Can I help you?" His fingers tightened around the shaft of the pike, but stopped short of actually lowering it to bear.

It was Cassie who answered. "I need to speak to the Major Domo."

"The Maj—"

"Tell him it's Cassandra."

"Cassandra?" His eyes narrowed, darting reflexively to the distinctive bright red of her hair, then to Imoen's unfamiliar face. "Lord Cassandra?"

"Just fetch him."

"Just a moment. Wait here."

"Lord Cassandra?" Imoen whispered as soon as the man had disappeared inside the keep. "I thought we left your winkie in the Underdark?"

"It's ceremonial."

"You have a ceremonial penis?"

"What's your obsession with penises?"

"What? I'm not obsessed! I'm just—"

"Fascinated?"

"No, just—"

"Entranced? Jealous?"

The mage rolled her eyes. "Why do I bother talking to you?"

"'Cause I'm great?"

A finger jabbed her in the chest. "Don't push it."

Cassie's lips curved in a whispy smile.

The portal opened again, this time yanked open with such force that both siblings jerked backwards in reflex. A human man on the late side of middle age appeared in the doorway, flanked by not one but two De'Arnise house soldiers. His face was rather forgettable, notable only for the still-youthful thickness of his greying hair, but his clothing was finely tailored and impeccably clean. A wide woven silk sash, equal parts green and gold, was pinned diagonally across his chest. His alert brown eyes sighted Cassie's form with a mixture of alarm and relief.

"Lord Cassandra??"

Her head turned, pinpointing the sound of his voice. "Major Domo?"

"You: ready food and water. You: tell Mister Bremman that our audience will need to be rescheduled." His voice was steady as he barked the orders, but his hand trembled as he reached for the blindfolded girl. The guards nodded each in turn and disappeared into the keep.

"Your Grace," he repeated, tentatively touching her arm. "Are you wounded?"

"It's nothing, Domo."

"But your eyes—"

"It's nothing," she repeated. A small, warm touch grazed her fingers, and Cassandra felt Imoen's hand curl protectively around her own. "Imoen? Meet Richard Malufson, Major Domo of the House of De'Arnise."

Imoen raised her hem with her free hand and dipped in a small curtsey. "Pleased to meet you."

"Domo, this is Imoen of Candlekeep, my sister."

His gaze shifted. "Your sis–? Ah. Yes, I recall." He bowed low, taking Imoen's hand and bringing it to his lip as he straightened again. "An honor, Lady Imoen. Cassandra has said much about you."

"If it's anything about our childhood: lies, all lies."

By this time a young serving girl, rounded with the first signs of pregnancy, had appeared behind the Domo's shoulders. She raised herself on her tiptoes for a better view, then began gesturing excitedly to someone as yet unseen. The flicker of motion and explosion of whispers drew the Major Domo's attention—and his ire.

"Chanelle! Make yourself useful, girl!"

She squeaked and instantly came to attention. "Yes, sir!" In another moment she, too, had vanished into the castle's shadowy halls.

"Come in, come in," Malufson was saying, stepping aside to clear the doorway. "Is there anything of priority you need or desire, Your Grace? It has been... quite a while."

Cassandra shook her head, letting Imoen's gentle touch guide her from the sunlit warmth of the courtyard into the cooler, dimmer interior. "A room, a bath, and some food is fine."

The Domo clapped his hands together sharply; Chanelle and two other servants manifested out of nearby doorways. "Her Grace Cassandra of Candlekeep has returned. Make her chambers ready immediately."

A flurry of bows and curtseys greeted the command, followed by a rush of rustling cloth and quick footsteps as the servants scattered once more. The Major Domo now walked ahead of them, motioning for the women to follow him down the long, torch-lit hall.

"Do you have any news of Nalia, Your Grace? I had hoped that she traveled with you."

They hadn't heard, then. Nalia's body was still in the crypts, rotting slowly away with its silent inhabitants—or worse, desecrated by Bodhi and her minions. Cassandra's stomach clenched. Nalia had deserved better. So had Aerie.

She halted, pulling Imoen to a stand-still as well. She couldn't put right their deaths, but she could at least let their passing be honored.

"Could you have someone show Imoen to the library?" Thank the gods that she was wearing the blindfold; that she could not see the sudden realization that would surely haunt his eyes. "My news is best shared with you alone."

Silence.

The Major Domo sat ramrod-straight in his chair across from Cassie's still-blindfolded form, as still as a stone statue. He didn't fidget, didn't twitch, barely so much as breathed or blinked. No sound. No movement. Cassie rolled her tongue over the roof over her mouth, trying to gather what little moisture was left to quell her parched despair.

"And you...left her there?" he asked at last.

"Yes," she admitted. "I—I wasn't thinking straight. I'm sorry."

"Without your eyes it would have been difficult to—"

Cassandra shook her head. "My eyes are fine."

A pause, followed by a cautious observation. "You wear a cloth."

She sighed. "But I'm not blind. That's not the reason Nalia died; that's not why I left her there."

"Did you have a reason?" he challenged, the first quavers of anger building in his throat. "Nalia De'Arnise was the last of her line, a noble woman, and a friend to you."

"I know. Believe me, I know. I never meant for her to die; I never meant for either of them to die."

"And yet she lies there, and you sit here in her stead, playing the cripple for your own entertainment."

"I am not 'playing' anything!" Cassandra shot back. She yanked the knot of the blindfold; the cloth went lax and came loose in her hand. "Does this look like I'm playing?" she demanded, leaning forward and jabbing a finger towards her face.

His hands were knotted together, clenching each other until the skin turned white. The color slowly leeched out of his face as well as he leaned back in his chair, unconsciously putting distance between himself and the black gaze that faced him.

"I'm not playing," she repeated. "I'm cursed. Imoen and I both are. Nalia helped me save Imoen's life, and without her help neither of us would be here today. I know I didn't do everything right. I know her blood is on my hands."

The Major Domo's mouth tightened; his hands twisted and clenched. "Did you kill Lady De'Arnise?"

"What? No!"

"That girl was like a daughter to me," he informed her in a soft, steely voice.

"That's not what I meant. I didn't kill her. I meant—I meant—" Cassie sighed, slumping back against her chair and rubbing her hand over her face. "Death is bred in my blood; it follows me. Haunts me. You have no idea how many friends I've buried," she said quietly. "No idea."

"Slain by your own hand?" he challenged, meeting her gaze without flinching.

She pressed her lips together, jaw clenching. "Never."

Silence again. Somewhere in the distant parts of the keep were the echoes of voices, the sounds of doors as they opened and closed, the banging of iron pots and pans. Somewhere was Imoen, exploring the tomes collected by generations of a bloodline now dead. The Major Domo's accusatory stare stayed on her, fixed and merciless.

"I'm not staying," she admitted after a moment.

"All that De'Arnise owned is yours now," he pointed out, sour and flat.

"I didn't come here for that. I'm no noblewoman, I'm no lord. The only reason Nalia gave me control over her lands was to keep the Roenalls from destroying them."

"And you think that disappearing again will dissuade their plans? De'Arnise needs a leader."

"With all that I just said, you still want me as one?"

"What I want is pointless," he responded. "Nalia De'Arnise appointed you as Lord of the Keep; in event of her death, everything falls to you. That was her wish, for whatever the reason. That is what I must—and will—accept."

"You can find another Lord. A better one. You could run these lands yourself."

"I have the knowledge, but not the power."

"I could give you the power. I can confer the lands on whoever I want, can't I?"

"You may. Conferring them on me, however, will not change the Roenalls' ambitions."

"You'd rather have a demon than a Roenall?"

The thin, stubble-covered lips pressed together as he regarded her. "Lady Nalia was a good judge of character," he said after a moment. "And, regarding these lands, you have been a good steward, considering your inexperience and... other issues. Being cursed doesn't make you a demon; perhaps a priest could break it."

She shook her head. "No. A priest is no good to me."

"Then what is your plan? You do not seem like the type of woman who easily surrenders to misfortune."

At that a wry smile curved her lips. How true. "I plan to track down the ones who did this, and kill them both."

The Major Domo leaned back in his chair. "Such things are usually more easily said than done," he noted dryly.

"Yes," she admitted. "But I will be calling in a lot of favors. I need you to send messengers to Athkatla: to the Bernard, the barman of the Copper Coronet; to Aran Linvail, leader of the Shadow Thieves; and to the Order of the Radiant Heart."

Malufson nodded. There was no quill or parchment to record the request, but she trusted his memory. He had a sharp mind, and twenty years of stewardship of the House De'Arnise had only honed it further.

"I need information over a vampire, Bodhi. She used to have quarters in the Graveyard District. I need to find out where she is now. Or, I need to find her brother, a mage known as Irenicus. I owe them both a great deal of pain."

Another nod. "And should your friends find them? An assault?"

Cassandra shook her head. "No. This is personal. I don't want anyone else getting hurt."

One grey eyebrow arched up. "You would confront a vampire and the mage, alone, Your Grace?"

The smile that now curled her lips was tight and sardonic. "I'm more dangerous than I look."

A knock on the door made her start; the Major Domo, to his credit, showed no such reaction. There was no time to re-bind her eyes as the door began to creak open; she angled her head away and shielded her face with her hand.

"Master Ingelborn is here for his audience, sir," a female voice announced.

Malufson's grey eyes tracked over the warrior's shoulder. "Inform him that I will be there as soon as duty permits." Back to Cassandra. "Your Grace?"

"No, no." She shook her head. "Go ahead. We can speak later."

He rose gracefully from the table, taking the time to tug his tunic straight and adjust the green and gold sash. "As you say. Lady Imoen is likely upstairs; I will have your food sent up as well. The messengers you requested will depart this evening as soon as provisions can be made."

The door behind her groaned shut; Cassandra stood up as well. "Thank you. For everything."

"Of course, Your Grace."

"And for listening."

He paused, looking back at her as she prepared to re-tie the blindfold around her eyes, then gave a small, subtle bow. "Of course, Your Grace."

The world disappeared as she set the cloth in place. Her ears tracked the sound of his soft footsteps across the cold stone floor; the click of the door's latch and the metallic protest of the hinges; the sound of soft words. A new set of footsteps approached, halting just inside the threshold.

"Lord Cassandra?" A male voice, middle-aged and unfamiliar. "Sir Malufson requests that I show you upstairs. Your room should be ready shortly; Chanelle is drawing a bath, and Matilda will bring your food whenever you should wish it."

A bath sounded wonderful, despite the grumblings of her stomach. "I'll bathe first. Have the food delivered in half an hour."

"Of course, my Lord."

"Imoen?"

Cassandra braced her hands on either side of the library's doorway and stuck her head inside. Shelves upon shelves of tomes lined the walls, stretching from floor to ceiling, covering nearly every possible inch of space. What wasn't home to books, tomes, or parchment instead held lamps, candles, and bookends: functional items rather than decorative, a homage to the late Lord De'Arnise's practical tastes. She released the frame and stepped inside, scanning the chairs, corners, and window sills. All were absent of a certain red-haired mage.

"Imoen?"

She hadn't seen her since their arrival at the keep, earlier that afternoon. The conversation with the Major Domo, of course, had been private. That Imoen hadn't been present while Cassandra was bathing, was to be expected. But dinner had come and gone without sight or sound of the mischievous thief, and the shadows across the land were growing longer. Cassandra's nervous discomfort was growing as well.

The master bedroom had formerly belonged to Lady Delcia, before she'd stormed out of the keep in protest of living with 'an upstart ruffian and hooligan.' Nalia had tried to convince her to stay, but Cassie had been glad to see her go. The woman would need a castle of her own simply to house her own enormous ego.

Now the room was Cassandra's, bare as it was. The oaken wardrobe was mostly empty, as were the various drawers in the writing desk and the shelves along the walls. The bed was tidily made, adorned with clean linen and fresh water in the small adjoining washing room. Fresh flowers—a bouquet of late summer roses, baby's breath, and white orchids—stood elegantly in a tall, slender vase under the window.

She glanced in as she passed by. Imoen wasn't there.

The small, round atrium, festooned with exotic plants, was likewise empty. The dining room. The storage room. Cassandra's lips bent in an unconscious frown as she strode down the hall. She'd dismissed the servants after dinner with instructions only to come if called; with the floor empty of strangers, the blindfold had been discarded. The halls were dim and far too narrow to support illuminating torches, but Cassandra navigated without trouble. Her eyes didn't mind the dark.

A sliver of light sliced across the hallway carpet, spearing the dull crimson with a sharp splash of deep, vivid red. Cassie quickened her step. The light came from the larger of the two guest bedrooms; the one formerly occupied by Nalia. The door was ajar; through the hand-wide opening, a oil lamp could be seen resting atop a large maplewood dresser. The subtle flicker of the flame made shadows shimmer and dance.

She rapped her knuckles gently against the door. "Imoen?"

"Yeah?"

Cassie pushed the door open with her fingertips and stepped inside. Her sibling was seated on the lush double bed, a score of books scattered around her in roughly defined piles. Imoen herself was stretched out on the mattress, propped up with no less than three pillows behind her back, with a large, leatherbound manuscript resting open in her lap. One delicate fingertip followed the lines of words as she read; it paused, holding its place, as Imoen glanced up at her visitor.

"I've been looking all over for you," Cassie said.

"Sorry." Imoen tilted her head slightly, motioning to the collection of tomes. "Got my head in a book; didn't hear you."

"No problem. You doing okay?"

"Fine, fine. The servants were great, had a nice bath, raided the library." She marked her spot with a thin wooden marker and folded the book shut. "Great stuff on magical theory; a little less on the practical side of things. All pretty advanced spells, though—they sure didn't waste any time on little things like mending or light."

"Nalia was a smart woman; her family had pretty demanding standards."

The use of was and had didn't go unnoticed. Imoen's lips pursed in a small circle; her fingertips reflexively caressed the book's leather binding. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"It's not yours either."

Cassandra's lips pursed as well. She changed the subject. "Why don't you come to bed?"

"I am in bed."

"But—" The frown deepened as she noted that Imoen was indeed settled in: her legs tucked in under the down-filled quilt, clad not in her normal robe but in a light nightgown instead. "You're sleeping here?"

Imoen had opened the book again and now continued reading, her eyes studiously following her finger across the page. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

Cassandra's brows furrowed in confusion. "We always sleep together."

The thief-mage sighed, shutting the book firmly once more and turning her gaze on her sister. "I don't really think that's appropriate anymore. Do you?"

"Not appropriate?" Her voice jumped a register in disbelief. Suddenly Imoen's behavior in the days after Tethir gained a new light: the small, subtle distance she'd kept between them; the lack of playful touches and pokes; the faint, awkward edge to her smile. Cassandra had written it off as a dozen things: stress, tiredness, even thoughtfulness. "What do you think I'm going to do?" she replied incredulously. "Rape you?"

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Imoen's eyes flashed and went cold; her lips tightened and narrowed into thin, pale lines.

"I'm sorry." Cassie lowered her head, shaking it slowly. "I just—I mean—I thought what happened—" Stop. Breathe in. Collect yourself. "We can still sleep together," she said softly. "Just sleep. I wouldn't—"

"I know," Imoen interrupted. Her eyes softened; uncertainty tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I know, Cass. I just... I just need some time to figure things out, okay?"

"Are you afraid of me now?"

"No—"

"Disgusted?"

"No, Cass," Imoen answered firmly. "It's not you, okay? You're still a wonderful, great woman, and I still like you a lot. It's me; I need some time to get my head on straight."

"I like your head just the way it is."

A smile. Small, fragile, bordering between sweet and sorrow. "G'night, Cassie. Close the door on your way out?"

Silence. She bit her lip, unsure how to respond to the dismissal. Finally she swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. "Sure. Good night."

The door clicked shut, and she went back to her bedroom alone.

A steady thrum of sound roused her from sleep. It began as a low hum, like the buzz of a distant horsefly; it built slowly, growing louder and deeper, until the very boards of the bed vibrated in sympathy.

Imoen muttered a sleepy protest and rolled over. The noise didn't abate. She drew the pillow over her head, pinning it in place with one arm, and nestled down deeper into the covers. It didn't help. The deep, throbbing vibration continued its press into her consciousness, blithely ignoring her attempts to block it out.

She scowled, rolling over again, and this time clapped both hands—and both pillows—over her ears. It was entirely too late at night for them to be... well, doing whatever it was they were doing. Whoever 'they' were.

Abruptly it stopped. Imoen hmph'd and drew the quilt up over her head. It stayed silent. Good.

She was almost back in sleep again when a new sound caught her attention. Whispering. The soft sound of voices carrying through the darkness. Voices very close by.

Imoen's eyes flashed open. Her fingers curled into the blanket with sudden cold fear as she fought the urge to leap out of bed. It was probably just servants. Three or four servants, in her bedroom, whispering unintelligibly.

Bullshit.

A faint, blue-white glow offset the blackness in the chamber. She'd extinguished the oil lamp before going to sleep, and no candle or flame would give off such a pale, cold light. She bit her lip, mind racing. The whispering seemed to come from all around, but from her limited viewpoint, no speakers were visible. If she were going to see them—and take action—she'd have to move.

One hand crept slowly under the pillow. Underneath was a dagger, hidden there out of years of habit. The cold steel was a welcome sensation against her fingers. The thin, smooth blade—her fingers inched lower, until they brushed against the carved ivory handle, and then curled tightly around it.

She whipped the covers back; she was out of the bed and crouched on the floor in a single, fluid movement, the dagger thrust out in front of her. With her other hand she cast, whispering the simple incantation of arcane shield. The air before her rippled as the invisible force shield materialized.

There was no one there. The blue-white glow emanated from luminescent veins that crawled and spider-webbed across the room's walls. The web was densest near the door, the focal point of the expansion; from there the tendrils reached out, spreading over shelves and tables. They pulsated, and with each surge of light the tentacles inched forward, settled, rested, pulsed, and extended again.

This couldn't be good.

"Cassie!"

The whispers continued, but now they had taken on a darker, more sinster timbre. Interspersed with the hushed words were low, throaty chuckles and dog-like growls. Imoen scrambled to her feet, casting around in panic for the source of the sounds. There was no one.

See Invisibility. She lunged for her backpack, snatching it off the dresser as the veins of light crept closer. She needed talc, talc and powdered silver. Imoen ripped the pack open; her spell components were inside. Were inside. The sack in which she stored the various vials of powdered and liquid components, was missing. All her components were missing. Imoen dug through the various compartments and pockets with a growing feeling of panic. Even her spellbook and scrolls were gone. The pack was empty.

"Cassie!!"

She had to get out of the room. The whispers were growing louder, angrier, more threatening. No one voice could be singled out; the cadence was too chaotic, too random, to understand. She was surrounded.

The mage bolted for the door. She didn't know what the pulsating veins were, but she knew a hundred different spells that they weren't—she'd take her chances. Anything was better than being trapped in a room with only one way out.

Her hand closed around the doorknob; the blue-white lines flared to life, but she felt nothing. It turned; the door gave no resistance as the red-headed girl slammed it open and dashed into the hall. The whisperers followed, and now as she glanced behind her she could see them: three rough humanoid figures, nothing more than wraith-like mist, breaking away from the shadows of the bedroom walls and floating slowly forward. To the bed. Through the bed. Gibbering and hissing.

"Cassandra!"

She fled down the hall. It was pitch black, but somehow she could see regardless. The stonework and paintings were leeched of color, appearing in a wash of different grays. Cassandra's room was on the other side of the keep, directly opposite of where Imoen had chosen to sleep. It put the maximum distance between them; now she was cursing the decision.

The blue tendrils were growing as well. Now they crackled as they spread, snapping like thin, dry branches, arcing outward at amazing speed. Imoen kept ahead of them, running as quickly as she could. She rounded the southeast corner at full speed, using her hands on the stones to take the sharp turn more cleanly. The sounds behind her kept pace.

Another hallway; another corner. She risked a glance backwards just before the turn. The veins were gone, but the withered, sharp cracking echoed through the corridor. The sibilant hissing of her attackers continued; as she watched with horrified eyes, the shadows began to seep out of the wall, less than ten yards distant from where she stood.

"Imoen..."

It knew her name.

She turned and ran. Cassandra's bedroom was just around the corner; Imoen reached it in record time. The door stood half-ajar; the room was black as pitch. The strange night-sight of her vision rendered it as dull, dark gray; she didn't bother questioning it. As long as she could see, she didn't care about how.

"Cassie. Cassie!"

She rushed over to her sibling's bed. Cassie was still asleep, swaddled in the warmth of blankets, her back towards the door. Imoen grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her awake. "Cassie!"

Cassandra—her body—rolled over. The space where her face had been was ripped away, leaving a gaping hole fringed by threads of bloody, decayed flesh. The hole was black, utterly and completely: no spattered organs, no crushed or broken bones. No face, no teeth, no skull, no brain. Nothing but void, stretching into eternity, empty and dark. A scream gathered in Imoen's throat, but terror froze her lungs. Two pinpoint lights appeared: two small, shining dots in the darkness. The lights blinked, and Imoen's scream finally ripped free as the Slayer's snarling maw exploded forth and its teeth sank into her flesh.

The scream shocked her into wakefulness. She bolted upright, heart thundering in her chest, gasping for breath. Before she knew it she was out of bed, her mind barely registering her actions. She fled in blind panic, but a dark, shadowy figure intercepted her not three steps towards the door. It engulfed her, trapping her in iron-strong arms. Imoen started screaming again, lashing out against it with wild kicks and punches in every direction.

"Imoen! Imoen!"

"Get away from me!"

"It's me! Cassie!"

"Get away!"

The command was punctuated with a forceful shove as Imoen planted her hands on Cassie's chest and thrust her backwards. The motion broke both the warrior's grip and her balance. A second panicked push sent her stumbling back into the hallway. Imoen slammed the door closed and sank to her knees next to it. The hot wetness of tears streaked down her face, dripping silently onto the cold granite floor. She wrapped her arms around her chest to try to still her trembling.

C'mon, Im. Get a grip.

The fear coursing through her blood refused to be so easily quelled. She hugged herself tighter and drew in a shivering breath.

It was just a nightmare. Despite how real it had seemed, it was just a nightmare. There were no whispering voices. No white-blue veins. Cassie wasn't the Slayer. Not yet.

She forced her eyes open. Ceiling. Square grey stones, joined with mortar, lined up in straight, regular rows. Ordinary and banal. Her gaze dropped lower. The walls, the dresser, the wardrobe. There was nothing unusual about any of them.

She was still shaking, but her resolve had returned. She hadn't sat there crying in the Nashkel mines. She hadn't froze in terror when facing down Sarevok. Hell, she'd made it through the Underdark with her wits intact. Imoen wiped her hands over her face, smearing away the tears. No little nightmare was going to change that.

And....up! With a deep breath and a mental push, she levered herself to her feet. The fight-or-flight adrenaline was slowly seeping out of her system, leaving in its place a hollow exhaustion.

The dagger was still under her pillow; she checked it twice, repositioning it, checking the sharpness of the edge, before crawling back into bed. The mattress was still warm. Another deep breath. Calm, Imoen. Calm. She summoned to mind magic formulas, replaying them in her thoughts in exact detail, trying to lose herself in the minutiae. Runes, sigils, and alchemical symbols quickly drew her into the abstract world of arcane theory, but as soon as her eyes began to drift close a sense of panic seized her. Her eyelids flew open again. The room remained unchanged: dark and silent.

She rolled over, trying to find a more comfortable position. No matter how she positioned herself, the sense of unease followed her. Lingering fear crept over her nerves. She was irrationally certain that, should she close her eyes too long, the blue lines would return, sneaking up on her in silence. With her eyes open, the shadows seemed to creep closer. Was that one longer than it had been before? Nearer? The shadowy wraiths lurked in every corner.

Finally she gave up. She threw back the edge of the covers and slipped out of bed. A second later she had her backpack slung across one shoulder and, still clad only in her nightshift, padded out into the darkness of the hall. The soft rustle of her clothing and the quick thwip thwip thwip of her footfalls sounded abnormally loud against the cryptlike silence of the keep. Each step urged her to look behind her, to see what—if anything—was following her through the halls. She ignored it. Stay calm, Im. Stay calm.

A moment later she was there: a simple wooden door, firmly shut against the outside world. Imoen bit her lip; her hand hovered hesitantly above the latch. It rotated freely, unlocked, when she turned it. The door slid open quietly. The room inside was still.

She pressed the door gently closed and set her pack down in the corner before approaching the bed. The figure there lay swathed in blankets and unmoving, little more than a patch of black against black.

Imoen drew in a steadying breath. She tugged the corner of the blanket down and slipped underneath it. An instant cocoon of warmth surrounded her; she nestled closer and gingerly pressed her hands to the figure's back.

"Imoen?"

"Yeah. No, don't." She blocked Cassie's attempt to turn and face her, using her arms to keep her at bay. The face—the lack of face—in the nightmare was still too fresh, too vivid. "Don't look at me. Please don't."

A pause. "Are you okay?"

"No," she answered honestly. She pressed her cheek against Cassie's hair. It smelled of soft jasmine soap. "Had a nightmare."

"I noticed."

"I'm sorry I yelled at you. And that I hit you and stuff."

"It's okay." One of Cassie's hands reached back, sliding over Imoen's arm and giving her a reassuring squeeze. "They should go away after a month or so."

"What?"

"The Bhaal nightmares. They did with me."

Bhaal nightmares. She'd forgotten about them. Cassandra had been plagued by them constantly around the time they were in Nashkel and Baldur's Gate, often waking two or three times a night in a cold, terrified sweat. Imoen had comforted her then, and over time the dreams had become both less violent and less frequent, until finally they'd stopped all together. Or at least, so Imoen assumed.

"D'ya still have them?" she asked softly.

"Bhaal nightmares? No, not anymore."

"What do you dream about, then?"

Cassie's hand squeezed her own. "Sometimes Gorion, or other friends. But mostly? About you. About us."

"There isn't an 'us', Cass. Not like that. That's not why I'm in bed with you."

"I never said that," she countered quietly. "Look, Im—I'm your friend, first and foremost. Everything else is optional."

"You mean that?"

"Of course I do."

"Even—even the sex?" Imoen pressed. "Even if it never happened again? What would you do?"

Another squeeze of her hand, this one tight and lingering. "The same thing I'm doing now."

Imoen let out a small, confused breath. "Really?"

"Yes."

Her arms slipped around Cassandra's waist as she wiggled closer. A sudden urge to cry threatened to steal her voice. "You're too good to me," she whispered. "Why are you so good to me?"

Cassie's fingers laced with hers; the other hand reached to brush her cheek. "Because you deserve it, Im. You deserve it."

The De'Arnise Keep, Imoen decided, was paradise.

Matilda and her kitchen staff ensured a never-ending supply of sumptuous meals. Breakfast consisted of rich, full-grain muffins accompanied by fresh milk from local cows, topped off with a variety of fruits, nuts, and cheeses. Lunch invariably came early, usually in the form of poached eggs, raw leafy vegetables, and thick slices of warm baker's bread. The stout Amnish woman prided herself above all on her dinners: always piping hot and never the same thing twice. Roast duck with dumplings and cranberry sauce; salmon steaks with a sweet balsamic and red wine reduction; ginger-glazed veal with spring onions and herb potatoes. Cassandra's and Imoen's enthusiastic appetites and gushing compliments never failed to send Matilda back to the kitchen with blushing cheeks and a chubby, dimpled smile as big as the pans she cooked in.

Right now Imoen was in the courtyard, taking a break from the stuff, stolid walls of the library. The last few days she'd practically lived between the pages of books, hunting down vampires, elven magic, and advanced arcana: anything and everything that might give them an advantage in their quest. Educational, but boring. And 'boring' was one thing that Imoen simply couldn't stand.

Somewhere behind her a door creaked open. Imoen didn't bother opening her eyes. Nothing could be so important that it warranted moving even a single inch out of the glorious afternoon sun.

"Miss Imoen?"

Chanelle. Imoen smiled. She'd gotten on pretty good terms with the maid over the past few days. They shared an impish sense of humor and an unhealthy love of local gossip.

"Yeah, Chanelle?"

"I brought you a glass of wine."

The smile widened. "Chan, girl, you are a dream." Imoen opened her eyes and stretched her arms out over her head, luxuriating in the feeling of her muscles coming slowly to life. Chanelle stood in front of her with a small serving tray and a single, sparkling serving of rosé.

"You not having one?" Imoen asked, delicately accepting the fine-stemmed glass.

"I can't," Chanelle responded. "Can't drink until sunset; Domo's rule." Her hand went reflexively to the ever-growing swell of her stomach. "And the midwife says it's bad for the baby."

"Not if you want the kid to have good taste. Here, have a sip."

"No, no. Maybe later." She flashed Imoen a smile of her own. "Thanks for the offer."

"Jessup's that skinny blond guy I met yesterday, isn't he?"

She giggled. "I don't think he'd be flattered by the description."

"Nothing personal; just trying to keep straight the faces in my head."

"Bad memory?"

Imoen shrugged and brought the wine to her lips. The pale, translucent red liquid was sweet and fruity. "Normally it's pretty good."

The maid took a seat next to her, lowering herself gingerly into the grass. Her pregnancy wasn't yet far enough along to interfere with work, but her belly was certainly large enough to make some movements easier than others. "Have you been sleeping okay? I could fix you some valerian tea after dinner."

"Nah, I'm okay." She'd stubbornly stuck to her decision to sleep apart from Cassandra, and no further nightmares had occurred. It was more a question of 'when', however, than 'if', the next would come. "Valerian tastes nasty."

"Chamomile? Matilda has some elfroot."

Another shake of her head. "It's okay, really."

"You're as stubborn as Lord Cassandra," Chanelle accused with a playful roll of her eyes. "I don't think she's drank a single tea I've made her; she'd rather pace around the halls all night. Oh, she scared the gray right out of Mattie's hair the other night! Bumped into each other around a corner; Matilda said it frightened at least a year off her life!"

One auburn eyebrow arched up. "Cassie hasn't been sleeping?"

"Not a wink. Hadn't you noticed?"

The door creaked open again. Both girls automatically looked over, and Chanelle hurriedly—or as hurriedly as she could—got back to her feet, assisted by Imoen's helping hands. The Major Domo stood in the doorway, a frown pressed into his thin, moustached lips.

"Chanelle, Lady Imoen: have you seen Lord Cassandra?"

A small curtsey from the De'Arnise maid. "No, sir."

Imoen shook her head. "Not since breakfast. Why? What's up?"

"We've received news back from Athkatla."

That got Imoen on her feet as well. News from Athkatla could only mean one thing: news about Bodhi and Irenicus. She drained the rest of her wine—nearly the full glass—in a single, long gulp. It went down smooth and tingled with promise in her stomach. Ooh, I'm going to feel that. "I'll check the second floor," she said. "Chanelle, check the armory and weapons training places. Cassie loves that kind of stuff."

They scattered. The keep had minimal staff during the afternoon; after lunch had been served and the dishes cleared away, the servants were given leave to have their own repast and relaxation. One young boy was at work in the grand hall, sweeping up dust with a broom as long as he was. Other than that, the keep was empty.

Imoen headed straight for the staircase. If Cassie wasn't out doing her military hoo-hah, then she'd probably be in the library. If she wasn't there, then she was probably in her room. Or taking a bath. But this early in the day?

"Cass?" Imoen poked her head in the library. No Cassie. To the bedroom then. She jogged the distance, holding up her robe's hem with both hands. "Cassie?"

"In here."

The voice came from the atrium. The door was half-open; Cassandra sat in one of the over-stuffed chairs, a book in one hand, sitting in the company of a dozen exotic plants. The windows were unshuttered and flung open wide, bathing the room in fresh air and sunlight. Her blindfold lay on an end table nearby.

"Here." Imoen crossed over to her, picking up the length of cream-colored cloth. "Let me help you. We're going downstairs."

The warrior's soft pink lips dipped in a frown. "Why? What's going on?"

"Good news." Imoen settled the blinder over Cassie's head, then slipped behind her to tie it tight. "Or maybe bad news. One of the messengers is back from Athkatla."

"Really?" Cassie sat up a little straighter. "Which one?"

"Dunno. Major Domo's looking for you, though."

"What's the news?"

"Dunno," she repeated, giving the blindfold one last tug. "Tight enough?"

"Little too tight, actually."

"Wimp." Imoen smiled as she slipped her fingers under the cloth and forced the knot to give up some slack. "Better?"

"Better."

"Great!"

Imoen hauled, more than 'guided', Cassie out of the room, making a beeline for the master staircase. Her excited calls of Found her! reached the bottom well before they did, and by the time the two had navigated the two dozen steps down to the first floor, the Major Domo was waiting. In his hand was a small roll of parchment sealed with a blob of black wax.

"Your Grace." He bowed low as Cassie stepped off the staircase and onto the flat granite floor. "A message from Aran Linvail."

"Linvail?" Cassie reached out her hand reflexively, well askew of where the Major Domo was standing, before realizing the futility of it. She couldn't read through a blindfold.

"Perhaps I should read it to you, Your Grace," Malufson offered. "Or would you prefer a more...confidential location?"

"No, no. It's fine. Read it, please."

The Domo slid his thumbnail under the hardened wax seal; the imprinted letter 'L' cracked in twain. He unfurled it slowly, eyes scanning it for only a half-second, before looking up at the waiting woman again.

"It is... vague, Your Grace," he said, frowning. "And exceedingly short."

Imoen's hands on Cassandra's arm tightened in anticipation. "What does it say?"

Malufson extended the letter towards her. Imoen accepted it with equal parts eagerness and trepidation. It was short indeed. Only three small words were inscribed on the page in sharp, chiseled black letters:

She is here.

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 13 - "Friends and Enemies"

It was a twelve-hour journey by foot to Athkatla: they made it in five, thanks to two fresh geldings and Imoen's judicious use of haste. They reached the city gates just as the last sliver of sun disappeared behind the horizon. The long shadows of evening melded into a single swath of omnipresent darkness as the last rays of sunlight died.

The guards had waved them through with neither interest nor attention; the two women were only a few small drops in the steady flow of merchants, travelers, vagabonds, and scamps that poured into the nation's capital every day. Cassandra had re-blinded herself and mounted double with Imoen when the first vague outlines of the gate towers appeared in the distance; the extra horse trotted alongside as a rider-less spare.

"So where's this Copper Coronet place?" Imoen queried from the front.

Cassie hooked one finger over the blindfold and eased it down long enough to scan the surrounding scenery. The polished white stone and glittering gold roofs of the Promenade were slowly fading away; clean cobblestone streets had turned into packed earth. Like in so many cities, the slums of Athkatla had grown up within spitting distance of the elite and their mansions. Beggars and thieves lived off the discards and carelessness of the rich and noble: charity was seldom to be found.

"Keep going straight," she instructed, letting the blindfold slouch back into place. "It's still a few streets ahead." In her time in Athkatla Cassie had become intimately familiar with the Slums District and its inhabitants. It'd been a refuge: no one cared, no one asked questions, and everything was for sale if you had enough coin. "We should run right into it."

"'Kay." Imoen pulled Cassie's gelding, a slim sorrel named Bushfire, closer. More and more of the gazes that fell on them seemed almost dangerously interested. "Uh... what are the chances that we get mugged?"

"Two women on horseback looking lost?" Cassandra let out an amused breath. "Pretty high."

"Even when one of them's armed and armored?"

"I doubt they'll be frightened of a blind warrior, Im."

"Well, take off your blindfold!"

"And have everyone who gets within ten yards of us run screaming? That's more attention that I'd like."

"Better than getting robbed," Imoen grumped.

"The Coronet's safe. I'm friends with the owner and the barkeep."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Hendak—the owner—was caught by an illegal slave ring that I broke up. Bernard, the barkeep, was a friend of Jaheira's."

"Oh."

The Copper Coronet appeared a few minutes later, designated as such by a dingy wooden plaque above the main doors. The paint was faded and peeling; the wood itself had seen better days and in some parts was rotting away entirely. The thick, warped windows were tainted yellow from gods only knew how many years of build up smoke, oil, and dirt. From the din of noise inside, though, it was a both a popular and festive place.

The sisters dismounted near the straw-roofed shed that served as a stable and secured the horses as best they could. There was no stable boy or watchman to protect the animals, but there was, thankfully, basic food and water. After a day like today, both horses would be glad to rest and refuel.

Imoen pushed the door of the tavern open. The low thunder of voices and music exploded into an orchestra of chaos. Every table was packed full with people of every possible description. A trio of dwarves with mugs raised bellowed out a lewd song; a group of motley sailors took turns jeering at the servant girls; several shady-looking characters near the back spoke in whispered tones. On a platform next to bar was a garishly dressed bard of indeterminate race, trying desperately to play his sitar loud enough to carry over the din.

"'Ey, cutie!" One of the seamen tipped his cap at Imoen, beaming a drunken smile in her direction. "Buy you and—" His eyes fell on Cassandra, and his jaw went slack before barking out a rough laugh. "ey, looka this! One a Ilmater's rejects, an' all dressed in metal ta boot!"

The troop of sailors leaned in closer, forming a loose semi-circle. Imoen pressed closer to Cassandra; a reflexive habit to hide behind the larger girl. Cassie's head tilted as the sounds of shifting footsteps drew closer.

"Ignore them," Cassie instructed. "Let's get to the bar."

"Oh oh!" The sailors laughed again, with the foremost one slapping his compatriots on the back. "Guess that sword's all for show, 'ey boys?"

The general noise of agreement was lost in the background. Imoen pushed through the crowd with Cassie's hand clasped tight. Several pairs of eyes watched them as they passed, but the pair reached the bar unmolested. The bartender was filling a fresh mug of ale from the keg on tap. He looked up only briefly before handing it off to a customer; his head jerked back abruptly as he did a swift double-take. His droopy brown eyes gave her a skeptical once over, flickering up and down.

"Cassandra?" he asked slowly.

The rich baritone voice brought a smile to the red-head's lips. "Hendak treating you well, Bernard?"

"Cassie, ya blasted bastard!"

He levered his impressive bulk out from behind the wooden counter. Bernard was a giant of a man, standing a good six feet tall and with a massive stomach that took up almost as much space as he did. How he managed to move at all seemed to defy the laws of physics. The enormous arms enclosed the warrior in a bone-crushing hug.

"He works me like a dog, he does! Filthy slaver driver, that's what he is. But you, girl! Where've you been? What happened to you?"

"It's—" The sentence was cut off in a wheeze as the embrace tightened. "Long story," she gasped.

"You'll have to catch me up!" Bernard released her as his gaze turned to Imoen. "And who's this little lady? Friend of yours?"

"Sister, actually."

"Sister, eh?" One bushy eyebrow arched up. "So that's the infamous Imoen, is it?"

A grin spread across Imoen's lips. "'Infamous'? What stories has Cassie been telling?"

"Stories?" He chuckled. "Oh, no stories. But anyone who knows Cassie knows about you. You've got a very devoted sister, lass."

"Really?" Imoen's smokey grey eyes shifted to Cassandra. Her smile took on a soft warmth.

"Oh, yes. So!" He clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. "What'll it be? Room for the night? Dinner? Consider it on the house."

"Sure, a room—"

"Two rooms," Imoen interrupted quickly.

Cassie frowned. "Two rooms," she amended, "would be great. And has anyone left messages for me?"

"Two rooms," Bernard confirmed, turning to fetch the keys off a rack on the rear wall. A nearby pitcher barely escaped being toppled by his bulk. "No messages; didn't even know you were back in town. Expecting someone?"

"Maybe. Not sure."

Bernard held out the keys; after an awkward moment of forgetting that Cassandra couldn't see them, Imoen accepted them on her behalf.

"Take a seat, girls. I'll have a plate of grub out for you in a few minutes."

"Thanks."

Imoen took hold of Cassandra's hand again. The only open seats were at the bar itself, near the end next to the window. The other patrons ranged from mostly sober to outright sloshed; all male, save for a single female dwarf who was given an unusual amount of space by her neighbors. Whether it was the combination of beard and breasts or the woman's general rank smell, Imoen wasn't sure.

"Sounds like you've made a lot of friends," she commented as she slipped onto her stool.

"A few," Cassie responded, shrugging. "Mostly by doing favors. Same shit as the Sword Coast, really. Bounty hunting, monster killing: stuff that the local guard doesn't care about but the average guy can't handle."

"That doesn't bother you? Being used like that?"

"I didn't really have a choice."

"How so?"

Another shrug. "You were gone. I had no idea where you were, and the only people who were willing to help me wanted twenty thousand gold to loosen their lips. What else could I have done? I needed money, and I needed it fast."

Imoen set her elbow on the bar and propped her chin up in her palm. "Jaheira should have hit up the Harpers. They've got an organization spanning half Faerûn; you know they've gotta have gold to spare."

"She tried," Cassie confirmed. "But... I'm Bhaalspawn. For the Harpers I was a threat: 'balance of good and evil' and all that."

"What happened?"

"We left."

"Just like that?"

"No..." Cassie sighed. "They attacked us; we killed them. Jaheira was devastated, but it was the only option. The Harpers wouldn't back down."

A nod. Once upon a time such a blatant admission of murder would have shocked her, but Imoen had seen far too much violence to hold to her former childhood ideals. "Sorry. Must have been hard."

A thick ceramic mug of beer was thunked down on the table, quickly followed by a second. Both women looked up to see a harried-looking serving girl brush her frizzled blond curls back behind her ears.

"From Bernard," she informed them flatly, already moving off to another client. "Food's coming."

Imoen curled her hand around the cup. "I wish I'd gotten a chance to say goodbye."

"To Jaheira?"

"Yeah. She was a bossy, over-opinionated nag who constantly lectured me on being responsible." A small, nostalgic smile as she took a sip of ale. "Closest thing to a mom I've ever had."

Cassie chuckled. "She'd've loved to hear that last part. The first part, not so much."

"Do you think about them a lot?" Imoen queried. "Khalid? Jaheira?"

"I try not to," Cassie admitted. Her slow, questing fingers finally bumped against the ceramic mug. She picked it up. "Gives me nightmares."

"Mm." Probably best to change the subject then. They could both benefit from a little more sleep. "So what's the plan tomorrow? Meet that Ribald guy and...?"

"Well, if we haven't heard by Linvail by then, we'll go pay him a visit. Find out what he knows about Bodhi."

"Got a plan for her?"

Cassie shook her head. "Not yet. Not until we hear from Linvail. We need more information. I wiped out her little cadre last time, but she might have new helpers by now. And if she's heard I'm back, you can bet gold that she's going to set up a nasty welcome."

Imoen arched an eyebrow. "You don't think she'll run?"

"I don't know." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I've beaten her twice now; she might not want to risk a third. On the other hand, I'm stubborn and she knows it. Might be easier to kill me and have it done with."

"Morbid."

"Tactical," Cassie countered. "And realistic."

The waitress returned—a different waitress, this one with short, choppy black hair and considerably more years showing on her lined face. Two large round trays were balanced on her forearms, each one bearing a load of simple but aromatic food.

"Tomato soup," she explained, naming off the items in turn as she set the trays down on the table. "Pork with roasted potatos; creamed spinach; brown bread. Enjoy."

"Thanks," Imoen responded, but the waitress was already pushing her way back into the crowd.

Cassie's fingers explored the edge of the tray until they located the cold, serrated edge of her steak knife. Now to find the food... "This is going to be awkward."

"What—oh." Imoen giggled. "Well, blind people have to eat, too. Want me to cut up your food for you? Or we could eat upstairs and you could take the blindfold off?"

"I'll manage. Just point me towards the potatoes."

The adventures of eating while blinded were a constant source of merriment for the next hour. Imoen dutifully gave directions as to how Cassie should move her utensils, giggling and correcting her when the warrior tried to cut the side of her plate by mistake. After a few minutes of adjustment things went more smoothly. The pork was straight ahead of her; the potatoes slightly to the left; the spinach at the bottom. Likely she was smearing everything over everywhere, but the majority of it made it to her stomach in the end.

By the time they'd finished eating and their second set of beers, the crowd had begun to thin out. Most of the honest laborers had to work when the sun rose and left to catch a bit of sleep. Those who were left were the less honest laborers: ruffians, thieves, and muscle for hire who did their jobs best under the cover of darkness. They made up the bulk of the after-hours clientele, and their ravenous appetite for drink ensured that the tavern's pace never slowed.

Imoen stifled a yawn. "I'm tired."

"Want to go to bed?"

"If you don't mind."

"Nah." Cassandra stood up from the table. "I'll go with you."

Imoen nodded, forgetting that Cassie couldn't see it. She wriggled between the narrow space between a pair of adjoining chairs and took ahold of Cassie's elbow. Getting to the staircase was going to require some tricky navigation. "Chanelle said you weren't sleeping well."

"I haven't been tired."

"Still, you should sleep. You need your strength."

"I know." Cassie followed the soft, leading pressure on her arm. Every few steps were accompanied by a bump of flesh against flesh and a muttered apology. "I try, but it just ends up with me laying in bed for two hours doing nothing."

"I could cast sleep on you," Imoen offered.

She shook her head. "It's probably just nerves. I'll be fine."

"If you say—hey!" A hand closed on Imoen's rear and gave a firm squeeze. She spun around, eyes flashing. A trio of the sailors from earlier had gathered around the bar; the one closest to her gave her a wink while his buddies looked on and laughed. "What the Hell do you think you're doing?"

"Ooh, a spitfire!"

"Got some red in 'er," one of the friends observed, reaching out and trying to touch the auburn strands of her hair. "Wild filly, betcha life."

Imoen pushed his hand away. "Back off."

"Now, lass," the pincher cajoled. "We've been out ta sea for nigh a season. Ya wouldn't grudge a man the sight of a pretty girl?"

A hand flashed out and closed around his neck; abruptly he was airborne as Cassandra shoved him backwards. A score of startled exclamations shot through the air as patrons scrambled to get out of the way. One half-elven man wasn't fast enough; he and the sailor collided and together crashed to the ground in a tangle of legs and arms.

Silence. Even Pincher's friends were mute, regarding the blindfolded warrior with a healthy new measure of respect. The only sound was a string of confused curses as the sailor and the hapless half-elf struggled to right themselves.

"What in the bloody Nine Hells!" Bernard stormed out of the kitchen. His massive bulk sent tremors through the floor. "I won't have no fighting in the Coronet!" he roared. "Take it outside!"

"Cassie!" Imoen's voice was an angry whisper. "What's wrong with you?"

"He shouldn't have touched you."

"I can take care of myself!"

Bernard was bustling about the fallen men, hauling them up and pushing them towards the door with gruff, loud commands. The fallen half-elf tried in vain to explain that he hadn't been involved, while the sailor shouted insults back at his assailant.

The mood was turning ugly; Pincher's two friends had recovered from their initial shock and now regarded the two women with narrowed, angry eyes. It wouldn't be long before their ire worked through to their drink-fogged brains.

Imoen tugged at Cassie's hand. "Cass, let's go. We'll talk upstairs."

"Head to bed, lass," Bernard confirmed, now holding the two men each firmly under a meaty arm. "I'll clean these rascals up."

"Thanks, Bernard," Cassie called back, before following Imoen's lead up the stairs.

She couldn't sleep.

Cassandra lay under the blankets of the small, single-person bed and stared up at the ceiling. It was wooden, made of long, rough hewn planks supported by thick crossbeams. She'd counted the number of boards above her head: sixty-five. She'd counted the number of nails holding them together: one-hundred and twenty six. At the moment she was counting the number of knots visible in the wood. She'd already found eleven, and while it was a tedious, boring task, it hadn't succeeded in luring her to sleep. It was the fifth night in a row.

By now she should have been exhausted. Sleep deprivation caught up to one eventually: reddened eyes, foggy thoughts, the nagging sense of fatigue. But despite not sleeping at all for nearly a week, and sleeping only fitfully before that, she felt fine. No slow reactions; no aching muscles. Had news come that instant that Bodhi was at the door, she would have strapped on her armor and gone to fight.

The night was strangely silent now that the tavern had shut down. The kitchen pots no longer clanked and rang; the rowdy songs and shouting ribaldry had stopped. Outside she could hear lingering laughter and the sound of male voices: likely patrons who had moved their revelry outside.

Imoen hadn't been happy. Her anger had been expressed in short, terse words. I'm not a little girl, she'd snapped. I went up with you against Sarevok. I helped you kill that svirfneblin demon. I was half the reason we survived the Underdark. Don't treat me like a child; I can take care of myself! The resounding thud of her bedroom door slamming shut had ended the conversation.

She let out a long sigh in the darkness. If she was going to be awake, at least she could do something. In the De'Arnise Keep she'd raided the library, reading by candlelight until dawn's first soft rays crested the horizon. The Copper Coronet, however, was notably lacking in literature.

Cassandra slipped her legs out from under the covers and got to her feet, ruffling her hair loose with both hands and stretching out her muscles. She'd slept in her trousers, and now fetched her tunic off the room's single chair. There was something she could do...

She didn't bother taking a candle or lantern. Whatever had changed her eyes had altered her vision as well, and now the pitch black night was rendered as little more than twilight. The Taint, she reflected as she descended the stairs, had its advantages.

The first floor was as quiet as the second. The windows had been shuttered and barred; the doors were secured with iron ties. The back door was even more firmly locked, with no less than three separate chains and two crossbars. It only took a moment of searching around the various counters to locate the master keys, hidden away in an empty pot. Bernard was a bear of a man, but rather predictable in his habits.

A few minutes later the door was open, and Cassie stepped out into the darkness of the moonlit Athkatlean night. The stables—or the ramshackle shed that served as one—was barely fifty feet away from the Coronet itself. Inside were still a half-dozen horses, dozing away where they stood. Most of the steeds had seen better days, and only two had the robust muscles and glossy coat of true health.

"Hey, Bushfire." She patted the sorrel gelding on the rump. The long equine head swivelled around and fixed her with a surprised eye. "Sorry. Just wanted to make sure you're okay."

The horse next to him perked up as well: this one a dapple gray with a thick black mane. She rubbed its flank briskly in greeting. "Morning, Blackfoot."

She took her time checking the horses over. Half an hour later she had refilled the feed troughs, fetched fresh water from the rain barrel, and double checked the saddles and gear for the morning. She didn't have a hoof knife, nor was one present amidst the various odds and ends in the stable—not that there was any need for it, since the De'Arnise horsewarden had checked out both steeds personally the night before. Still, it would have been another fifteen minutes doing something useful, instead of aimlessly waiting for morning to come.

The sound of laughter once more echoed through the street in front of the tavern. Footsteps. Off-color jokes. Cassandra paid it no mind until the sounds abruptly stopped, replaced by an ominous chuckle.

"'ey," said a familiar male voice. "If it ain't the little blind girl."

Cassandra froze, a freshly oiled saddle still in hand.

"And missin' 'er metal this time," another observed, a note of satisfaction in his voice.

She glanced over her shoulder. Two of the sailors from earlier stood near the open-air entrance to the stable: Pincher and one of his friends. Five additional men, all wearing similar clothes and colors, were grouped loosely behind them. Shipmates, all prowling the city's nightlife.

"I think she owes me an apology," Pincher commented to his mate, pitching his voice to reach Cassie loud and clear. His aura glowed with the purple tinge of pride. "Wasn't too nice earlier."

Cassie hefted the saddle up and set it astride one of the railings. Alcohol and testosterone was never a good combination; better to have her hands free, just in case.

The footsteps grew closer. The smell of alcohol and stale smoke wafted over her. "'ey, lassie. Where's ya ginger friend?"

Cassandra's lips tightened as she debated how to respond. Ignoring them was her top choice, but she had a strong suspicion that they were not going to give her that option. Pincher had had at least four hours and likely twice as many pints to nurse his wounded pride. Finally she turned and faced them.

"She's asleep."

"Wha—" Pincher's let out a rough bark of laughter. "Gods, lass, ya should've kept ya cloth on. Fuckin' ugly, 'ey lads?"

The chuckles spread through the group, with several leaning even closer to get a good look at Cassie's face.

"Don' matter, though," Pincher drawled. "Why don't ya go wake 'er up, we'll all 'ave a nice time."

Nods of agreement; scattered laughter. Cassie wasn't amused.

"I'll give you one minute to get out of my sight," she said. "I suggest you start walking."

"Oh oh!" Pincher elbowed his mates. They chuckled, arching eyebrows, looking at each other in amusement. "Now, lass," the sailor warned her quietly, leaning forward, "ya got an 'abit of bein' mean ta me. 'Ow about an apology, 'fore I get angry?"

"How about you leave before I throw you into your friends again?" she countered.

The chuckles died down, replaced with low murmurs of discontent. Pincher frowned; his friends crowded in around him.

"Whatever busted ya eyes musta broke ya brain," he growled. He reached out towards her loose-laced tunic. Thrown on for a measure of simple decency, she wore nothing underneath it. "Ya picked the wrong night ta be brave, lass."

Cassandra caught his hand. "So did you."

Pincher's eyes widened in shock and pain as she squeezed; the crunch of breaking bone carried through the cold night air. His scream echoed through the alley as he dropped to his knees and tried to yank his hand away. The sound shocked his friends out of their drunken fog; they leapt to his defense.

It was almost absurdly easy. She dropped Pincher's hand and left him howling in the dirt, then met his over-eager friends head-on. Their reflexes were dulled with wine and beer; their depth-perception off; their night-sight inferior. Had they knives and clubs, perhaps they would have stood a chance.

The first one yelled as he charged forward; Cassandra planted her hand in the middle of his face and hurled him backwards. Another swung a balled and bony fist at her head; a third tried to grab her from behind. The red-headed warrior dropped to her knees, twisting her body viciously both forward and down; the sudden shift of balance and acceleration sent the rear attacker catapulting forward into his companions. Pincher's friend from the Copper Coronet, a burly human with shock-blond hair, came in with a snarl. She angled sideways, evading his clumsy grab, and rammed her knee into his stomach. He collapsed, retching his evening's drinks into the dirt and straw.

The fight became a song; it hummed through her, ebbing and flowing in a symphony of movement and reaction. Counter, catch; the snap and crack of breaking bone; dodge, push, twist. All too soon it was over, and Cassandra found herself regarding six fleeing backs instead of seven brawling opponents. The white shirts of their sailor grab fluttered like beacons as they raced to escape.

Cassie's eyes scanned the surroundings and lit upon the rusty, two-pronged pitchfork lying in the hay. She knelt and hefted it, rose to her feet in one fluid motion as she found the shaft's balance, chambered her arm, and hurled it forward. It lanced through the air like an arrow, narrowly missing a man's head, and embedded itself firmly in a wooden door instead.

She inhaled slowly, lips pursing in a small, displeased circle. The others were too far away, disappearing out of her sight as they scattered. The rest of the street was silent. In the Slums people knew better than to stick their heads out at night.

She was crossing back towards the tavern itself when a faint moan of pain caught her ears. Pincher, his hand little more than a twisted clump of flesh and a spear of fresh white bone jutting from his shattered arm, lay gasping in the dirt.

"Well, now," Cassandra murmured as she knelt down next to him. "Looks like it's just you and me."

He grimaced, digging his heels into the dirt and trying to wriggle away. "You ain't blind!" he wheezed. "You ain't 'uman!"

She bared her teeth in a feral smile. "Right on both accounts."

Her hand fastened around his ankle and she pulled him back towards her. A dark stain of wetness soiled the crotch of his pants as he began babbling and begging for mercy.

"Please don' kill me! Oh, gods, please, please!"

The Taint unfurled instinctively, crawling out of its lair with draconic lethargy. It seeped through her flesh, through her muscles, seeking out its prey. The white flicker of his lifeforce was visible now: a wild deer desperate to free itself as lion slowly closed in.

"Please," he sobbed. "Please. I got a wife. I got a little boy."

"They deserve better." She could smell it now: the sweet mix of urine and fear; the primeval panic raising through his veins. It tingled in her throat like a rich blood-red wine. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you," she hissed.

"Oh, Tyr! Tyr, Talos, Umberlee!" He stumbled through a list of gods, praying to any and all. "I'm sorry! Ya'll never see me again! Never! Na you na yer friend!"

Friend. Imoen. Cassie's predatory grin slowly faded as Imoen's visage appeared in her head. You scare me, Cass. I don't even know who you are anymore.

Pincher was still babbling out a steady stream of pleading. He was functioning more on adrenaline than his wits, seemingly paying no mind to his mangled hand and arm. Sooner or later the pain would cut through his fear, and then he'd enter a whole new world of regret.

Just kill him. He deserved it. He'd started it, him and his friends. She was only defending herself. Defending Imoen.

I can take care of myself!

"Run," she ordered, transferring her grip to his shoulders and hauling him to his feet. A single shoved spurred him into motion. "Get out of here!"

He fled as fast as his feet would carry him, disappearing into the darkness without daring to look behind. She watched him go with a sneer of dissatisfaction. The Taint inside her throbbed and pulsed. It was hungry. It wanted to feed.

She pushed it down. It groaned in protest, licking at her soul like a slavering dog. Just a little bit, it urged. Just a taste.

Cassie braced herself with one arm against the stable wall. She closed her eyes, breathed in slowly, and tightened her grip on the darkness inside her. It whimpered and hissed as she forced it back until control. She was still Cassie. At least for now.

A soft knock on the bedroom door roused Cassandra from troubled thoughts. It'd been nearly two hours since the confrontation in the stables, and slumber still eluded her. The events played through her thoughts a constant loop, in infinite detail, as vivid as life itself.

"Who is it?"

The latch turned; a small gap of darkness appeared between door and wall. "It's me: Imoen. Can I come in?"

"Sure."

The gap widened; a familiar feminine shape slipped inside before easing it closed again. The soft pad of footsteps approached the bed; Imoen's face was drawn and tired in the gray-black shadows of the room.

"Can't sleep?" Cassandra queried quietly.

She sighed, slipping under the covers and pressing closer. "Not really," she admitted. "Had another nightmare."

The warrior laced their fingers together and gave her a supportive squeeze. "Want to talk about it?"

Imoen laid her head on Cassie's chest. The heartbeat was slow, steady, and calm. "Not much to say. I think I'm awake; something bad happens; I run to find you. I think I'm safe, but then I find out you've turned into some kind of monster. Same thing every time. I hate it."

Cassie nuzzled her nose into Imoen's auburn waves. Her eyes were wide open, staring into the nothingness of the dark. In a few hours it'd be morning. Soon the pools of blood by the stable would be noticed. Pincher was out there, somewhere, crippled by his narrow escape from death. You worry me, Cassie. You really do.

"Yeah," she murmured softly. "I have that nightmare, too."

Aran Linvail—or rather, one of his men—was waiting for them at breakfast the next morning. He was a tall, lanky man, missing one ear, and with a patchy black beard that couldn't seem to decide in which direction it should grow. His lazy brown eyes hadn't seemed to notice them when the sisters had descended from the upper level, but as they placed their orders for eggs and ham he'd suddenly popped up by their table.

"Hello there," he drawled in a lazy south-Amnish accent. "Name's Alan. Mind if I sit down?"

"Actually, yeah, we do," Imoen had responded tartly, giving Cassandra a warning look to keep her temper in check. "There's plenty of other tables available."

"Relax, love." He pulled out a chair anyways and spun it, sitting astride it in reverse, and rested his arms across the back. "I'm not here to give you trouble. Aran'd like to see you when you're done eating. Something about a particularly troublesome woman." A white, good-natured grin split his beard in two. "As if there's any other kind."

Cassandra's lips quirked with a barely-suppressed smile; Imoen rolled her eyes.

"We'll eat fast," Cassie promised.

"You'll eat fast," Imoen corrected. "I'm gonna enjoy every single bite. Spellhold and Ust Natha weren't exactly gourmet locations, y'know."

"You're in the Athkatlean slums," Cassie pointed out. "I'm not sure most people here even know what 'gourmet' means."

She stuck out her tongue: a small pink tip between pouty lips. "Well it sure as Hell can't be worse than fungus and old gruel."

"Say that again after you taste the eggs."

An hour later, they were packed and underway. Imoen had doggedly taken her time over breakfast, despite her grudging admission that, indeed, the Copper Coronet's food was slightly (she'd said with a glare) less tasty than Matilda's fancy fare. The best part of it had been the apple juice, fresh-squeezed from the autumn harvest.

The path that Alan took to the docks wasn't one that Cassandra was familiar with. It wove and twisted between buildings and through side alleys, up, left, down, right. Here and there he'd stop, chatting with a passing acquaintance or stopping to browse a merchant's stall. Whether or not he was genuinely unconcerned as to their pace, or whether some cunning lay behind his dawdling, Cassandra wasn't sure.

"Why do guys always assume that women are nothing but trouble?" Imoen complained as they walked.

"Who reshelved the entire 'Alaundo' section of the Candlekeep library somewhere else?" Cassie countered.

"That's not 'cause I'm a girl. That's 'cause Candlekeep was boring."

"And putting stinging nettles in Albert's robes?"

"Oh, c'mon, he deserved it. And he overreacted. It wasn't that bad."

"Throwing every mop you could find in the lake so you wouldn't have to clean the cellar?"

"Okay, okay." Imoen stuck out her tongue again and gave Cassie a gentle shove. "But it's not like you were an angel, either."

"You were a bad influence. And besides, I'm also a girl, so it doesn't disprove the 'women are trouble' part."

"Fine. So girls are trouble. But guys are bigger trouble. I mean, seriously: Molahey, Tazok, Sarevok, Irenicus? Kidnapping and killing ranks a bit above reshelving books."

"Good point."

Imoen huffed out an annoyed breath. "So why don't people ever crack jokes like, 'Oooh, look! A guy. Everyone knows that guys are murdering, lying jerks. Ha ha!'"

"C'mon, Im, you're taking it too seriously." Cassie wrapped her arm around Imoen's shoulders and gave her a few short, playful jostles. "So what if guys laugh at you? That just makes it all the easiest to pick their pockets, doesn't it?"

"I guess. Still, it's not fair."

"When life starts being fair, let me know."

"Oh, hush. You're supposed to be supporting me."

"I am?"

The rough rasp of Alan's cough drew their attention back to the front. "Ladies?" He gestured to the door next to them. It was set into a building equally as large as it was garish, sporting two distinct stories and a crumbling layer of gaudy orange paint that had obviously seen better years. "We're here."

"This is the den of the Shadow Thieves?" Imoen asked incredulously. "I mean... it's orange. Like, really orange."

"And?"

"It's not very discreet?"

"Ah," Alan smiled, "but that is exactly what makes it so discreet. So few would expect a thieves' guild to be so blatantly on display."

She frowned. "Seriously? That works?"

"A lot better than you'd think."

A single knock at the door was all that was needed. A moment later it was answered by a very respectable-looking middle aged man who, for all intents and purposes, could have easily passed as any number of professions. Whether he was acting as butler or as master of the house, wasn't clear.

"Ah, Mister Alan." He stepped aside, revealing a large, tastefully furnished anteroom. "Do come in."

"Don't mind if I do." He motioned towards the interior, looking back at the women. "Guests first. Jovinus, could you let him know that his guests have arrived?"

There was no question as to whom 'him' referred to. Jovinus nodded as the three entered, closing the door behind them. "He is aware. You can go downstairs."

"Thanks. Ladies, follow me please."

The illusion of the lush, if ordinary, waiting room was quickly shattered as Alan led them into a small alcove near the back. A section of the wall slid both back and aside as they approached, allowing access into a secret room beyond. How Alan had activated the mechanism wasn't clear, even to Imoen's inquisitive, thief-trained eyes.

The secret room was little more than a 5×10 holding area, at least at first. Another click, and another section of wall slide away, revealing still another level of intrigue. The chamber hidden here was large and expansive: tables and chairs dotted the wooden floors, along with a dozen or more people lounging about with their boots propped up on any object that happened to be both sturdy and nearby. They were dressed in all manner of clothing, from rough and tumble thugs to young debutants; from middle-aged bankers to old, tired tramps. Several of them raised hands in greeting as Alan and his charges passed them by.

"Yes, they're all Shadow Thieves," he commented, answering the unspoken question. "Our name is rather misleading, I'm afraid. We are an organization of diverse talents and equally diverse people."

A staircase led down to a lower level; from there, a long hallway, lit at regular intervals by small mage lights, extended some two hundred feet further. Their footsteps echoed through the silence, now that they had left the life of the upper level behind. At the hallway's end was a large, circular door of heavy wood, banded together with iron and reinforced with glyphs and runes.

Alan knocked twice, sharp and loud. Imoen felt the tell-tale tingle of magic pass over her skin just before the door swung open.

Compared to the antechamber upstairs, the offices of Aran Linvail were small, but when it came to luxury and comfort, the head of the Shadow Thieves had spared no expense. The expansive rugs which padded the floor were of Calimshanite design; the furniture carved of ebony and mahogany with intricate elven motifs. No fewer than five paintings hung on the walls, each one a rich and vibrant work of art. At least one of them Imoen recognized: Baldur at Victory, by Entar Willowbrook. Her brows arched, the corner of her lip curling in amusement. So that was who'd stolen it.

"Cassandra." A surprisingly youthful man, no more than his mid-thirties, greeted them as they entered. With bright blue eyes and the boyish cut of his sandy blond hair, he could have passed for ten years younger. Aran met the warrior with a firm handshake and small nod; for Imoen he bowed deeply, taking her hand and pressing his lips to her fingers. "Lady Imoen. A pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh."

Cassandra was frowning. Seated at the rear of the room, under the shadows of the great potted ferns, were five additional figures, silently observing the arrival. She turned her gaze on Linvail.

"Is this an ambush?"

Imoen stiffened at the words, her fingers reflexively going to her spell components.

"No, no, of course not." He extended his hand, motioning for them to stay calm. "Lady Imoen, please. I'd rather not have my belongings destroyed."

"What's going on?"

"It's no ambush," he repeated, motioning for them to follow as he headed towards the seated figures. "Although, of course, it would be foolish to admit it if it was. Rather, it is a gathering of like purpose. Gentlemen? And lady."

The group rose as a whole and slowly stepped forward. The group of strangers consisted of four men, ranging from young man to grey-bearded veteran, and one slim, blond woman. The men all wore light ceremonial arms and armor, emblazoned with the colors and heraldry of the Order of the Radiant Heart. The woman's robes were also familiar: a devotee of Lathlander, God of Light.

"May I introduce to you Sirs Ajantis Ilvastarr, Wildorn of Bolugar, Theodorus Tormwine, and Keldorn Firecam of the Order of the Radiant Heart." Aran gestured to each man in turn, who then gave a small bow of acknowledgement. "And this young lady here is Dawnseeker Messanai." She bowed as well.

"My esteemed rivals are here only due to the extraordinary circumstances in which we find ourselves, as you'll understand," Linvail continued. "I hope you pardon that I invited them; it seemed prudent, given that you had already contacted them regarding Bodhi's return."

"How did you—" Cassie cut herself off. Of course Aran knew. Nothing happened in Athkatla without him knowing. "Sorry. Go ahead."

"We had already discovered that there was a vampire at work in Athkatla, but our plans to engage her were put on hold once we had heard of your attempt," one of the knights explained. He was an older, graying man, obviously a veteran of many years. "We thought the problem was resolved."

"A month or so ago, however, new victims were found," Dawnseeker Messanai interjected. A few of the men nodded. "Either a new vampire had taken claim of Bodhi's territory, or she had returned."

Aran took over, motioning the group to silence with a small movement of his fingers. "In light of your failure to kill Bodhi the first time, I felt it wise to arrange some assistance this time around. Bodhi and her ilk are of enough concern that our three organizations have agreed to a temporary truce."

Cassandra bristled. "Don't start on me about 'failure', Aran. The only reason I was in there in the first place is because you were too much of a coward to send your own men. I killed every vampire in that crypt—"

"Except the mistress." Keldorn Firecam's firm, wizened gaze didn't waver. "You let her escape."

"I lost two innocent people down there!" Cassie countered, her ire rising. "I took her on again in Spellhold. I've at least tried. What the Hell have you done, other than sit around making plans?"

"Now, now." Aran stepped between them, placing one hand each on Firecam's breastplate and Cassie's shoulder. "Let's not throw accusations this early in the game." His soft eyes switched between the two warriors until he was sure that no violence would erupt. He lowered his hands. "The fact of the matter is that Bodhi is far too dangerous for one person to take on alone, no matter what their talents. We need more muscle."

"I have more muscle," Cassandra muttered, but Imoen shushed her with a warning glance.

"Also, Cassandra is the only person to have encountered Bodhi and lived. She has tactical knowledge that is invaluable to such a fight."

Imoen cleared her throat. "Ahem."

"Ah yes." Aran flashed the sorceress a smile. "And we now have Imoen."

"What does she do?" one of the younger knights, Ajantis, asked skeptically.

"I'm a mage."

"Any good?"

She straightened, crossing her arms defiantly across her chest. "I helped Cassandra take out Sarevok in Baldur's Gate. I've killed demons almost single-handedly, and I've faced down things you wouldn't believe in the Underdark."

This time it was Aran's turn to look surprised. "Underdark? Is that where you've been, Cassandra?"

"Among other places," she answered. "About Bodhi...?"

"Of course. Bodhi, then, as you likely guessed, is back in Athkatla. My people have been alert for signs of her presence since you left, just in case. We've confirmed that she's back in the graveyard district, likely crawling back under the same slimy stone she crawled out of. What she's doing, we don't know, save that she's been keeping a low profile. Her victims tend to be transients. Whether she's feeding and building her strength, or whether she's rebuilding her clan of minions, no one is sure."

"In either case, it's better to hit her sooner rather than later," Firecam asserted. "We've already made preparations, as has the Dawnseeker. All we need is a few hours' notice to change armor and retrieve our supplies."

"Are you sure she's in the same crypt?" Cassandra asked dubiously.

"Reasonably sure," Aran responded. "No one has gone in to check, of course."

She bit her lip. She hadn't been expecting reinforcements, but they were certainly welcome. A cleric and a handful of paladins were the best possible allies to have when taking on the undead. Bodhi had to be expecting them, though. She had her contacts in the shadows just as surely as Linvail did, and in Athkatla there was no such thing as a secret. The mobilization of such organizations wouldn't go unnoticed.

"Im?" She glanced over at her younger sibling. "What do you think? Now or later?"

"Now," Imoen answered firmly. "She's Irenicus' muscle. The sooner that bitch is dead, the better." Her crossed arms tightened; a sort of awkward, shivering self-hug. "She's got something of mine."

Imoen's soul. Irenicus had given it to his sister, retaining Cassandra's for himself. Killing Bodhi would release it. Although what would happen then...

"What about when Bodhi's dead?"

Aran raised an eyebrow. "Pardon? I don't follow."

"You can't tell me that the Order of the Radiant Heart doesn't know what I am," Cassandra stated. "What are the chances that I 'accidentally' get killed in the midst of battle?"

Firecam stiffened; his armor creaked as it shifted over his muscles. "Yes, we're aware of your heritage," he confirmed.

"And?"

"The 'truce', if that's what we're calling it, also includes you. You bear the mark of evil, but your actions tend to be good. That is enough for the Order to extend mercy... at least for now."

"So you'll deal with me later."

A nod. "If necessary."

The words didn't inspire a warm fuzzy feeling, but it was a more gracious answer than she'd expected. One thing she'd learned from Anomen was that paladins were honest and trustworthy to a fault. If Firecam said she was safe, then she was safe.

"I need a table," Cassandra said. "And the blueprints of the crypt, if you've got them. Paper, if you don't. I remember the layout fairly well. I can point out the known traps and chokepoints; we'll formulate a strategy from there."

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 14 - "Bodhi"

Darkness. The stale scent of dust and cold stone walls, undercut by the subtle rankness of age-old death. Rats chittered in the blackness, scurrying away from the intruders in their quiet domain. The rasping click of tiny claws echoed through the tombs. It was exactly as she remembered it, down to the decaying brickwork and silent spiders watching them suspiciously from the safety of their webs.

Cassandra held up her hand, motioning the group to stop. Imoen's stoneskins-grey form hovered in the edge of her peripheral vision as the sorceress crept silently forward. The rest of the group lingered a meter behind: the four paladins, now outfitted with platemail and holy symbols, and the solitary cleric in their midst. The Dawnseeker's body glowed with a faint light: a gift from Lathlander, and the sole source of illumination to ward off the dark.

"Here," Cassie whispered, pointing to a section of the floor. Nalia's ghost rose out of her memory, mouthing the words even as Cassie spoke them. The noble was smiling; a bloody necklace of severed flesh ringed her neck. "Pressure plate. Don't step on this row of stones."

Scattered nods. The group advanced again, passing one by one over the section as Cassie knelt before it. Imoen, leading the point beyond the light's range, using her darkvision to pierce the blackness; the two older paladins, Firecam and Wildorn; Dawnseeker Messanai. The two younger paladins brought up the rear. Cassie took up the vanguard position once more after all six had cleared the trapped stone. Like Imoen, she worked beyond the range of the light. Unlike Imoen, she needed no magic to do it.

"The hallway should be clear after this," she said softly. "Up ahead there's a large chamber with no floor. There's a path of magic stones leading upwards. Last time they were safe, but be careful: if I were going to set an ambush, I'd set it there."

More nods. Cassandra adjusted her grip on her sword as she advanced. Buying new gear had required money – money that she didn't have. Fortunately her previous business with Ribald had been profitable, and he knew a good business risk when he saw one. If she lost, he'd lose perhaps a thousand gold. If she won, he'd recoup his loss. Either way, he'd have secured the patronage of a powerful warrior: word of mouth alone would be enough to draw in customers from every corner of Amn.

The hallway remained clear, and soon the cavern blossomed open into a black, bottomless pit. Cassandra positioned herself to one side of the door; Imoen went automatically to the other. After traveling together so long, their coordinated movements had become second nature: an ingrained, subconscious reflex. Their eyes scanned the darkness. The path of floating stones stood surreal and silent over the drop-away, winding up to the chambers above.

Their eyes locked, and Imoen gave a small nod. Cassie returned it, then turned to the paladins and motioned them forward. They moved with a fair degree of silence, especially considering the four score pounds of metal strapped to their bodies. The armor could have been specially crafted, but she'd considered and quickly dismissed the possibility. Holy warriors rarely deigned to sneak around in the shadows, and would have little need or desire for armor designed to do so. More likely the cleric had enchanted it somehow to quell the clang of metal.

"Is that stable?" Ajantis queried, his eyes traveling up the floating stairs.

"It was last time."

"I'll go first," Imoen offered, stepping towards the stones. Her gaze fixed Cassandra with a challenge. "I'm the lightest."

The warrior held her tongue. After their argument in the Copper Coronet, Cassie had taken pains to reign in her protective impulses. Imoen was no stranger to risk and danger, and more importantly, she was certainly no fool. The sorceress wouldn't charge into peril unprepared. Imoen could take care of herself. Cassie's mind knew it, even if her heart didn't.

She nodded. "We'll follow you up. No more than two people on the stairs at a time: minimal casualties if we get a surprise."

Theodorus frowned. "How are we going to handle the lights? If we can't see, we can't climb."

"I can cast light," Messanai assured him. "Twice, if needed."

Cassie's eyes turned to her sister. "Imoen?"

A shake of her head. "Once, if I have to. I took darkvision instead."

"Okay. Messanai, make your lights," the warrior instructed. "Imoen will test the way; after that, Wildorn and Theodorus with the first light, Firecam and Messanai, and Ajantis and me with the second."

There were no objections. The group stayed in place, gathered loosely around the bottom of the floating staircase, as Imoen made her ascent. The narrow surfaces and heights were nothing new to the former thief; she made her way nimbly from stone to stone, pausing briefly with each step as she checked her footing and balance. Soon she was at the top. Imoen disappeared over the edge of the upper level; a second later her upper body popped back into view. She waved an 'all-clear' to the companions below.

Wildorn accepted the first of the summoned lights from Messanai and hoisted himself onto the first stone. Theodorus followed. They made their way to the top, as did Firecam and Messanai, with neither interruption nor unwelcome surprise. No ambush, no explosion of spells. The crypt remained eerily silent save for the brush of cloth against cloth and the faint creak of armor.

Cassie frowned as she moved up behind Ajantis. Bodhi had to know they were in Athkatla; even if she didn't, surely she wouldn't be so inattentive as to leave her crypt unguarded. Of all the corners of the tomb, this was by far the best place to arrange an attack: a single shove or a single missed step would send any of them plummeting into the darkness. If Bodhi was here, and was expecting them, what was she waiting for?

The small frown on Imoen's lips when she reached the top told her that her sister shared her thoughts. The mage's troubled grey eyes found hers. "Bodhi's not stupid."

"No, she's not," Cassandra agreed.

"She's up to something."

"Or she's not here."

"She's here," Imoen insisted. "I can feel it."

Keldorn Firecam approached from the side. "Is there something wrong?"

Imoen's lips pursed. "Bodhi should have taken at least two of us out back there."

One aged eyebrow arched up. "Perhaps you should be thankful that she did not."

"You don't know Bodhi," the younger girl countered. "That's an awesome ambush point. She should've done something."

"We have the advantage of surprise," Firecam stated.

"I wouldn't bet on that," Cassie said with a shake of her head.

"What makes you believe otherwise?"

"Gut feeling."

Imoen nodded at Cassandra's words. "When you know Bodhi as well as we do, you learn to expect the worst."

Firecam glanced back at the others. Four sets of eyes watched them expectantly. His attention returned to Cassandra. "We'll stay alert," he promised.

She nodded. It was all any of them could do. She raised her arm, motioning for the others to gather around. "Short hallway," she explained, tilting her head towards the darkness ahead. "We removed the doors last time. Past that, a small chamber. There were grimwarders there earlier, but unless Bodhi's replaced them, they should be gone." Her mind traveled through the events of the last assault: Piotr and his golem, the undead archers, and the thwunk of arrows into flesh. "The inner doors are gone as well. After that, we're in the crypt proper."

Theodorus tipped his chin at her. "Anything we should expect?

A small, humorless smile curled her lips. "Trouble."

A frown. "Anything more specific?" he asked sourly.

Hidden door, hidden lock. Nalia smiled and stepped through the faux wall. Cassandra clenched her jaw and shoved the memory away. "Traps. Keep me in front. I know where they are."

They didn't need to be told twice. Cassie took up point again; Imoen behind and to her left, Firecam behind and right. The Dawnseeker's escorts surrounded her in a ring of steel. Step by step they advanced down the hallway, but Cassie's sense of unease didn't diminish. It was too quiet. Far too quiet.

The hallway ended at the set of ancient doors, just as she remembered. They stood undisturbed: silent guardians unmoved by chaos of mortal beings. Someone had closed them again, after Cassandra's last incursion, but the massive metal bar still lay where Piotr's golem had cast it. Perhaps it had proven too heavy, even for a vampire's supernatural strength.

"This was open," she whispered as she drew closer. "When I left, this was open."

"Told you she was here," Imoen said, glancing pointedly at Firecam.

Firecam ignored the jab and focused his attention on the obstacle at hand. The doors rose easily twelve feet high and were at least half that in width; the reinforced metal bands and trimming only added to their weight. "Then we open it again."

Cassandra studied the portals with a skeptical eye. It'd taken a golem to force the doors last time, but last time they'd been barred. Now that the crossbar had been removed, perhaps human muscle could move them. Human muscle and Bhaalspawn strength.

Theodorus and Firecam were already positioning themselves against one of the doors. Cassie placed herself against the other. Ajantis started forward, only to be waved away. "Keep your sword out," she instructed.

"Wildorn will help you—"

"No. Both of you keep your swords out. I don't need help."

The young paladin retreated, brow furrowed in displeasure and confusion. His gaze lit upon Imoen. "How...?"

"She's stronger than she looks."

"But—"

He was interrupted by the creak and groan of ancient wood. The fighters had set their feet and dug their toes into the dirt; now, in tandem, they pushed forward. The doors protested with deep, woody voices, but remained unmoved. Another shove and grunt of effort garnered a similar lack of result. Cassie gritted her teeth and adjusted her footing. Ajantis, despite her command, darted over to his fellows and lent his strength to the battle. Now faced with three challengers, the door slowly began to give way. A groan. A slow, scraping inch of ground gained. Cassie flexed her knees and anchored the balls of her feet against the rough stone floor. The sound of metal scraping over rock rewarded her as the portal reluctantly retreated.

After the initial resistance was overcome, the doors opened considerably faster. With Wildorn and the two women keeping a sharp eye on the surroundings, the remaining four warriors slowly pushed the portal open. The room beyond was shrouded in shadows that danced on the periphery of the Dawnseeker's lights.

Imoen tapped Ajantis on his pauldrons. His inquisitive brown eyes flicked over. "Don't leave her alone."

"Sorry. But they—"

"Uh-uh." The redhead shook her head. "No 'but'. Never leave her alone. Bodhi'll take out the biggest threat first, and you aren't nearly as scary to a vampire as a priestess of the sun god."

"What about her?" His gaze traveled to Cassandra, who had redrawn her blade and was advancing slowly into the room. "Won't the vampires take her first?"

She would. If Bodhi had any sense at all, Cassie would be her top priority. Even knowing that both sisters were Tainted, it was obvious which one was more dangerous. Messanai was only human, even with her bond with the Morninglord. It was one thing to challenge a cleric; it was another thing entirely to take on a demi-god spawn of Bhaal.

Cassie was still Cassie. Despite the freaky eyes, despite Imoen's discomfort over what had happened, that hadn't changed. They'd killed for each other; they'd die for each other. That hadn't changed.

"Not if I can help it," she vowed.

"Hey. Stay with the group." Cassie's voice drew them both to attention. The others were advancing into the chamber beyond, holding the magelights aloft as they examined the surroundings. Imoen hiked her robe up and jogged over. The soft clink of Ajantis' armored form followed her.

The chamber was empty. What few belongings had once been here were now smashed beyond recognition. A second set of doors, this one badly damaged and patched, blocked the exit at the other end. It looked as if a small tornado had struck them: bits and pieces of wood had been ripped away; jagged splinters ringed the edges. Even the wood that was intact showed signs of heavy damage: dents and gashes from some unknown assailant who had tried to force their way inside.

The crypt's inhabitants had done their best to repair it. Pieces of wood, ranging from rough, newly hewn elm to soft, half-rotted beech, had been nailed in place over the worst of the damage. It was a patchwork of colors and grains: a ramshackle attempt to make the door once again bar the path. Despite – or because of – the shoddy repair work, the door wouldn't be nearly as hard to move as the twin colossuses behind them.

Imoen quirked an eyebrow. "Do you see that?"

"The door?"

"The flashes."

Cassie returned her look with confusion. "Flashes?"

Small, scintillating flashes of metallic grey moved across the door. A flash here, a glint there – it was far too random to be the reflection of the Dawnseeker's light. Light reflections would remain constant, moving only when the source did; these jumped around sporadically, like steel fireflies darting back and forth.

"Sec. I'm gonna check it out."

She approached it cautiously, studying both it and its surroundings with a practiced and skeptical eye. The last thing she wanted to do was walk into some sort of arcane or necromantic field. There were no other signs of magic: no runes, no tale-tell scent of components, no spilled powder or dust. The flickers of grey continued; the closer she came, the larger they seemed to become. Soon they had grown from fireflies to oranges. Small points of detail were visible: line, dots, textures, all of which vanished too quickly to make out a pattern. Perhaps a malfunctioning illusion?

"Im?"

She glanced back. Cassie hadn't moved – none of them had – but the tight press of Cassie's lips betrayed her concern. "I'm fine. Just gimme a sec."

Her gaze returned to the door, focusing on the flashes. Her mind automatically fetched out repeating pieces and tried to fit the puzzle together. No one cast an illusion just for the fun of it. At least, she'd never met anyone else who had. If she could figure out what it was supposed to be, perhaps she could figure out what Bodhi had planned.

Rivets. The small dots were rivets, set against dark grey. Imoen's brows furrowed. Metal. Rivets in metal. The surrounding walls were stone; the illusion wasn't meant to hide the exit. Her fingers reached out automatically, almost unconsciously, as she tried to put her finger on it. Perhaps just an iron door? Seeing metal instead of old wood would certain discourage intruders from just barging through like a herd of cows.

The door was cold. Cold, hard, and smooth. Her eyes widened as she jerked away.

"Trap!"

The warning was drowned out by the abrupt scream of grating metal. The group whirled as a whole, only to see the giant doors swing close with impossible speed. Theodorus and Wildorn sprinted forward, despite the obvious futility of stopping the behemoths. The portal slammed shut with a deafening thud; it echoed through the chamber and shook loose gravel and sand from the stonework ceiling overhead. Dawnseeker Messanai swiftly stepped backwards as a rock the size of a grown man's fist tumbled to the ground in front of her, but no wider collapse came. All swords were drawn now; Imoen's hands were already busy, tracing the runes necessary to gather rudimentary magical energies. Whatever spell she needed, she wanted to get it off quick.

"What in Torm's name—"

"Ssh." Cassandra cut Theodorus off with a sharp motion of her hand. Her eyes glistened with reflected light: twin orbs of polished onyx framed by a human face. "Be quiet. Imoen; Messanai." She directed the spellcasters to opposite sides, just as she had Aerie and Nalia. Aerie and Nalia, who had died because of her. No. Stay focused. "Get ready."

Silence settled over them, cut by the sound of anxious breath. Their eyes darted back and forth: to the doors, to the walls, to each other, back again. Seconds drifted by. A minute. No screaming hoard of undead burst through the walls. No distant moans of hunger and hate.

Ajantis' cautious whisper broke the silence. "Where are they?"

Firecam shook his head slightly, but said nothing.

"What happened?" Messanai's question was directed towards her red-headed counterpart.

"It's an illusion." Imoen pointed accusatorily at the broken and patched up door. "I—you guys don't see it?" A chorus of negative answers; the sorceress frowned and continued on. "It's malfunctioning; got miscast, I guess. I thought they were trying to mask a wooden door with the illusion of a metal one. But the door is metal – the wood's an illusion."

"Are you sure?" Wildorn asked.

"Of course I'm sure," Imoen responded with an annoyed huff of breath. "I'm a mage, aren't I?"

"A good way to seal someone in," Firecam observed grimly.

"But why aren't they attacking?" Messanai asked, her eyes darting back and forth between the two exits.

"It's probably automatic," Imoen answered. "A spell or something on the door. You touch it, it slams shut."

"So it's your fault," Theodorus accused. Despite the large sword and showy armor, his frustration with the situation was evident. The flicker of fear in his aura leapt forth in chaotic yellow flames.

"Theo." Firecam turned on him with a disapproving frown.

Imoen bit back a retort of several choice, colorful words. "Yeah, it is."

"But why aren't they attacking?" Ajantis said, repeating the Dawnseeker's question.

"Because they aren't here yet," Imoen answered. "As long as we're trapped, they don't need to hurry. Show up, scout us out a little, let the fear shake us up. But you can bet that if they've set a trap, someone's going to show up and check when it's sprung."

"Maybe they didn't hear it," Ajantis offered hopefully.

Wildorn shook his head. "They heard it."

"Wildorn is right." It was Firecam again. "That was far too loud to go unnoticed. We should prepare for the worst."

"No." Cassie grasped her sheath with one hand and slide her blade home; if Imoen was right, she'd have time and warning enough to draw it out again. "We should get out of here. The trap's been sprung: they know where we are. Or they think they do."

"And how exactly do you propose we do that?" Theodorus challenged.

"Going back the way we came is no option," Firecam agreed. "Bodhi knows we're here: retreating will just give her the opportunity to plan and reinforce her position. We have to keep going."

"Then we force the door."

"Betcha fifty gold it's barred. What's the point of setting a trap if your victim can just walk out?"

"We forced the first ones," Cassie pointed out. "Bodhi might be expecting us, but she doesn't know we've got help. And she doesn't know how my Taint's changed me."

The help in question was already at the door. It was smaller – single instead of double – and set to pull open rather than to push. The knights had managed two and a half men on the door’s single handle, each straining to make the portal move. So far their efforts had yielded no result.

Imoen's lips quirked in a lopsided smile as she saw Cassie thoughtfully regarding the door. "Seriously. If those buffed up guys can't move it? You aren't that strong." A thoughtful pause. "Are you?"

"Got a better idea?"

"Mm." One slim finger tapped against her chin. "I stocked up on 'kill stuff' spells, not 'open stuff' spells."

"What about that teleport thing you used in Ust Natha?"

"Dimension door. Yeah, I've got it. But," she stressed, holding up a finger as Cassandra started to speak again. "I really need to be able to know where I'm going – see it, preferably. Shifting into rock tends to hurt."

Cassie blinked. "That's possible?"

"It's magic. Of course it's possible."

Messanai had caught the thread of conversation and now stepped subtly closer, silently listening in.

"Can't you just decide to pop up on the other side of the door?" Cassie persisted.

Imoen sighed. "I can try," she admitted. "But seriously, Cass – if I end up slamming into a brick wall, you owe me."

"Foot massage?"

"At least. And dinner."

"Deal."

"And a good dinner! Not some crappy ham sandwich or something."

"Fine, fine." A half-hidden grin tugged the corners of her mouth despite the gravity of the situation. "Dinner from Matilda. Promise."

Messanai could hold herself in no longer. "You're teleporting out?"

"That's the plan."

"And the rest of us?"

Imoen frowned thoughtfully. "I can carry like three or four people with me – probably three, better safe than sorry."

"That's four out, three in," Messanai noted. "Can you cast it twice?"

A shake of her head. "Just once. I can rememorize it tomorrow, but that isn't gonna help us now."

Cassie motioned to the paladins, who had finally given up on opening the door with brute force. "If we can't open it from one side, maybe we can open it from two."

Wildorn had only caught the end of the sentence. "From two what?"

"Two sides. Imoen can teleport three of us out—"

"Four, counting me," the sorceress piped.

Cassandra nodded. "—four of us out. If we push with two from the inside and pull with two on the outside, maybe we could get it open."

"Maybe." Theodorus didn't sound convinced. "Can't she just come back and get the rest of us?"

Imoen shook her head again. "I can only cast it once."

"And if we can't get it open?"

"Then we come up with something else," Cassie responded, snapping back at the paladin's irate tone. "Would you rather wait in here until a vampire shows up?"

"We have a defensible position here," he argued. "They only have two ways in."

"And if they enter both ways at once, you've put yourself in a death trap. Guess what Bodhi's going to do?"

"Enough!" Firecam's strong, sturdy voice drove both warriors into silence. "An army divided is no army at all. We will not fight among ourselves!" His steely eyes fixed Cassandra with a disapproving stare. "From you, Bhaalspawn, I expect such behavior." The gaze moved to Theodorus. "You, Tormwine, are a squire of the Order of the Radiant Heart. You have no excuse."

Theodorus' cheeks reddened as his jaw clenched in anger. "Yes, sir."

“Good. Cassandra? Who do you suggest stay behind?”

The black eyes drifted over the gathered troop. Imoen would have to teleport out, that was a given. They’d have to have enough muscle on both sides to force the door, if it could be forced. Tormwine and Ilvastarr, being the youngest of the knights, were also likely the strongest. Whatever might be coming would be coming from inside the crypt: the Dawnseeker would do no good entombed behind the doors.

“Imoen, Messanai, myself, and Wildorn. We’ll teleport out. Theodorus, Ajantis, and Firecam stay behind.”

Theodorus’ objection was already on the tip of his tongue, but Firecam simply nodded.

“The quicker the better,” Imoen pointed out, already lacing fingers with the two other women. “You guys ready? Wildorn, grab something.”

He lay his hand on top of her shoulder. “Is this suitable?”

“Perfect.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and mentally calculated how far she would need to place the spell’s anchor. Assuming the door was only a few feet thick, no walls behind it, and a steady, solid surface to land on… “Okay. Releuch stash teni.”

The world disappeared in a glow of white light and lurch of sudden weightlessness. A moment later gravity took hold and the darkness closed in again.

“Well, great.” Imoen placed her hands on her hips. “That didn’t work.”

They were in a room. A different room: larger and longer, with three different doors set into the walls. The décor here was Mulhorandish, gilded in lapis lazuli and polish gold, the walls covered in carvings of humans with animal heads.

Messanai frowned, looking around as well. “It didn’t?”

“We went from one room to another.”

“But it’s still a different room,” Cassie pointed out. The doorway they’d circumvented was there, set into the wall behind them. The illusion was cast on one side only, and from this angle the egress was clearly metal: cold, hard, and unyielding. A large iron crossbar had been levered across its width. “Come on; let’s get this open.”

Wildorn came up next to her; Imoen and Messanai spread out in flank positions, eyes and ears sharp for any evidence that Bodhi’s welcoming committee was on its way. Cassandra hefted the bar out of its sockets and set it aside, then rapped sharply on the portal itself. A moment later a muffled response came from the other side.

She glanced over at the moustached paladin. “Ready?”

Wildorn nodded. “At your signal.”

A nod. They set themselves in position, each bracing a shoulder against the door. “One… two… three!”

Both warriors threw their weight forward. The smooth, polished stonework of the chamber floor proved to be less than ideal footing. They adjusted between breaths to gain better leverage, but the door seemed unmoved. A low creak of protest was its only response.

“Again,” Cassie gritted, and once again Wildorn nodded. Another shove; this time the answering groan was louder. The door slid inwards a fraction of an inch, and exclamations of excitement could be heard on the other side.

Another groan. This one not from the door.

“Messanai!” Imoen’s alarmed voice shot an octave higher. “Cassie!”

Cassie reflexively turned her head. Imoen was already casting, bringing flickering fields of magic into existence around her body. Messanai gripped her holy symbol tight in one hand, her face set in a stern mask of determination. A third moan echoed into the room, and a swirl of writhing, moving darkness flowed through a distant door. It whirled in on itself, reorienting, and then focused on the four with a hellish scream.

“Down!” Cassandra grabbed Wildorn’s shoulder and pushed him aside as the blackness rushed towards them. Imoen dove reflexively for the cover of one of the many pillars. Only Messanai seemed unfazed: she held her ground resolutely, still glowing with divinely-bestowed light. The darkness flowed straight at her, only to arc away at the last moment. Cassie caught a glimpse of gaunt, decaying faces with gaping mouths and rotted death. They flashed past her; her breath fogged in the dimness as the very air around her was leeched of living warmth. The shrouded beings raced to the door, and just as quickly disappeared into it.

“What the—“ Cassie’s head jerked back around. The sounds of elation from Firecam and the others had abruptly transformed into a din of fright and confusion. Her stomach clenched. “Get the door open! Get it open now!”

Wildorn was back on his feet and by her side before the words were even spoken. They slammed their bodies against the iron with renewed urgency. Inside the paladins’ cries had been rejoined with unearthly screams and moans.

“Imoen!”

“Undead.” She knew what Cassie wanted: intelligence on the enemy. “Non-corporeal. A shadow or something.”

“Wraiths,” Messanai corrected grimly. “Two of them. Armor won’t protect you.”

The warriors didn’t answer. Each shove against the door, each slam of steel to iron, forced the door open another inch. The cacophony on the other side grew louder with every attempt. Behind them the Dawnseeker was praying, her words almost swallowed among the screams of both mortal and undead.

Each second was a second too long. Now there was enough space to fit an arm through; now a leg; finally a chest. Cassandra wedged her back against the doorframe as best she could and raised her leg to brace against the door. Her grunt of effort and surge of strength was rewarded with a sudden release of tension. The door growled against the uneven stone floor of the other chamber and slid open nearly two more feet. It was enough to fit a grown man through, and that was all she needed.

The twin doors on the far side of the chamber flung open; the screams of the wraiths were joined by shouts of fury and hatred as a dozen new foes stampeded into the room. These were corporeal: pale and wiry humanoids, some still wearing bloodstained clothing, running forward in full charge. One leapt forward with inhuman strength, covering nearly twenty feet in a single bound. Imoen targeted him with a volley of magic missiles in mid-air; the impact of the glowing orbs sent him flying backwards.

“Vampires!” she shouted.

“Hold them off!”

Cassie squeezed into the room. Tormwine, Ilvastarr, and Firecam had abandoned their attempts to open the door and now stood back to back, each with his sword drawn and bared. The smoky black forms of the wraiths swirled around them in a menacing fog of howling hate; they darted forward, lashing out with skeletal fingers, fell back, and attacked again. The knights were on the defensive, and Ilvastarr’s arms were visibly trembling. His face was pale and drawn.

One of the creatures surged to attack. Firecam raised his blade to meet it; the contact of steel to soul gave off a plume of grey ash and a sizzling hiss. The ghost wrenched itself backwards, but its companion had already moved in. It targeted Ajantis, who likewise tried to intercept it with his blade. The wraith passed through it cleanly, utterly ignoring the cold steel. Its skeletal hand whipped out and sank through his chest, through the armor and steel platemail. The paladin gasped and sank to one knee as the bony fingers withdrew, trailing after them thin, translucent threads of light that instantly blackened and rotted away.

“Get out!” Cassie dashed forward, dodging between the wraiths' whispy forms. She yanked her sword free of its sheath and slashed through one of the wraiths as it moved to intercept her. The hissing sound of contact greeted her ears. “Get outside! Now!”

Firecam moved immediately. He knelt and slung his young companion’s body over his shoulders as he moved towards the exit. Theodorus moved as well, trying to guard Keldorn’s retreat, but his sword was no deterrent. The monsters flew past him, dragging their claws through his form. He froze in place, his face contorted in sudden, agonized horror.

Cassandra’s hand flashed out and hooked into the top of his breastplate. She hurled him forward, catapulting him several stumbling steps towards the door, as the wraith whirled on her with a mouthful of rotting, skeletal teeth. She bared hers back in a feral snarl. A cold chill ripped through her flesh as the claw lashed out and passed cleanly through her instinctive attempt to block it. The wraith's deaths-head grin split in scream of anger.

Outside, the screams and sounds of chaos echoed like howls from the Nine Hells themselves. A dozen vampires had manifested from the darkness, each homing in on the intruders with a frenzied, hate-driven blood lust. Maws wide and fangs bared, they attacked with neither strategy nor thought. Their superior numbers and raw, overwhelming strength served as advantage enough.

Messanai stood her ground resolutely. With Lathlander's symbol held high and no trace of fear in her voice, the steady chant of her prayers warded her against the worst of the undead attacks. Her body still glowed with divine light, now stronger and brighter than before. Any vampire unfortunate enough to come too close quickly retreated again, his skin burnt and bubbled from the proximity. Imoen stayed behind her, using flame arrow and chain lightning to keep the creatures at bay. Her fingers itched for the chance to throw acid fog or fireball, but in the close quarters of the chamber there was no way to separate friend from foe.

The vampires were smartening up. The Dawnseeker's light made it impossible to get at the sorceress behind her, and Wildorn's sword was quick and sure. Blinded and driven back by the glow, the vampires were easy – if resilient – targets for his strikes. Only two had been felled so far: a former elf who had been foolish enough to grab Lathlander's Chosen and been reduced to ash for his trouble; and a bearded, disfigured human who'd fallen in two pieces thanks to the paladin's blade. The odds were still ten-against-three, though, and now the vampires were circling, striking, and retreating with a new, malicious determination.

One of the undead hefted a broken piece of stonework and hurled it forward at the cleric. All three humans scattered out of its path; it slammed into the far wall with force enough to break the chunk in two. Imoen felt a nauseous tightening in her stomach as several more vampires knelt and lifted similar debris. A rock was just a rock, but with supernatural strength behind it, it was transformed into a deadly missile.

"Leureua ve ostanesh." The force barrier of the arcane shield shimmered and solidified even as she darted in front of Messanai. The first rock was too fast—it whistled through the air and struck Imoen in the shoulder just before the shield was in place. The impact knocked her backwards and sent her stumbling into Messanai's form, but the abjurational weave of her stoneskins prevented any real harm.

A hailstorm of jagged rock and stonework exploded around them. The vampires concentrated on the Dawnseeker as their target, hoping to achieve at a distance what their frontal assault had not. Ajantis and Tormwine stumbled into the room, only to nearly by sent to the grave by a stonework arm from a broken statue. It exploded in a shower of jagged fragments against the wall, opening a score of tiny lacerations on the men's faces.

Messanai's steady, rhythmic chant had turned into a fevered, whispered prayer. Imoen was casting as well, trying not to flinch as the stones flew towards her, only to be deflected at the last moment by the invisible barrier. If she couldn't take them all at once, she could damn well take one at a time. She knelt, grabbing a pinch of dust from the floor, and deftly retrieved a small lodestone from her beltpouch. She had three of them, but she'd wanted to keep one especially for Bodhi.

A strangled cry sounded from her left. Her eyes flickered up as she whispered the first words of the incantation. Three vampires had broken off from the group and focused in on the paladins like lions on a herd of deer. One had Ajantis Ilvastarr in his grasp, fangs sunk deep into the knight's pale, sweat-soaked neck. Wildorn had been knocked prone by a flying chunk of stone and now struggled to get to his feet; Theodorus screamed in anger as he tried to each his friend, but the vampire's companions kept him easily at bay.

She'd start there, then. Imoen surged to her feet, aiming a single finger at the vampire closest to Tormwine, and unleashed disintegration. A small, single spark flew from her fingertip and exploded with crackling black energy against the undead's head. The flesh sizzled and burnt away, followed by muscle and bone, until the entire skull had been eaten away by the necromantic weave. There was no blood, no gore, no struggle. The body toppled over, cleanly decapitated, onto the cold stone floor.

Wildorn was back on his feet, and now the vampire facing Tormwine realized that the tables had turned. Imoen allowed herself no time to celebrate. Three down. Nine to go.

The wraiths had not given up their assault, even with two of their prey having escaped. Cassandra was surrounded by a whirlwind of cold, decaying wind and black mist as they swirled around her, over her, and through her. The din of their screams was so loud that even the battle raging in the over room was faint and far away. Somewhere in the distance she could hear Firecam's strident shouting, calling her to retreat.

She lashed out with a vicious thrust of her sword; it hit, spawning forth a hissing cloud of greyish mist. The wraith howled and dove straight at her. The icy, sick sensation of rotting death lanced through her as the corruption passed through her armor and into her flesh. For a moment she couldn't breath, couldn't move, couldn't think – then the ghost flowed out of her, rejoining the whirlwind of chaos, only to dart forward towards her once more.

An abrupt flash of light exploded from the other room. It poured in through the open doorway, bright enough to burn. Cassie threw one arm across her eyes and hissed in pain. The wraiths screeched in horror, fleeing from the light and vanishing into the crypt's stone walls. A chorus of screams sounded from the adjoining chamber, abruptly replaced by omnious silence. She stumbled towards the doorway, her sight slowly returning as the sudden light faded away. Firecam was gone. The room was empty.

The door slammed shut just as her fingers brushed the handle. Something closed around her neck and yanked her backwards – something powerful and cold. She was hurled to the floor; a dark shape followed her, blurry and indistinct. More pressure against her throat; she was hefted off the floor and shoved against the wall with the rasping grate of armor against stone. She blinked rapidly, bringing the world back into focus as her eyes re-adjusted to the darkness.

"I am so fucking sick of you."

Bodhi's pale alabaster visage solidified before her. The vampiress' hand was locked like iron around the warrior's throat, the other securing Cassandra's sword against the wall. The damage the Slayer had done to her at their last meeting was gone but clearly not forgotten. Her full red lips, usually so quick with a sly comment, were contorted in rage; her dark seductress eyes showed nothing but hate.

She pulled her foe away from the wall and then slammed her into it again. The impact jarred Cassie hard enough to rob her of both thought and breath. She tried to lift her sword: it rose a trembling few inches before Bodhi forced it down again.

"I don't know which is more annoying," the vampiress hissed. "The fact that you keep showing up, or the fact that you just won't die."

There was no point in having a sword if you suffocated before you could use it. It tumbled in the ground with a metallic clang as Cassandra switched her grip to the vise around her throat.

"I should thank Irenicus for ruining my little surprise with the wraiths, though," she continued. "My fault, really. They can't rot a soul that's not there."

"One on one this time?" Cassie grated between clenched teeth.

One slim, dark eyebrow arched. "Hardly. You brought friends, and so did I. I've spent the last month turning every tramp, vagabond, and whore into servants of my will. Weak, but they're still more than a match for your tin-can paladins."

"The light—"

"The light? You mean your cleric's little glow?" Bitter amusement curved the rich scarlet lips. "So I lost ten or twelve. I have more. And if you think that wraiths are the worst thing I have in store for you, Cassandra, then you are very, very wrong."

Bodhi was strong – very strong. Irenicus had lamented the 'long years' of his punishment, and Cassie could only imagine how many decades, if not centuries, must have passed for even an elf to chafe under their weight. Where Irenicus had languished, though, Bodhi had flourished. The older a vampire was, the most powerful it became. Even with all of her Bhaalspawn strength, Cassie was barely making an impact.

She tried again, wrapping her fingers around Bodhi's wrist and trying once more to force it away from her throat. Her muscles trembled and quivered under the strain — a stark contrast against the unnaturally perfect calm of the vampire. She gained a half-inch, then another, until finally she could breathe free.

The respite was short-lived. Bodhi moved like a striking snake; her elbow flashed up and slammed into Cassie's nose. Blood exploded over her cheeks and mouth as the warrior let out a howl of pain. Both hands rose instinctively in an attempt to cover the broken bone, and the vampiress' hands locked back around her throat.

"You can't fight me. Your father could be Ao Himself for all it's worth. You're still just human. One pathetic, ignorant human."

"You've ran from me twice."

"Your transformation was...disconcerting," Bodhi admitted. She had leaned in closer, her body shifting against Cassie's own. The heat in her eyes had taken on a subtle, hungry edge. "I know how to pick my battles, Cassandra. But I've been doing some research on your kind. You aren't the first avatar of Bhaal to walk this land, you know. There have been others. As far back in time as you can imagine, there are stories of half-gods like you. Transforming, like you." Now the hate in her voice had transformed into a soft, seductive purr. "How many times have you changed, Cassandra? Three? Four?"

Cassie glared at her. "Go to Hell."

"No one's ever lasted more than five," Bodhi informed her. Her tongue traced a slow, sensual path across the red-head's blood-covered lips. "Neither will you."

The reaction was intense and immediate. Cassie's hands flashed back up, closing around Bodhi's shoulders, but the serpent was back for another strike just as quickly. The vampire twisted and slid out of the way as if made from mist itself; Cassie found herself facing empty air for a split second before her feet were swept out from under her. She landed face first on the ground with a grunt of pain. She rolled over instinctively to get to her feet, but Bodhi was already on top of her. The warrior reached to throw her off, but the vampiress deftly caught her hands. They struggled, teeth bared and muscles clenched. At first Bodhi gained ground, slowly and surely pushing Cassandra's arms back to the ground, but as the human struggled and fought, the steady descent slowed and stopped. Beads of sweat had broken out across her skin from the effort; every fiber in her body was clenched.

Bodhi's serene countenance was shaken as well. The vampire's arms trembled as she bore down; her short, choppy black hair fell across her eyes. Her gaze flickered down to Cassie's fingers and a jagged smile split her lips. "Now that's just cheating," she whispered.

Cassie looked down as well. The skin of fingertips was blackened and leathery; the color leeched down the flesh of her hand, fading into a pale greyish pink. Her nails had darkened and lengthened into short, thick claws.

"Looks like I bring out the worst in you," Bodhi grinned.

The black hue crept slowly and steadily down Cassandra's arms as she brought everything she had against the vampire's supernatural strength. Bodhi's smile was shaking: a wild, half-crazed expression, a mixture of excitement and fear. The deadlock of their grasp shifted a single inch – an inch in Cassie's favor.

"You don't scare me, Cassie." The vampiress leaned forward, and Cassandra's hands retreated an inch once more. "I know you. I know all about you."

Cassie gritted her teeth as she tried to lever herself into a better position. "You don't know anything."

"Oh, but I do. I have Imoen's soul," Bodhi reminded her. "I have her feelings. Her knowledge. And she knows you very, very well."

The thought of Imoen's essence inside such a soiled vessel brought new rage boiling to the surface. The advantage shifted once more to Cassie as Bodhi was forced back. "Fuck you."

"You would like that, wouldn't you?" Her long, filed fingernails dug into the black flesh of Cassandra's hands, piercing through flesh and tendons. Fine trickles of dark red blood leaked from around the sculpted nails. "Oh, Imoen might be too stupid to realize it, but I have her memories. And I know pathetic, pining teenage lust when I see it."

"Shut up!"

The snarl that accompanied the demand was a bestial sound of hate. The bones of Cassie's hands lengthened and thickened, snapping and reknitting as she struggled. The Taint inside struck like a viper, lashing out and sinking its fangs into her opponent's lifeforce. Bodhi gasped – a surprised, almost seductive sound of pleasure – and made no attempt to move away. The first threads of soul dissolved in the Taint's maw, and Cassie recoiled as if struck by hot iron. It tasted like Imoen.

"Do it," Bodhi urged, baring her fangs in a hate-filled smile. "Kill me. Kill Imoen. Save me the trouble of doing it myself."

The smile was abruptly gone. The undead's pale features contorted in sudden surprise as a crackling black energy spread across her torso, wrapping around her like a pulsing, living spiderweb. She looked down; the web contracted with a sizzling, acidic hiss before flashing out of existence. It vanished with a loud crack, like lightning splitting the air. When it was gone, the majority of Bodhi's chest disappeared with it.

The body above her began to dissolve, and within seconds had become nothing more than cool, insubstantial mist. It settled around Cassie's form and disappeared into the myriad of cracks and crevices in the floor. Just inside the doorway to the other room, no longer blocked from sight by Bodhi's form, stood Imoen. She wiped the powdered residue of the loadstone off onto her robe.

"Ya think, technically speaking, I just committed suicide?"

Cassandra inhaled sharply as the bones in her hands and arms continued their transformation. The Slayer flesh now extended into the sleeves of her armor, and the short, black fingernails had lengthened into long, demonic claws. Her teeth were bared in a vicious grimace. She forced her breath to slow. She couldn't risk another change.

"You didn't kill her," she managed to answer at last. "Just pissed her off."

"Yeah, well – it's mutual." Imoen approached cautiously, stopping a safe distance away. That she approached at all, given her previous experiences with the Slayer, was shocking. "You got it under control, Cass?"

"Not yet." Another deep breath. The Taint flickered inside her like a thousand-tongued flame, testing her defenses for a weakness. She closed her eyes, teeth clenched, and concentrated. I'm Cassie.

A deep, mocking laughter was the only response.

"We need to— Merciful Torm! Is she alright?"

Imoen turned at the sound of a male voice. Firecam had poked his head inside the chamber and now stood staring at Cassie's prone form. In his hand he held his trustworthy blade; it quivered, held in check only by his years of training. A lesser man might have stabbed first and asked question later.

The younger sister held up a warning hand, motioning him to stay back. "Give her a minute."

"Ilvastarr isn't going to make it; Tormwine is injured. We need to find the coffins before another wave of assault."

"What about the wraiths?"

"Dawnseeker Messanai says that they will no longer be a threat." His gaze flickered back to Cassandra. "If she becomes a danger—"

Imoen shot him a dark glare. "She isn't. She won't." Her gaze went back to her sister, whose face was still clenched in a battle with her own will. Back to Firecam. "I'll handle it."

She expected an argument – at very least a comment about the danger – but he merely nodded. "We will wait for your signal."

"Thanks."

He retreated into the adjoining chamber once more. The sound of Firecam's strong voice was reassuring, even if the news it carried was not. Imoen picked up only bits and pieces of the conversation: Ilvastarr was too wounded to continue; Tormwine offered to stay behind and protect him. Firecam refused.

"We need to get moving, Cass." She stepped a few feet closer, crouching down to better see her sister's face. "You okay?"

A sharp, jerky nod. The Slayer hadn't retreated, but she'd managed to halt its advance. Her muscles throbbed with a thick, fiery discomfort, trapped somewhere between god and man. "I think so."

Cassandra extended one arm; Imoen grasped it and helped pull her to her feet. The thick, black skin of Cassie's forearms was ice-cold to the touch.

"You sure?" the mage asked skeptically. "Are you really, really sure?"

Another nod. "I'll be fine. Just—we need to find Bodhi. I'll be fine."

There wasn't time to argue. The Dawnseeker's false dawn had all but annihilated the weaker vampire spawn, reducing nine of them to a handful of ash. The remaining three, though, as well as Bodhi, had taken refuge in their mist forms and likely retreated to the safety of their coffins. If given time enough they'd heal themselves – or escape as soon as darkness fell.

Imoen slipped her arm around Cassie's waist, using it to support the warrior's wobbly walk. All eyes were on them as they entered the next room. Keldorn and Wildorn stood alert and ready with their swords still drawn, as Messanai knelt next to Theodorus. The younger paladin was bleeding profusely from three long, parallel gashes that a vampire's strike had carved across his face. One eye was glued shut with half-dried blood as the cleric tended his wounds. Ajantis lay propped against a wall.

"Cassandra." Firecam nodded as she entered the room. Both Theodorus and Messanai looked up, the former's eyes narrowing in anger and the latter gasping in shock.

Tormwine struggled to his feet even as the Dawnseeker tried in vain to keep him still. He pointed a gauntleted hand at the red-headed warrior. "Get out!"

"Theo." Firecam placed a restraining hand on the younger man's arm. "Calm down."

"No. She left us in there! She knew it! Look at her!"

"I didn't—"

"Shut up!" Theodorus cut off Cassie's attempt to defend herself. "Don't even try it." Now both of the senior knights ringed him, but Tormwine paid them no notice. He gestured towards Cassandra with a broad sweep of his arm. "Look at her! Look at her! She's one of them!"

"No, I'm not!"

"She's safe," Imoen assured him. "She is."

"Tormwine!" Firecam wrenched the younger man towards him, bringing him face to face with the steely, uncompromising gaze. The sharp, barked sound of his name was enough to jar Theodorus out of his tirade. When Firecam spoke again it was calm and authoritative. "We will discuss this later."

"But—"

"Later. Understood?"

The young knight’s jaw clenched and unclenched as he fought to hold his tongue. “If she gets us all killed, I warned you."

“If,” Firecam responded simply.

“Let’s just go,” Cassandra interrupted. Her head was throbbing; her body thrummed in response. “We can’t let them escape.”

“Bodhi was in there,” Imoen informed the others, jerking a thumb over her shoulder towards the room they’d just left. “I nailed her with disintegrate, but we still need to find her coffin and stake her.”

“And the other three.” Wildorn nodded and glanced around the room to get his bearings. They’d all memorized the route, just in case. “That should be the way,” he said, pointing towards the now-open door that the vampire spawn had come through.

“Figures.” Imoen rolled her eyes. “So, who wants to go down the creepy crypt tunnel first?”

“We already discussed this,” Cassie reminded her. “I go first.”

There were no objections from the men of the group, nor from Dawnseeker Messanai. Cassie adjusted her hold on her sword, making sure she could still hold it firm in the strange new grip of her hand. It felt secure enough. Left, left, straight through, right. She wetted her lips as she stepped into the passageway. They were almost done. She'd said those words before. Almost done.

Imoen cast a withering glare at the knights as she passed by them as second. “And they say chivalry is dead.”

Cassandra’s form moved ahead of her in the hallway, painted a dim, washed-out grey by the darkvision spell. The warrior moved at a wary, steady pace as she tried to balance caution and the need for haste. Imoen glanced behind her now and then: the remaining four brought up the rear, led by Messanai’s glowing light.

Cassie was picking up speed. In her mind the past arose again, playing through her mind in a surreal loop, layered over reality. The vampire mage had been here. Fireball. Lightning bolt. Now the hallway was empty. She’d staked the body on her way back through the crypt and left it to rot. It wasn’t here anymore.

The last corner. She slowed her step as she approached, even as her breathing sped up with nervous energy. The façade came slowly into view: ancient, decaying stones, riddled with moss and cobwebs. Just as she remembered it.

“Cassie?” Imoen laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”

“Fine. Fine.” Was Nalia still there? Just her body? Just her head? “There’s a false wall here. Hidden door. There’s a spring-loaded blade on the other side.”

A nod. Imoen relayed the information back through the group.

The hallway was wide enough for three people side by side, if just barely. It was safer two-by-two. Cassie slid her blade back into its sheath to free her hands. Her fingers traveled over the wall, but whatever key or hint the De’Arnise heir had found remained hidden. The occasional scrape of claws against stone made her wince and her companions shiver.

Imoen was checking the other side, and it was to no one’s surprise that the former thief found it first. She motioned Cassandra away from the wall as she pressed the brick firmly inwards. It slid an inch inwards and clicked against an unseen lock.

“Don’t step through,” Cassandra instructed as she braced herself to slide the façade aside.

The wall groaned and retreated, allowing passage into the chamber beyond. No body. No severed head. The thick splatters of dried blood across the walls, nearly invisible in the dimness of the crypt, were the only indications of what had transpired.

The main burial chamber yawned before them with rows of stone sarcophagi lain out in perfect symmetry. The stone lids had all been replaced, leaving no sign of Cassandra’s previous passage. The three surviving vampire spawn were likely hidden somewhere among the dozen-odd coffins. Whether Bodhi was as well, was debatable.

Cassie jerked her head at Imoen; the younger sister nodded. At time like these, with blood pounding and every nerve alert, they shared a tactical understanding that bordered on telepathic. Imoen stepped cautiously into the entrance, scanning the walls and floor for possible triggers. Her stoneskins would deflect the blade easily enough, but that wouldn’t help the others. When it came to blade versus armor, she wasn’t sure which one would win.

She let out a low whistle of surprise. “Here,” she said, pointing towards one of the stones. “And here.” Another one. “And here.” A thin, dull metal wire stretched across the opening some three feet further. “They really don’t want visitors. Probably always bypass this by flying or something.”

“Three traps?” Cassie frowned in confusion. “We only hit one last time. Just one.”

“You said it took a few seconds to reset itself. You probably hit one of the triggers and happened to get out of range of the other two before the mechanism was back in place. What’d you do on your way back out?”

“Same way, I think. More careful.” The memories of her retreat were vague and piecemeal. The shock had numbed her mind so thoroughly that what little information had been retained, consisted only of chaotic flashes. “I’m not sure.”

“Well… only one way to be sure. Get back.”

Imoen waited until everyone was a safe distance away, then, staying crouched low, placed her foot on the first trigger plate. It activated with a surprisingly light touch, and the scythe-like blade lanced out of the wall with a whoosh of sliced air. It stopped a good two feet above her head, paused for a moment, and then began to retreat again.

“Okay, go!”

Cassandra motioned the rest of the group to advance. Firecam, Messanai, and Theodorus all crossed the threshold before the blade reset. With the trap already triggered, they paid no mind to the tripwire, nor to its quiet death against metal-clad feet. It was a mistake.

A second wall slid away, this one in the burial chamber. A sudden rush of dry, hollow click-click-clack echoed through the room. Two additional scythes, each as tall as a full-grown man, extended out of the recessed opening. They were the color of old ivory, a dingy yellow-white, and stained a dark crimson red for nearly half the length. The points slammed into the floor, gouging loose chunks of stone and earth, and pulled their owner forward.

If you think wraiths are the worst thing I have in store for you….

The bones continued coming. Attached to the enormous bloodied appendages were equally massive skeletal arms, which in turn connected to shoulders, ribs, and legs. A skeleton the size of an ogre lurched out of the hidden recess. The empty eye sockets glittered with a malevolent yellow light.

“Imoen...!”

The sorceress slammed her foot down on the trigger plate again. The blade whooshed out, and the remaining party members sprinted through to the other side.

“Move quick!” Cassie shouted, dashing over to the first coffin. “Get them open!”

“Are you insane?” Tormwine shouted. “Do you see that thing?”

Wildorn saw immediately where Cassandra was going. “Keep the coffins between you and it,” Wildorn instructed. “Open, stake, and move.” He followed his own advice even as he spoke.

“Messanai.” It was Imoen this time, stepping close to the cleric’s side. “Got anything that’ll slow that down?”

The blond-haired woman answered without hesitation. “I have Lathlander. That is more than enough.”

“Great.” She pulled out her component pouch. She only had a few protective spells that could target other people, but anything would help. “You take care of it, I’ll take care of you.”

Cassandra hefted up the third of the stone coffin lids and sent it crashing to the floor. What had been difficult as a normal person was now only moderately troublesome with her Taint unleashed. The hundreds of pounds of marble and granite presented as much trouble as a large sack of grain, and she made her way around the chamber as quickly as possible. Behind her the knights had dropped their packs and fished out their supplies of stakes and holy water. Firecam took the latter; Wildorn and Theodorus the former. They followed behind Cassandra, peering into the sarcophagi and putting any inhabitants to permanent rest.

The bone golem was now completely free of the hidden chamber. It scanned the room; the six potential targets were scattered in every direction. The two magic-users were the closest by far – easy targets, save for the Dawnseeker’s loud and strident chanting. The golem took two steps forward, lashing out with its sharpened, deadly arms. As soon as the creature came within the radius of the cleric’s divine light, it began to smoke and sizzle as if dipped in acid. It recoiled with a screech of pain.

“Here!” Cassie levered yet another coffin open: the seventh of the twelve. The body inside was badly burnt, with char marks and boils on the unnaturally pale skin. Five more boxes; two more vampires. Bodhi and her spawn.

Firecam was right behind her. A sprinkle of blessed water across the body transformed into sparks of fire against the unholy flesh. He nodded to Theodorus on his right. The young knight grasped a stake and his mallet, driving the wood into the vampire’s heart with a single, powerful strike.

The bone golem was re-orienting. Even though dead, it was intelligent enough not to strike the cleric twice. It now lurched forward on long, crouched legs, down the central aisle of the sarcophagi. With its enormous reach, it wouldn’t have to be close to be dangerous.

Cassandra opened the eighth tomb. This time she hefted the lid overhead, gritting her teeth as she struggled to hold her balance. Swords wouldn’t help against bone, especially not bones as thick as small trees. Bones, though, could always be broken. “Duck!”

The paladins went down instinctively in response to the command. She hurled the slab forward; it flew through the air and crashed into the golem’s legs. One of them shattered on impact; the other cracked but held firm. The golem shrieked and lashed out in response; the whistle of passing air was far too close for comfort as Cassandra dove to the floor for cover.

She kept low, scrambling along the polished tiles to the next sarcophagus. Find Bodhi. The goal looped through her thoughts in single-minded determination. Find Bodhi. Find Bodhi.

She risked a glance over the edge and ducked immediately back down. The tip of one skeletal scythe slammed down on top of the coffin. The granite cracked violently into three pieces and collapsed in on itself. Cassie took a deep breath. Timing. It was all about timing.

She surged to her feet. The bone golem was raising its arm for another strike. The warrior grabbed the first chunk of stone and aimed for its head. The throw was good, but her aim was off; she was used to throwing spears, not fifty-pound chunks of stone. It crashed into the creature’s chest, breaking off one enormous rib before tumbling back to the ground.

The second stone. She glanced into the now-exposed tomb. “Clear!” Another crack of breaking bone rewarded her throw.

“You need to keep in front!” Wildorn called to her from his cover some two coffins distant. “You can lift the lids the fastest!”

“I’ll distract it.” Theodorus was on his feet. “Keep going!”

“Tormwine!” Messanai finished her chant; a large, glittering gold and silver war hammer appeared in her hands. Despite her frail frame and thin arms, she seemed to hold it effortlessly. “Here!”

She crouched and cast the weapon across the floor; it slid directly to its target, and Theodorus scooped it up. With a shout to Tyr he chambered it over his shoulder and swung with all his might. The golem’s hip exploded in a shower of shards and fragments. The head and empty, yellow eyes swung around. He’d definitely gotten its attention.

Cassie didn’t hesitate. The ninth coffin was open within seconds; inside lay a half-blackened male body. “Here!” She moved on to the tenth.

Inside was Bodhi.

“Found her! Wait!” She held off Firecam and his holy water with extended arm. Imoen’s soul was still inside there, or tied to it, somehow. “Imoen, come here. Everyone else, start heading out!”

“What?” Firecam regarded her incredulously. “What are you planning?”

“We’ll take care of her,” Cassandra promised. “Get to safety. You’ve done your job.”

“My job is to ensure her destruction,” he informed her.

Imoen dashed over, keeping as low as possible to shield her movements from the golem’s glowing eyes. Tormwine was still its focus, as the Dawnseeker’s weapon dealt blow after blow, and her enchantments kept the beast at bay.

“Here.” She popped up underneath Keldorn’s arm. “What? Is—“ Her eyes spotted the sarcophagus’ owner. “You found her!”

Neither Firecam nor Wildorn had moved, despite Cassandra’s command to flee. She snatched the wooden stake and mallet out of Wildorn’s hand. “You two help Theo! Go on!” She pressed them into Imoen’s grasp. “Here. Stake her.”

The mage’s small pink tongue wet dry, nervous lips. “Will it work?”

“I hope so.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“We don’t have any other options.”

A nod. The younger sister positioned the stake over Bodhi’s chest. Her heart was pounding. Firecam and Wildorn had moved off; the din of battle drowned out all other sound. Bodhi’s half-disintegrated body lay oddly serene. Her face was unmarred: calm, sensual, and beautiful.

The mallet came down, and the stake sank into Bodhi’s heart with surprising ease. A second passed. Two. A foul, hissing stench began to rise from the corpse as the flesh rotted and fell away. Hair dried out and broke into brittle pieces; bone crumbled into ash. In the midst of it all was a small, silver-white sphere of light, no larger than grapefruit. It rose up tentatively, floating slowly towards the ceiling. Imoen regarded it with a sudden sense of fear and wonder.

She reached out hesitantly. She was no priest; she didn’t know what a soul looked like, or what do to with one that happened to be floating around. Would it just…re-absorb? Disappear? Would she have to carry it back to a temple to reunite the pieces into a whole?

Her fingertip grazed the top of the orb. A sensation of impossible warmth spread through her hand as the sphere flashed and disappeared. The silver-white glow extended across her entire body, surrounding her in an odd, weightless mist. A moment later it was gone. The glow faded. The warmth flowed away. Imoen looked at her hand in surprised shock.

“Im? Are you okay?”

“Huh?” She glanced up. Cassie. Of course it was Cassie. Who else would it be? “I’m fine. I think.”

“Let’s go.” The warrior grasped her arm. “Everyone out! Fall back!”

The shout drew immediate results. Wildorn and Firecam broke off first, running towards the door as fast as their armor would allow. The bone golem slammed its scythes down, narrow missing Keldorn’s slightly-slower form. It raked backwards, ripping tiles and stone from the floor and toppling Tormwine over as the ground was literally yanked out from under him.

“Move! Keep moving!”

Cassandra shoved Imoen towards the door before darting between the rows of coffins and sprinting towards the paladin’s fallen form. She launched herself over the mound of tangled and toppled stone with a single strong leap. She landed almost six feet beyond her start, rolling with the impact and coming up instinctively to her knees. Her eyes flashed up; the scythe whistled downwards. She grabbed Theodorus’ fallen hammer and swung with a shout. The shock of impact threw her backwards and knocked the weapon from her hand. It skidded to a stop against a broken marble lid, amid a shower of tiny bone fragments. Three chunks of bone crashed into the opposite wall: the remnants of the golem’s arm.

“Up!” She grabbed Tormwine by his breastplate and hauled him to his feet, throwing him forward. He caught himself with one arm just short of slamming face first into the doorway. The others were already on the way out: Imoen had triggered the pressure plate to ensure a few precious seconds of safety.

“Keep going!” she shouted, but the encouragement wasn’t needed. With Bodhi dead, there was no more need for bravery.

All they needed now was an exit.

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 15 - "Before the Storm"

"...into the company of his father and forefather before him. For as Sir Ilvastarr leaves this world, he joins another: one where battles are fought not by sinew but by spirit, and where his courage and devotion will serve to strengthen us all."

The Temple of Helm was oddly quiet. Even during normal services, there was always the sound of life: shifting bodies, low whispers, passing footsteps. Now, though, despite being filled with nearly a hundred people, it was still. The high priest's voice carried full and clear over the gathered mourners – a deep, mellow voice whose mellow timbre and well-crafted words brough an almost magical peace over its listeners. Even Ajantis' family, who had spent the first part of the service choking back their grief, had now fallen silent. The images of strength and hope that the priest described seemed to take the worst edge from their sorrow.

Imoen stood at the forefront of the chapel, dressed in a robe more suited for a princess than a mage. It was borrowed – a gift from a squire's young bride, since Imoen had no fine clothing of her own. Keldorn, Wildorn, and Theodorus were likewise clad in finery. They'd donned their ceremonial armor and polished it to perfection, and now looked the part of the noble knights in shining armor. They stood at rigid attention, while Imoen stood straight and still. They were the honor guard: the companions who had been with Ajantis in his last hours.

"...stand and join us in the singing of Ever Watchful."

The crowd rose as one as the deep, powerful voice of the drum set the rhythm. It was slower than normal, and sung without the usual string and flute accompaniment. Imoen knew the words; she knew most of the basic hymns of the Faerûnean gods, having little other musical exposure within the walls of Candlekeep. She raised her voice along with the rest, but her attention was elsewhere. Her grey eyes were steadfast on the distant chapel doors, and her mind on the person outside them.

Cassandra wasn't present. Although as much a part of Bodhi's downfall and Ilvastarr's death as anyone, she hadn't been invited. Her black eyes and ashen-grey forearms unsettled people. You understand, the Helmite priests had said. Ajantis had died fighting evil; it would hardly be appropriate to invite it to the funeral. You understand.

Cassie had simply nodded. She understood, but Imoen didn't. She didn't understand why people focused on Cassie's Taint instead of Cassie. Sure, the eyes were freaky. Sure, the slow creep of change was unsettling to say the least. But Cassie's blood ran as red as anyone's, and she'd shed more than her fair share of it fighting the forces of darkness. Who else could say that they'd single-handedly ended the Sword Coast iron shortage? Who else had saved Baldur's Gate from Sarevok and his shapeshifters? No one else had had the guts to stand up to Bodhi – not once, but three times. Cassie had been stripped of her family, her friends, and finally her very soul, but she still kept fighting. She kept fighting, even when the people she helped abandoned her. Imoen didn't understand that at all.

And so Cassie had just nodded. I understand. She understood that it was just how things were: people loved you when they needed you, and forgot you when they didn't. The crowd that cheered you one day would burn you the next. The tired resignation in her voice as she'd agreed had upset Imoen more than anything. The way she'd been as they walked back to the Coppor Coronet: silent, tired, and withdrawn. Another person dead, another job done, and in the end nothing had truly changed. She was still Bhaalspawn; she always would be. You're a Child of Murder -- deal with it.

The hymn ended, and silence once again descended over the chapel as the mourners lowered their heads in prayer. Imoen shot a glance over to the paladins. They, too, followed the ritual. The sorceress pursed her lips, struck by the sudden realization that she didn't want to be there. She didn't belong here. She was Bhaalspawn, too.

The service came to a close some twenty minutes later. Ilvastarr's body exited first, completely swathed in thick white wrappings and born atop a platform of woven willow saplings. The Order of the Radiant Heart served as pallbearers. Immediately after followed Imoen and the others, then the family itself. Only these would be given the honor of accompanying Ajantis to his cremation. The assorted dignitaries and well-wishers that crowded the temple would now have to pay their respects and depart.

Imoen followed the procession as it exited the temple's large double doors. It was near midday, and the autumn sun shone pure and strong. She inhaled deeply; even after several weeks back on the surface, she still wasn't quite accustomed to just how fresh and crisp the air could be. Spellhold and the Underdark had given her a deep new appreciation for the outdoors.

"Hey." She made a small gesture with her hand, trying to get Theodore's attention. He walked beside her, behind the elder and higher-ranking knights. "Theo."

His head turned towards her a fraction of an inch. A frown curved his lips.

"I need to go," she whispered. "Give the family my regards."

A small nod was all the acknowledgement that she received, but it was also all that she needed. As the funeral procession continued its slow march towards the Graveyard District, Imoen quietly broke away.

A robed figure watched the events from the safety and obscurity of tree-cast shadows some two hundred feet away. Imoen headed towards it. Despite the fact that the person hadn't moved and their face was shielded by the shadow of their hood, she knew who it was. You didn't live with someone nearly your entire life without getting a sixth sense for that kind of thing.

The figure stood and straightened as she drew nearer. Stray strands of red-gold hair flickered and fluttered underneath the heavy wool cowl.

"Aren't you supposed to go with them?" Cassandra asked, tipping her chin in the direction of the procession.

"Changed my mind."

"How was the service?"

The younger sister shrugged. "Nice enough. Really nice, actually. Everyone's all dressed up, the music was pretty."

"You don't sound too enthusiastic."

Another shrug. "Guess funerals aren't my thing. Can we leave? I'd really like to be somewhere else."

"Sure. Anywhere in particular?"

"The Promenade. There's a magic shop I want to visit."

Cassie nodded, and without another word they were off. The streets of the Temple District were largely empty, with most people having more practical things to do during the daylight hours than simply pray. Nonetheless, faith was something that every Faerûnean had – at least nominally. Even those who wouldn't be caught dead in a temple would pause to drop a coin in Lady Luck's right hand, and everyone came to the yearly Sunite festivals, whether to gawk at the scantily-clad priestesses or to condemn them.

"Y'know, I've been thinking," Imoen mused aloud as they neared the Compound Bridge.

Cassie gave a small, dry smile. "Gods forbid."

"Hush. I'm serious. And put your hood down," she instructed, tugging it away herself without waiting for Cassie's compliance. "You look like some freaky monk."

"Not my choice. I wanted to wear my armor."

"Which is still covered in blood. You'll have it back tomorrow."

"If Cromwell's finished with it."

"He will be. He's the best in Athkatla, so they say." She studied her sister a moment, then reached out and gave a quick, firm ruffle to the older girl's hair. "There. Better."

Cassandra ran her fingers back through the strands, smoothing them into something resembling normalcy. The ruffling had done its job, though, and Imoen looked pleased with the result.

"So what were you thinking about?"

"The Taint," Imoen answered. "And the auras especially. I think I figured them out."

Cassie's brows furrowed slightly over the onyx eyes. "Figured what out? We already know that it's emotions, and we already know what the colors mean."

"Yeah, but that's just it," the mage insisted. "It's not all emotions. Like, have you ever noticed that we've never seen 'happy'? Or 'satisifed' or 'in love'?"

"Maybe there's not a lot of happy or in love people in the Underdark?" Cassie reasoned.

"C'mon, Cass." She spread her arms wide, gesturing at the city around them. "Where's the love? Where's the happy? We're not in Ust Natha anymore."

"Mm. Then what's your theory?"

"Glad you asked. I think that we only see negative emotions – and only some negative emotions. Like..." she fished through her memory for a suitable example. "We've never seen 'sad' or 'in pain.'"

"Is fear really a negative emotion, though? Or lust?"

"Might depend on how you argue it. But what I'm trying to say is that, under all the weird colors and such, it actually makes sense." Imoen was getting excited now, and warming up to her topic. The small, excited bounce in her step was a dead giveaway. "See, we're Bhaalspawn, right? Children of Murder. So what we're seeing are emotions that inspire people to kill. Anger: you get mad enough, and you run someone through. Lust: c'mon, half of Candlekeep was filled with tragedies about how X wanted Y but Y loved Z, so X killed Z instead."

Cassandra's confused expression only deepened, but she nodded as Imoen continued.

"So I'm thinking that we see things related to Bhaal's portfolio: emotions that inspire murder. If we were Sunespawn we'd be seeing happy things, or if we were descended from some nature deity, maybe we could talk to animals or something."

"You think so?"

"Yup. Makes sense, at least."

It did make sense – at least, in an Imoen-ish kind of way. Cassandra turned the explanation over in her mind as they walked. Beneath their feet the clean, perfectly-maintained cobblestone streets were slowly transforming into rough, filth-littered roads. Outside of the Temple District life turned once more to the Material realm, and all the mundane mud and refuse that came with it. The way to the Promenade avoided the worst of it by giving the Slums a wide berth.

"What about my super-strength, then?" Cassie asked after a moment. "How does that fit in? Or the dreams?"

"I've got a theory on that, too."

"And that is?"

"Well... that's why I wanted to go to the magic shop."

They were there some ten minutes later. Allunak's Magic and Enchantments was a modest building: small, plain, and nondescript among the various stalls and merchants. Part of its particular lack of style was due to Allunak himself: an average man with no distinguishing traits save a thin grey moustache and a pair of extraordinarily thick spectacles. The other reason for its drab exterior was protective camouflage. Selling magical wares in a city renowned for its strict anti-magic policies, was a delicate and often dangerous venture. Avoiding the attention of the Cowled Wizards was a prudent course of business.

A small silver chime above the door twinkled and sang out the sisters' arrival. Imoen gave the proprietor a small nod and friendly smile but didn't stop to chat. Her attention was on the rows of book- and scroll-laden shelves crammed in the rear of the shop. Dusty, dense, and disorganized, it harkened back to memories of the long hours between Candlekeep's countless tomes.

"Pick something," Imoen said, gesturing towards the shelves.

Cassandra glanced at her in confusion. "Like what? I don't know anything about magic."

"Just pick something. Doesn't matter what. I just wanna show you something."

"Okay." Cassie's eyes roamed over the seemingly haphazard collection of texts, parchments, and scrolls. There weren't any identifying marks on the outside save for, every so often along the rows of shelves, a single rune of unknown meaning. Whether it was organized by author, type, power, language, or some other system, she had no idea. She reached out and placed her finger on the first book that caught her eye: a thin, aged journal bound in bright red leather. "This one."

"Abjuration," Imoen said immediately, not bothering to remove the text and examine it. "Weak abjuration. Pick another one."

"Uh.... this one." She pointed this time towards a tightly curled scroll bound shut with a strand of yellow cord.

"Medium divination. Another."

Cassie's brows furrowed, but she dutifully selected a third. This time it was a tome as thick as her arm, bound with wooden planks in either side and heavy braided cording along the spine. "This one."

"Abjuration again, in the front. The middle section has a mix of necromancy, enchantment, and evocation. The last section is focused primarily on summoning."

"Okay. And what does this have to do with Bhaal?"

"How do you think I know what's in there, Cass?"

"I don't know. You're the mage. I figure mages know how to identify magic texts."

"Well, we do," Imoen admitted, shifting her stance and studying the bookshelf more critically. "But these are alphabetically shelved by author, if available, and then by spell name. I didn't give you author or spell name. I gave you magical school and strength."

"Spit it out, Im. I'm bad at riddles."

"You asked me what super-strength had to do with the Taint? Well, we're both Tainted. We both see the emotional auras. But only you have super-strength. Why is that?"

Cassie shifted her weight to her other leg, trying to maintain a measure of patience. "I don't know."

"Because the Taint is smart. How do you make a great fighter even better? Super-strength. Make her really dish out the damage, right? But for a mage like me, that'd be useless." She smiled triumphantly, poking one slim finger against Cassie's chest. "That's why I don't have it."

"Uh... okay. You're saying that the Taint knows what I do for a living, and adjusts accordingly?"

"Something like that." Imoen gave her a stern look when Cassie couldn't hold back a sound of disbelief. "Hey, you forget: the Taint isn't just some weird inanimate thing. It's a remnant of a god. Of Bhaal. It's sentient, and it has a goal. It wants you to give in to what its offering – to seduce you with power. So yeah, it gives you what you find most attractive."

"What will it give you, then?"

Imoen gestured to the stacks of texts. "It gave me this. Abjuration. Necromancy. Divination." She pointed one by one at seemingly random texts. "Abjuration is silver. Necromancy is black – go figure – and divination is gold. Red is evocation, etc."

"You see magic?" Cassie asked dubiously.

Her sister flashed her a smile and clapped her solidly on the shoulder. "Finally! You sure are slow sometimes, y'know."

"Wait. When'd that happen? Why didn't you tell me?"

"When I got my soul back. Weird, huh?"

The small discontentment on Cassandra's lips deepened into a full-blow frown. "I thought when you got your soul back that the auras and stuff would go away."

"I wondered about that," the sorceress admitted, "but I still see them." Another motion towards the bookcase. "And now this."

"Then the Taint hasn't gone away."

She shook her head. "No."

Cassie sighed and closed her eyes. "Then this isn't ever going to end."

"Of course it will."

"No, it won't," Cassie argued, her voice hardened with frustration. "Don't you get it? We killed Bodhi, we got your soul back, and what did it change? Nothing. And if we find Irenicus and kill him – nothing. Even if I get my soul back, I'm not going to get better. The Taint isn't going to go away."

Imoen bit her lip. She cupped Cassandra's face in her hands and met her eyes with soft determination. "Things will get better. They will. I promise."

Cassie tried to turn her head away. Imoen resisted the movement. "You don't know that. You can't say that."

"I can, and I am," Imoen repeated firmly. "We'll get through this."

She sighed. "Im—"

"Uh-uh! No arguing. The Marvelous Miss Im has spoken."

That tugged a small smile to the edges of Cassie's lips. "You're impossible," she accused.

"I try." She switched her touch to Cassie's hands, taking them in her own and squeezing softly. "C'mon. There is something I wanted to buy. I think you'll like it – should cheer you up."

Cassandra accepted both the change of topic and the gentle tug on her hand as Imoen led the way. "Where'd you get money? Last I checked we were both broke."

"Don't ask; you don't want to know."

"You didn't steal from the Keep, did you?" Cassie asked in sudden alarm.

"Of course not! What kind of person do you think I am?"

"Well—"

"I snitched it from the Temple of Helm."

"You stole from paladins??"

A carefree shrug – the kind only Imoen could give. "They give alms to the poor, right? We're poor."

"They didn't exactly give you alms," Cassie pointed out.

"Well, then, we're proactive poor," Imoen responded with a grin and a wink.

A few hours later – after Imoen had purchased her surprise, bought four different kinds of sweetrolls from a passing vendor, spent a full ten minutes giggling and playing with a litter of kittens for sale outside a petshop, and then begged Cassandra for half an hour to buy one – they arrived back at the Copper Coronet. The short autumn day was almost over, and the slowly sinking sun cast long shadows over the alley. Inside, the standard crowd of patrons had already found their seats, and the merriment and chaos were in full swing.

"Hey, Bernard!"

The portly bartender paused in his cleaning and polishing long enough to wave a hello back to the jolly young mage. He, like most people, had taken an instinctive liking to Imoen. Unlike most people, his pocketbook had yet to suffer for it.

"What'll it be, lass?" he asked, leaning over the bar.

"Just sayin' hi. Hey, if I asked real nice, ya think one of the waitresses would bring us some food up to our room?"

"I'd think it right likely. Bird, beef, or broth?"

Having already made the mistake of ordering the soup the day before, Imoen played it safe. "Bird. Definitely bird."

"And for yer silent sis, there?" he asked, tilting his chin towards Cassandra's hooded and cloaked form. Her odd vestements had stopped drawing quite so much attention after Bernard had personally thrown several hecklers out the front door.

Imoen glanced back at her. "Cass? Bird or beef?"

"Beef. Medium-rare."

The auburn girl wrinkled her nose. "Ew. Why's it got to be all bloody?"

"Because I like it that way."

"Well, you're gross."

"One bird and one slab of red meat," Bernard noted. "I'll have Missy bring up to you."

"Thanks, Bernie."

A small, pleased pink blush crept into the barman's cheeks. "Name's Bernard," he barked gruffly before turning away. Imoen's impish smile stayed in place. Every bear's got his soft spot, she used to say.

"So, ready for your surprise?" she asked Cassie as they headed up the stairs.

"How can I know that if I don't know what it is?" the older girl responded.

"You'll like it," Imoen repeated for the fifth time, this time sticking out her tongue in defiance. "Don't you trust me?"

"I trust you about as far as I can throw you."

"Which," Imoen pointed out, raising a finger, "is pretty damn far."

Cassandra had to smile. Somehow Imoen always seemed to win. "Point."

Once they were actually in the bedroom and the door was safely close, Imoen produced the surprise in question with a dramatic flourish of her hands. It was a small scroll of lambskin, perhaps as six inches wide and twice that in length, tightly curled and secured by a simple wax seal.

"This," the mage said, holding it up, "is a scroll of seeming. Ta-dah!"

"And... it does what, exactly?" Cassie prompted.

The triumphant smile turned into a frustrated pout. "Illusion spell. It makes you look different. Or, in this particular case, it's gonna give you back those baby blues of yours."

"Really?" That did sound interesting. Cassie leaned forward slightly, reaching out to take it. "You can change my eyes back?"

Now that Cassie had shown some interest, Imoen's enthusiasm was back in full. "Yup! Not permanently, of course," she explained, plopping down on the bed with a small bounce. "Twelve hour duration. And it's just an illusion, but it's not like anyone's going to feel up your eyes or something." A thoughtful pause, quickly followed by her nose wrinkling in distaste. "At least I hope not."

"What about my hands?" Cassie held them up automatically, despite the fact that both she and Imoen already knew the warped appearance. While Cassandra had succeeded in fighting back the Taint, her flesh had never returned completely to normal. Her fingernails had retained their short, thick, clawlike form, and while her hands had regained human proportions, the skin was still cold and ashen grey.

Imoen nodded. "I can mask those, too. Same rules."

"Great. Let's do it, then."

"Wait a sec." Imoen deftly snatched the scroll away. "I wanna copy it into my spellbook first."

When it came to magic, Imoen knew best. Cassandra kept silent and simply watched as the younger girl fetched out one of her several spellbooks, readied a plumed quill and pot of ink, and began carefully copying over the arcane inscription line by line. The way that her demeanor could change from light-hearted frivolity to such serious study never ceased to be amazing. The rosy glow of health had returned to her cheeks since Bodhi's demise, and a bit more joy was back in her step. To Cassandra's black eyes, she glowed with soft inner light.

"How do you feel?" Cassie queried softly.

Grey eyes glanced over. "About what?"

"Your soul. How do you feel?"

Imoen pursed her lips, the quill pausing above the page. Her answer was slow and thoughtful. "Good. Or better. I feel warm inside again."

"Bodhi didn't... corrupt it? Damage it?"

Another few characters; another pause. "No. I mean, I don't think so. I'm not sure how I'd tell anyways." Imoen glanced up again. She dipped the plume's nub back in the inkpot, gently wiped off the excess, and began transcribing again. "I don't have any sudden lust for blood or anything."

Imoen as a vampire: a thought almost too surreal to even fathom. "Do you remember anything about Bodhi? She said she had your memories."

"Mmm. Yeah. They're kind of vague and fuzzy, but they're there. It's weird. Kinda like reading a book, only I'm the star...except I'm not, y'know?" She gave Cassandra an apologetic smile. "Sorry, not the best explanation. I'm almost done, by the way."

Cassie shrugged. "No hurry. I'm not going anywhere."

"Yeah, but I'd like to get this copied and cast before the food gets here. Why do you ask about Bodhi, anyways?"

"Morbid curiosity, I suppose."

"Sure it's not a bit of your protective streak?" Imoen challenged with playful eyes.

"Maybe," Cassie answered defensively. "I mean, you've got a hundred years of Bodhi in your head. That can't be good."

"It's not a hundred," Imoen corrected. "I think it's only from the time where she actually had my soul. Like, I don't remember anything from her before she started hunting us down in Spellhold. And other than being her generally bitchy self, she didn't do anything that incredibly bad in the last month."

"Really?" Cassandra's doubtful tone made it clear that she didn't give Bodhi the benefit of the doubt. "She killed a ton of people making her little vampire-spawn army."

"She killed like fifteen or twenty. We probably killed about that many while we were in Ust Natha."

"That's different."

"I know it is; I'm not defending her. But as far as 'horrible memories' go, Bodhi's definitely not the worst thing in my head. That's all I'm saying."

Cassie fell silent. That was one answer she hadn't expected. The reminder was sobering.

Imoen blew gently over the last few inked characters, then set the arcane tome aside. "There. Done. Now, let's get you prettied up."

She stood up and straightened her robe with a few sweeps of her hands. She stepped over in front of her sister, cupping Cassandra's face once more in her hands and tilting her chin slightly upwards. Lips pursed, she studied the fighter's countenance with a calm and critical eye.

"Okay. Stay like this. And I need to see your arms," she instructed, bending to loosen and roll back the robe's heavy sleeves. "I need to have a perfect mental image in my mind of what I want, otherwise it's gonna be off," she explained.

"Just tell me what to do."

"Do nothing." Imoen rose again and poked Cassie in the nose with her fingertip. "Just stay put." She rolled up her own sleeves, flashing her sister a brilliant smile. "Ready?"

"Does this hurt?"

"Only if you want it to." Imoen scooped the seeming scroll off the bed and flicked it open with one wrist. After studying it a few more moments, she closed her eyes and traced a slow, serpentine motion in the air between them. "Eni lwech shani enu - aranda o shana."

A delicate shiver of energy passed over Cassie's skin, raising in its wake a score of goosebumps. It faded almost as soon as it began. Her eyes went reflexively down to her hands. The flesh was pale and pink, tipped with thin and glossy nails.

Imoen's eyes slowly opened, and with them grew a contented smile. "Oh, that's better. That's a lot better!"

"Blue eyes?" Cassie queried, unable to keep the note of hopefulness out of her voice.

"Blue eyes," Imoen confirmed, still beaming. "Beautiful blue eyes."

"Do we have a mirror?"

"There's one hanging above the bar downstairs." She gave her sister a playful wink. "You're not gonna recognize yourself."

"That'd be a good thing, I think." Cassie was on her feet and half-way to the door when a loud and brusque knock nearly made her jump out of her skin.

"That's probably our food," Imoen explained, jumping up and heading for the door. The heady scents of freshly grilled meat were already filtering in. She pressed the latch and opened it wide for the curly-haired waitress and the two large platters that filled her hands.

"Go on, go!" she said, motioning for Cassandra to squeeze past. Imoen's ear-to-ear grin was contagious. "Go check yourself out. I'll keep an eye on the food."

It was all the encouragement she needed. Cassandra bounded down the stairs with barely disguised excitement, as Imoen bit back her laughter and tried to help Missy with the trays.

Night had long since descended over Athkatla, and Imoen and Cassandra were tucked in under three second-hand blankets that had all seen better days. All three together, tucked in around the edges to trap the warmth of their skin, managed to fend off the room’s drafty chill. Sleeping alone was simply far too cold – or, at least, that was Imoen’s latest justification to herself for creeping into her sibling’s bedroom. Despite the fact that her own room was bought and paid for, she still ended up spending most of the nights next to Cassie.

Imoen was curled up on Cassandra’s shoulder, her eyes open and thoughtful in the darkness. Underneath her cheek was a slow, steady heartbeat and the soft weave of Cassie’s shirt. The warrior’s chest rose and fell in a deep and peaceful rhythm.

“Y’asleep?” Imoen queried softly.

There wasn’t any answer, and she hadn’t really expected one. The weeks without sleep had exhausted Cassie’s spirit, if not her body. A few hours earlier the fighter had finally given in and asked, almost apologetically, if Imoen could bewitch her. Short of shaking her half-to-death or hiring a dwarven chorus, Cassie would sleep until morning.

Tomorrow would bring change, and that change was gnawing away at Imoen’s stomach. After dinner they’d discussed the options and reviewed their plans of action. They knew where Irenicus was going: a single word, buried among Bodhi’s memories, and now embedded in Imoen’s head. Suldanesselar. Elhan had mentioned it in passing as well. The elven army was small: the wild elves that inhabited the city did so only during the autumn and winter seasons, and even then not all tribes were willing to give up their nomadic life. Repelling the drow assault had demanded nearly every available man. Elhan had been all too aware of Suldanesselar’s vulnerability. So had Irenicus.

What exactly the madman was planning, wasn’t present in the memories. Why he was so set upon the elves’ destruction likewise escaped her. His conversations with Bodhi during her possession of Imoen’s soul had been infrequent and vague, relying on an unspoken context that the siblings shared and that needed no overt discussion. Irenicus’ hatred was directed at Ellesime, a name he spat with disgust. Bodhi had found this amusing, that Joneleth – the name she knew him by -- let his heart be twisted so easily. Love’s flame had not only burnt Joneleth, but charred him to the core. Irenicus was no name, but a title. The Shattered One.

 

Even Bodhi had feared Irenicus. That thought, more than any other, kept Imoen awake.

Cassie shifted next to her. A small, meaningless mutter and a soft sigh of breath as she turned her head towards Imoen. Her hair had grown quite a bit since they’d left Baldur’s Gate, and now the long layers of bangs fell across Imoen’s cheek and into her eyes.

She let out a small puff of breath. The hairs fluttered upwards and then settled back again, with the only significant change being that now they tickled even more. Clearing them away with her fingers garnered somewhat more success. Imoen drew the offending strands back and tucked them behind her sister’s ear. Cassie slept on none the wiser.

Cassie had beautiful eyes. The thought struck Imoen at random as she studied the older girl’s face. The seeming had been a great idea. Cassie had bounded back upstairs with a grin as big as her head. The intensity of the bright blue gaze had taken Imoen by surprise – apparently she’d become accustomed to the black, as odd as it might have been. Blue was better, though. Cassie looked human again. Like Cassie again.

She brushed her thumb over Cassie’s cheek, careful to avoid her nose. The crushed bone had been set and healed within divine magic. There was no outward sign of damage – no swelling, no misalignment – but the area was still tender to the touch. It was cute to watch Cassie try to get in and out of her clothing without pulling her shirt too tightly over her face. Her skin was paler than normal, even with the assistance of the seeming. Whether or not a night’s rest would refresh her, Imoen wasn’t sure. Probably not. Sleep couldn’t heal a missing soul.

Getting back her soul had definitely improved Imoen’s mood, as well as her health. The nagging tiredness, the bouts of impatience, the slow ebbing away of warmth inside – they’d all stopped. Even her cheeks were rosier. But, like Cassandra, she’d assumed the Taint would fade away once her essence was restored. Maybe it still would. Maybe it just took time. But if not… She bit her lip, worrying it lightly between her teeth. She needed to do some research. Bodhi had found records of demi-gods of old, but there had to be more. There had to be stories with happy endings. Imoen made a mental note to visit the Temple of Oghma.

We’ll make it, she promised Cassandra silently. We’ll make it.

On sudden impulse, she leaned in and gently kissed Cassie’s lips. They were soft, slightly parted, and still tinged with the faintest hint of wine. Cassie didn’t stir – not to the hand cupping her cheek, nor to the touch of Imoen’s mouth to her own. The gesture only lasted a second before she pulled away again and traced Cassie’s lips with her fingers.

The closeness she felt to Cassie hadn’t faded away with the return of her soul. If anything, the flower of warmth in her heart had grown from bud to bloom, now nourished by the sunlight inside her. Her fear of what she would feel – regret, disgust, or sadness – had proven empty.

I love you.

What kind of love it was, she still didn’t know. But now, she wasn't sure she cared.

"C'mon! You promised!"

"We don't have time. The faster we get to Suldanesselar, the better."

"You promised!" Imoen repeated stubbornly. "And we're passing that way anyways. C'mon, please?" She fluttered her eyelashes, giving Cassie her best puppy-dog eyes.

Cassandra sighed. "Im—"

"I'll memorize haste like three times and we'll make up the time tomorrow."

They'd been on horseback since dawn – or, since Imoen's sleep spell had worn off enough for Cassie to drag herself out of bed. By that time Imoen had already been up and about, eaten breakfast, and run a few last-minute errands. She'd re-appeared at the breakfast table with at least three new books and a small collection of rolled up parchments, all likely magical in nature. After a quick breakfast and wash-up, they'd fetched Bushfire and Blackfoot from the stables and headed out.

The promise in question was dinner: specifically, dinner at the De'Arnise Keep. It'd slipped Cassie's mind entirely after their adventure in Bodhi's lair, but Imoen certainly hadn't forgotten. After dining a few nights at the Copper Coronet, getting back to Matilda's kitchen was her new life's goal.

"Please!"

"Fine, fine."

Imoen let out a whoop of joy. Blackfoot jumped nervously and whinnied in response, but a few pats and soothing words from his rider calmed him down again. Imoen's grin was fixed from ear to ear. "Oh, this is gonna be great! How long 'til we get there, you think?"

Cassie glanced skywards, judging the position of the sun. "Another two hours or so. How long does that seeming thing last?"

"Twelve hours." Imoen nudged Blackfoot a little closer, reached out, and patted Cassandra's leg. "You'll be fine. Relax!"

A small snort. "'Relax,' she says."

"Yes, she does," Imoen rejoined haughtily. "We're not even in Suldanesselar yet. We're not even close. Worry tomorrow."

"How can you say that?" Cassie asked in exasperation. "We're going to go head to head with an insane elf mage, and you want me to worry about it tomorrow."

"First off, who said we're going head to head with him? We haven't come up with any plans yet." Imoen flicked her hair back with a toss of her head. "And secondly, you're gonna give yourself an ulcer if you don't relax."

"An ulcer versus the Taint. I can't imagine which one I'm more worried about."

"Look, Irenicus is a mage, right? We've fought tons of mages – even psycho scary ones. Remember Xzar?"

"You're comparing Xzar to Irenicus?" Cassie asked incredulously. "Are you serious?"

"Hey, on the scale of psycho, Xzar was up there."

"On the scale of scary, not so much."

Imoen's lips pursed together. "Maybe not," she said grudgingly. "So, if we're gonna worry about it now – what's the plan?"

"Well... you're the witch. Suggestions?"

"You know I hate that word."

"Sorry."

"Hmph. Anyways... honestly, from what I saw of Irenicus? The guy's got mad skills. I mean, I know a lot about magic, and he was doing stuff that I'd never heard of," she admitted. "Stuff I didn't even know was possible."

Normally Cassie would have a quip ready about 'Imoen the Modest', but today the joke was bittersweet on her tongue. "Are you sure it wasn't just some sort of specialized elven magic?" Cassie asked hopefully.

"Heh." She shook her head with a small, wistful smile. "Cass, babe, you're cute, but no. I mean, there's a chance, sure, but... yeah."

"You've got the Taint. You can see magic. Can't you... I don't know. Do something to him?"

"I dunno," Imoen answered honestly. "I don't think there's an arcane spellslinger version of the Slayer. At least I hope not."

"It'd be useful."

Imoen shot her a dark look. "No thanks. I've seen enough of what it does to you."

"If we can just get close to him, I can take him out. I haven't met a mage yet that can stand up to me in a fistfight, with or without the Taint."

"That's a big 'if'. No mage in his – or her – right mind is gonna let you get within a hundred feet. And okay, sure, I can run some interference and screw up their magic and such, but like I said: Irenicus isn't some garden-variety hedge wizard. If I can hold him—" Imoen held up hehr forefinger, stressing the conditional – "then it'll be for a few seconds at best. And I wouldn't count on getting a second chance."

"That's reassuring."

"Tell me about it. But unless you have your own personal army, that's reality."

Cassie pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Well, the De'Arnise Keep does have a standing militia."

"Says the woman who was in such a hurry she didn't want to stop and have lunch."

"Dinner," the warrior corrected automatically.

"Whichever."

"I don't think I could mobilize them fast enough," Cassie continued, thinking outloud as her gaze focused on the distant horizon. "And if I left the Keep unprotected, the Roenalls would be there in a heartbeat. I owe Nalia and the Major Domo more than that."

"Use the taxes to hire some muscle?" Imoen suggested.

"I'd have to send out messengers, wait for the candidates to arrive, screen them, etc. We don't have time for that."

"Taking a few days to prepare might not be such a bad idea, y'know."

"A few days, maybe. A few weeks, no. And I really want to get to Irenicus as soon as possible," Cassandra repeated. "The quicker we get there, the less chance that Irenicus knows we're on our way—"

"You kidding? We staked his sister. I guarantee you he's got some sort of scrying or ward or something set up on her that tipped him off the moment she bit the dust."

"—or at least, the less time he has to prepare against us."

"Mm. Maybe. I'd still feel better with an army."

"Me too."

A somber silence descended over them, and lasted a full five minutes before Imoen decided it was time for a happier subject. The next hour was spent playing "Somewhere I See," with Imoen doing most of the seeing. 'Something that's blue' turned out to be a bluejay chirping loudly from the foliage of a brightly-colored maple tree. 'Something with two legs' was not Cassie, as first suspected, but a wild pheasant hunting for food among the tall grasses. By the time the De'Arnise Keep emerged in the distance, Imoen had a firm lead of twenty-eight points to Cassie's seventeen.

A stablehand took the horses as they dismounted inside the main courtyard, and a bevy of excited maids scattered in all directions as word spread that the Lord of the Keep had returned. Within half an hour their beds were ready, Matilda had the stoves stoked to full flame, and both sisters were relaxing in the main hall with a glass of sweet warmed wine.

"Gods, I could get used to this," Imoen sighed contentedly. "After this is all over, I am totally retiring."

"I could get you a job in the kitchen," Cassie noted between sips.

"Who said anything about working?" Imoen sniffed indignantly. "I'm the lady of the Keep; I don't have to work."

"I'm the lady of the Keep," Cassandra pointed out. "You're just my sidekick. Besides, someone should teach you how to cook."

"I can cook."

"Boiling potatoes does not count as cooking."

"I make a great grilled cheese!"

"The point stands."

"Hush. 'Sides, who would you rather have cooking for you – me or Matilda?"

"Matilda," Cassie answered without hesitation. "But she's already a grandmother; she can't work forever." A wink and a playful smile. "And I kind of like the idea of you being my personal maid."

"Maid? Psht. I'll poison your tea."

"You'd never."

Imoen's gave her a dangerous grin. "Try me."

Cassandra had learned very young that giving Imoen a challenge usually bore painful results. She decided to switch to a safer subject. "Shouldn't you recast that seeming thing on me before dinner?"

"I will, don't worry. It hasn't worn off yet."

"Do you really need to wait for it to wear off first?"

"Well, no." The diversion seemed to have worked: Imoen's attention was back on magic instead of on poisoning Cassie's tea. "Do you really want me to re-cast it right now?"

"It doesn't have to be right now, just before we go downstairs. Or do you need bat wings or lizard guts or something weird like that?"

She shook her head, taking another sip of her wine. "It's a verbal-somatic spell. Although if you really want lizard guts, I can go with that."

Cassie's nose winkled. "If it's not required – no thanks."

"Coward," Imoen accused with a small wink.

A knock on the far door interrupted Cassandra's less-than-snappy response. "Come in," she called instead.

The door to the main hall cracked open, and the upper half of Chantelle's body popped into view. The lower half, heavily rounded with her pregnancy, was probably stuck on the other side.

"Lord Cassandra, Lady Imoen? Dinner will be served in ten minutes. Where will you be dining this evening?"

Imoen rolled her eyes and leaned over until she got the young maid in view. "Chan! We don't bite, y'know."

The slightest, softest giggle just barely reached Cassie's ears. "Yes, Miss Imoen."

"Here?" Cassie suggested, glancing over at her sister.

"Are you nuts? Us two in this freakin' huge hall?"

"Where, then?"

"Upstairs library?"

"You want to eat in a library?"

"It's small, cozy, and it has a fireplace. It's perfect."

"You wish is my command." She raised her voice, pitching it for Chantelle's waiting ears. "Milady Imoen would like to dine in the upstairs library this evening."

Another soft giggle before Chantelle left to relay the news. "Of course, Milord."

Imoen was already on her feet. Her laughing grey eyes sparkled as she reached out and patted Cassandra's cheek. "'Milord!'"

"Hush. I said it's ceremonial."

"Still funny as all heck. Hey, you remember that time you had a penis?"

"Imoen!"

Cassie reached out to swat her, but Imoen was already skipping ahead, well out of her reach. The sound of her laughter echoing through the halls had Cassie smiling long after dinner was done.

"It's gonna storm," Imoen commented some hours later, as they sat in the library and watched the dwindling evening sun.

"When did you become a druid?"

She tilted her chin up at the landscape outside the second-story window. "Look at the clouds."

Cassie's gaze rose slightly, changing focus from the horizon to the sky above. Thick, dark masses gathered in the heavens, crowding together like wrathful giants. Distant flickers of lightning lit up their insides. Cassie sighed. "Maybe it'll pass. I hate riding in rain."

"Tell me about it. How long's it to Sudanesselar again?"

"Two days. One if you haste us a few times."

"Great." Imoen pulled her knees up to her chest and laid her head on Cassandra's shoulder. The sofa was the only piece of furniture in the library with room for more than one butt, and seated the two of them side by side with a fair bit of room to spare. Her eyes flickered over the stacks of books in the vague, futile hope that the De'Arnise mages had a few texts on natural magic. Various colors flickered back at her: a mix of all possible arcane schools. A fair majority of them were gold. "Nalia have an obsession with divination?"

"Pardon?"

"Y'know: scrying, locate whatever, detect whatever. Divination spells." Imoen gestured at the rows of books. "I swear a good third of these are divination."

Cassie's bright blue gaze had turned back to her. The fighter gave a small shrug. "Must be useful."

"Psht. Divination? Useful? Divination's only useful if you—" Imoen abruptly stopped. Her eyes widened with sudden inspiration. "Oh! Oh, oh, oh!" She bounced up and down on the couch cushions in excitement. "That's it!"

One red-gold eyebrow arched up. "What's what?"

"That's the answer! Divination!"

"The answer to what?"

Imoen shifted into her you've-got-to-hear-this position, bursting with explanation. "Okay, so: we need to get to Suldanesselar, right? And the faster the better, and we don't wanna get rained on, right?"

Cassie nodded. So far, she was following.

"So, we can ride. We can even use haste. But we're still gonna get rained on, and--! There's a way that's even faster! Divination!"

"Like we teleport there or something?" Cassie asked.

"Teleport is a conjuration spell."

"Not divination?"

"Of course not, silly."

The thread was gone; she wasn't following. "Then...uh..."

"Scrying is divination," Imoen said. Cassie looked at her blankly, which in return gained a frustrated scowl. "You can't teleport to an unknown location," the young mage tried again. "You gotta know where you're going. But we don't."

"Sure we do. Sudanesselar."

"No, no. We know the name of where we're going. But we don't know it. Like, we've never walked the streets. Never seen the decor. We've heard of it, that's all."

"Uh-huh..."

"But we can see it if I use scrying. And then we can use teleport to zap ourselves over there!" A sudden frown creased her lips as she realized a flaw in her plan. "Shit. But you can't scry a place. Has to be a person. Someone who's actually in Sudanesselar."

"Irenicus?" Cassie offered. "You can bet he's in the neighborhood."

"True. And he'd be a good target as far as personal familiarity goes. On the other hand, he's a mage, he's paranoid, and he's powerful. He's gonna have wards up and detect spells, and if he feels the tickle then the whole surprise is blown."

Cassandra didn't understand what it meant, but she didn't bother asking. Imoen was thinking outloud, and it was easier to just let her figure out the ultimate solution.

"Bodhi's dead – not that she'd be in Suldanesselar anyways – and all I have from that Ellesime chick is her name... Oh! Elthan!"

"The elf commander?"

"Yeah! He was going back to Sudanesselar. He's gotta be there by now -- he's got like a six day lead on us, and he knows where he's going. He's not the best bet as far as familiarity, but I did have some chitchats with him and he's not gonna be warded like Mr. Psycho." Imoen beamed a smile. "This is gonna work!"

"And the short form for the less intelligent in the room?"

"Meaning you?" she winked as she snuggled closer.

Cassie smiled and wrapped one arm around her sister's shoulders. "Who else?"

"Coulda meant one of the houseplants."

"Well, them too."

"I'll use small words. Basically, I spy on Elthan and look around to get an idea of what Sudanesselar is like. Based on that, I can use teleport to get us within a stone's throw of the city. Cool, huh?"

"Sounds easy," Cassie said with slightly more skepticism than intended. "And you can pull that off in one day?"

"Definitely. Give me a good night's sleep and four solid hours tomorrow morning, and we're there."

"Maybe we should get to bed then."

"Probably. Mind if I sleep with you tonight?"

"You don't have to."

"I know that," Imoen answered, getting to her feet as Cassandra did the same. "But I sleep better if I know you're there. If you don't mind, of course."

"Of course I don't mind. But...uh..." Cassandra stumbled over her words, not sure exactly how to phrase her concern. "...you won't feel...uncomfortable?"

"Nah," Imoen said. She shrugged and straightened her robe. "I'm over it."

"You are? When did that happen?"

"Well don't pester me over it; then I will feel uncomfortable."

That was enough to shut Cassie up until they were both back in the master bedroom. The fireplace, lit earlier in the evening to ease the chill of the air, had dwindled down to warm embers. Thick down-filled blankets covered the bed, and a thoughtfully-placed bearskin rug served as a welcoming alternative to the cold stone floor. Once under the covers, the combined heat of their bodies quickly transformed the bed into a comfortable cocoon of warmth.

"Aren't you gonna say goodnight?" Imoen whispered a few minutes after they'd crawled into bed.

"Is that allowed?" Cassie answered back jokingly.

"Only if you call me Mistress Imoen."

"Psht. Forget it, then."

"Aw, c'mon."

"No way. I spoil you too much already."

"That's true. How about just a 'goodnight' then?"

"No 'Mistress Imoen' ?"

"I'll let it go just this once."

"Goodnight, then. Sweet dreams."

There was a small brush of warmth against her cheek as Imoen pressed her lips against it. "Goodnight, Cassie. Thanks for everything."

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 16 - "Suldanessellar"

Imoen had seen a lot of forests in her day, and this was certainly no forest. It had some superficial similarities: the tall, densely packed trees that blocked out most of the sunlight; the musty, shadowy undergrowth that was almost eerily bare of grass and shrubbery. But these were towering verdant giants, not trees; the undergrowth was a carpet of tangled, knotted roots ranging from finger-thin cords to immense, meter-thick monsters. The canopy of interlaced branches was so thick that they blotted out all but the most determined sunbeams. Despite it being near midday, it was as dark as twilight. The hairs on her arms prickled in response to the instinctive unease. This was no forest – it was an ancient, primeval jungle as old as Silvanus himself.

In the corner of her eye, Cassandra was also taking stock of the situation. When she spoke, her tone was less than pleased.

"This isn't Suldanessellar."

Imoen rolled her eyes. "Duh."

"You said we'd be in the city."

"Teleport isn't one hundred procent accurate. I said I'd get us within a stone's throw of it."

Cassie knelt and plucked an acorn from the ground. A single, sharp throw sent it hurtling into the air with velocity that only Bhaalspawn strength could achieve. Both of them fell silent as it vanished into the air. It fell to the earth somewhere in the jungle, but the eventual sound of impact was lost in the distance. Cassandra turned her accusatory gaze on her sister.

Imoen bristled defensively. "Pessimist." Her hand went into her spell components pouch and sought out the small tufts of hair tucked within. "Fortunately for you, I have a backup plan."

"Which is?" Cassie demanded, crossing her arms across her chest.

She separated out a tuft of bloodhound fur roughly as thick as her thumb and tucked the rest back into her pouch. "Locate creature."

"Which creature?"

"Elhan Now hush and give me some space."

"Elhan isn't a crea—"

Grey eyes turned on her. "Cassie."

"Okay, okay. I'm hushing."

Imoen kept her eyes on her until the red-head had retreated a good two yards away and kept her silence for a whole minute. Once satisfied, she turned her attention back to the small bit of fur that would soon be the key finding the elven city.

The first threads of magical energy began to congeal around her fingers as she rhythmically went through the motions for the somatic part of the formula. The strands were weightless – more illusionary than real – having no texture, temperature, or tactile sensation against her flesh. She watched them in skeptical fascination as they looped, knotted, tied, and twisted. Normally the material of the Weave was invisible, even to a mage's eyes. Since her encounter with Bodhi and the return of her soul, however, she seemed to see more than most.

"Lach Elhane shani enu."

The arcane words ignited the threads with sudden luminescence. They twisted into a thick cord of energy in the center of her palm and then leapt out and closed around the ball of fur. It exploded with a small flash of heat and smoke, disintegrating into so much ash as the magic consumed it. A ghostly radiance expanded around her – a mesh of thousands of fine hairs as the Weave closed around her in a golden divination cage.

Okay... She closed her eyes concentrated on the energy surrounding her. The cocoon was a steady, uniform static charge that tickled across her skin now that the spell was active. She rotated slowly in place, stopping with each fraction of a turn to re-orient herself and give the Weave time to adjust. Where are you?

The tingle turned to a tug as she completed a quarter-turn and faced the southeast. Imoen's eyes flashed open. The golden strands of magic had bulged into a sort of warped cone, drawn and stretched in the direction of her quarry.

"This way," she announced, pointing a finger towards one section of the endless expanse of woods. "He's within a mile of us." Her lips quirked in a smile as she shot Cassie a mischevious glance. "You just threw the stone in the wrong direction."

It was Cassie's turn to roll her eyes. "How do you know he's within a mile?" she asked, ignoring the jab.

"'Cause it's magic and I'm a mage. Why do you always ask silly questions?"

"Because being around you has damaged my brain."

"Jackass."

"It was a good retort!"

"You're still a jackass."

"Come on. You never let me win," Cassie complained.

Imoen hid her smile under the pretense of stalking away into the forest. "Duh."

Normally a mile didn't take too long to walk, but normally they weren't walking through a rainforest. The thick tangle of roots and low-hanging branches slowed their speed to a crawl. Every few minutes they were forced to stop and unhook Imoen's robe from an over-eager thorn, or retrace their steps and find another way around a particularly impassable section.

It was nearly an hour later that the first flicker of color was visible through the tightly-packed trees. At first it was a flicker of purple, joined by pale strands of pearl and hues of brilliant sapphire, ruby, and jade as the sisters drew nearer. The wall of crystalline color rose nearly as high as the trees themselves and as wide as a full-grown dragon. Imoen's breath caught in her chest as the last few trees disappeared behind them and the object was revealed in full. It glittered and danced in rhythm with the shadows of the surrounding forest – a living, pulsating barrier of interwoven jewels, impossibly melded together into a complete and seamless whole.

"Wow." The word was barely breathed across her lips.

Cassandra stopped next to her, looking up at it as well. "That is a really big tree."

"What?" Imoen's mouth dropped open in disbelief, and her hand flashed out to land a solid smack upside Cassie's head. "Gods, you are such a barbarian!"

"Ow! What?" The older sister rubbed her head, directing a dark scowl at her younger counterpart. "What the Hell was that for?"

"A tree?" Imoen retorted, returning the scowl. She pointed at the huge crystalline wall. "You ignore that and comment on a tree??"

"What do you want then? Big oak? Big white oak?"

Imoen's scowl melted away as she realized that Cassandra wasn't kidding. "You don't see it, do you?" she asked slowly, her eyes going back to the multicolored wall. She didn't see any flicker or miscoloration that would point to a broken illusion. "You see a tree."

"You don't? What do you see?"

That was a good question. Imoen pursed her lips, studying the structure. The colors weren't quite the same as the auras of the arcane schools. Those had been pure colors, soft in tone, like the hues of fresh bloomed flowers. These colors were deeper, sharper, glistening and shimmering like jewels. And the manner in which they were interwoven with each other – a literal magical weave – defied any theory of magic she'd ever heard of. Combining of schools was theoretically possible: conjuration and necromancy for a ranged version of vampiric touch. But such combinations were more legend than fact, and Elminster himself would have been hard pressed to combine three schools, much less the six she saw here. And the entire thing was swathed in a brilliant cascade of abjuration-silver.

Wait. Her eyes narrowed. Abjuration, multiple colors... Suddenly it hit her. "It's a prismatic wall," she said aloud. "This must be the way to Suldanessellar."

"So they hid the door with an illusion of a tree?"

"More or less."

"Then we just open it up and walk through it," Cassie reasoned, and stepped forward to do just that.

"No!" Imoen's hands flashed out and shoved Cassandra forcefully backwards. "You don't just walk through a prismatic wall! Do you have any idea what that thing will do to you?"

"Actually—"

"You don't. Of course you don't." Imoen sighed. "What am I gonna do with you?"

"Protect me from myself?"

"Someone has to. Sorry for shoving," Imoen apologized.

"It's okay." Cassie tilted her chin up at the illusionary tree. "So can you dispel it?"

"I dunno," she admitted reluctantly. "I mean, you can't actually dispel it, but you can negate the individual colors. It takes seven different spells to counter the whole thing, though, and I don't have all of them memorized. I could negate a few today, memorize the ones I don't have tonight, and cast them tomorrow."

"That's a lot of lost time."

"Well... we'd be about back where we would have been, if we hadn't used teleport."

"Still. I'd rather not lose a day if we don't have to. What about just casting the spells without memorizing them?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, like you did with that seeming scroll," Cassie said. "You copied it to your spellbook, and then you cast it. You didn't need to memorize it first. Can't you do that with the ones you don't already have memorized?"

Imoen wrinkled her nose. "I hate doing that."

Cassandra didn't take the hint. "Can you or can't you?" she pressed.

"I dunno. I'll need to check and see what I have and what I need and all that jazz."

"I'll get your books."

It was nearly three hours later before Imoen, seated amidst a slew of scrolls, texts, and parchments, slammed the tome on her lap shut with a resounding clap. Cassandra looked up from the sharpening of her sword, narrowly avoiding slicing her own fingers as she started.

"Got it," the mage announced with satisfaction. "I've already got four of the necessary spells memorized; the other three I have in texts. I'm gonna lose cone of cold and gust of wind... don't mind the latter, but losing cone of cold is kinda sucky."

"Hopefully we won't need it."

"Let's hope." She got to her feet, brushing the clinging leaves and bits of dirt from her robe. "This and this I need," she said, pointing to two of the assorted texts. "The rest you can stick back in the bags."

Cassie started gathering up the books as Imoen began digging through her various belt pounches. By the time Cassandra managed to cram the various scrolls and parchments back into the backpacks in some rough approximation of order, Imoen had assembled an odd hodge-podge of various components. A small piece of glass lay next to a thumb-sized piece of blackish stone, followed by a carefully-positioned pinch of small, gold-white seeds.

"Do I need to do anything?" Cassie asked cautiously, holding a safe distance from the materials just in case.

"Nah. Actually—yes." She pointed to the sole book still open on the ground. "Hold that for me so I can read it."

"Like this?" Cassie lifted it up and held it outstretched between her hands, positioning it more or less at Imoen's eye-level.

"Left. And....little up." She peered over at the pages and flipped forward until she found the necessary spell. "Perfect."

Imoen rolled up her sleeves, knelt, and picked up the glass pellet. It was cool and smooth between her fingers – a comforting reminder of how her mind needed to be. Each color of the prismatic wall could only be negated by the appropriate counterspell, and only when cast in the appropriate order. Only when all seven colors were dispelled would the abjurational field finally fail and collapse in on itself.

"Soch janlani," she intoned, cupping the glass in her palms as she began sculpting the cone-shaped point of origin for the spell. The pellet quivered with sympathic vibrations which quickly became so intense that the structure itself began to liquify and dissolve. The molten glass melded with the arcane currents and transformed into a grain of ice. Cassie was smart enough to move out of the way as a howling rush of snow and ice manifested out of Imoen's hands and assaulted the wall with gale-force winds. The ruby-red threads of magic frosted over with white rime, quickly freezing in the super-cooled blast. A second later they shattered with the sound of a thousand tiny chimes. The remaining rainbow of colors pulsed and expanded, sealing the gaps almost immediately.

"Scroll," Imoen ordered, pointing to the loose sheet of parchment next to Cassandra's feet. The fighter dutifully fetched it, setting the spellbook carefully aside. She unfurled it and positioned herself once more to Imoen's left. The mage adjusted Cassie's position slightly before taking a deep breath and preparing for the second casting.

Gust of wind required no material components, but as soon as the necessary words and gestures were spoken, the scroll itself began to shiver and quake. The magical writing vaporized in small whisps of white smoke, leaving behind a perfectly blank sheet of parchment. Another color disappeared, and once again the prismatic wall adjusted, healing itself with the remaining hues and shutting the intruders firmly out.

The yellow veins of citrine fell to disintegrate, drawn directly from Imoen's memory. Emerald-green crumbled under passwall. The small, sizzling arcane orbs of magic missile negated a fifth color, and by then beads of sweat had dampened and darkened the strands of hair that fell across her forehead. Channeling so much magical energy and so many different manners of Weave in such a short time was exhausting. A steady thrum of ambient energy coursed through her body, slowly building up a latent charge. It was a natural high that the rush of adrenaline and pinpoint concentration only accentuated.

Indigo and violet were the only colors left. Imoen nodded to Cassandra, signaling her to get ready. Once all the colors were negated, the barrier would drop and allow them passage to whatever lay beyond. She'd have bet all the gold in Faerûn, though, that it wouldn't stay that way. No one barred the entrance to an elven city with a single spell, even one as powerful as prismatic wall. If you wanted to block people out and keep people out, you needed something stronger. Something that would bounce back quickly should a particularly stubborn sorceress force her way through.

Neither daylight nor dispel magic required any material components, and she could cast them both from memory. She chained the spells as closely as possible. The barrier flickered, melting away from indigo into deep, rich purple, before flickering once more and disappearing entirely. Beyond lay an archway of trees bowed together with knotted branches, forming a living, breathing passage into the city of Suldanessellar. Sunlight filtered in intermittently through the interwoven boughs, but most of the illumination came from the glowing, phosphorescent mosses that coated the trunks of the trees.

The thick stench of death rolled over them. Both sisters reflexively pressed their sleeves to their noses and exchanged worried glances. They stepped gingerly into the archway. Cassandra handed Imoen her pack. The ground was littered with bodies and body parts. Elven warriors, male and female, lay with death's grimace frozen on their faces. Cracked and blackened flesh; bubbled and melted muscles – the tell-tale aftermath of fire and acid. The majority of the bodies were clustered around the entrance; the majority of the dismembered hands, arms, and chunks of flesh slightly further away.

"Someone really didn't want them getting in," Cassandra muttered, carefully stepping over a woman's charred corpse. Her fingers curled reflexively around the hilt of her sword.

"No," Imoen whispered. A prismatic wall could kill easily enough, but crossing through the wall was impossible until it was dispelled. You died where you were – not after you passed through. "They were trying to get out."

"Maybe both. They sealed the city, Irenicus breached it, and the wall blocked their retreat?"

That would mean that Irenicus had routed the entire elven army. Imoen wasn't prepared to accept that scenario. "Maybe. Maybe not."

They advanced in silence down the silent forest corridor. It slanted upwards as it progressed, first gently but then with increasing grade, rising up into the treetops themselves. Both sisters were on alert, instinctively moving together in tandem, each one pressed close to the tunnel's side. They kept to opposite sides, maximizing their field of vision and minimizing the chances of an unpleasant surprise.

The number of bodies lessened as they crept further away from the entrance, as did the odor of decay. What lay above, though, was hardly fresh air. The passage leveled out some two or three stories above the forest floor, revealing what had once been a scene of beauty. Now the broad, circular platforms of living wood, sculpted by hundreds of years of delicate care and stewardship, were broken and splintered, charred and scarred, by the cruelty of unknown hands. Rope bridges dangled severed, their defenders now lifeless husks thrown haphazardly among the branches. At least three dozen elven bodies lay crushed, cut, and mangled in pools of their own blood and entrails. Small houses molded into the trees themselves now lay shattered and burnt. Plumes of smoke curled into the sky from their remains.

"Irenicus," Imoen murmurred. Her hands clenched and unclenched with nervous energy as she took in the sight. Residual magical auras glowed faintly in her vision from nearly every hook and angle. Whatever had happened here had had enough force to warp the arcane Weave for days to come. There was only one person in Suldanessellar who wielded that sort of wizardry.

"He's here," Cassandra confirmed in a low tone. "Something's pulling me."

Imoen nodded. She'd felt the same when they'd entered Bodhi's lair: a subtle tugging, a tingling, a calling-out inside her towards her stolen soul. Cassie was incomplete, and the disconnected parts ached to be whole. Hopefully the connection didn't work both ways.

"He won't be here alone," Imoen thought aloud. Any mage on a warpath would need muscle to back up his magic – summoned creatures, conjured servants, enthralled foes. Shock troops to wear down any resistance while Irenicus did damage from afar. "You can bet he's gonna have helpers."

"Where do you think the elves are?"

"Dunno." Imoen glanced around again, but amidst the explosion of chaos, it was impossible to see who might have went where. "Locate creature only works on living things, so Elhan must still be alive – or at least, he was a few hours ago. You'd think they'd be out fighting, but—"

"But it's quiet," Cassie noted.

"Too quiet," Imoen agreed.

"Laying low," the warrior suggested. "The battle went bad; they tried to retreat and regroup, but that wall sealed them in. If you can't run, hide."

"We should find them. They'll know more about what's happened and what we can expect."

"If they're still alive. I don't think Irenicus would voluntarily leave his enemies alive."

"Not after the brilliant success that was with us, no." Imoen pursed her lips together. A sudden chill and reflexive shudder rippled down her back as Irenicus' taut, warped face floated out of her memory. She shoved it back down into the mire where it belonged. "He might keep some alive," she said reluctantly, tasting bile on every word. "For his experiments."

"Then let's hope he hasn't found them yet."

"And how are we going to find them?"

"Well, you're a mage. If Irenicus were after you, where would you go?"

"Another country," Imoen quipped, but her smile was strained. "No, seriously... they would have been prepared. Elves and magic, that's like ducks and water. They'd have a... a building or something. They'd have to. Something with strong walls. Anti-magic fields. Big enough to hold people, small enough to defend."

Cassie searched the surrounding area, but there was no such structure – or anything resembling it – anywhere in sight. "No cellars in the treetops, I'm guessing."

"Nope. But really, a building big enough... there can't be that many. I'm guessing a temple, or maybe the royal palace itself. Or maybe both."

"What are the chances that Irenicus hasn't breached their protections yet?"

Imoen let out a slow, uncomfortable breath. "I dunno. It'd just be a matter of time."

"Then we'd better hurry."

Following the main path was impossible. The rope-and-wood skyways that connected the rounded platforms had been cut and burnt away more often than not, and neither sibling was willing to risk their footing on the few that still hung tenaciously to their moorings. The exploration of the elven city proved slow and frustrating – creeping forward, ever alert, hiding behind rubble and plums of smoke, only to realize that the way was a dead end and that they would need to double-back and find a new route.

The assault on the city had been severe and abrupt. Very little had escaped Irenicus' wrath. Elven soldiers lay strewn like leaves, scattered by a hurricane of rage. Here and there was evidence of the mage's foot soldiers: an immense statue of clay or packed sand, now toppled to the ground and shattered into pieces. Golems, Imoen knew instinctively. Irenicus was fond of the constructs, fond of their mindless, unquestioning obedience. They had been a frequent sight in his dungeon.

"He'll have more," Imoen informed Cassandra quietly as they moved around it, and a few minutes later she was proven right.

The goliath's thundering footsteps announced its coming long before it came into sight. The resounding boom...boom...boom of its tread shook the trees itself, causing leaves to rustle and break off in protest before fluttering weakly to the ground. Imoen and Cassandra ducked for cover behind the nearest item: the remnants of burnt-out house, where the silent occupants stared at them with dead, white-filmed eyes. A woman and her daughter. Imoen turned her head away.

The golem that strode out of the branches was a giant among giants. A stone or clay golem could stand easily twice the height of a man, and yet they would have stood merely shoulder-high to this one. Although also crafted of stone, it was larger and broader than any she'd seen before. Imoen worried her lower lip between her teeth as she watched it pass with long, lumbering strides.

"Should we follow it?" Cassie asked, leaning slightly closer to direct the whispered words to her sister's ear.

Golems didn't think. They were artifices, constructed for a purpose, and when that purpose was done, they fell still. If this one was active, it was likely doing one of two things: seeking out survivors, or returning to Irenicus for its next command. Either way, it'd lead them to a goal.

"Follow," Imoen confirmed, moving out from her cover. She activated her stoneskins before crouching low and slowly moving forward. "Be careful."

Tailing the behemoth was easy; lacking the intellect to suspect pursuers, it didn't bother to look around. Keeping up with it was harder. It walked with a purpose, single-mindedly, with its immense legs covering yards with every step. The sisters sprinted from object to object, trying to balance the necessity of speed against that of secrecy. Fortunately there was no need to be hot on its heels. Keeping it in sight – an easy task, given its massive dimensions – was more than enough.

"Cass – look." Imoen pointed to something between the broken branches. A perfectly curved dome, barely visible among clouds of dust and smoke. The golem was heading straight for it.

The din of battle was the first clue. Tremors of impact ripped through the canopy long before details were visible. Then came the screams. Cries of terror, panic, and despair carried through the air, only to be drowned out and silenced by another thunderous crash.

Screams meant survivors. Imoen glanced over to Cassandra, who gave a brief nod. They broke from cover, favoring speed over security, to try to close the distance and figure out what was going on. The distant dome and gleaming head of the polished stone giant were their targets.

At last the scene came into view. The dome capped a building easily three times as large as any they'd seen so far. Unlike the walkways, bridges, and houses of Suldanessellar, this structure was built of stone. White marble, flecked here and there with natural veins, rose up in an impossible whole, scored neither with axe nor chisel. The structure was seamless and smooth, and had once been adorned by a dozen different statues of elven gods and goddesses – statues which now lay battered and broken on the ground. The temple was surrounded by constructs: three large clay golems that hammered away at the rock with their fists, while a smaller sandstone version attempted to right itself where it had fallen. The stone golem they'd been following waded in without hesitation. The fallen gods cracked and shattered under its feet.

There was no way of knowing how long the golems had been there, but the result of their work was clear. A section of the wall had collapsed under the assault, and now the survivors who had entrusted their lives to their gods scrambled to get out. Some fled through the doors, now flung open wide; some fled through the crumbled wall itself, willing to risk an escape into the path of the golems themselves.

"That's Elhan," Imoen said, pointing towards the temple's doors. Two blond elven warriors braced the portals open, gesturing and shouting for their companions to flee. "The one on the right."

"Think we can slow those things down?" Cassie asked, tilting her chin towards the golems.

Imoen grinned. "Oh, absolutely."

"Ready?"

"Set."

"Go!"

When it came to causing chaos, Imoen was a master. After seeing the effects of disintegrate on Bodhi, it'd quickly become one of her favorite spells. Now she directed it at the thigh of a clay golem. The material evaporated, leaving the remaining ton of weight suddenly unsupported. The creature wavered unsteadily for a second as gravity took hold, before collapsing to the ground with a crash and cloud of debris.

Cassandra was on it in an instant. Although smaller and frailer than the artificial warriors, she was both faster and more agile. By the time a golem registered her presence and lifted its foot to squash her, she was already out of its way. She dodged through the stream of fleeing elves, around the fallen bodies of those crushed by rock and stone. Sword drawn, she leapt upon the fallen golem. There was no heart to cleave out; no brain to destroy; no vitals to rend. Strictly speaking, she couldn't kill it. It didn't stop her from trying.

The magical enchantments on the blade let it sink easily into the hardened clay. She brought it down in a vicious arc, slicing into the construct's neck. It stopped nearly six inches in – a gaping cut, but nowhere close to severing the thing's head. She wrenched the blade lose and struck again, this time from the other side. Again the sword cut true, but it wasn't enough.

"Cass! Incoming!"

She abandoned the sword and rolled off the golem's chest in automatic response to the warning. A giant hand smashed down where she had been. The impact threw her to the ground, but she was up again a second later. The prone golem now lay unmoving. The force of the blow had snapped what little support material remained, and the head now rocked slowly back and forth, disconnected from the rest.

Cassie fetched her sword out of the rubble and knelt next to the golem's body. It provided ample cover, at least for the time being. The second golem was re-adjusting, unaware and uncaring that it had just killed its companion.

A wide, powerful swing bit into its ankle and lodged nearly half-way through the hardened clay flesh. Before Cassandra could yank it free, the foot rose into the air. Cassie stumbled backwards as the sword was ripped out of her hands. A chunk of fallen debris caught her foot as she tried to retreat and brought her down hard. She didn't have time to react as the foot hurtled down at her. Her arms flashed up in an instinctive attempt to block the impact, even as she realized the futility of the attempt.

A ripple of compressed energy sped past her. It connected with the golem's torso with a loud, lightning-like crack of sound and blasted the construct sharply to the side. Balanced on only one leg, it was impossible for the golem to adjust to the sudden shift in balance. The foot never connected against Cassie's arms; it wavered, hanging unsteadily in the air, and then slowly began to tilt away. The fighter needed no other encouragement. She rolled away from danger, getting to her feet in a single smooth movement, and sprinted away from the tumbling giant. It collapsed like a fallen building, crushing everything beneath it with tons of hardened, fired clay.

The majority of the elves had successfully fled the temple. Those that remained were the warriors and soldiers who stayed behind to shepherd the weaker to safety. The sudden shift in the struggle did not go unnoticed, nor did the presence of the two human women in its midst. As the last few civilians disappeared along the skyways, Elhan's voice rose above the din in an elven battle cry.

Cassandra had retrieved her sword by the time the elves joined the battle, and was more than happy to accept the extra help. The remaining clay and sandstone golems fell quickly to a combination of magic and muscle. Each fallen construct littered the battlefield with obstacles the size of boulders, but the hindrances worked for them as well as against them. They traded decreased mobility for the safety of cover, using the massive bodies to shield themselves from further attack. The polished marble of the largest golem proved harder and more resistant than the clay and sandstone of its kin, but even it could not hold up to the assault of two Bhaalspawn sisters and a score of trained soldiers. A second, well-aimed disintegrate from an elven mage left a gaping hole in the middle of its face and destroyed both eyes. Unable to see, it was only minutes before the combined might brought it down for good with the force and tumult of a full-fledged earthquake.

When the final tremors had died and the cloud of dust and dirt began to clear, it was over. The golems lay in pieces, large and small, scattered across the platform and toppled into the forest below. What had once been a magnificent temple had been reduced to a pile of rubble barely recognizable as a building. Only the two still-standing walls, one leaning precariously towards collapse, bore witness to the truth.

A hand appeared abruptly before Cassandra's face. She grasped it automatically and pulled herself to her feet. Imoen's face was smeared with pale dust, and her once-fine robes stained with flecks of blood. She was smiling though, and gave a small shake of her head at the sudden alarm in her sister's eyes.

"Not mine. Don't worry." The mage's grey eyes flickered over Cassie's body in quick, careful assessment, and seemed pleased to find the fighter still intact. "Any injuries?"

She shook her head. "I'm fine. Few bruises, nothing crushed."

A slim, green-clad formed emerged out of the still-settling chaos: an elven man with stern blue eyes and short blond hair that was heavily matted by clots of dark red-brown blood. His sword was unsheathed and held at the ready. Despite his cautious posture, it was clear that he – like so many others – had not come out unscathed. He limped on his left leg where it had been clawed open by some unknown assailant, and there was no way of knowing how much of the blood on his uniform was his own.

"Elhan." Imoen greeted him with an outstretched hand and a small, warm smile.

The smile wasn't returned, nor was the proffered hand. More figures fumbled their way out of the debris and gradually gathered around as the elven commander regarded the human intruders. His expression was a strained mix of sour gratitude.

"You are the human from the Underdark," he said at last in Common. His cold blue gaze turned to Cassandra. "And you are that... thing."

"My name's Imoen," the mage reminded him, her smile vanishing and her hands going to her hips. "And that 'thing' is Cassandra – my sister. We just saved your ass."

"How did you get into Suldanessellar?" Elhan demanded. "The city is sealed."

The authoritative tone didn't make Imoen back down. "Yeah, it is. We unsealed it."

"What? How?"

"It's just a prismatic wall. Difficult, but not impossible. If you wanna keep people out, you should pick something a little stronger."

The nine remaining soldiers were now exchanging glances and uneasy whispers. Elhan silenced them with a razor-sharp glance.

"The barrier is removed, then?" he asked, directing his eyes back to the human mage.

"No. The negation is only for a few minutes." One eyebrow arched up, gaining an even deeper scowl from the commander. "You didn't seal it, did you?" she asked. "Irenicus locked you in."

The name evoked an immediate and violent reaction. Elhan's hand flashed out, his finger jabbing the mage's chest. "Do not speak that name!" he growled. "You have no right!"

Cassandra's hand was on his in an instant. Her arctic tone served as warning. "We aren't your enemies, Elhan."

"You have no business here," he spat again. "This is not your problem!"

"Like Hell it's not," Cassie growled, to which Imoen nodded her assent. "We have a score to settle with him."

"A 'score'." Elhan's voice dripped with contempt. "Our city burns, and you bewail petty grievances."

"Petty?" Cassandra's eyes narrowed. "You have no idea what he's done to us."

"No worse than he's done to others," Elhan responded sharply. "The Exile's path is one of ruin and pain. But you'll excuse me if the suffering of two women does not move me compared to the destruction of my people and my home."

"Maybe it should," Imoen suggested. "We might be able to help you."

A snort of disbelief. "What could you possibly do that the united power of Suldanessellar's army could not?"

Cassie's answer was dry. "You'd be surprised."

"Look, maybe we can argue this somewhere where we aren't standing around where Irenicus can slap us silly," Imoen suggested. "And we need to talk to Ellesime, if she's still alive."

The commander stiffened. "You will address Queen Ellesime by her proper title while within her realm."

"Queen?" Imoen's eyebrows rose sky-high, and she directed a surprised glance at her sister. "Then we definitely need to speak to her."

"One does not simply speak to the Queen."

"Well, we do," the mage insisted. "It's her fault all this is happening. Irenicus hates her, y'know. Like, really hates her."

Elhan's aloofness vanished, replaced with a dark and mistrusting frown. "How do you know that?"

"Because we found Irenicus' diary," Cassie answered. "And we killed Bodhi."

"I've got her memories," Imoen added, tapping her fingertip against her temple. A wicked smile curved her lips. "Now... can we talk to Ellesime or not?"

The elves had been, contrary to appearances, surprisingly well prepared. The Temple of Rillifane was not the only safehouse in the city, although it had been one of the largest. Suspicious by nature, the wood elves had a dozen different ways to escape. Tree stride and transport via plants were fashioned into random, innocent objects, serving as teleportation nexuses hiding in plain view. Where they led, Elhan wasn't willing to divulge. At least one – the one they'd taken, set into an unassuming elm tree – lead to the royal palace.

Calling it a “palace” was overgenerous. Humans built palaces, Elhan said, to fit their sense of self-importance: overly large, jutting from the landscape with spires of stone and steel. The elven palace was a small building, perhaps the size of a moderate country villa or slightly larger than the De'Arnise Keep itself. Where it excelled, though, was the beauty of its construction. It was molded from a perfect combination of living wood and natural stone, seeming to rise out of the forest like an organic creature. To Imoen's magic-sensitive eyes it glowed like a beacon, enchanted by generations of powerful elven mages and clerics. The spells were layered upon each other with impossible precision, like the folded layers of steel in a fine blade. It hadn't helped those trapped outside it.

Imoen stood next to one of the walls, running her fingers absent-mindedly through the soft glow of a magelight torch. The strands of arcane Weave caught her fingers; the light stretched and distorted as her touched tugged it back and forth. Around her was a cacophony of crying, screaming, moaning, and harshly barked commands. The palace's main hall was filled with survivors: nearly a hundred people. They were burnt, bleeding, weak, and confused. Missing arms, mangled legs, fathers sitting stunned and mothers screaming their children's name and begging for someone – anyone – to find their babies. Elhan and his men could do nothing to help. No one could.

Imoen looked away. It was an all-too-real reminder of the damage Irenicus could do. Hopefully no one else had survived. She couldn't imagine what he'd do to his prisoners.

The memory of Spellhold leapt to mind unbidden. The knives. The blood. The sound of Irenicus' footsteps, the door creeping open, his shadow crawling across the floor. Her stomach clenched as a sudden cold sweat moistened her palms. She shoved the memory back into the darkness and fought down the instinctive surge of fear. She could imagine what'd he do.

"O'si! L'osi!" A small elven girl wandered amongst the chaos, crying out for her family. The girl herself was unharmed, save for a few raw, red scratches on her light brown arms, but none of the adults paid her attention. If she were human, Imoen would have guessed her age at five or six. The dust of destroyed homes painted her face like a delicate porcelain doll, with streaks of tan where hours of tears had washed the filth away. "Kerrad o'si!"

"Etriel." Imoen knelt down as the girl wandered closer and stretched out her hand. "Alet kesh, etriel. N'wutheh o'si?"

The girl's lips quivered with half-checked sobs, but the sound of a friendly voice was enough to catapult her into the human's arms. Imoen whispered to her soothingly in Elven as she hugged her tight. "Kye te, kweshtaje," she promised. "Shh. It'll be okay."

"Unarihe," the girl cried. That's not true.

Imoen scooped her up into her arms and cradled her against her chest, fighting back the urge to join with tears of her own. "Kaweh wahir." Yes, it is. "De thor." I promise.

"Imoen."

The sorceress turned around, protectively wrapping her arms tighter around the child. Cassandra had manifested out of the teeming mass of people, with Elhan by her side. Both had the tell-tale dark circles of exhaustion under their eyes, and Elhan's sour temperament had not improved for it.

Cassie gave a small jerk of her head. "Audience with Ellesime."

The younger sister nodded, quickly trying to mask her upset. "'Kay. Just a sec." She crouched down once more and set the small, dark-haired girl back on the ground. The move ignited a new wave of protesting sobs. "Kweshtaje, sssh. I'll be back soon." She brushed the tears away with a gentle stroke of her thumb and gave the girl what she hoped was a brave smile. "Alet rinnam n'kyed. De thor."

The words didn't help, and the girl's screaming, high-pitched pleas for her to stay pieced Imoen's ears all the way to the Queen's chamber.

Cassandra's hand found hers as they followed Elhan down the hall. Their fingers intertwined, and the red-haired warrior gave a gentle squeeze. "Are you okay?"

"No," Imoen answered honestly, squeezing hard back. Her stomach still ached with sick sorrow. "I hate it," she said softly. "I hate what he does."

"It'll be over soon."

"Not for her. Not for them." Not for us, but she bit back the words before they escaped, swallowing them along with the first few tears. "That girl... and the one in Spellhold... it's just--" Her voice broke despite her resolve, and her lower lip began to tremble. "How could someone do that to a child?"

Cassandra didn't have an answer. All she could offer was another supportive squeeze.

The hallway ended before a modest wooden door. From the outside it certainly gave no indication that it guarded the residence of an elven Queen. Of course, there was no guarantee that this was actually Ellesime's chamber, rather than that of a servant, a guard, or a visiting dignitary. The last place any sovereign would want to be was in the throne room; very likely, Ellesime had retreated to more private and better protected part of her palace.

Elhan halted before the door, glancing over his shoulder at the two women behind him. Once assured that they were still following, he rapped twice on the wooden portal to announce their presence. There was no need to wait for a response; the audience had already been arranged. The commander opened the door slowly and bowed to the occupant within before stepping aside. "Cassandra and Imoen of Candlekeep, Your Highness."

The room inside was spacious by any standard, although surprisingly simple in decor. Large and circular, it was easily twenty feet in diameter. A modest bed rested against one wall, cloaked with a lush red bedspread. Hand-woven rugs softened the smooth wooden floor. A bookcase had somehow been grown into the wall itself and housed a collection of thick, leather-bound tomes. The only other furniture was a modest desk, atop which were a handful of papers and an inkpot.

"Cassandra and Imoen, may I introduce you to Queen Ellesime of Suldanessellar."

Ellesime was beautiful, to say the least. She was clothed in a long sky-blue robe that accentuated her pale skin and golden-blond hair. Her face had a typical elven sharpness and dignity, combined with the softness and wisdom of impossibly long years of life. Gentle lines of crow's feet around her eyes and corners of her mouth combined with the first few strands of grey hair to give her a matronly, almost motherly appearance. It was a familiar face – one that spoke to Cassie's memories. She'd seen it before, months before, in a time that seemed like another life. Dozens of identical faces, trapped behind jars of glass, frozen in liquid suspension in Irenicus' dungeon. Clones of Queen Ellesime. He'd even cloned the bedroom – a personal shrine to his hatred of his Queen.

"Your Highness." Cassandra recovered herself enough to remember her manners. She bowed low, but out of the corner of her eye she saw that Imoen did not do the same. The sorceress was frozen in place, her mouth and eyes wide with shock.

"Cassandra." Ellesime gave a small nod in return. "Imoen."

The word shattered Imoen's trance. She whirled around, shoving past Cassandra and Elhan alike in sudden panic. Elhan let out a curse; Cassandra tried to grab her, but her stunned reaction was far too late to catch the fleeing mage. She was lost from sight a moment later as the twisting corridors swallowed her footsteps.

Cassie started reflexively towards the door, then realized that she was still standing in front of the Queen of Suldanessellar. It was hardly etiquette to literally run away from the local monarch. She stopped short, casting a glance back at Ellesime, then back towards where Imoen had disappeared. Back to the queen.

"Sorry." She gave a hurried, shallow bow and turned to follow her sister. Elhan made a strangled noise of frustration and indignation which she ignored. She'd apologize later.

Imoen was already gone. Cassie jogged through down the hall, following the direction she'd gone. The majority of the rooms were shut and presumably locked; she hadn't heard the sound of any slamming door. She slowed as she turned the second corner.

"Imoen?"

Silence. Cassandra continued down the hall. The lights here had been extinguished; her vision shifted to greyscale as the darkness enveloped her. A small sound caught her ears from somewhere ahead: the soft rustle of cloth against stone.

"Imoen?"

The rustle stopped, but not before Cassandra had found the source. A small open archway led into a small rectangular storage room. It was empty save for a few bags of flour and potatoes stacked against one wall. At the far end, huddled into a corner and with her knees drawn up to her chest, sat Imoen's familiar robed form.

"Im?"

The mage nodded shakily but didn't look up. One slim arm rose to wipe her eyes. "Yeah. Here."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I just—" Her voice quivered with barely contained emotion. She drew her legs tighter to her and let out a trembling sigh. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

Cassandra approached slowly, kneeling down next to her sibling and gently raising her chin. The playful grey eyes were now filled with tears, and Imoen's chest rose and fell unevenly with unseen sobs.

"Hey..." Cassie pulled Imoen into her arms. "There's nothing to be sorry about. Nothing at all."

"I just—just that room, that woman—" Imoen buried her face against Cassandra's shoulder, drawing in long, ragged breaths to try and quell the tears. "And that little girl... Suddenly I was back in that cage and I could just see him, y'know? I could see him and the knives and…and…"

"Sssh." Cassie pressed her lips to Imoen's forehead and rocked her gently in her arms. The mage's small frame had begun to shiver with a mixture of fear and despair. "It's okay. He's not here; he'll never touch you again. I swear it."

The tears were flowing freely now, soaking through the cotton of Cassandra's tunic and staining her skin with hot, bitter saline. "I don't know if I can do this, Cass," Imoen whimpered. "If—If I see him... if I really see him... I can't do this. I can't."

"Yes you can. You're strong, Im. You're stronger than anyone I know."

"You're strong. You're the knight in shining armor."

"If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have made it past the Friendly Arm Inn." Cassie pressed their cheeks together and smoothed the tears away. "You're my fair maiden. My inspiration. My courage."

"Liar," Imoen accused with a soft hic.

"Gods' honest truth."

"Really?"

"Really."

Tears still stung her eyes, but Cassie's strong arms had stilled her trembling. Imoen tried to blot her face with the sleeve of her robe. It didn't help. "I'm sorry," she repeated with a sigh.

"Don't be." She bestowed another small kiss, this one on Imoen's nose.

"Gods, I'm such a moron. I just ran away from the freakin' queen."

"I'm sure she'll understand."

"And you came after me!" She moaned. "Cassie!"

"Relax; I'll go back. But you're just slightly more important to me."

"Cass—"

"Ssh. I'll take care of it," she assured her. "Go back and rest a bit."

Imoen bit her lower lip, her eyes thick with self-doubt. "Y'sure?"

"Positive."

She sighed again, wrapping her arms tightly around her sister. "I'm sorry. I really am."

"Don't apologize." Cassie gently disentangled herself, rose to her feet, and helped Imoen do the same. "Just relax."

"Okay."

"Promise?"

She nodded. Her lips carried a soft, sad smile. "I'll try."

Nearly two hours later, Cassandra was on her way back to the central hall. She walked in silence, her lips curved in a deep frown and her brows knitted together. Queen Ellesime had been forgiving of the sisters' abrupt departure, but her news upon Cassie's return hadn't been encouraging. That the elves possessed artifacts of incredible power, was no secret. She hadn't heard of the Tree of Life before, but its existence was hardly surprising. It maintained the divine connection between the elves of Tethir and the natural world around them; it made possible their centuries of long and fruitful life. Millennia of elves had worshipped and prayed among its branches; they had lived, fought, and died upon its roots. The Tree of Life was the elves – the soul of their very race.

Joneleth – Irenicus – attempted to pervert that bond, Ellesime had explained in her soft, rich voice. He sought power beyond the realms of mortals – power even beyond the reach of elves. He grafted a magical weave to the Tree of Life and tapped into its essence directly. His ambition nearly killed the Tree...and the elves with it.

Cassie's simple question – why hadn't they executed him? – had been met with a sad smile.

We thought exile a harsh enough punishment. We elves do not kill lightly, Cassandra. He would have time to reflect upon his error. Time to reflect upon what he had lost by his actions. His homeland, his family... his beloved.

The sorrow in her eyes, still palpable after centuries, spoke volumes that her words did not: Ellesime had loved him. On some level, she still did.

Time had not mellowed the Exile, however. Time had only served to pour salt into raw and festering wounds. Stripped of his divine connection with the Tree, Joneleth would age and wither just as mortal being. Infirmity would rack his body; dementia would sear his brain. To ascend to impossible heights, only to be cast down among life's refuse, had not sat well with the mage. Time had stoked his anger and fueled his desire for revenge with an all-too-human earnestness. His life's candle would dwindle and fade until it winked out entirely... unless he found a way to stop it.

In Cassie, he had.

Uniting his fading soul with that of a Child of Murder had granted him a new lease on life – and a new thirst for vengeance. Suldanessellar had fallen to that vengeance with surprising ease. The elves hadn't expected their long-lost brother to return after so many years. They certainly hadn't expected the powerful, rage-filled archmage who had descended upon them with the wrath of the Nine Hells themselves. A single man, driven mad by anger and desperation, had brought the elven city to its knees. Even that, though, had not satisfied him. Irenicus wanted the ultimate revenge --- a way to teach each and every kinsman who had shunned him a terrible and permanent lesson.

He had gone back to the Tree of Life. He'd renewed the rituals that had first led to his exile so long ago. This time, however, the goal was not so mundane as mere power. This time, the goal was to kill them all.

Cassandra had stood in stunned silence when Queen Ellesime had finished speaking. Imoen had placed Irenicus among the most powerful mages in Faerûn; it was already doubtful how – and whether – they could best him. But if he could humble an entire city... if he could access an unlimited store of power... maybe retreat was a better option.

Don't think that way, she scolded herself, but the rebuke was hollow. All she could think about was Imoen. What if Irenicus captured them? Killed them? Imoen had her soul back. She could live a long and happy life, far away from Tethir and its troubles. They both could... until Cassie's Taint overwhelmed her. But a few good years were better than nothing, weren't they?

Years? Months. Weeks.

And when the Taint was victorious... what about Imoen then?

She's a strong girl. She'd be okay.

The sight of Imoen's tear-streaked face appeared before her mind's eye. She was strong, but she wasn't invincible. She needed someone to be there for her.

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted as she realized that a particular shadow in the corner of the hall wasn't a shadow at all, but a person. Someone had snuck out of the chaos of the main chamber and into the quieter, calmer corridors before curling up with a blanket and trying to sleep. Cassie slowed her step cautiously. The greyscale nightvision made it difficult to identify things such as hair or clothing color, but the shrouded form seemed very familiar.

The figure lifted their head at the sound of her footsteps. "Cass?"

"What are you doing here? Why aren't you with the others?"

"They're loud." The mage got to her feet, stretching out the muscles in her back and neck as she rose. "I asked Elhan for a separate room so I could study my spellbooks, but then I realized you wouldn't know where I'd gone."

"You've been waiting for me for two hours?"

"Maybe," Imoen answered a touch defensively. She had crossed her arms across her body, hugging herself against the chill. When Cassandra reached her and pulled her into her arms, the sorceress yielded willingly. "I can't sleep without you, y'know," she admitted softly.

Cassie stroked her hair gently. Imoen was shivering from emotion and exhaustion. The fighter tightened her arms around her. "I'm back now. Let's get you in bed."

The room was down a small hallway that branched off just before the reception hall. Small and plain, it had obviously been the lodging of some nameless servant rather than a guestroom for visitors. Still, it had the necessities: a small bed for a single occupant, a chamberpot, and a pair of sturdy shelves that bore neatly folded shirts, trousers, and aprons. There was no wash basin, but Cassandra's habit of throwing on clothes and leaving didn't require one. Imoen always had create water handy for an emergency bath – or a particularly rude awakening.

"One-person bed. They didn't have anything else."

"It's fine." Cassie guided Imoen to sit on the edge of the thin mattress. "We've made do with worse."

Imoen smiled faintly. "True."

"Have you finished studying?"

"Yeah. I had most of it prepared yesterday, just had to freshen up a few spells."

A nod as Cassie lifted Imoen's feet and tugged off the mage's boots. "Good. Did you get something to eat?"

"Yup. Trail rations and some fruit. There wasn't much to go around with all the refugees, but I snagged you an apple. 'S in my backpack."

Another nod. The boots were set next to the bed, and Cassandra set both their packs against the wall before returning to the bed. She sat down next to her sister with a soft, tired sigh. Although it was still early in the evening, extra rest never hurt. Imoen could sleep and recover; Cassie could nibble on the rations while she figured out some semblance of a plan of action.

"You take the bed, Im. I'm not going to sleep anyways, and I still have to—"

Imoen held a single finger to the warrior's lips. "Sshh. Relax. Please."

Relax. It was easy for her to say; she hadn't heard Ellesime's dire news. Nevertheless, Cassie tried. She fell silent, drew in a long and deep breath through her nose and let it escape slowly again from between her lips. Imoen watched her with attentive grey eyes, and after three such breaths and no further speech, she seemed satisfied. The smile that graced her lips was all the reward Cassie needed.

"Thank you." The mage rested her head against Cassandra's shoulder, more than willing to accept Cassie's arms as they once more surrounded her. "I'm sorry. I just don't want to think right now."

"Sure."

Imoen laid her hand over Cassie's where the warrior's arms encircled her. The soft play of her fingertips up and over Cassandra's hand, wrist, and forearm tingled with warmth. Cassie pulled her reflexively tighter, nuzzling into the waves of her hair. She still smelled faintly of soap and perfume from their stay in the Keep the night before. Fresh violet: the smallest splash, just enough to tease the senses. Cassandra resolved to plant a whole field of them the next time she had the chance.

"You're tickling," Imoen said, tilting her head slightly to the side. It wasn't enough to get her out of range. The mage's hand rose and rested lightly against Cassie's face.

"I like your perfume."

A pleased smile. "You do?"

"Mm-hmm."

"It's violets."

"I noticed."

Imoen settled back into place, apparently reassured that the tickling would not resume. The palm pressed to Cassie's cheek gradually drifted lower, trailing along the curve of her jaw. The flesh of her hands was soft with the barest hints of callouses on her fingertips. They traveled across Cassandra's lip, gently exploring the soft pink flesh.

The touch was abruptly gone as Imoen withdrew her hand and turned to face her. Now both hands rose, cupping Cassie's cheeks. Imoen's eyes searched hers with a sudden, uncertain intensity. Just as suddenly it vanished, hidden from view as her eyes drifted close and she linked their lips in a kiss.

Cassie's mind froze, too stunned to react, but her body had no such trouble. The warm pressure of Imoen's mouth against hers coaxed an automatic response. Her hands tightened where they rested on Imoen's hips; her arms pulled her closer. The gentle touch of skin to skin hid a barely-disguised urgency – a need for contact and connection. It wasn't until she felt Imoen's hands slip beneath her shirt that Cassie's rational self snapped to attention and she tried to pull away.

"Imoen—"

"Ssh." Imoen touched her finger to Cassandra's lower lip. Her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink. "Make love to me, Cassie."

"We should talk—"

"I don't want to talk," Imoen whispered. "I don't want to think. I just—I need this, Cass." Her hands had gone to her own robe, and now slowly unfastened the buttons at her neck. Each release revealed a glimpse of smooth porcelain skin. "Make love to me. Please."

"You won't regret it?" Cassie asked quietly.

She shook her head. "No."

The fourth button surrendered to Imoen's fingers. Her eyes searched Cassandra's as she took the warrior's hand and guided it to the edge of the cloth. The small swell of Imoen's breast peeked out from underneath. Cassie's breath threatened to stop completely as the fifth

button gave way and Imoen pressed their bodies together.

Their first love-making had been tentative, almost hesitant, as they'd explored the unknown territory of their emotions. Now that hesitation was gone. Imoen's lips were hot and insistent as she curled her free hand in Cassie's hair and pulled her into the kiss. The sudden rush of sensation washed away any semblance of thought. Cassie's hands slid to Imoen's waist, lifting her up and bringing the mage to a sitting position astride her hips. Imoen's tongue traced her lips, darting and teasing with light touches, and then willingly surrendered when Cassie turned the tables.

The fighter's fingers roamed upwards and inwards. The sheer fabric of Imoen's robe was cool and smooth under her touch. The small round buttons that closed it formed a chain of tiny nubs extending from waist to neck. Now half-undone, the fabric lay open to any assault and the skin beneath lay bare and vulnerable. Cassie eased the cloth aside and lowered her lips to Imoen’s neck. The mage drew in a soft rush of breath, tilting her head to the side in silent encouragement.

The scent of perfume lured her onwards. Cassandra followed its siren song down the side of Imoen’s neck and the slope of her shoulder. One arm braced the mage’s back and held her firm as the brush of Cassie’s mouth reached her collar. She followed the line of the fabric with her tongue, tracing a hot line along Imoen’s cleavage. The barest hint of sweat gave her skin a salty tang.

Imoen’s head was bowed, her breath soft and urgent in Cassie’s ear. Her hands tugged impatiently at the lacing of Cassie’s tunic, but the knots proved surprisingly resilient. She gave up as the older girl’s hand slipped inside her robe and cupped her breast. The gentle touch quickly became more insistent – a kneading, squeezing pressure, a heady mix of pleasure and pain. Cassandra’s mouth closed around the rosy bud of her nipple, eliciting a wordless, breathless moan.

When Cassie lowered her to the bed, Imoen was all too glad to comply. It was narrow and small – far too cramped for the two of them side by side. Cassandra eased her sister back onto the mattress, never breaking the contact between their bodies, and settled herself on top of her. Now relieved of the need to support Imoen’s form, her other hand was free to seek out the remaining buttons of the sorceress’ robe. Each one that opened exposed a new patch of pale skin; each one was greeted in turn by Cassie’s lips as she followed the trail.

A score of goosebumps shivered to life across Imoen’s arms. She bit her lip and arched her back as Cassie’s mouth explored the sensitive plane of her stomach. The buttons stopped there, arrested by the sash around her waist. The moist heat of Cassandra’s kisses evoked another kind of wetness just a hand’s-length below. Every nerve in her body seemed focused on that one touch, even as Cassie’s hands slid over her breasts, down her sides, caressing her hips. Her back arched again as the calloused fingers drew the hem upwards and grazed the edge of her thigh. The intensity of her want – of her need – made every touch electric.

Suddenly Cassandra sat up, wrapping one arm around Imoen’s back and pulling her up as well. The warrior was panting, her muscles trembling with subtle energy, as her other hand pulled the cream-hued robe down Imoen’s shoulders. It slid down her arms with the delicate kiss of silk, exposing her entire upper body to Cassie’s attentions. Imoen curled her arms around Cassie’s neck, seizing her lips with a hard, demanding kiss. It was returned in equal measure as the robe slid lower. Urged on by Cassandra’s fingers, it fell from her arms, only to be caught by the sash’s weak protest. A quick tug removed the resistance. Cassandra pressed her down to the mattress once more, never breaking their embrace. The robe lay tangled around Imoen’s hips – a subtle breath of coolness against the lustful warmth of her skin.

“I want to taste you.” Cassie’s whispered words made Imoen’s heart redouble its frantic beat. The fighter’s hands journeyed lower in a trail of slow, liquid want, until they just brushed first few auburn curls. “I want to kiss you here.” Her fingers inched lower, bringing a sudden gasp to Imoen’s lips.

There was nothing she could do but nod. The fire of Cassandra’s skin against hers melted every word before it found her tongue and every thought before it became clear. Cassie’s kisses burnt their way over her lips, down her throat, pausing to torture her as they reached her breasts. She levered herself up on smooth, muscular arms and slid one knee between Imoen’s own. They parted, allowing Cassandra access to the secret center within. Her other knee… Cassie shifted position, drawing Imoen’s legs up around her own waist, urging the mage’s thighs still wider. Imoen’s hips responded with a slow, instinctive roll.

The molten heat of Cassie’s tongue had reached her stomach, following in the wake of her hands’ caress. Imoen was panting now as well, her head thrown back against the pillow, her fingers curling and uncurling in the thick waves of Cassie’s hair. She urged her still lower, guiding her sister to the center of her need. Every touch – be it lip, tongue, or hand – send a new spike of delight racing through her veins. She groaned softly in frustration as Cassie’s mouth slid another inch down her stomach, only to stop once more.

Cassie’s hands were on her hips. The warrior was now laying prone between Imoen’s thighs, holding her steady under the assault of sensation. The scent of Imoen’s sex was heady and heavy – her lips were swollen and eager, glistening with arousal. Cassandra brushed her nose over the short, damp curls. It smelled like heaven. A kiss to Imoen’s inner thigh evoked a gasp and whimper of pleasure. The mage’s hands tried to pull her to the center, but Cassie wasn’t yet ready to give in. Her tongue stroked the juncture of inner thigh and hip, along the delicate line of hair that marked Imoen’s womanhood. Imoen’s hips rose again, desperate for contact. She held them down, tracing another warm, moist line on the other side. Imoen moaned, breathing out a faint curse and biting down hard on her lower lip as she watched through half-lidded eyes.

Finally she pressed her tongue between the slick, hot folds and heard Imoen’s low, primal groan in response. The taste was intoxicating: sweet, musky, and salty all at once, infused with the raw scent of desire. She tightened her hands on Imoen’s hips as she slowly ran her tongue from the bottom of her slit to the top. Imoen gasped and clenched her hands in Cassandra’s hair as she passed over the small, sensitive nub. Each lick ran from Imoen’s center to her hidden pearl, and each motion brought a whimper of pleasure and instinctive rock of her hips. Cassie matched her, keeping time with the unconscious motions, letting Imoen set the tempo.

A kiss, a stroke, drawing the pearl between her lips as Imoen’s body took control. Cassie slipped one hand forward, teasing her with her touch even as her mouth was busy. Imoen’s grip in her hair was almost painful as she pulled Cassie so close that it threatened rob her of air. The tips of two fingers circled Imoen’s center; each thrust of her hips urged them further. She eased them slowly forward, pressing in a fraction of an inch, releasing, then again, then again. She let the roll of Imoen’s body draw her inwards as she flicked the tip of her tongue over her clit. Only when her fingers were nearly half-way inside her did Cassandra finish the motion with a slow, deep thrust. Imoen cried out, her voice trembling with pleasure.

“Oh gods… yes…yes...” Imoen whispered the words over and over again in rapturous prayer. Cassie’s fingers slid out of her only to fill her again, taking her over and over again with strong, powerful strokes. It was a sensation unlike she’d ever experienced – a raw flood of emotion and feeling that flooded through her body and threatened to overwhelm her in a deluge of warmth. Feeling Cassie inside her was indescribable. A fullness, a rightness, a strange, aching vulnerability that their joining both accentuated and fulfilled. A need to have more, feel more; a mix of pleasure-laced pain as her muscles, unaccustomed to the motions, clenched and released.

It was an assault impossible to withstand. The soft, wet warmth of Cassandra’s lips and tongue over her clit and the deep, sure thrusts of her fingers brought Imoen to the edge of climax after only seconds. She cried out Cassie’s name as she came, throwing her head back against the pillow and every muscle in her body straining for release. The waves ripped through her like a tsunami, destroying everything in a pure, unadulterated flood of emotion. When it passed she was left gasping and exhausted, clinging to Cassandra like a rock in the storm as the fighter rose and returned her kisses to Imoen’s cheeks.

“Cassie…” Imoen’s arms curled tightly around her sister’s body, holding her as close as she possibly could. Her muscles trembled with weakness, robbed of all strength. “Oh, Cassie…” Tears gathered in her eyes and began spilling down her cheeks as she began to cry.

Cassandra’s blissful, satisfied smile transformed into worried concern. “Im? Did I hurt you?”

She pulled Cassie down on her chest and buried her face in the red-gold waves. “I can’t lose you,” she whispered, her voice quivering. “I can’t lose you. Gods, I can’t lose you.” The tears came freely now, falling one by one onto Cassandra’s skin. “I love you, Cassie,” she breathed, barely voicing the words against her sister’s neck. “I love you so much it hurts.”

---

Crumbling Down - Ch. 17 - "Facing Demons"

Fifty-three elves stood ringed around the Tree of Life: all that remained of Suldanessellar's defenders. Eleven of them were Elhan and the few of his men who were still sound enough to fight. The rest were able-bodied men and women drawn from the crowd of survivors. They were clad in the blood-stained armor of the fallen, grasping swords and bows with desperate strength. There were no smiles. All that could be seen was the silent and grim determination of those who knew their end had come.

Cassandra tried to ignore the knot in her stomach as she surveyed the elven ranks. It was her first time at the forefront of an army, and the feeling was not a pleasant one. To see a friend die – that she had learned to accept. But to send four dozen people to their deaths...

She glanced reflexively over to Imoen. The sorceress had begun the day with a smile, but it'd quickly disappeared. The air was different. The trees were different. Some strange, malevolent energy pervaded the surroundings, and everyone could feel it. It was as if the Gods themselves were watching. History would be written today, and each letter would be stamped in blood.

"How are you holding up?" she murmured.

"Fine. I'm fine." Imoen's rigid back and trembling fingers gave away the lie. She noticed Cassie looking and quickly stuffed her hands inside her robe. "Just nervous, that's all."

"Do you see anything?" she asked, her gaze rising to the Tree itself. They stood in the palace garden:  a large atrium, now half-collapsed, that ringed one of the main branches. The thick, gnarled limb was easily fifty feet thick. Ellesime's scrying had brought them here. Somewhere above them, in the labyrinthine canopy, was Irenicus.

Imoen's grey eyes flickered upwards, then just as quickly away. "Magic," she said simply, unconsciously wrapping herself in a protective hug. "A lot of magic."

"Im..." Cassie tried to take Imoen in her arms, but the mage shook her head. She ignored the refusal, cupped her sister's face gently in her hands, and held her gaze fast. "Im, he's not going to hurt you. You aren't in a cage now; you aren't alone; you aren't outnumbered. You have your spellbooks, you have the elves, and you have me."

Imoen's lower lip began to tremble, but she stilled it with stubborn force of will. "I know.”

The fear in Imoen’s eyes didn’t go away. Cassandra drew her closer, pressing their foreheads together before bestowing a kiss upon her lips. "I swear by every god in Faerûn, by every friend who has fallen, by every drop of blood in my veins: he will never touch you again.”

“Cassie—“

They were interrupted by Elhan’s familiar voice. “We are ready, Cassandra.”

 

His slanted elven eyes flickered from one sister to the other, and he frowned slightly as he took in their embrace. Most of the elves had been giving them stranger-than-usual looks this morning – somewhere between hostile and fascinated. Part of it, Cassandra was certain, was her appearance. Imoen hadn’t memorized the seeming spell, electing instead to replace it with cloudkill. As such, the fighter’s blue eyes had once again turned black, and the sickly ashen-grey of her skin was visible for all to see.

“Everyone?” she queried, her eyes scanning the assembled elves.

“Everyone.”

She gently disengaged from her sister. Imoen had turned her head away from Elhan’s piercing stare, and now crossed her arms over her chest once more as she tried her best to be brave.

“Have you told them?” Cassandra asked Elhan in a low voice.

He gave her a cold, scathing look. “Of course I have.”

She pushed further. She wouldn’t let this battle begin unless all the cards lay bare. “And are they willing to die for Suldanessellar?”

His jaw clenched, and he lifted his chin in defiant pride. “To the last man.”

Elhan’s plan was a desperate one, designed not to win but to delay the inevitable. The elves would be a distraction: they would storm the center of the city, where the main trunk of the Tree of Life stood. It was there that the majority of the Exile’s guardians stood, and it was there that they would try to draw his attention. It was a mad scheme that pitted fifty-odd elves against a dozen iron golems and their archmage master. When the fight was joined, Cassandra and Imoen would begin their journey up this branch of the Tree and work their way closer to Irenicus. If Elhan and his people were successful, the Bhaalspawn sisters would reach him before the last of the elves fell. Then the real battle would begin.

Cassie nodded. A sudden surge of empathy seized her, and she laid one hand on the man’s shoulder, giving it a firm and thankful squeeze. Elhan’s lips tightened, but his eyes registered a shocked appreciation. A moment later he returned the gesture, and the two warriors silently bade each other farewell.

“Arakhora!” Elhan’s voice rang loud and sharp through the air. The elves looked up, their attention immediately held fast. As a single people they rose, grasped their weapons, and faced their commander. He raised his sword towards the heavens. “Tel kerym!”

“Tel kerym!” They shouted it back, thrusting their weapons high. The soldiers shouted out orders to the civilians in the group, and within seconds the elves were on their way. The soft, echoing rustle of elven chainmail kept time to their steps as they exited the palace and went to meet their foe.

Elhan paused as he neared the portal and glanced back at the two lone humans who remained behind. He raised one hand in final acknowledgement, and then he too was gone.

Cassie drew in a deep breath as she watched him go. It was up to her now – her and Imoen – to ensure that the sacrifice was not in vain.

“Im.” She turned to face her sister, her hands reflexively tapping against her hips for the fifth time that morning. The sword was still there, as were the two emergency daggers. Her heart had already quickened.

Imoen lifted her chin, inhaled deeply, and nodded. Her hands were steady, even if her voice was not. “I’m ready.”

They’d planned in advance. Imoen had fallen asleep after their lovemaking, but Cassandra had lain awake until dawn, turning over endless scenarios in her head. She’d shared her ideas with Imoen in the morning; together, they’d spoken to Elhan and Ellesime. Protections, attacks, distractions, weaknesses, strengths – as much information as their minds could hold, all carefully noted in minute detail.

Scaling the Tree was the first obstacle. Irenicus would be too involved in his ritual to take an active hand in scrying or attacking, or so Imoen and Ellesime believed. The elves would keep his creations and minions at bay. But human hands and feet were not as home in the forest as elven agility, and climbing some hundred feet among the swaying limbs was no small task. To that end, Imoen had memorized cat’s grace, and now she cast it upon them both.

Cassie scaled it first. The short, thick nails – almost claws – that Bhaal had given her easily pierced the thick bark. She anchored her feet against rough knots and protuberances, found her balance, dug her fingers in, and pulled herself up. After every few feet she paused and extended her hands down to Imoen. The former thief had climbed more than her fair share of trees in her youth, but a helping hand was always useful. Together they made impressive progress, and in under ten minutes they had left the tree-top town far below. Had the canopy – a mass of lush leaves, each one as broad as a house’s window – not been so thick, they would have been able to see the entire city from a bird’s eye point of view.

The sounds of distant screams reached Cassandra's ears. She grasped Imoen's hand and pulled her up to the next branch. Their eyes locked, and from the startled fear in the mage's eyes, it was clear that she'd heard it too. The elves were under attack.

They had to hurry. Both sisters redoubled their pace, sharing an unspoken urgency. Another three minutes pushed them nearly fifty feet higher. Cassandra was already reaching for the next limb when Imoen's voice called her name.

"Cassie! Here!"

Cassandra stopped and swung herself back down to Imoen's level. The younger girl had paused next to a wide split in the massive branches.  One side curved slowly away into the thickness of the forest.

"It's here," Imoen repeated, tipping her chin towards the pathway.

Cassie peered into the dark, verdant shadows. "How can you tell?"

"Magic," she whispered.  Thick, pulsating cords of it writhed and heaved in the distance. The incandescent tentacles wove in and out of the Tree of Life's branches, here and there disappearing into the wood itself. Somewhere close by, Irenicus had to be controlling them. "I can see it."

"How far?"

"A few hundred feet. I can't see the end."

Cassie moved in front of her, instinctively drawing forth her blade. Whatever Bhaal's Taint had done to Imoen's sight had granted her the vision to see what Cassie could not. She saw nothing but a maze of tangled leaves and limbs.

"Anything dangerous?" she asked, her free hand instinctively brushing Imoen's own.

She shook her head. "Not yet."

"Split up?"

Imoen's fingers curled tightly around hers. "Not yet."

Cassandra squeezed her reassuringly. "Okay."

Imoen's magic-sight guided them, but nonetheless Cassie stayed in front. It was a habit far too ingrained to leave behind: the instinct to shield Imoen from the danger ahead. They moved swiftly, silently, their steps supernaturally sure thanks to Imoen's sorcery. Both women kept low, advancing in a stealthy half-crouch. Imoen's whispered directions and warning touches served as a constant guide through the knotted and looping branches. Even as high as they were, the limbs were still thick and wide enough to support them easily side by side.

Imoen’s steps slowed, and the resulting resistance on Cassandra’s hand halted her as well. The thief-mage’s eyes had gone wide in the dappled shadows. “Mystra, Mother of Magic…” The words were barely breathed, tinged with equal parts awe and fear.

Cassie crouched down next to her, following her sister’s gaze. Nearly fifty feet below them, half-obscured by branches and foliage, was an immense blue-white glow. Perfectly circular, it crackled and danced like icy fire around the man who stood unharmed in its center. His arms were raised high in the air as if rapt in prayer, and his hands traced a series of intricate motions through the space before him. Jagged bolts of energy rippled along the branches at irregular intervals, racing for unknown destinations. It was too far to see him clearly, but even at this distance and seeing nothing but his turned back, Cassandra knew who it was.

“Irenicus.”

Imoen gave a short, jerky nod.

“What do you see, Im? What’s he doing?”

“He’s—“ Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard. The sight of him so close awoke a raw, primal emotion. She pushed it down. Fear paralyzed, and paralyzation would get them both killed. Stay focused.

A network of thick, glowing cables of energy flowed out from the central spoke – the cocoon of radiance surrounding Irenicus. They moved and writhed as if alive, crawling across the Tree like giant vines. Their destinations were many: at least five distinct nodes, half-embedded in the flesh of the Tree of Life. The nodes were small in comparison, each one perhaps ten feet in diameter and feeding anywhere from three to five of the pulsating veins.  The divine meta-essence of the Tree was being siphoned out by the parasitic nodes, and then the lifeforce funneled back into the arch-mage himself.

“He’s connected to the Tree,” she whispered, briefly describing what she saw. “Magical centers, all connected to him. They’re feeding him. That’s how he’s drawing his power.”

Cassie pursed her lips in displeasure. “Can you interrupt it?”

“Not from here.” She pursed her lips as well. “I’d have to get closer. I don’t know if I can—“

“You can.” Cassie caught her gaze and laid one gauntleted hand against Imoen’s cheek. “You have to. We have to cut him off.”

“I’ll try.”

Cassie’s black eyes traveled back to the scene below. Her mind raced. As long as he didn’t notice what they were doing, everything would be fine. But as soon as Imoen started breaking his connections…

“I’m going down,” she announced as a plan formed in her mind. Imoen’s eyes widened, but Cassandra cut her off before the mage could object. “I’m going to get in striking distance. He’s going to notice you breaking his connections, but every time you do, you’ll make him weaker. If he’s weak enough, I can bury a sword in him.”

“That’s crazy! He’ll kill you!”

“Not if we’re careful. If he’s focused on you, he won’t be expecting me.”

“That’s—he’ll kill me!”

“No, he won’t.” Cassandra squeezed Imoen’s hand in her own. “I made you a promise. Trust me.”

“Cassie—“

The objection was cut short as Cassie pressed their lips together in a soft, loving kiss. “Trust me,” she repeated. “And I’ll trust you.”

Imoen nodded, and Cassandra broke away to seek a path to the wizard below. The moment for fear and sentimentality was past – now there was no time for hesitation. If Irenicus broke concentration from his ritual and noticed them, even for a moment, their biggest advantage would be lost.

She headed for the first of the arcane nodes. The rivers of power that flowed into it – or rather out of it – were sweeping currents of energy that thrummed and charged the air with an electric tingle. The fine hairs on her arm rose and quivered in uneasy response. Cassie's armored form was already lost in the cover of the Tree and the glow of magic ambiance. Imoen whispered a prayer to Mystra that she'd be okay.

Below her, the cocoon of energy still encased Irenicus. His attention was still help rapt by the concentration necessary to maintain the ritual's Weave. She crept forward, keeping to the deeper shadows as best she could without sacrificing the sureness of her footing. Her heart was thundering so loud she could barely hear her own thoughts, but her mind was oddly calm. Just focus. She knew what she had to do.

She reached the first node. Immense hooks, woven together of every possible magical school, pierced through the Tree of Life like ethereal knives. Beads of divine essence leaked out of the otherworldly wounds, only to be caught up in the undulating strands and sucked into the arcane siphon.  The meta-essence was drained away, drop by drop, into the power-hungry soul of a madman.

Imoen crouched next to it and studied the intricate dance of energy with careful eyes. Thin threads of aburation, conjuration, and transmutation were braided together, looped and curled, in impossibly complex patterns. Irenicus had already crafted a basic version of the ritual before his exile from Suldanessellar; he must have spent the decades since slowly and steadily refining it to perfection. In another situation she would have marveled, but now she only sought to understand. Every Weave had a weak point; a place where the threads unraveled. Every spell had a counterspell. She just had to find it.

First she had to figure out the pattern. She bit her lip in concentration as she studied the tentacles of energy, her eyes flickering constantly up, to Irenicus, then back down again. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t noticed the intruders closing in. Each tightly-wrapped cord of energy was made up a dozen or more fine hairs; the cords themselves braided together to form a still thicker and more powerful weave. Some of the layers of arcana were built of three or four such plaits, interacting and feeding from each other in an impossibly complex dance. She’d never seen anything like it. Irenicus wasn’t just an arch-mage…. He was practically a god.

Focus. There had to be a way.

Cancelling the Weave wasn’t an option. Doing so would require a carefully crafted counterweave – an orchestrated harmonic, to cancel out the energy and revert it to a null state. That would take an intimate knowledge of the spell and its workings – and that would take months of dedicated study. She had a handful of minutes, and those were rapidly slipping away.

The anchors, then. The ritual was a huge siphon, transferring power from one source to another. If she couldn’t block the pipes, maybe she could re-route them. Her eyes flashed up again. Irenicus hadn’t moved. He was the source of the spell, the primary anchor. But as long as he fed from the Tree of Life, taking him down would require a miracle.

She took a deep breath and wrapped her hand around one of the smaller cords of magic. The threads warped as they clung like honey to her fingers. It shouldn’t have. Raw magic was intangible, invisible – she shouldn’t be seeing it, she shouldn’t be feeling it. She shivered as the tingle of energy pass through her hand and into her body, and something inside her smiled. Suddenly she was all too aware that what she was doing was humanly impossible.

Let go! Her mind screamed it, but she pushed the surge of fear down and wrapped her fingers tighter. She had to stop the ritual. She had to weaken him. Otherwise Cassie wouldn’t stand a chance.

The threads began to unravel their death grip on the Tree. One by one the fine hairs drew back, reoriented, and closed instead around her flesh. She pulled it back. It came free reluctantly, lethargically, clinging and sticking like thick molasses. The tingle grew stronger. This was no simple magelight that danced under her touch – this was raw arcane energy, gilded with the might of the Gods themselves. It stole her breath and flushed her cheeks with delicate red. Liquid power.

The tendrils began to dig into her skin. She watched in fascinated horror. Each pinprick brought a sharp, sweet pain followed by a rush of pleasure. Her heartbeat doubled as an almost erotic warmth spread through her body.

That’s better…

The voice wasn’t Irenicus. It whispered like a snake in her subconscious, slowly unfurling dark, shadowy wings. It was inside her, deep inside her, sipping the power like fine wine.

Imagine what you could do, Imoen, it whispered. Visions swam out of the darkness: visions of Spellhold, of the knives slicing through her skin, of her screaming for mercy – and then the screams deepened as they transformed into his voice, and suddenly she was the one who held the knives. She thrust it into his chest over and over again, and the sticky sweet warmth of Irenicus’ blood spurted over her fingers. Just imagine…

No! She jerked backwards, yanking her hand free of the Weave. The cord extended, stretching out into a thin line, before finally releasing her and snapping back into place. A ripple of repercussive energy flashed down its length like a recoiling bow string. She watched in horror as it sped back towards the other anchor point. Towards Irenicus.

The impact of the wave stuck the cocoon of blue-white energy that surrounded him. Don’t let him notice, she prayed. Mystra, Torm, Tyr, Gods of Goodness, Gods of Law – please!

His outstretched hands, still tracing the intricate motions of his spell, fell still. Imoen’s heart sank to her feet in despair. He turned in seeming slow-motion. His shoulders. His neck. His head—

“Irenicus!”

Cassandra’s voice rang loud in defiant challenge as she stepped out of the protective cover of the shadows. Her blade was bare, held waist-high in a cautious state of ready. Imoen’s heart jumped back up, this time sticking in her throat. Oh, gods, Cass, what are you doing??

“What?” The Exile’s head snapped back around. His voice thundered with indignant rage. “Who— who dares!”

“I dare!” Cassandra black eyes glittered with diabolical hatred. “Your plans are ruined, Irenicus. You will die here!”

“You?” The surprise in his voice echoed clearly, even though Imoen could not see his face. “You live yet?” The shock quickly turned to anger and transformed his question into cruel mockery. “You have less than a fraction of your soul, and yet you somehow continue to oppose me? The power of the Tree sustains me. Do you really think that you, drained as you are, hold even a meager candle in comparison to my might?”

The Tree.

Cassie must have seen Irenicus’ reaction, seen that he had been alerted. She was stalling for time. She was counting on Imoen.

Imoen seized the cords of power again, now with both hands. She had to break the ritual. There was no other choice.

The arcane wrapped around her hands once more. The warm prickle of energy flowed into her, racing over her nerves and igniting them with liquid fire. She drew it inwards, opening herself to its caress. Inch by inch the tentacles shifted. The siphoning hooks withdrew from the Tree of Life and curled around her body instead. They tightened, feeding into her, filling her with swirling eddies of hot and cold. The ritual was meant to tap divine essence, and it did so now from its new target. The tendrils sought out the spark within her. She gasped, wide-eyed, as she felt them dig in.

The serpentine slither hissed in displeasure. Something cold and clammy wrapped around her heart. The chill of death. There was simply too much energy coursing through the Weave. She couldn’t control it.

Reverse it, the whisper urged. Use him like he used you.

I can’t! I don’t know how!

Shall I show you?

“And where is Imoen, Child of Bhaal? I would not expect you here without her.”

Cassie’s lips drew back in a feral growl. “Don’t even say her name, you monster.”

His dry, lich-like skin split in a sick parody of a smile. “She was never as strong as you. An accident of forture, that the Cowled Wizards put her within my grasp. She was the perfect bait for my ultimate quarry: you.”

“She was innocent! You wanted me; you should have come for me!”

“They are all innocent,” Irenicus responded dismissively. “You should be thankful to me, Child of Bhaal. I unlocked your potential. It is a pity I could not unlock Imoen’s.”

“Don’t say her name!” Cassandra raised her sword high, taking a threatening step forward. Irenicus was unimpressed by the display. “You tortured her. You raped her! You—“

“I did what was necessary,” the mage shot back. “She refused to acknowledge the strength within. She refused to embrace her divine heritage. And thus did she wither and die while you prospered and grew strong!”

In the treetops, behind Irenicus’ form, a small figure darted across one of the branches. The creamed colored robe gave away its identity: Imoen was moving.

“You know nothing of strength,” Cassandra spit.

“I see its mark on your flesh,” Irenicus observed. “Bodhi told me of your… developments… in Spellhold.”

“She’s dead. I killed her.”

“A pity, but hardly as dramatic as you say. I do not mourn her passing.”

“And the elves?” Cassandra challenged. “Ellesime? Will you mourn her passing?”

Irenicus’ eyes widened in surprise, then quickly narrowed once more in suspicion. “How do you know that name?”

“I’ve spoken to her.” Cassie risked a step closer. “She told me what you did.”

“And did she tell you what they did – the elves?” His voice had grown cold again. “Did she tell you of the curse they laid upon Bodhi and myself?”

“Yes. But she also told me that they never meant for it to come this far. She is not your enemy. You are still Joneleth to her.”

The sound of his name made him wince. “Do not call me that.”

“I don’t. But she does.”

“And she should not!” he thundered. “I lost all right to that name when the Seldarine stripped me of everything that was elven, as she well knows.”

“And what should she call you instead?” Cassie demanded. “Irenicus? The Exile? They punished you, but you brought it on yourself. You nearly destroyed them all, and now you repeat the same mistake!”

Above her in the trees, the glimpse of white moved again.

“Do not point the blame at me! What I do I do because it is necessary!”

“You do it because you want power,” the fighter shot back. “You torture and you kill because they hurt you. It isn’t necessary – it’s petty revenge.”

“I have nothing else!” he shouted. His cold façade of superiority was unraveling, revealing the boiling emotions underneath. “They have taken it all from me. Everything which I held dear, they ripped from my hands.”

“Like you did to me? To Imoen?”

“That is no comparison.”

“You’re right; it’s not. Imoen and I were innocent. We didn’t wrong you; we didn’t even know you. You were punished because of crimes you committed, because of laws that you chose to break! They exiled you to punish you, but Ellesime wanted you to come back! She loves you!”

“Silence!” Irenicus’ corpse-like face was livid with rage. “You speak of things that you do not understand!”

“I speak of things that Ellesime has told me! Your revenge has poisoned your mind. Tell me I’m wrong!” Cassandra demanded. “Tell me that you don’t remember! She loves you, and you love her. You kept copies of her in your dungeon. You built her bedroom as a shrine!”

“I—I—“ The mage was choked for words – something that Cassandra had never seen. The emotions that warred across his scarred visage were a mix of every possible feeling in every conceivable combination. What it settled on was a cold emptiness in his dead eyes that chilled Cassandra to the bone.

“I do not remember her love. I have tried. I have tried to recreate it, to spark it anew in my memory, but it is gone – a hollow, dead thing.” As he spoke the tinge of anger returned to his voice, a slow ember that grew to flame with the breath of each passing word.

“For years I clung to the memory of it. Then the memory of the memory, and then nothing. The Seldarine took that from me, too. I think of her and I feel nothing. I remember nothing but her turning her back on me, along with all the others.”

The sphere of glowing energy that surrounded him began to flicker as if fed by his dark passions. It pulsated, gathering speed and intensity, until the power formed a vortex so great that it lifted the hair from her shoulders and charged the air with promise. Cassandra took an instinctive step back. A sudden fear blossomed inside her. Run. Run!

“I no longer feel ‘love’. Passion no longer stirs me. Now I hunger only for revenge. And I… will... have it!”

The sphere exploded outwards with a roar of light and sound. The shockwave knocked Cassie off her feet and sent her sprawling nearly ten feet away. The slope of the limb curved sharply downwards, and gravity took hold as soon as she hit the ground. She managed to keep her grip on her sword, but at the cost of securing herself to the tree. Her short claws dug into the Tree's bark and ripped a row of shallow furrows as she tried to slow her descent. She was half over the edge before she managed to slam the tip of the blade into the wood and stop the fall.

She gritted her teeth and flexed her arms. Gravity was no match for Bhaalspawn strength, and a moment later she had succeeded in pulling herself back to level ground.

A cloud of sickly yellow-brown gas surrounded her before she'd regained her feet. The cloud turned into a swirl, and the swirl into a hurricane force gale of parched, screaming wind. Her mouth went dry in the blink of an eye. Her lips cracked and bled as the moisture was sucked out of her flesh. Cassandra threw her arm over her eyes in an attempt to shield them from the blast, but it was a futile gesture. There was no option not to breathe – the wind swept through her like she was nothing but air, and stole the very water from her blood. Agony ripped through her as her muscles cramped and withered; her skin shriveled and drew taut. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound evaporated before it could escape.

"I see you are not acquainted with the necromaners of the East. Abi Dalzim was a master of his Art." Irenicus extended his hand, and a single spoken word enveloped his fingers in a writhing mass of black shadows. "Shall I show you another?"

Abruptly his smug satisfaction was wiped from his face, and his expression contorted with genuine surprise. The shadows dissipated into weak whisps of grey smoke. "How did you—" Enlightenment dawned; the mage was no fool. "Ah. Of course it was not you who severed the link." He spoke the arcane commands again, and once more the black tentacles wrapped themselves around his fingers. "No matter; I will dispose of you first, and then I will deal with Imoen."

Cassandra had surreptitiously drawn one of daggers from her belt; now she launched it forward, straight towards his face. It flashed through the air with perfect aim, but she had no hope that it would strike. As she suspected, it was deflected away by Irenicus' magical protections a full hand's length from his skin. What she had hoped for was his instinctive reaction to the sight of eight inches of sharpened steel flying towards his eyes: he jerked backwards, his basic animal self forgetting, if only for a moment, that the invisible barrier was in place.

Cassie lunged forward, bringing her sword to bear with a scream of war and a vicious thrust. The enchanted blade had no chance to penetrate his defenses, nor the opportunity to sheer off. Irenicus possessed the elven grace and presence of mind of his forefathers, and recovered from his surprise far too quickly. He stepped deftly aside, pivoting out of her path, and brought the shadow-shrouded hand down on the back of her neck. An explosion of pain ripped through her – an agony so intense that it wiped the world away in a sheet of solid blackness. Her sword tumbled from her hand as her muscles gave way. If she fell, her mind was too stunned to feel it. She tried to gasp for breath, but her nerves were too overloaded to issue the command. Her chest remained still. Even her heart seemed to have stopped.

"No!"

A burst of white light flashed into being next to the elven mage, and abruptly the black glow around his hand was gone. The death-grip which enveloped Cassandra relented, and with a choked rasp she finally drew in air. She gagged on her own bile as her body came back under her control and her heart resumed a chaotic, irregular beat.

"Fool!" Irenicus spun to one side, trying to dislodge the attacker at his back. Imoen clung to him with one arm wrapped around his neck as she slammed her other fist over and over again into his face. Whatever spell he'd used to deflect Cassie's weapons had not been designed to fend off an angry girl. Her nails opened small cuts on his face and made him livid with anger.

He reached over his shoulder and grabbed a fist full of Imoen's robe. With a single hard yank she was catapulted over his shoulder and hard against the sturdy limbs of the Tree. She caught herself like a cat, rolling with the landing and instinctively coming up in a defensive crouch.

"You surprise me, mageling," he spat, already reaching into his robes to retrieve the components for his next spell. "I expected more of you than a simpering display of so-called force. Did I break your mind as well as your soul?"

Cassie reached for her sword, but her trembling arms were still too weak to lift it. She gritted her teeth and tried again. Imoen needed her. Her fingers wrapped around the handle and the blade rose a single, quivering inch.

"Imoen—" Cassie looked over to her sister and her voice died on her lips. The young mage couldn't hear her. Imoen’s hate-filled gaze saw only Irenicus, and her eyes were red from top to bottom, side to side.

"Naduisha vei sa'e. Naduisha he'e. Sa o'aralech va sa." A bright red glow manifested around Imoen's hands where she braced herself against the Tree. Matching pools of light, each one as red as blood, swirled to life on either side of her.

Irenicus' dark eyes narrowed. "You cannot cast that without a—"

The pools of light exploded upwards. Each one expanded into an oblong arc, like the massive oval doors of an ancient castle. The ruby strands of energy solidified and darkened into a visceral mass of gore. The center of the doorways flooded with a rippling, crackling energy.

The arch-mage's lips tightened, but the faint aura of his soul was now tinged with dirty yellow. The customary quip that was he was so quick to cast, didn't come. Instead, he began chanting.

Cassandra finally managed to get to her feet. Her legs wobbled unsteadily and her head throbbed with residual pain. She stumbled forward, only to collapse once again to her knees. "Imoen!"

"Veya va shansan lei sha. Roch aso reni! Naduisha! Vei sa'e!"

Each syllable coaxed the boiling surface of the blood-doors to new heights of chaos and power. As Imoen shouted the last words into the air, a sudden crack of black lightning leapt from the red pool around her and pierced the first of the doors. Where it struck a ripple of dark energy spread outwards, like an oil slick on a stormy lake. Then it, too, parted, and made way for a massive, clawed hand that reached out from the arcane portal.

The lightning leapt from one door to the other, piercing each one in turn. Once the catalyst made contact, the effect was instantaneous. Out of now-black center extended arms and legs, purplish-grey in hue and covered in hardened leathery flesh. The creatures were identical, all of the same kind: they towered over their human summoner, standing nearly seven feet tall, with a thick, round body like a beetle's carapace and four spider-like arms. The upper pair of arms grasped an enormous trident; the lower were tipped not with hands but flesh-rending hooks of bone. A pair of wide-set legs supported them as they passed through the dimensional barrier; chitinous cloven hooves clicked against the bark of the Tree. The insect-like appearance was strengthened by a small head dominated by massive, scissor-like jaws that opened and closed with a disturbing click click clack of sound. The demons' yellow eyes were huge and bulbous, lacking pupils, whites, or lids.

"Kill him," Imoen whispered. Her Tainted gaze never left Irenicus. "Rip him to shreds."

"Tsaqash!" Irenicus shouted the command word and extended his hand – not at the demons that approached, but at the crouching girl who controlled them. A blast of blue-white energy exploded from his palm. There was no time to react before it hit its target; it struck Imoen full-on with a burst of heat and sound. She was hurled backwards, crashing through the leaves and thin branches, and into the empty spaces between the massive limbs. It was a fall of several hundred feet to the forest floor below.

Cassie threw herself forward. Her outstretched arms and fingers caught the fabric of Imoen's robe as the mage's form flew past. Her short claws shredded through the cloth like it was paper. She grasped again with her other hand, and this time the grip held. The weight of her body combined with the momentum of the blast; the resulting jolt of impact ripped through Cassie's arm and yanked her shoulder roughly out of it socket. She gritted her teeth against a scream of pain and forced herself to hold on.

Imoen's hands flashed up and locked around her wrist. The red eyes stared back at her, framed by an all too familiar, all too human face of fear. The Taint inside her was fighting its way out, fueled by hatred and desperation. The tips of her fingertips lengthened into sharp and thin red needles, each one digging painfully into her sister's flesh. Thin rivulets of blood leaked down over their hands and dripped onto Imoen's face below.

Behind her she could hear chanting, and the heavy, dull clicking sounds of the summoned yugoloth demons. Cassandra tried to pull Imoen up, but her arm refused to function. The muscles and tendons that bound the bones together screamed in agony as they shifted against the dislocated shoulder.

"Drop me," Imoen pleaded.

"What? No!"

Cassie shifted, bringing her good arm to bear over the edge of the limb. The motion shifted her center of balance and suddenly both of them were sliding forward. She slammed her claws into the wood as hard as she could; they punched through the thick bark like it was cardboard and dug into the heartwood below. The decent stopped with another torturous jerk.

"Drop me! You'll get us both killed!"

A cold, icy sensation began creeping into her body where Imoen's needle-like fingertips had pierced her flesh. It was as if frozen seawater leaked into her veins. The Taint inside her curled in on itself like a viper, hissing its displeasure at this new, foreign thing. Drop her, it urged.

No. Never.

Do you not see what she is becoming? You are not the only Child of Bhaal.

If she becomes the Slayer, so be it. I will handle it.

The Slayer? The hissing whisper of words transformed into a soft, serpentine chuckle. The Slayer is not the only avatar of Bhaal...

She growled her displeasure. I will not drop her!

The condescending amusement faded away, replaced by hot flames of anger. They spread through her body like a flash flood, only to violently recoil when they encountered the strange arctic chill. Weakling! Then you deserve to die.

If I die, you die with me.

Bhaal will live on. Imoen will consume you.

The frozen chill had inched its way to her elbow, numbing both flesh and muscle. The red-black hue of Imoen's transformed flesh had extended over her entire arm and vanished into the folds of her robe.

If I die, she falls, Cassandra informed it coldly. Then both your avatars are dead.

The heated rage withdrew into a dark, smoldering ember... and then a cold, calculating chill. Submit to me.

No. We work together. Help me save her, and you have us both.

The muscles in her shoulder began to twitch and shift. Cassie gritted her teeth against the pain as they thickened and lengthened, pushing the bones apart from one another before knitting them together once more. The cords of strengthened tendons began to bulge and ripped under her skin and extend down to her hand. Where the essence of the Slayer met Imoen's bitter chill, it turned into the fire of molten lava. Imoen's face contorted in surprise, but her grip didn't relent. If anything, the claws dug deeper into Cassie's veins.

The fighter hissed in a sharp breath as the shoulder was yanked back into its socket. She hauled Imoen upwards with a massive surge of strength, rolling them both back onto the expanse of the Tree's limb. Imoen landed on top of her; her other hand closed around Cassandra's upper arm with the same icy stab of energy. Cassie grunted and rolled them over once more, pinning her sister beneath her. Imoen's face was flat and cold, her red eyes narrowed in concentration. Cassandra wrested the claws out of her arm and forced Imoen's arms to the ground. The claws dug into her wrist held fast.

"Let go," she growled. When the younger girl didn't respond, Cassie tightened her own grasp around the mage's fingers and brought her Bhaalspawn strength to bear. "Imoen! Let go!"

A thunderous crack of sound exploded nearby. Both women reflexively turned their heads towards the source. Irenicus had launched one of the demons airborn, and now the purple-grey carapace hurtled towards them like a boulder. Imoen gasped – and suddenly disappeared. Cassie's form dropped into the space where her body had been, thudding down onto the now-unoccupied branch. The yugoloth flew over her head with only inches to spare. The wind of its passage scorched her skin with the heat of whatever spell had struck it.

She was on her feet as soon as it had passed. Imoen had re-appeared on another branch some fifteen yards away, and for a moment their gazes locked. Cassandra's blood, spattered in thick droplets across the mage's face and robe, combined with the Tainted eyes and reddened skin to give her the visage of a murderous demon. Cassie's gaze shifted to Irenicus, still ringed by two of the yugoloths. Both looked badly hurt and leaked a yellow-brown ichor from multiple wounds. The Exile was winning. And if he won, what happened to Imoen wouldn't matter.

She crouched and sprang like a cat. The movement launched her across the empty gap between the Tree's limbs. Her claws dug into the side of the branch a level higher, and she pulled herself up with the Taint now singing inside her. The entire world focused down to a single, pinpoint goal: she had to kill him.

The clicking, clattering jaws of the demons were clearly audible now. Irenicus moved with the grace of a battlefield veteran, moving between his opponents and using the one as cover from the other. All the while he cast – chanting, gesturing, shouting – and unleashed wave after wave of arcane energy. Black blades of shimmering energy sliced through flesh; exploding spheres of light charred the air; sickly green gasses surrounded him and blinded enemy eyes.

Kill him.

Cassandra dashed forward. Her hand went to her sword sheath only to find it empty. Somewhere in the struggle of battle, the blade had been lost. Her heart was pounding and her breath thundered like that of a herd of wild horses. Every nerve and muscle in her body now sang with Bhaal's dark song. Muscles and bones shifted and transformed even as she moved.

The enormous bodies of the yugoloth moved in front of her. The demons were surprisingly agile for their impressive girth, but they paid no attention to her. They had been given their target, and now each flurry of blows from the multiple arms sought to crush him. Cassandra darted around their bulk. Irenicus' shimmering, magic-shrouded form was visible in flashes and glimpses. His back was to her.

She leapt at him, trusting her claws to do what her sword had not. She collided with the magical abjuration field that surrounded him. It slowed her, but the black energy that thrummed through her body was not so easily halted. He spun around as she screamed and brought down a long, taloned hand in a vicious swipe. Irenicus reacted with amazing speed. He pivoted away, grasped her wrist with both hands, and pulled her forward as he stepped out of her path. She stumbled past, but the Slayer was remarkably sure-footed. Cassie felt the vague, dull pain of her knees breaking and inverting, of her feet breaking out of frail leather boots.

She leapt again, and this time Irenicus wasn't fast enough to dodge. She knocked him prone and tried to lock her hands around his throat. The magical barrier held them at bay. The rage inside her snarled with frustration. She wanted to pin him down, bury her teeth in his jugular, and rip the delicate flesh free. The hot spray of blood, the taste of ebbing life, the beauty of ever-nearing death...

A sudden lance of heat ripped through her midsection, and Cassandra shrieked in pain. It was so abrupt, so intense, that for a moment it blocked out everything else, even the chaotic howls of the Taint inside. A similar surprise was painted on Irenicus' lich-like face. She tried to move, but a sick ripping sensation halted the effort as soon as it'd begun. Blood dripped from her lips; the droplet splattered on Irenicus' cheek. She looked down, down between their bodies. The three-pronged head of a yugoloth trident protruded from her stomach, the glittering adamantite now fouled with gore. The tines had sunken through Irenicus' protections as well. Blood welled out of his pierced midsection and mingled with her own.

A shadow fell over them. Cassandra raised her head and saw the backlit form of the second yugoloth towering above them with its trident raised with all four arms. She recoiled, trying desperately to draw herself out of the path despite the metal pinning her fast. It wasn't enough. A second cry of anguish ripped free of her throat as the weapon was thrust downwards and one long, sharp tooth speared her shoulder. The other two slammed into Irenicus' chest.

The tridents were yanked free and raised again. Cassie rolled free before they could descend once more. The wet sounds of impact and dull crunch of bone told her all that she needed to know: Irenicus would not rise again. Whatever the power of the demonic weapons, his magic had not been strong enough to stop them.

New pain racked her body as she extended her hands and tried to crawl away. The ashen grey flesh had turned solid, glossy black; the limbs no longer recognizable as human.

A leg appeared in front of her. Two legs, clad in leather riding boots that disappeared into a dirty and blood-smeared cream-hued robe. Cassie followed the cloth upwards with her gaze even as its owner crouched down next to her. Imoen's regarded Cassie with red, alien eyes, but the hands that grasped hers were once again human.

"Get up," she commanded, trying to pull the warrior to her feet. "Get up!"

"Call them off," Cassie muttered weakly.

"I can't.  They're out of—"

Abruptly the thief-mage jumped backwards. A flash of metal as a trident narrowly missed her. The hulking forms of the yugoloth passed over her, their shadows chilling Cassandra with sudden cold. They advanced past her, towards their newest quarry.

Imoen once again blinked out of existence, only to re-appear a moment later on a different branch of the Tree. A jagged bolt of lightning leapt from her hands and struck the first of the demons in the center of its chest. It ricocheted away, reflected by the creature's carapace.

Get up. The Taint snarled at her in displeasure. A chorus of ten thousand voices howled at her, repeating the order in an endless echo. Get up!

Her muscles responded, but it wasn't Cassie who moved them. Her body rose to its feet and found its balance on the Slayer's strange inverted legs.

Stop. Her command was barely a whisper amidst the screams and roar of the Taint. You said we'd work together.

The Bhaal essence ignored her. Her body functioned like a rough puppet, pulled here and there by unfamiliar hands on its strings. It learned quickly, though, and soon the motions were smooth and quick. The two yugoloths were moving steadily towards Imoen's new location. One of them hefted its trident as it prepared to throw.

Stop it! Grab him!

The echo of mocking laughter answered her.

The demon launched its weapon forward. Its bloody length spiraled through the air with deadly aim. Imoen flashed out of existence a moment before impact, and the trident struck the Tree of Life with a sharp crack of sound. Sizzling, acidic smoke arose where the divine essence leaked over unholy metal.

Imoen reappeared again next to now-unarmed yugoloth. Her hands crackled with dark green electricity. She thrust them forward onto the creature's rigid flesh. Its entire body went rigid as the jagged arcs surrounded it in a net of thick, luminescent energy. The lines spread over it with alarming speed; when they connected, they glowed once with a pulse of light before contracting in to a singular point. They sliced through demonic flesh and shredded the protective carapace. The yugoloth fell to the ground in heap of smoking, fist-sized chunks.

The remaining one was already behind the Bhaalspawn mage. Its trident was grasped with all four hands and chambered for the thrust.

"Stop!"

The voice was an animal growl on Cassandra's lips, but the word was nonetheless spoken. The Taint reacted with a surge of hatred; the chorus of chaos screamed at her, trying to drive her into silence. Cassandra tried to shake it off and rise to the surface of the cacophony inside her. Her body lurched forward again, now pulled by two different masters. The yugoloth turned its head – and its weapon – towards her.

"Stop," she repeated. Her voice sounded hollow and far away. Every ounce of concentration was focused on wrestling the control of her body away from the Bhaal essence inside. The demon's insect jaws scissored open and closed as it regarded her with round, unblinking eyes.

The strike came so quickly that she didn't even see it. A sudden impact and thrust of pressure stole her breath, only to be released a moment later as the foot-long tines pierced through bone, muscle, and lung to exit the back of her rib cage. There was no pain – only the shocked, oddly-calm realization that there should have been. The sticky warmth of her blood leaked down her body – from her chest, from her shoulder, from her stomach. The yugoloth yanked the weapon free, and Cassie dazedly sunk to her knees.

"Cassie!"

It struck again. Cassie's half-raised hand was no obstacle. The teeth passed through tendon and bone and lodged once more in her chest.

"No! Stop!"

The trident withdrew. She fell forward. The babbling chaos of voices inside her had fallen eerily silent. The hiss of the Taint had fallen still. The edges of her vision shrank in on themselves, slowly enveloping the world in a veil of blackness.

I am the heir to the Throne of Blood. I am the Lord of the Grey Waste of Hades.

The words sunk into the darkness with her, echoing in the Void.

The denizens of Gehenna tremble before Me. Behold: the Dead Master of the Barrens of Despair.

---

Crumbling Down - Epilogue

"Halt, Kelemvor."

The darkly robed figure's expression was unreadable behind the silver death mask that hid its face. "Uncommonly direct, Sehanine," its flat, passionless voice whispered. "Why do You interrupt Me?"

The darkness gradually faded to a thick, misty grey – a featureless plain of nothingness, lacking both sky and ground. The swirl of mist and fog half-hid the elven woman within. She was beautiful and young, with long and glimmering silver hair. A sheer, see-through dress made of little more than moonlight itself did little to hide her feminine charms.

"You are far from the City of Death," she informed the dark figure. "You walk a foreign land."

"In search of My subject." The grey, pupilless eyes may have shifted to the limp, translucent rag that he grasped with his skeletal hand, but it was impossible to tell. In his other he held a shadowy black mist that dragged like tattered silk through the ether. "She belongs to Me."

"That claim is not without contest."

"Speak Your mind, Moonbow. I have no time for games."

"Death has little else save time," she responded softly. "She is beholden unto Us."

The bone hand lifted, raising the lighter of his burdens into the air. "This is no elf. The Seldarine have no claim."

"Our blood has mixed with hers."

The tattered black robes shifted impatiently. "Speak plainly. You try My patience."

"It is not in Sehanine's nature to speak plainly, as You well know," a male voice chided. An elderly, grey-bearded elven man manifested from the cloud of mist, solidifying at the woman's right-hand side.

The death mask bowed slightly. "Enoreth."

"Kelemvor." A matching bow from the ancient sage. "Sehanine speaks the truth: she holds Our essence."

"It is a human soul."

"Tainted by the blood of Murder."

"Who was Himself once human, and who now is dead – and thus a subject of My realm." He waved the two aside with a motion of the skeletal arm. "Let Me pass."

"The Exile lived from a stolen life, and fed himself on Our blood. His death restored the soul You hold. Our claim is valid."

Silence. The Lord of the Dead regarded them with unreadable eyes. The expressionless silver mask gave away nothing. A rattling whisper emerged a minute later. "She is Faithless. No one hears her prayers."

Sehanine arched a finely sculpted brow. "That prayers go unanswered does much to still the asking."

"Ao has forbidden the Gods from interfering with Murder's spawn, as You well know," Enoreth rejoined.

"And yet do You now interfere," Kelemvor noted drily.

"As do You, Pale One."

"She is Faithless, but not without Faith," Sehanine asserted. "Her ears do not hear, but her name graces many lips."

"You compare her to a God?" For the first time, the Dead Lord's voice took on the barest hint of emotion: a whisper of indignant offense. Compared to his normal deadpan emptiness, it was as loud as if he had shouted. "She is only human."

"As were You, far beyond Your rise to Godhood. Or were You and Mystra judged unfairly?"

Another silence, then a cold admittance. "The judgement was fair."

"Then release her to Us," Enoreth pressed. "Claim her should she fall again, but respect Us whilst she treads Our lands."

"You ask much."

"Consider a token of goodwill – freely given, to be freely repaid."

"Mm. Acceptable. And this one, then?" The left hand rose, bearing forth the foul, tattered black mist that it held. "Do You claim him?"

Sehanine's pale light cast the Lord of Dead into shadow as She turned Her face away. "He is False, and I shall not accept him. He has no place among Our dead."

"False," the Philosopher God agreed.

"False."

"False."

"False."

One by one eleven other voices pronounced the judgment. The misty, ghost-like figures of the elven gods manifested in the ether as they spoke.

Kelemvor's black-robed form turned slowly until He was face to face with the Creator of the Elves.

"Do You pronounce him False, Corellon?" the bone-dry voice rasped. "The Seldarine renounce Their claim?"

The normally joyful eyes of the First Seldarine were cold and hard, and the Elf Lord's lips were set in a thin line. "We renounce him. Do with him what You will."

 

Two months later.

 

The soft sounds of symphonic strings carried over the night air, competing with the songs of crickets and nightingales. The busy, low rumble of a hundred different voices filtered up from the ballroom below. The De'Arnise Keep was holding its annual banquet, and nobles and well-to-do families from across all of Amn now filled the manor to the brim. Matilda and her staff had been working on the preparation for days, and now every servant and free hand of the castle staff was pressed into action. Wine flowed as freely as water; small hors d'oeuvres made rounds on fine silver platters; and half-sincere flattery was traded like cheap coin.

Imoen sighed and tried to block out the noise. She stood on a balcony on the upper level, after excusing herself from the masses of people and mandatory greetings. Chanelle had covered her exit, deftly intercepting the Knight and Dame Wentworth with the explanation that the Baroness had business to attend to.

Baroness. She’d never known what Nalia’s actual title was; Cassie had never mentioned it. It hadn’t been until her return to the Keep and the coronation ceremony that Chanelle – gods bless that girl – had whispered it in her ear, along with the expected ceremonial answers that Imoen had utterly forgotten to memorize.

Imoen of Candlekeep - Baroness of De’Arnise. Ol Puffguts would have never believed it in a million years. A small smile curved her lips as she gazed out over the landscape, faintly illuminated by the three-quarter moon. She wouldn’t have believed herself, either.

Her gaze went reflexively to her hands. Smooth, pale flesh. Polished oval nails. There was no sign of how close she'd come to losing control completely.  She flexed the fingers, her smile slowly fading. There was a lot that no one would ever believe.

The mage pushed herself away from the railing and went back inside. If she was going to use the excuse of being busy, she might as well make it true. The hallways were dark and unlit; she absently lit the torches as she passed by, touching each one with a small spark of arcane energy. Since the battle with Irenicus and the unwelcome awakening of the Taint inside her, molding magic had become second nature. The more complex spells still demanded focus and study, but such things as light, magic missile, and hold portal required no more energy than a thought.

The master bedroom wasn’t far away. The doors slowly swung open of their own accord as she approached, and the multi-armed crystal candelabra overhead flared to life. She dimmed it immediately, reducing the flames to tiny flickers of light, and then gently took a seat on the edge of the bed and sighed.

“Is it that bad?”

Imoen’s eyes widened, and an affectionate smile leapt once more to her lips. She leaned over the bed’s prone occupant and brushed the red-gold hair away from her face. “You’re awake.”

“I felt you coming.”

Imoen nodded. Her fingers traced a small, soft trail over Cassandra’s face. The flesh was supple and flush with life – a stark contrast to the nearly mummified condition that she’d been left in after Irenicus’ horrid wilting. She lay clad in a simple nightgown. The gaping, angry wounds across her shoulder and chest had healed to red, coin-sized scars. Those on her stomach were slower to mend. The unholy energy that imbued the yugoloth tridents had thwarted all attempts to heal the injuries with divine might.

“It’s not your fault,” Cassie said as Imoen’s fingertips brushed her lips.

Imoen gave her a gentle tap on the nose. “Stop reading my mind.”

“Can’t help it. That is your fault.”

Had Cassie fallen in any other place, in any other circumstance, it would have been a vastly different ending.  But death among the branches of the Tree of Life was no ordinary death.  Death with Irenicus' blood and stolen divine essence mixed with hers; death destroying the man who wished to unseat the elven gods themselves...  the Seldarine had been thankful.

But drawing Cassandra back to the realm of the living had been no small task, even for the gods.  Her wounds were severe; her spirit already departed.  Something had to maintain her, to feed her, until body and soul were reunited and the injuries had begun to heal.  Imoen had been that 'something.'  Imoen's soul and life force, willingly given, woven by the Seldarine into Cassie's own.  And now even though the union had been broken, the residual bond between them remained.  They were linked now.  More than just their divine heritage, more than childhood friendship, and more than grown-up love.

Cassie's eyes had drifted closed again.  They were black as onyx –Slayer eyes.  No amount of healing would ever change it.  Imoen didn't mind.  The rest of Cassie's body had gradually returned to normal after her soul had been restored, and now she actually looked more human than she had before.  The claws were still there, but the ashen-grey flesh was once more healthy pink.  The Taint inside hadn't gone away, though, and the dark gaze served as constant reminder that they could never let down their guard.

“Cass.”

Her eyes fluttered open again, and an apologetic smile curved the corner of her mouth. “Sorry. Long day.”

“S’okay.” Imoen squeezed her hand. Cassie’s movement was limited, but she’d never been the type to stay in bed all day, and Imoen knew better than to try and make her. The slow walks around the Keep and chats with the servants kept the new Baron’s spirits up. “I need to go back downstairs before the Wentworths’ll come banging on your door.”

She leaned down and bestowed a gentle kiss Cassie’s lips. It lingered longer than she’d intended, and Cassandra sighed softly when she pulled away.

“I want to make love to you.”

Imoen smiled. “When you’re better.”

“By then you’ll have found someone else.”

“Someone else?” Imoen arched an eyebrow in mock indignation, but she couldn’t keep the amusement out of her voice. “Cass, babe – I have one of the most famous noblewomen in Amn in my bed – and she just happens to be my best friend and a demi-god. Who could possibly be better than that?”

“I didn’t say you’d find someone better.”

“I’m spoiled. I could never be happy with a mere mortal.”

“I hear Sune’s available.”

“Too shallow.”

“Hanali Celanil?”

“Not a fan of pointed ears.” Imoen gave her another kiss. “I really need to go, Cass. I’ll be back around midnight.”

Cassandra squeezed her hand. “Promise?”

She squeezed back. “Nothing in Heaven, Hell, or in between could keep me away.” She smiled softly as she reluctantly stood up. Her fingers tarried as long as possible on her lover’s skin, unwilling to let go.

Love wasn’t a strong enough word for what beat inside Cassie’s chest. Each heartbeat thundered with an emotion that put love to shame. Someday she’d make a new word, a better word, that told all the Heavens how she felt. A word that bards didn’t sing; a private word that only she would know. Something special that would tell Imoen exactly how she felt.

The mage’s small smile grew and blossomed into an expression of delighted joy. Her eyes twinkled with pleasure and happiness. She leaned over her sister, cupped her face with both hands, and embraced her with a long, sensual kiss that shamed the very word. It stole their breath and slowed down time, turning the small moment of joining into a union deeper than could be imagined. When Imoen broke away again, she placed a single finger to Cassie’s lips.

“Stop reading my mind,” she whispered playfully.

“Can’t help it,” Cassie murmured.

The mage departed with one last kiss.  And an hour after midnight, as their slow, careful lovemaking brought them both to a deep and trembling climax, Cassandra whispered a single word in her ear.

---

The Crumbling Down Christmas Special

"Hey, it's here."

Cassandra held up a thick packet of papers as she entered the dining room. Imoen was stretched out on the sofa under a thick down blanket with a steaming mug of tea next to her. She didn't stay there for long.

"Ooooh!" She was on her feet and bounding over to Cassie before the blanket hit the ground. "Gimme!"

"Hey! Hold on!"

Cassie's arm shot into the air, but it wasn't fast enough to keep the package out of Imoen's grasp. The red-head bounced back to the couch and flopped down in a whump of fluff and cotton.

"About time." She flicked past the first few pages. "Read it already?"

"Didn't have time." Cassie stopped next to the foot of the sofa, crossing her arms over her chest. "Someone snatched it out of my hands before I got the chance."

"Ladies first. You know the rules."

"When I see a lady, I'll let you know."

"Hush." Imoen flicked through the first few pages with her thumb. "She's late. We should have had this a week ago."

A shrug as Cassie took a seat on the arm of the couch. "She's busy."

"And we're not?"

"Not really, no."

"Oh, please." She rolled her eyes dismissively. "Earth to Cassie. Big battle with Bodhi? On-going search for Irenicus?"

"Irenicus got rescheduled."

"What?" That got Imoen's attention. The flick of papers reversed as she traversed back to the beginning. "Oh, you're kidding me! January?? She was supposed to have this whole thing finished by then!"

"Hey, you were the one complaining about working during the holidays."

"Well... well, yeah!" Imoen drew her feet to the side as Cassie settled down on the couch. The soft grey gaze went back and forth between the papers and the blue-eyed woman visible just above them. "No one should have to work during Christmas."

"We live in Faerûn, Im," Cassie pointed out. "We don't have Christmas."

"Solstice, then."

"Which you don't celebrate."

Imoen gave her a dark glare. "It's the principle." Cassie gave her a small, tolerant smile, to which Imoen held up a warning finger. "Don't start."

"Wouldn't dare." The smile was replaced with wide-eyed innocence, spoiled only by the laughter dancing in the bright blue gaze.

"Good." A momentary glance back down at the papers. It darted back up a second later, but Cassie's angelic smile stayed in place. "Anyways." She licked her thumb, giving Cassandra one more cautionary look before going through the pages once more. "Lessee... Leave Bodhi's place. Funeral – not ours, of course. Expected that. Oh!" One fingertip tapped against a line about halfway down the page. "I get some new character development!"

"Like you need any more character."

"Hush. And hand me my tea, will ya?"

One fiery eyebrow arched up. "You want me to hand you a cup full of scalding hot water?" A shake of her head. "Uh-uh. I know you too well."

"Dork. Then go get me a cookie or something."

"Like you need any more cookies."

"Hush!" She glanced up again in annoyance. This time Cassie's smile was considerably less on the 'innocent' side. "You're just jealous that I'm finally in the spotlight."

"No I'm not. I've had enough character development, believe me. I could go a few weeks without having to go psycho."

Imoen's lips curled in a mischievous grin. "But you do it so well."

Cassandra reached for the cup of tea and sniffed it curiously. Green tea with a splash of mint – Imoen's latest favorite.

"Cass!"

"What? If you're not going to drink it, I might as well."

"I wanted to drink it," she pointed out indignantly. "At very least you could ask first."

Another shrug. "You'd just say no."

"Maybe that should tell you something. Sheesh."

"Other than you don't like to share?"

"I share plenty."

"Name one time."

Her lips pursed, but the mage didn't answer. Cassie delicately raised an eyebrow in challenge. Imoen gave her a small kick in retaliation. "Barbarian."

"A barbarian with tea," the older girl pointed out with a wink.

"Yeah, yeah." Imoen stuck out her tongue and curled her feet back underneath her as she went back to reading. "I swear, sometimes I don't know why I put up with you."

Cassie moved down to take a seat on the couch proper. "Because I'm so charming."

"You wish."

"So you get character development. What else?"

Imoen feigned a wounded look. "You don't even want to know what it is?"

"You wouldn't tell me anyways." She raised her free hand and curled her fingers in invisible quotation marks. "It 'ruins the artistic spontaneity.'"

"Well, it does." She ignored the roll of Cassie's eyes. "So yeah... Ajantis dies – as if we didn't see that coming – I get character development, we find a clue to Irenicus' hidey-hole..." Imoen scanned the rest of the page with her lips pursed in a small, delicate circle before flipping to the next. "Big heart to heart talk."

"Any more action scenes?" Cassie queried, craning her neck to see the documents.

"Not in Chapter 15. How's your neck?"

Cassie reflexively ran her fingers over her throat. The flesh was still a bit tender, but nothing a few days vacation wouldn't take care of. "Bit sore. Bodhi got a little too into the moment."

"She loves her work. You should ask for a stunt double."

"She loves acting out her little sadistic fantasies, you mean. And I don't want a stunt double."

Imoen flashed a grin at her. "Oh, c'mon. Bodhi's not that bad. And she totally has a crush on you."

Cassie wrinkled her nose. "I hope not."

"She does. Why else do you think she does her own stunts?"

"What does that have to do with it?"

Imoen sighed – her patented 'Are-you-really-that-slow' sigh with which Cassie was intimately familiar. "Because, silly, every time you and her end up in a scene together, it's a huge fight that ends up with one of you pinning the other one to the wall or floor or something. She totally gets off on it."

"Ew."

"Just count yourself lucky that none of the fights took place in a bedroom."

"Ew!" Cassandra grimaced and gave Imoen a light whack on the leg. "Gods. Thank you for that lovely mental image."

She smirked. "No prob. 'Sides, why 'ew'? You could do worse than Bodhi licking your lips. Could have been Jaheira."

"Jaheira's at least attractive."

"Oh? Bodhi's not your type?"

Cassie shook her head. "Nah. Too much makeup. Jaheira's more..."

"Drab?" Imoen offered helpfully.

"Earthy," Cassandra countered. "Natural."

"I'd take Nalia, personally."

Both of Cassie's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You're not even gay, Im."

She shrugged. "Doesn't mean I can't appreciate a pretty woman when I see one. 'Sides, I might be gay. Never know."

"You aren't gay. I've seen how you look at some of the extras. Male extras," she clarified.

"Well, some of them are rather buff," Imoen admitted with a small, wistful smile.

"See?"

"—but that doesn't mean that I don't find the girls attractive. Seriously? That slit in Nalia's robe? Totally hot."

"Then you're bi," Cassie informed her. "Which isn't gay, so the point stands."

The mage let out an annoyed sigh and rolled her eyes. "You and your stupid labels."

"You started it. All that jazz about Bodhi wanting me."

"Shut up or I'll start about Mazzy."

"Mazzy is in no way, shape, or form even remotely interested in me. Or anyone. Male or female."

"Yeah, you'd like to think that, wouldn't you? Imagine: Mazzy peeling off her little halfling clothes, walking seductively towards—"

"Ugh! Enough! You win. Just change the damn subject."

Imoen gave her a mischievous grin. "Sensitive topic?"

"Disgusting topic." She tilted her chin up, motioning towards the stack of papers. "What about Chapter 16?"

The grin stayed in place, but Imoen dutifully directed her eyes back to the document. "Elves. Lots of elves. Hey, Jaheira's a half-elf..."

Cassandra sighed. "Im."

"Okay, okay. Sheesh. Oh, oh! Fight scene!" She bounced up and down excitedly. "You'll like this. Big, big fight scene. Lots of golems, though. Gods, I hate golems."

"They trained that bone golem pretty well though."

"Trained? Cass, babe, you can't train those things. They're mindless."

"Well, they kept it under control."

"Barely."

"Well, are these golems going to be bone golems?" Cassie asked, taking another sip of tea.

Imoen shook her head. "Nah. Iron. Clay. Generic constructs. Still mindless, though," she said, glancing pointedly over.

Cassandra gave her a small smile over the rim of the cup. "We're insured," she reminded her.

"Yeah, yeah. See how warm and happy that makes you when they're setting your broken bones." Imoen still hadn't forgotten – or forgiven – the myriad of tiny injuries Cassie had received in early chapters. It was only a matter of time before something worse occurred.

"Well, scan the scene," Cassie offered. "Do I end up getting crushed or something? Any Slayer transformation?"

"Mmm. Sec." Grey eyes scanned the pages in quick, efficient lines. The small moue of her lips pursed into a pout as she read, then suddenly dropped open into a shocked, rounded 'O'. "Oh no." Her eyes jumped back up to the top of the page, and this time she read it more slowly. The horrified 'O' remained. "No way! No fucking way!"

"What?" Cassandra cupped the mug in both hands as she leaned forward for a better view. "Why? What happens?"

Imoen snatched the papers away and surged off the couch. She was a flurry of movement as she fetched three different spellbooks from the bookshelf and at least as many bags of powders, stones, and spider-legs from her desk.

"That bitch," she fumed as she stormed into the bedroom. The irate sound of her voice carried back through the hall. "Okay, I'll give you some artistic license, but she is not getting away with this. Absolutely not."

Cassandra was on her feet as well. She followed her sibling to the bedroom, absent-mindedly setting the tea down on the living room table as she passed by. "Whoa, Im. Explain, please? What's going on?"

"Just get dressed. We're leaving."

"Uh..." She looked down quizzically. Apparently Imoen had missed some of the more...obvious details of her clothing. Like the fact that she was wearing them. "I am dressed. Where are we going?"

"We're going to pay Taig a little visit."

"Pay Taig a visit?" she repeated incredulously. "And how in the Nine Hells do you expect to do that?"

"Plane shift," Imoen answered matter-of-factly.

"Okay, first of all," Cassie began as Imoen whizzed by her again back to the living room, "Plane shift doesn't exist in Baldur's Gate—"

"Sure it does!" came the pitched answer. "Planar Sphere, remember?"

"That wasn't a spell; that was a giant machine."

"Which shifted between planes," Imoen pointed out, poking her head around the corner.

"It still wasn't a spell! When was the last time you saw plane-anything in a Baldur's Gate spellbook?"

"It's in the Standard Reference Document. And in the Player's Handbook."

Cassandra crossed her arms. "And in this particular implementation of those?"

Imoen frowned. "Fine. But what about the Planar Prison, then?" she demanded, arching up one slim eyebrow in challenge. "Or going to Hell? Or the Pocket Plane?"

"Those aren't spells," Cassie repeated stubbornly. "Those are... are..."

"Plot holes?" Imoen suggested sweetly.

Cassie scowled.

"Besides, you're missing a vital point in winning your argument," the younger girl said with a wink. "Earth isn't an alternate plane at all. It's a completely different Crystal Sphere."

Cassandra threw up her hands in exasperation. "So why the Hell do you want to use plane shift, which doesn't exist in Baldur's Gate anyways?"

"Plot holes, babe: it's all about plot holes. Now get dressed and come on."

"I feel like a reject from a costume party," Cassandra grumbled as they made their way through the winding city streets. "Everyone's staring at us."

"Different world, different rules," Imoen answered. Her eyes were scanning the tall brick buildings set along the way, so close to each other that most of them even shared a single wall. Belgium, as they called it, apparently had a like of the color orange. A vast majority of the dwellings had rust-colored tiles on their sharply-angled roofs. "Hey." She stopped, tugging on Cassie's elbow, and pointed across the street. "That it?"

It was a tall, newer building, with a grey exterior and thankfully lacking the carrot-hued roof. On each level of the building was a small balcony and several windows. A row of metal boxes, each one adorned with a small label and name, was affixed on the outer wall next to the door. Slightly higher and to the other side were two items: a rectangular metal plate with a row of vertical buttons, and a simple painted number: 64.

"Think so," Cassie answered. She wasn't sure how Imoen had managed to dig up or scry out the information, but this was the right street and the right number. "How do we get in?"

"Knock, I guess."

Imoen and Cassie jogged across the grey cobblestone street towards the collection of metal boxes. The door was set into a recess in the wall and, surprisingly, was made of glass.

"I could just break it," Cassie offered.

Her sister gave her a warning glance. "Let's try knocking first."

"There's no one there. Look – you can see right through it. It's just a hallway with a stairwell."

"Well, we'll knock loudly," Imoen huffed.

Knocking loudly did, indeed, bring results. After several minutes of forceful pounding on the glass portal, a middle aged human man appeared at the top of the stairs. He was balding with a thick and vibrant moustache, and with an equally thick and vibrant belly protruding over the tops of his pants. A small orange-and-white dog with long, wavy fur circled excitedly around his feet.

He leaned down, peering through the doorway to the strangers outside. Imoen waved excitedly, beaming him her best and most charming smile. She pointed towards the door latch hopefully.

It worked. Apparently the men of this realm were as vulnerable to female charms as those of Faerûn. A moment later he was at the bottom of the stairs; a second after that, they were inside.

"Thanks, mister!" Imoen brushed her hair back behind her ears, while Cassandra tried with only partial success to avoid the dog's excited snuffling. "We're looking for Taig. You know her?"

"Top floor. Take the lift." He motioned towards a set of grey metal panels embedded in the wall next to the staircase.

"Thanks!"

"What's a lift?" Cassandra whispered as the man retreated back up the stairs.

She shrugged merrily. "We'll find out!"

The panels remained closed as they drew nearer. There was no latch, no doorknob, no obvious manner of opening. Cassie regarded it with a small frown as Imoen glanced around. A small button with the number "0″ engraved on it was set next to the panels. Imoen pushed it.

The doors slid open with a small, bell-like chime. The chamber behind was tiny – large enough for perhaps four people – with a flickering white magelight set into the ceiling. The walls of the chamber were also crafted of metal, with a long, square mirror covering a full half of the wall opposite the door.

Imoen stepped in cautiously, glancing around in interest. Cassandra followed a half-step behind.

"Must be some sort of... secret passage or something," Imoen mused aloud.

"Not a trap?"

"Why would he point us towards a trap?"

Cassandra shrugged. "Why do most villains do the things they do? Just to be assholes."

"Nah, I think this must be the 'lift.' So... it must lift us."

"It's not moving," the older sister pointed out.

"Not yet," Imoen agreed. "Give it a second. I bet we have to close the doors first."

"And how do we do that?"

"Another button?" There were five of them set into the inner wall of the chamber, numbered from zero to three, with two having arrow-shaped symbols instead. "If we're on zero now," Imoen reasoned, reaching out a finger, "then the top would be three."

The button light up with a ring of red light, and the metal panels slid back closed. A second later the entire chamber lurched to life with a faint, distant whrrr of machinery. Cassie braced herself against the walls with a sudden, nervous fright. She didn't trust gnome machinery. If Jan Jansen built this thing, it'd be as likely to explode as reach the top.

A minute later, however, the chime sounded again, and the doors slid smoothly open. Beyond lay another hallway, free of any indication of gnomish work. Calling it a 'hallway' might have been overgenerous: it extended perhaps ten feet before ending at a simple wooden door.

Imoen, as always, wasn't shy. Three swift, loud raps against the door announced their presence to dwellers inside.

A soft, muffled voice answered from the other side. "Wie is't?"

The sisters exchanged bewildered glances.

"Uh... can we speak to Taig?" Imoen asked, leaning closer to the door.

This time the answer was in Common. "Who is it?"

"Imoen and Cassandra of Candlekeep. We're looking for Taig Dale."

Silence. After a moment the sound of a key in the lock. The door cracked open perhaps half an inch, and a sliver of a female human face peered out. The alert green eyes flickered from one girl to the other.

"You're who?"

"Imoen," Imoen said helpfully. "This is Cassie. Are you Taig?"

The brows drew together in confusion. "Yeah, but how—"

"Great! We need to talk!" Her hand flashed up, the stack of papers having materialized out of some or another pocket in the mage's flowing robes. "Chapter 16? Not happening. So not happening."

"What—wait—hey!"

Taig was pushed aside as Imoen forced her way through the doorway with Cassandra hot on her heels. The older girl closed the door again as Imoen found her way to the nearest table and pulled out two chairs. She took a seat in one, sliding the other one over to their startled host, and held out the offending documents.

Taig accepted them automatically, still obviously flustered by the unexpected intrusion. Her gaze went repeatedly to Cassandra, whose decision not to leave without at least some basic chainmail armor now in retrospect seemed a bit overkill. The sword at her side certainly made an impression, judging from the nervous glances it gained.

"Now I appreciate that you're the author and all," Imoen was saying, leaning forward and fixing the uneasy blond with a steady gaze. "And yeah, yeah, we're just characters and we get to dance to whatever little tune you give us. But you are not killing off Cassie."

"Whoa. What?" Cassandra straightened, her attention immediately back on her sister. "I get killed? When? By who?"

Imoen waved her down. "Not important."

"But—"

"Because it's not going to happen," Imoen stated firmly. "You–" she said, pointing at Taig, "—need to re-write this."

"Why? It fits the story," the older woman argued back. "It's well-written, and it's dramatic. It works."

"'Cause it's crap!" Imoen exploded. "You can't kill off Cassie! Everyone loves Cassie!"

"Cassie's an anti-hero. She's a tragic figure. It's a tragic ending."

"Oh c'mon. She's gone through so much shit because of you it's not even funny. The least you could do is give her a happy ending."

"People don't read Crumbling Down for the happy endings," Taig countered.

Imoen crossed her arms. "Then why are they reading it? To see Cassie get tortured and killed?"

Another jolt of alarm shot through Cassie's nerves. "Tortured?"

"Probably for the sex, actually."

Imoen rolled her eyes. "What sex? There hasn't been any—" She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening. Taig looked at her with a smirk. "You're kidding."

The author shook her head. "No, I'm not. The sex scene was really popular."

Imoen sighed, hiding her face in her hands. "Gods, people are disgusting."

"They're not disgusting. They just like a happy ending."

"I'm all for happy endings," Imoen assured her. "And Cassie deserves one. So... rewrite it, and give her a happy ending."

"You mean another sex scene?" Taig asked, giving Imoen a mischevious smile that the thief-mage knew all too well.

"No! Happy without sex!"

"I liked the sex scene," Cassandra quipped from her position by the door.

"Shut up, Cass."

"You liked it, too."

"It was work," Imoen responded, shooting her an annoyed glance.

"Whatever. You were wet."

"Cassie!" She scooped up a handful of small dice that had been laying on the tabletop and threw them one by one at her sister. "Too. Much. Frigging. Information!!" Each word was punctuated by a small sound of impact and an accompanying ow from the target.

Taig raised an eyebrow and said nothing. With the damnable smile still on her lips, she didn't need to.

"Happy ending," Imoen repeated sternly, stabbing the manuscript with her forefinger. "No sex."

"If it's Cassie's happy ending, shouldn't we let her decide?" Taig queried, raising her gaze to the warrior.

Cassie nodded. "I'd pick the sex."

"You would, you pervert." Imoen sighed. "Look, you're the author, right?" she asked the green-eyed woman across from her.

"Right."

"So, you can write whatever you want. All I'm saying is that killing off Cassie is just a cheap move, y'know? People love Cassie. Cassie's great. Big hero and all that jazz. But more importantly, Cassie's gone through a lot. People sympathize with her. I mean, she's been almost literally to Hell and back in this story, and you can't just keep throwing bad things at her. She needs a break. She deserves a happy ending. And I'm not gonna let you kill her off." Imoen leaned back in the chair, fixing Taig with a strict, no-nonsense gaze. "If she goes, I go."

"You can't leave unless I write it that way."

An auburn eyebrow arched. "Wanna make a bet?"

Cassie winced and silently shook her head. No, she mouthed. Making bets with Imoen was a sure way to lose.

Taig pursed her lips, glancing back and forth between the two redheads. If they were anything in real life like they were in the story, then Imoen wasn't making an idle threat. And losing both main characters so close to the finale would ruin everything.

"Fine," she said. "I'll re-write it." Imoen let out a whoop of joy, but Taig held up a hand and motioned that she hadn't finished. "But, I re-write it how I want."

"As long as Cassie gets a happy ending."

"No promises. But she won't die."

"Oh c'mon!"

Taig sighed. "Is a happy ending really that important?"

"Yes!"

"Even if it requires another sex scene?"

The answer to that question was neither so quick, so positive, nor so enthusiastic. "I suppose so," Imoen grudgingly allowed, glancing suspiciously over at Cassandra. "But, y'know, gratuitous sex isn't always the answer."

"I never write gratuitous sex."

Both girls looked over at her with blatant disbelief.

"You wrote an erotica over Jaheira," Cassandra said slowly.

"Like you're complaining," Imoen said with a roll of her eyes. "You like Jaheira."

"I think she's cute. But that's totally different than writing a three page orgy about her."

"It wasn't an orgy," Taig corrected indignantly. "It was just a sex scene."

"And rather gratuitous," Imoen pointed out. Cassandra nodded in agreement.

Taig wasn't about to back down that easily. "It's not gratuitous if it's part of the plot."

A snort of disbelief from Cassandra. "Plot? What plot?"

"It had a plot!"

Imoen smirked and shot a glance over at her sister. "Yeah: 'Jaheira discovers her G-spot.'"

"I already said I'd re-write it," Taig said. "So you get your happy ending. Or at least, Cassie doesn't get killed and it'll be somewhat happier than before. Okay?"

"Sex?" Imoen prompted warily.

"Author's discretion," she responded, standing her ground. "But not gratuitous. Maybe not at all. I'll have to think about it."

"Fine." The mage stood up from the table and gestured for Cassie to get the door. "But if you bail on us and get Cassie killed..." She let the sentence trail off into a meaningful silence.

"I won't," Taig answered. "Scouts honor."

"Great. C'mon, Cass, we're done here." The two sisters exited back out into the hallway, where Cassandra once again pushed the button to summon the metal box.

"Oh, and Ms. Taig?" Imoen queried, suddenly sweet, as the box opened and they stepped inside.

Taig arched an eyebrow. "What?"

"Comedy isn't really your style," the redhead winked as the doors slid shut once more.

---

After

The war was over — so it was said. The destruction of Saradush had been a mere taste of the chaos which came later. The nations had panicked: legions of war marched across the land determined to end the Bhaalspawn threat. Any village suspected of harboring a Saradush survivor was razed, torched to the ground with its screaming inhabitants still inside. Those who fled met death by the sword. The armies of the Five obliterated the landscape as they fought to claim Bhaal's empty throne. What survived the fire giants' passing fell to drow hordes; those that escaped earthly demise met their death from draconian skies.

Eventually the armies retreated. Soldiers limped their way back to shattered homes with shattered minds, and their nighttime screams became routine. Some joined the refugee bands which roamed the countries; others never truly left the war behind. Make-shift guerilla squads carved out viciously-defended territories and became the very brigands they'd once helped route. Huge swaths of land had been blasted and charred beyond recognition and beyond restoration; once-fertile fields now so magic-tained that even the dirt itself was diseased.

Already people drew their calendars from it. Marked dates from it. "It" — not "the Bhaalspawn conflict," not "the war." Just "it," and it was understood. There was no longer a "Time of Troubles" nor a "Great Iron Shortage." The roll of years had lost its meaning. There was only "before" and "after" — before the Five had shattered the Realms, and after the last had died. Nothing else mattered to the maimed survivors who now struggled to continue day to day.

And in the end, when it was over, the Throne of Murder had lain empty still.

It was a cold day. Since the end all of the days had been colder, the skies darker, the days shorter. No one really knew why, but Imoen had her suspicions. Magical contamination, she thought, but some disagreed. Had the Bhaalspawn been able to alter the world's very orbit, its tilt, its distance from the sun? Had the gods withdrawn and abandoned the lands in disgust? She'd heard every theory imaginable, but some were hard to believe, even with all she'd seen.

She paused in her labors and drew her ragged coat more tightly around her. Once, before, she'd had the wealth of kingdoms: rare magical artifacts, literally more gold than her sacks could hold. Now her heavily mended cloak with its fur-lined hood was one of her better pieces of clothing — valuable, in this strange half-winter. The nanny goat raised her head from the sparse grass and bleated softly. It brought a sigh and affectionate smile to the red-head's tired lips.

"I'm almost done, girl," she promised, giving the goat a gentle rub between her short nubby horns, and finished the last of the milking.

Pail full, Imoen rose and gingerly walked back to the house. It was a shack, really — a remnant of a guardhouse that she'd found standing firm amidst the rubble of a once-proud estate. But it was solid, and within contained the meager furniture scrounged or crafted by now-calloused hands. Over time and with care it had become home, complete with a fenced-in yard made from the fallen stones. In the front lay a modest vegetable garden, and in the rear lived the nanny goat and two young kids. The billy had been slaughtered after breeding season to provide much needed meat and skin.

Once inside, she placed the milk into the cold-box. It was one of the few luxuries she'd managed to salvage after the war. A simple chest enhanced with magic — an enchantment to chill it, and another to bind the spell, resulting in a magic version of the ice-box without the need for ice. It kept foods longer, and those extra days of storage often made the difference between going to bed happy and going to bed hungry. Before closing the chest she retrieved one of the scrawny apples that lay within. The cold seasons had killed much vegetaion and stunted what survived.

With another sigh, she closed the cold-box and crossed to the front room and the curtainless window there. The glass was cracked and shattered, mended by the limited magic which was left. Outside in the garden a lone figure moved slowly, stooped at the waist and hidden within a long brown robe. Steadily the person worked the rows of plants, pruning here and plucking there, tucking fruit and produce into a small clay jug and examining the leaves with care. Imoen watched for several minutes, as she often did, letting her mind wander in the comfort and familiarity of routine.

The figure stood, placed their hands to the small of their back, and carefully stretched their muscles. Imoen pushed herself away from the window and tossed the apple into the air, catching it again as she walked out the open front door. The cloaked gardener didn't hear her approach, and it was the fond memory of childhood antics which brought a brief, mischievous smile to the mage's lips. That kind of play was before, though. This was after.

"Hey." The word was soft, barely spoken. The other turned, eyes darting upward reflexively from beneath the cotton hood. One of those eyes was clouded white, marred by the long gash which ran from hairline to the upper lip. The other was violet and pure.

"I am almost finished."

"Do it tomorrow."

"It will be colder tomorrow."

Imoen's storm-grey eyes flickered skyward, where the ever-present clouds hung against the horizon. Her weather sense was not as keen, but she had no doubt that the chill would come.

"I'll help then." It wasn't a suggestion.

With four hands the last two rows of the garden went quickly, and the sun still hovered above the horizon when it was done. Many of the plants were suffering, but they would last a while yet. Perhaps longer, with some luck. Imoen had been studying the few magic tomes she still possessed, drawing on her knowledge of the arcane arts to try to master the elements, to guard the small homestead from the worst of nature's wrath. It wasn't easy and had provided little results after months of frustrated attempts. It would have been easier with a druid around. Jahiera...

A soft touch under her chin brought Imoen back before she drifted too far. It was too easy to get lost in the past, and too common to wake up screaming. She gave the dark-skinned woman a small, nod. "Thanks."

Viconia nodded back. "Let's set the table."

The drow discarded the dirty brown cloak and hung it on a nail above the window. At one time they'd hated each other, the Sharite priestess and the young thief-mage. At one time they'd marched together only because of Jeric's leadership, trading snide quips and insults like others traded coin. A working relationship, held together by necessity and a common debt to the man who'd saved their lives. It had barely held together even with that. Imoen hadn't been the only one who'd hated the drow.

Now she shrugged off her own coat and hung it up as well, and quietly went about setting the table for dinner. It was hand made, obviously from trial and error, with mismatched legs and an uneven surface. But it worked, and the two mended chairs made for a semblance of civilization. Imoen laid out the plates and utensils, while the pale-haired priestess poured their drinks from a chipped clay pitcher. Life was different now.

Dinner was a simple vegetable soup with the last thin strips of dried meat left over from the butchered goat. From now on there would be no more meat, unless they found another source. Cheese cultured from the nanny's milk served as a side dish. Water was the drink. They ate in silence until the meal was done.

"Maybe we should move."

Viconia regarded Imoen with her one good eye. "Don't be a fool."

"We don't have enough food, Vicky," Imoen stated flately, stirring her soup with her spoon. "We can barely feed us and the goats as it is."

"Food will not magically appear if we go elsewhere."

It was a jibe, but it was a jibe at both of them. Viconia's goddess had abandoned her after the war, and the priestess' powers had vanished as well. Most magic users experienced similar effects. What was left was cantrips, tricks, minor charms. Arch-mages reduced to milking goats. Scarred, half-blind healers.

Viconia had been lucky. The wound could have easily killed. The pocked and jagged flesh had healed, taking her sight with it; the remainder of the cut had been carved across her chest by the barbarian's double-headed axe. The vain seductress had died that day. Aerie's desperate efforts had revived her, but she'd lingered at death's door for over a week before it was clear she would survive. The scars were permanent, though, and the drow's provocative dress had been replaced with heavy robes and shielding hoods.

Imoen's scars weren't physical.

"What're we gonna do then?"

"We will survive," she responded simply. "As we always have."

She wrinkled her nose. "I'm tired of surviving. I want to live again. This is boring."

The mis-matched eyes rolled skyward. "You are always bored. Tell me, would you rather be bored or dead?"

"I get a choice?" she quipped sarcastically.

"By Shar, you are even more annoying that most humans."

"You love me anyways."

Another roll of the eyes. "That, rivvil, is going too far."

"Yeah, yeah." She ran with the joke, as she always did, using her humor and impishness to deflect the gloom of life around them. She gathered up the now-bare dishes and began to rinse them in the wash basin. "I don't see you building your own house, so you can't hate me too much," she tossed over her shoulder.

As she set the second dish aside to dry, Viconia's warm hands accosted her from behind. Imoen pushed the utensils out of the way and tried to turn around, but firm pressure denied her. The hands traveled upward, taking the plain green cloth of Imoen's dress with them, until the fabric was bunched around her hips. The rough weave of the other woman's clothing scratched against her exposed thighs.

"I would be a fool to strike out on my own. And you would be a fool to let me."

Imoen closed her eyes and leaned forward, resting her palms on the stone counter. One dark hand found its way beneath with hand-made shift and caressed the hidden skin. She relaxed to the touch, enjoying the warmth and life that it promised. "Well, it makes the chores go faster, I s'pose," she conceded. "And you can sew."

The second hand slid knowingly between her thighs, evoking a tremor of lust and hot curl of need. The drow's mouth caressed her shoulder with uncharacteristic gentleness even as the questing fingers became more insistent. Imoen moaned in pleasure. Viconia took it as an invitation to lead her to the bedroom.

It wasn't love, but it didn't need to be. In the after, you took what you could.

They were waiting for them. A score of drow warriors, armed to the teeth, with Sendai at their back. They came at night, when they had the greatest advantage, and managed to get past Minsc's watch. In the chaos of the battle and the clash of blades, Imoen had begun casting. Sunray would light up those dark bastards and teach them the dangers of attacking Bhaalspawn. She was almost done with the chant, fingers weaving the magical energy, when a familiar form fell beside her where she was crouched behind a tree.

Jahiera had fallen in the melee, but not so injured that she could not get up. Imoen continued her chant with her eyes on her friend, desperately trying to finish in time. The chant caught sensitive half-elven ears, and for a split second the druid's attention was on the mage, not the fight. A split second, that's all it was. And then she was gone. A great hammer whistled through the air and, with a wet crunch, obliterated the woman's face. It exploded like a ripe fruit, showering Imoen with fragments of bone and gore. The last three words of the spell died unfinished on blood-spattered lips. It was just a split second. Not even time to look away.

Imoen awoke in a clammy, cold sweat and with her breath heaving. Viconia had pulled the girl's head onto her shoulder and held her gently there, cradling her softly. Once it'd been a nightly chore. Now it was needed perhaps once a week.

Gradually her heartbeat slowed and the terrified paralysis faded. Imoen pulled Viconia closer to her, shuddering, seeking the safety of her touch: that she was real, that she was here, that she was alive. Instinctively her hands drifted to the dark chest, tracing the scar tissue in a morbid assurance that it was truly healed. Viconia submitted to the ritual silently, even when the touch explored the jagged line of her face and the blinded, milky eye.

Finally Imoen lay her head back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling above. She started counting — something she'd started after they'd bested three of the Five, when their group was down to four. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four... The repetition, the rote, the routine, it had helped keep her sane in the darkest times of the war. It helped keep her sane now. Twenty-three one-thousand, twenty-four one-thousand, twenty-five... She was up to one-hundred eighty-seven before sleep came again.

The next day was colder, but work still had to be done. Wood had to be chopped for the fireplace, clothing mended, food gathered. They went out together shortly after dawn, wearing piecemeal leather armor under their coats. It was heavy and stiff, but it afforded protection, and more than once someone had accosted them, thinking the two small woman would be easy prey. No one made that mistake twice. It'd been easier to defend themselves in the beginning, though, before the magic had become so weak.

The walk across the De'Arnise courtyard was routine, and out of habit Imoen cast her gaze at the tumbled walls and ruined gates. It hadn't been her first stop when she'd fled the mountain lands. Not even her second or her third, although maybe it should have been. But Trademeet had been sacked and Mazzy rumored to be dead. The townspeople of Umar had chased her from the town with clubs and swords, screaming that she was a witch. Valygar's passionless brown eyes had watched in satisfaction as the taint of magic was driven from his lands.

Next she'd limped into Athkatla, seeking out allies old or new. Someone, somewhere – anyone, anywhere. The city was under martial law and the skirmishes between the Thieves' Guild and the city guard had erupted into a full scale war. A strong pro-human movement had arisen, and non-humans quickly learned to leave or lay low. Those who didn't tended to die. The Jansen house had been deserted.

And there in the graveyard, she'd found Viconia. The drow had returned to haunt with the dead, finding a home among the corpses. They'd exchanged a few half-hearted insults, but neither had the will or energy to turn away a familiar face. The blow that stole her sight had stolen much of the woman's venom as well, and Imoen was just too tired to care. They'd paired up, Viconia shared what food she had, and they sat together silently for hours. A few days later, it was decided: find the De'Arnise heir.

Finding her hadn't been hard. She was standing outside the main gate of the keep, arms spread to the heavens as they approached. But before they'd crossed half the yard, they'd known something was wrong. The keep itself was damaged and charred, with remnants of bodies and equipment littered about — a fairly recent battle, before decay and wild animals could steal the bodies away. Not unexpected; a castle was a valuable resource in a war-torn land. But as Nalia stood unmoving as they approached, it was clear that De'Arnise had lost.

Her naked body was lashed upright spreadeagle against rough wooden planks. She'd been savagely raped and beaten, bitten, clawed, and cut. Tortured. The rings had been ripped from her fingers and earrings yanked from her ears. How long she'd been there couldn't be said... but long enough.

They cut her down without speaking, wrapping the body in Viconia's cloak. They took her back to the safety of the woods and buried her there, in a shallow hand-dug grave. And then they'd planned.

Imoen's thieving past served her well, and careful spying revealed two dozen armed men now calling the keep home. Careful attacks upon roaming watchmen reduced the number to twenty before anyone suspected that wild animals were not to blame. The armor and goods harvested from the bodies served well enough, mis-sized and crude as they were. Perhaps the men were common thugs, perhaps men-at-arms turned soldiers-of-fortune. Whoever they were, wherever they'd come from, they weren't prepared for the two small women who'd battled through Hell itself.

Traps, tricks, and treachery took out six more. Their knowledge of the keep's secret passages and hidden defenses let the women move unseen throughout the castle and gave rise to rumors among the survivors that it was haunted. A few minor illusions and some carefully orchestrated magic assured them that it was. One by one the men were found murdered by the vengeful spirits, and when their group of twenty-four had become a group of eight, they fled their ill-won home.

Imoen and Viconia left as well. The keep was well-walled, but too large for a mere two to defend. There were too many points of access, too many rooms to search... too many memories to find. But the surrounding lands held promise, and they'd discovered the lone guardhouse near the rear of the property. Harvested furniture and goods from the keep — what hadn't already been stolen or smashed — served to clean it and make it liveable. It was small, solid, defensible — and any passing bandit would likely focus on the keep itself as their goal.

The bulk of the chores — a small basket of wild herbs and roots, four loads of firewood — were completed and hauled back to the house by noon. The wood was always the worst, having to carry it in bundles on their backs for a mile or more. They were both stiff as they shared another apple and a loaf of dry bread. Viconia took care of the household cleaning while Imoen once more studied her books in the high noon light. If she didn't find a way to help them, they'd have to leave come winter. There simply wasn't enough food.

The first winter they'd been together had been the worst. Before they'd stolen the goats from a distant farm, too late in the year to plant anything with a hope it'd grow. Viconia had suggested how to save them, as unpleasant as it was. She had no problem with it, of course, but that was Viconia — practical and matter of fact. But people hated the drow with even greater vehemence after the war, after Sendai's hordes ravaged the country, and between that and her damaged face, she could not be the one to do the work.

So Imoen had. They returned to Trademeet and camped among the colorful Rom tents. The old woman who'd read their palms was gone, but her descendants had remained. And for the winter Imoen sold herself — to the Rom, to the travelers, to anyone who had coin or food to trade. Viconia's lingering magic and skill with herbs kept her disease- and child-free, and the dark woman's calm words when Imoen cried at night had helped to ease the humiliation. The red-head hadn't really appreciated her before that winter, hadn't understood how strong she really was. Viconia had survived by whoring herself — survived longer than a winter. She'd survived by doing even worse. And just like the battles, just like the stealing, it had to be done. Between life and death, you did what had to be done.

Imoen ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. She didn't want to do that again.

When the house was clean she put the books away and returned to the woods, alone this time. Viconia would tend to the animals and garden while Imoen took her short bow and quiver to hunt. Game had been non-existent for the last month, but she had to try. As usual, she came back empty handed at sunset.

They lay together again that night.

Viconia had been the first one to mention sex — to demand it, a few months after they'd returned to the guardhouse from Trademeet. Her insistance was violent, aggressive; white teeth bared in ferals growls as the two fought each other in primal rage. Imoen had drawn blood across black skin and doubtlessly left bruises on the dark flesh as she'd struggled. But Viconia had taken her roughly, throwing her against the thin mattress, shoving her fingers inside her. It'd been surprising, shocking, but nothing worse than what had been done in the winter past. Somehow the violence of anger became the violence of need and the pain of the drow's invasion became a sharp and bitter pleasure. She'd clenched her nails into onyx shoulders and screamed when release finally came.

That release was what they fought for now. Sex was always a release, a way to vent the sorrow and frustration, and a way to forget the past for a time. The more the world pressed in, the more violent it became, and tonight they snarled and struggled like animals. When it was over they lay together intertwined, white skin on black and fire mixed with snow. Muscles thrummed with giddy pleasure and beads of sweat dampened the sheets.

Imoen turned the drow's face towards her and softly kissed her lips. Her touch was gentle this time as she caressed the woman's heavy breasts and shifted to settle herself atop her. Viconia's slim fingers curled in Imoen's hair as the human's mouth slowly made its way down her body, across her navel, to the juncture of her thighs.

Once it had been "making love" when Imoen had shared a bed. It could be gentle, no doubt, and the tenderness of Viconia's touch and the consideration with which she cared for the mage might pass for true love. But neither of them held illusions in their relationship. It was necessity, not affection.

Jeric had been the worst. Imoen's Bhaalspawn brother had descended into madness. When, she couldn't be sure. It'd started with Irenicus, but it was hard to name exactly when "growing eccentricities" had become outright insanity. Perhaps in the Pocket Plane. Perhaps when Jahiera died. Perhaps before.

But it was at the Throne of Murder when suddely they'd realized, the two that were left, what a danger Jeric truly was. Melissan was dead, her demons defeated, and the Solar had offered forth the mantle of their dead father, should they want it. Jeric wanted. Jeric craved. The lust and madness in his eyes when offered those dark powers had shaken Imoen to the core. But she'd said nothing.

Aerie had. She'd objected, taking hold of Jeric's arm, trying to reason with the raving fighter. It'd been a fatal mistake. The warrior snarled and grasped her arm, crushing the bones with an audible crunch. He'd began ranting about how she'd betrayed him, about the avariel desiring the Throne for herself. Aerie'd tried to free herself, screaming in fear, as Jeric forced her backwards, snarling and spitting his rage.

Imoen looked at the impassive, uncaring Solar. Its duty was to serve, not to intervene. And she'd started chanting.

Taking Jeric down by force was impossible. Any spell strong enough to kill him before he retaliated would have charred the wingless cleric as well. But with magic, sometimes force wasn't necessary.

The first spell washed over him as he pushed Aerie to the ground and began slamming his fists into her head. Imoen began chanting again even as her friend pleaded with her to help. She'd ignored her. She'd ignored her and kept chanting, because she wanted to live, not die. She'd given the blond up as a sacrificial lamb, knowing full well what that meant.

Aerie was dead before the second spell was finished, and Jeric rose to deal with his sister. The black rage and madness on his face made his intentions clear.

Once, she'd been too late. Once, the chant had never finished and she'd spent weeks obsessively washing herself, trying to scrub away the blood of a fallen friend.

That day the spell completed, and four misty, cage-like walls manifested in the astral and began to close around her brother.

"You think you can hold me?" he challenged, raising his sword.

Normally she couldn't have. But Aerie's death had bought her time for the first spell, Greater Malison, which made the second all the more effective.

"I'll kill you, you little bitch! You can't have my throne! I'm the god of murder! I am!"

The Imprisonment enveloped him. Imoen stared numbly at the spot where he'd vanished until the Solar spoke.

"It seems you are victorious," it said in its melodic voice. "Will you claim the Throne yourself?"

"No." She answered softly, shaking her head. "It's his. They can rot together."

"Viconia! Viconia!"

Imoen's animated shouts brought the drow out of the guardhouse, wiping her hands against the front of her cloak. The young mage's face was beaming, a smile nearly bigger than her head. The dark elf quirked an eyebrow at the unexpected display. Good cheer was rare these days.

"Go over there," the red-head ordered, pointing out away from the house. Viconia followed with an irritated snort and dutifully walked out of the garden. She was about five feet past the last row of plants when a sudden chill and gust of wind lashed against her.

"Now back!"

The chill faded as the former Sharite neared the house again. Curious, she returned to her former position. There seemed to be an invisible line that separated the cold, exterior winds from the mild calm in the garden. She cast a glance over at the exuberant girl.

"I did it!" Imoen shouted, literally jumping in excitement. "I did it! It's small, just a bubble really, but it encloses the whole front yard. I couldn't make it large enough for the back, but our garden will be okay, and we can bring the goats to the front if it gets really bad. Vicky, I did it!"

Viconia smiled and took off her cloak, letting it fall to the ground.

For the first time in months, it was warm.

---

 

Alice's Ace

“If the pawn attacks here, with the bishop as backup, then Red would be foolish to risk a counter-attack with the knight.”

“Granted,” said Alice, leaning over the schematic diagram of the city and examining it. “But Your Majesty has forgotten that Your scouts sighted the Red bishop here.” She pointed to the outer courtyard of the White Kingdom. “In which case, if Your Majesty takes the Red pawn, the Red bishop can easily move in here–” she traced a diagonal line across the battle map, showing a smooth and almost entirely unobstucted path between the positions of the White defenders, which ended nearly at the palace steps, “–and place You back on the defense.”

The White Queen frowned. She was tall and angular, with sharp features practically chistled from stone – which, actually, Alice realized, was the truth. They certainly weren't wood or plastic, at least. The Queen's sculpted gown was likewise rigid, despite the illusion of flowing lines, and her skin was as cold and pale as marble.

There were other possibilities on the grid, of course: a knight here, a pawn there, capture or feint or supply reinforcements. To the denizens of the White and Red Kingdoms, it was war; for them it had always been war, and always would be. At first Alice had found it amusing to watch these animated pieces play out their lives in deadly earnest, but a few years in Wonderland had made her more sympathetic to the local way of things. For her it might have been a game, but she'd seen how the pawns and rooks came back cracked and shattered, missing limbs and dripping black blood. She'd seen at least one White Queen beheaded, only to be replaced by courageous pawn who'd infiltrated the Red ranks. Similar atrocities doubtlessly took place in the Red Kingdom as well, but she had a hard time feeling sorry for anything red. There was still bad blood there, and Alice always played White.

The White Queen moved a few of the chess pieces on the board, calculating moves three or four rounds in advance, testing consequences and follow-throughs. She did this every day for hours on end, spending her life trying to out-guess her counterpart in the Red Kingdom. Finally she seemed satisified.

“Pawn to C5!”

The timbre of the command echoed throughout the room and somewhere, somehow, the rest of the kingdom would hear it. There was something magical in the words, as was so often the case in Wonderland: some special power of language that changed the reality it described. One lone pawn would soon move, take another, and likely be taken in return: a necessary sacrifice of war.

“Thank you, Alice,” the White Queen said. “Your advice has been quite valuable.”

Only because I know the rules, she thought to herself. Despite living in the game – or perhaps because of it – none of the Chessmen realized that their moves were restricted to simple geometrical patterns: straight lines, diagonals, a few steps or just one. To them it was life, and they fancied themselves as having free will as much as Alice fancied that she herself did. But if there were a giant hand above somewhere, moving her along a series of squares and circles, would she know it? Could she be merely a piece in a game, playing games with the pieces of her own small entertainments? Stranger things could happen – and had happened – in Wonderland. It was bad for one's sanity.

Alice bowed low, taking the pleats of her blue dress and curtseying. “An honor, Your Majesty.”

“Dismissed. Rook, the doors!”

Dismissed, as always. No matter how many times she visited, no matter how many Queens she advised, nor how many wars came and went, it would always be the same. The Chessmen weren't capable of altering their behavior any more than the Mad Hatter could choose to be sane. It was built into their nature, and as long as Wonderland lasted, it would always be the same. Alice would grow old and grey, and yet still the Queen would dismiss her in exactly the same tone, every time. Was it even possible to grow old here? She hadn't thought about it.

The thick brick form of the rook slid forward, moving without legs, its face set in a perpetual glower. It was built like Titan, all muscles and brawn, dwarfing most other Chessmen in terms of sheer size. It glided up to the double doors which sealed the Royal Chamber and placed its hands on them, opening them both with a single, massive push.

“Thank you,” Alice told it as she walked past. It grunted in response. She'd never heard a rook talk.

Outside, the Ace of Spades was waiting for her. She was leaning against one of the huge white pillars with her arms folded across her chest and one leg bent at the knee, resting her foot against the stone. She arched an eyebrow at Alice as she exited and as the rook pulled the doors shut behind her.

“About bloody time.”

Most Cardsmen were flat, two-dimensional creatures, with rectangular bodies and heads the shape of their parent suits; only the Face Cards were anything resembling human. How human, exactly, varied on suit and value. The black suits were the most normal; the red suits the least; and the higher the card, the more typically Wonderland-warped they were. Aces were Face Cards in this world, and they were the most human on the bunch. Jokers were Face Cards as well, but their appearance and temperament tended to be... unstable.

“You didn't have to wait for me,” Alice reminded her.

Ace shrugged and pushed herself away from the pillar. “Where would I go?”

It was a good question. There were no restaurants, no parks — the Chessmen didn't eat and had no concept of leisure time. Of all the realms of Wonderland, the Chessboards were the most boring.

“I'd like to go back to our room,” Alice said. “I'm tired, and dreadfully hungry.”

“Is that all you ever do? Eat and sleep?”

“It's a biological necessity,” Alice said, arching one eyebrow in challenge at the tone.

“You humans and your biology.” The Ace of Spades rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “It's disgusting, you know, all those... things that you do.”

“Then it's a good thing I do the most of them in private,” Alice answered with a small smirk.

“Most of them,” Ace agreed as they began to walk back to their chambers. “But eating – worse, chewing! How did humans ever come up with that?"

"It's just necessary," Alice stated again. "One can't swallow one's food without chewing."

"You don't chew water," Ace pointed out.

"Water is a drink, not a food."

"You don't chew pudding."

"That's—that's different."

"How do you know, then, if you have to chew or not?"

"Trial and error, I suppose. One gets a feel for it after a while, honestly."

Ace made a small sound of disbelief. "Strange."

The guest chambers of the White Kingdom were Spartan and plain by most standards, although they'd been outfitted with beds and chairs as a concession to Alice's frailer, fleshy form. Still, there were no windows; there was no heating, no warmth, no carpet, no flowers. What little furniture there was was crafted from bare stone. The rooms and everything in them were solid white. It wasn't hard to imagine the same arrangement on the other side of the Chessboard, where doubtlessly everything was carved of red instead.

Alice sat on edge of the bed, derriere cushioned somewhat by the makeshift padding of cloth and down. The Ace of Spades sat across from her, also on the bed, with her legs crossed and leaning forward with interest. The object of her captivation was the bowl of chocolate pudding that Alice was now eating by dipping her finger in and then licking the cream off. A small carrot and a handful of edible mushrooms had served as the main course.

"That's so strange," Ace repeated, watching with fascination. "Your breath goes here—" she placed her hand to her own chest "—your food here, and your voice out of here." Her hand went to her stomach and then her throat, indicating each area in turn. "Yet everything goes through your mouth. But you can't eat breath or speak pudding."

Humanity, in Wonderland, was rare. Worse, it was contagious. Creatures and beings that were around Alice too frequently or too long tended to change: flowers began to move on their own; animals began talking. Some did that anyways, of course, but animals that earlier talked now wore clothes; things that had worn clothes now engaged in drinking tea and playing croquet. Whether or not the changes were permanent was yet to be seen, but the fear that they were was the driving force behind the Queen of Hearts' war against the small human girl. She didn't so much hate Alice as much as love Wonderland – but for many who saw the incroach of humanity as a threat to their way of being, the latter implied the former.

The Ace of Spades had been one of Alice's first real friends in Wonderland, and had travelled with her, officially as an ambassador and babysitter, for nearly six months now. She'd changed considerably in the time, both physically and mentally. As a Face Card, Ace had always been at least nominally human-ish: having a real face, a human figure, wearing clothes. But over time her two-dimensional figure had filled out into three; her skin had become soft and supple, although it remained a pale, off-white hue. Her hair had grown down almost to her shoulders and was the typical Spadish black, often covered by a loose black cap that she tugged down over her bangs. Even her clothing had been transformed by the infection: black denim pants instead of fancy hose, and a sleeveless white cotton shirt with a single Spade emblazoned on the chest. It looked, Alice thought, decidedly non-English.

For Ace, though, the internal changes were more disturbing, despite being fewer and slower in developing. She grew tired now, and had to sleep – something uninfected Cardsmen never did. She felt emotions now that had been foreign to her before. Her questions to Alice about it were frequent and charming in their innocence, stemming from a genuine fear and desire to know. Perhaps one day she would grow hungry, and have to learn the art of eating. What went in must come out, though, and Alice was not looking forward to that explanation, should it come.

"Would you like to try some?" Alice offered, holding out the bowl.

"Oh, no, no." The Ace shook her head, warding off the strange utensil with her hands. "I wouldn't even know how to start."

"Just a bit." Alice withdrew the bowl, dipped her finger back into the scant remaining chocolate, and held that forth instead. Perhaps not-so-much would be not-so-threatening, even though the bowl was nearly empty. "You'll likely have to eat eventually, you know."

"Eventually isn't now," Ace pointed out. "And what if I should breathe in pudding?"

"That's impos—" She stopped and corrected herself. Nothing in Wonderland was impossible. "That's very unlikely."

The Ace eyed Alice's finger warily, then slowly leaned forward and hesitantly took it between her lips.

"Don't bite," Alice added hastily as the Cardsman's teeth met her skin. "One doesn't chew pudding."

Ace nodded, or tried to. Her tongue replaced the edge of her teeth as she gingerly sampled the thick, dark substance. Alice watched the curious expression on her face with a smile.

"And?" she asked as the other girl finally pulled away.

The Spade licked her lips experimentally. "Strange. Different. And that's chocolate?"

Alice nodded. She scooped up another dollop with her finger. "A bit more?"

The Ace was less hesitant this time, now at least partially assured that it was safe. Her pale lips closed around Alice's finger, followed by the soft warmth of her tongue. She suckled it, running her tongue over the tip, then pulled away with a smile.

"I think I like it!"

Alice bit her lip. The small spark of warmth that had just blossomed in her stomach made her think she liked it, too. "Ah—well, then, of course you can have the rest."

The Spade reached out and took the bowl, running the tip of her finger around the inside, gathering up the last of the mixture, and then licking it off. After three attempts and three very small rewards, the bowl was completely empty.

“Sorry,” Alice said. “Next time you can have–”

The words were cut off abruptly as Ace leaned forward, cupping the human's face in her hands, and kissed her full on the lips. Alice froze in shock. The Wonderland girl's lips moved over hers with awkward softness, followed by the caress of her tongue. Where had the Cardsman learned to do that?

It was over as suddenly as it had begun. Ace pulled away and tugged her cap back down over her straight, black hair. She still wore her characteristic askew smile, but it seemed a bit less steady than normal. She licked her lips slowly. Alice watched the movement with stunned fascination.

“I– that tasted...” The Ace's words trailed off. She bit her lip, looking at Alice with confusion in her dark eyes, and then leaned forward and kissed her human counterpart once more. It was less awkward this time, but more cautious. Alice felt the Ace's lips smooth and warm against her own. It was softer than any kiss she'd ever had, not that she'd had many, and certainly none from another girl. The small warm feeling in her stomach started to tingle again and burst into a fire when the Ace pulled her closer and touched her tongue to Alice's own.

When Ace pulled away the second time, her smile was completely gone. Her eyes were wide and dark, her pale skin flushed, her breath slightly quicker.

“You taste better than chocolate,” she murmurred.

---

Bittersweet

It had been a long day, and it showed no signs of ending any time soon. The test of retribution within the Pocket Plane had been spiritually and emotionally draining; they'd banked on a simple arrival in Saradush and instead found themselves thrown into conflict within seconds upon materializing on the fortress steps. Gromnir's guards had proven tougher than anyone expected and the encounter had left the group battered, bloody, and exhausted. Worse yet, it had coaxed Arkadi's murderous taint to the surface and left the Priest of Talos in a black mood that rivaled that of the god he worshipped. The Bhaalspawn strode ahead of the party with a glower frozen into his features. Korgan and his battleaxe braced him to the left; Sarevok's muscular form to his right. The crowds of people parted before them with careful whispers and fearful looks.

A hushed giggle deepened Arkadi's frown. He turned and saw the females of the party fighting to quell their grins as they shared conspiratorial looks.

"By Talos' beard, can you not shut up?" he growled.

The three mages all narrowed their eyes slightly and obediently fell silent once again, but the exasperated roll of Imoen's eyes expressed more than words could say. Another catapult ballast slammed into the walls of the city, sending a cloud of pulverized stone and screams of agony spiraling into the air. A plume of thick black smoke marked the point of impact.

"If I'd known Arkadi was going to be this much of an ill-mannered grouch, I'd have just married Isaea," Nalia muttered under her breath. "I'd get the same treatment."

Aerie smiled but managed not to giggle this time. "Nalia, Isaea Roenall was a complete bastard. I believe those were your exact words."

"He is, but I'd say the same of Arkadi. He gets more and more unpleasant every day."

"He use to be a lot nicer," Imoen interjected somewhat defensively. "It's just that the taint–"

A strangled yelp yanked the trio's attention back to the front of the group. A wiry teenage boy, barely of age to have scruff on his chin, dangled a full foot above the ground with Sarevok's hand clasped around his neck. His hands scrambled to loosen the hold and his feet kicked ineffectually at empty air. The boy's too-thin form spoke of long, hungry nights and his dirt-smudged face was livid with fear.

"Sorry! Don't–" he gasped as he fought to breathe "–don't–"

"Put him down, Sarevok," Arkadi ordered sharply.

The massive warrior simply opened his hand and dropped the boy onto the filthy Saradush street, still frowning. "He's a thief."

"Strangling is not the appropriate punishment for someone snitching your pouch, Sarevok." Arkadi reached out and snatched the boy's hand before he could make a run for it. "Korgan? Please demonstrate."

"Aye, with pleasure!" The boy's wide eyes barely had time to register the actions as the dwarf's axe whistled down and sliced cleanly through flesh and bone. Suddenly the would-be pickpocket stumbled backwards, abruptly free of Arkadi's grasp, and collapsed in the dirt with a gut-wrenching scream.

"Thank you, Korgan." The Bhaalspawn dropped the severed hand in the dirt and kicked it over to the huddled, sobbing form. "Aerie. Back in rank."

The elven cleric froze in her steps, only half-way to the fallen boy whom her magic could easily heal. She glanced over to the Talosian's dark countenance and then back at the bleeding boy in the dirt. "Arkadi, please."

"Back in rank."

"He could die!"

"He is a fucking thief and deserves what he gets! Now back in rank, elf!"

"Aerie." Imoen's grey-blue eyes caught hers in a firm warning.

"Might I remind you that your sister and I are also ‘fucking thieves,' Nalia commented coldly, giving Arkadi a look of well-practiced scorn.

"Might I remind you to shut the Hell up," he sneered, mocking her overly-proper accent.

"Aye, lass, keep yer mouth closed," Korgan seconded. "Ye've two sets of lips an' only one worth usin'."

Sarevok chuckled, but Nalia's stony expression was less than amused. Aerie had returned reluctantly to her friends' sides and now regarded the bearded dwarf with loathing.

"Keep your lewd comments to yourself," she ordered in a soft, trembling voice.

He reached down and grabbed his crotch with a gnarled, scarred hand. "Ye want some o' me ol' grandpa too, elf?"

"I'd sooner blast it off." The glow beginning to flicker from the cleric-mage's fingers promised that she was just about ready to do so.

"Aerie." Imoen interrupted a second time in firm, quiet tone and placed a restraining hand on her arm. She glanced over at Nalia; the noble was the very picture of statuesque composure. Whatever the woman's faults, she was nearly impossible to ruffle. It was a welcome contrast to the easily-offended avariel and the temperamental men of the group.

"Let's just get to a tavern, okay?" Imoen fixed Arkadi with a stern gaze. "I think we could all use some time to unwind and relax."

Her brother snorted without answering and continued forcing his way through the jumbled citizenry of Saradush. Sarevok and Korgan fell in line immediately behind him, leaving the women once again to bring up the rear.

"I swear I'd char that little dwarf if I could get him alone for just two minutes," Nalia muttered.

Aerie nodded, still glaring daggers at the back of the greying head. "I could hold off Sarevok, I think."

"That'd just leave Arkadi," Imoen noted grimly. "And I'd take care of him."

The tavern in Saradush had once been a bustling inn, but as the months of the siege dragged by, the supplies had run dry and more and more of its regulars became victims of shrapnel and desperation. Now a heavy atmosphere of despair hung over the heads of the remaining patrons, punctuated by occasional thunderous tremors of yet another fireball slamming into the city streets. Sitting alone, each buried the fear and anxiety with as much ale as he could buy, knowing it was only a matter of time until the fire giants breached the walls.

The group had taken some tables and ate their supper in silence, glancing at each other from time to time with the same suspicion as they did everyone else. It was a tense, unhappy evening which was blissfully cut short of the pains of conversation as one by one the women finished their meals and excused themselves to the inn's small rooms. Arkadi and the men would be a while yet, Imoen knew, as they discussed strategies and plans for the battles which lie ahead. Once upon a time he would have drawn input from each party member, relying on the benefit of multiple points of view and different areas of expertise. Those days were long since gone.

The redhead lounged in bed now, running her hands through her hair in frustration as she fought to keep her concentration in her spellbook. She had to get everything memorized by dawn, but her thoughts refused to absorb it. Traveling with Arkadi was becoming intolerable. Ever since he'd lost his soul he seemed to descend further and further into his taint. Sooner or later he'd hit rock bottom and become a danger to himself as well as others. Probably sooner. There wasn't much farther to fall.

A knock at her door pulled her thoughts away once more, and with a sigh of annoyance she closed the spellbook and set it aside. "Who is it?"

Aerie's signature puff of blue smoke burst to life through the keyhole. They'd each developed a magical ‘calling card' of sorts; it was quicker, quieter, and more secure than simply announcing one's name to anyone who could hear. Unfriendly eyes and hostile blades were all too common. Imoen dispelled the lock and opened the door with a simple turn of her thumb without bothering to rise from the bed. The young blond mage stepped in and closed the door behind her.

"What's up?" Imoen asked.

"Are you studying?"

Imoen shook her head. "Wish I could. Can't seem to focus tonight."

A wry smile ghosted across the woman's pale lips. "Nalia and I had the same problem. We were wondering: would you like to join us downstairs for a few drinks?"

"I dunno. Arkadi–"

"Arkadi was not invited. He's already in bed."

"Yeah, like that'd stop him," she responded sourly.

"Consider it as a girls' night out, Imoen. If you want to come, I mean."

"Who's buying?"

"Nalia. She's buying rounds and meals for all the patrons."

Imoen chuckled. "Sounds about right. She's off on her crusade to help the needy and downtrodden again. And dammit, I feel pretty needy. Count me in!"

The elf smiled once more, and yet again Imoen found herself marveling at the changes in her friend. Less than a year ago Aerie had been a trembling, fragile flower; now she smiled easily and walked with confidence and poise. Nalia's etiquette lessons probably had something to do with the latter.

"Just, uh–" Imoen glanced down at her plain cotton shift, then eyed the avariel's flowing white robe. "Lemme get dressed. Five minutes."

"We'll meet you downstairs, then, Imoen."

"Deal."

"Imoen, don't you dare!"

"I could do it! I could! Look at the size of his belt pouch!"

Aerie giggled and took hold of her friend's arm, cutting short her daring plan. "Not with you pointing and telling everyone who your target is! Your thieving skills are not what they used to be."

"And you're drunk," Nalia chimed in.

The redhead gave them both a haughty glare. "I'm not drunk."

"You have to say it with a proper edge of indignation." The noble cleared her throat, lifted her wine glass, and purposefully sloshed it over the edge as she demonstrated in a slurred, throaty voice. "Nonshensh, my dear. I am not drunk!"

Her two companions laughed in delight. "Oh, Nalia, you do that so well!"

The brunette flashed a grin. "Thank you."

"Do another one!" Imoen leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table. "Do uh…umm…"

"Oh! Do Isaea!"

Both girls groaned. "She always does Isaea! Pick someone else!"

"But I like Isaea."

The noble's lips quirked. "No comment."

"That's not what I meant!"

"Whatever. Aerie wants to be a Roenall!"

"Imoen! Be quiet!"

Nalia made a foppish, effeminate gesture and deepened her voice in a fair imitation of the man's accent. "Aerie, darling! Do fetch me another wine, won't you?"

Imoen giggled and immediately fell into part, carefully enunciating the words as she batted her eyelashes. "Of course, Isaea, my love. Is there anything else that I can do for you?"

"Why, now that you mention it–"

"Stop it! Both of you stop it!"

"–You simply must marry me, Aerie," the noble continued with a grin, taking ‘Aerie's' hand in hers.

Imoen leaned in close, pretending to swoon from ‘Isaea's' touch. "Of course, my lord! I shall be your willing love slave!"

"And my trophy wife?"

"Certainly! May I fawn over you now, dear?"

"Please do."

A flash of light and small puff of blue smoke broke the girls apart and sent them into fits of giggling. Aerie's mouth twitched somewhere between a smile and a scowl, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. "That is not what I meant!" she objected again.

"I betcha secretly write him love letters."

"Never!"

"Even Aerie wouldn't sink that low," Nalia agreed. "A girl has to have some standards."

"I dunno… she was after Arkadi for a while, wasn't she?"

The blush deepened. "That was a long time ago."

"Im has a point, though," she pointed out. "You practically threw yourself at him."

"That was before I knew what an ass he was." Aerie sank down in her chair and took another hasty drink of wine to cover her embarrassment. "Besides, I didn't really understand the…ah… art of attraction. And you're one to talk, Imoen — you dated him, too."

"I thought he was cute as well," Nalia confided, swirling the wine in her glass thoughtfully. "It's a shame what happened to him."

Imoen pursed her lips. "Yeah. He used to be so great. I wish you guys could've just known him when we were kids. Or before we ran into Irenicus. He was a different man back then."

"I'm more concerned about what he'll become."

The table went silent for a moment.

"I don't understand, Imoen," Aerie admitted after a few seconds. "How is it that you and he share so much and can be so different?"

Nalia frowned slightly. "You both lost your souls — you longer than him — and both have Bhaal's taint."

"He's got more of it than I do," Imoen sighed. "A lot more. He's manifested it a lot longer. Even his Bhaal powers, like the healing and stuff, he's had those for years."

"Aren't you developing some of those powers?" Aerie inquired cautiously.

Imoen sighed again and nodded. "Yeah. Unfortunately."

"I don't see what's unfortunate about it," Nalia said. "You could use those powers to help a lot of people, especially combined with your magic."

"Yeah, that's what Arkadi said, too," she responded bitterly. "He had all sorts of good intentions when the mess started, and look where he ended up."

"You are different."

"How can you be so sure, Nalia?" Imoen took another deep drink of the wine and then stared down at the empty goblet. "First he could heal, then he could harm, then he turned into a raving psychopath. Maybe I'm just on the first stage. Maybe I have a Slayer in me, too."

"You are too good at heart, Imoen," Aerie assured her, squeezing her hand softly. "You could never be like that."

"I don't want to be like that," the redhead confessed. "It scares the shit out of me when I look at Arkadi now. He's so…so bitter. So possessed, so driven. I don't want to end up like that. I don't want to be bitter. I don't want to turn cruel."

"I don't think you're in any danger of that," Nalia told her firmly. "The worse you'll get out of this is a few grey hairs, and maybe a bit more maturity."

She smiled despite herself at that. "Well, I don't want to grow old before I have to."

"Growing up and growing old are two different things," she countered.

"Psht. Says Miss Maturity."

Nalia's eyes widened. "Are you implying that I'm old?"

"Perhaps an old maid," Aerie giggled.

"You're one to talk. You are well over fifty, Aerie."

"Avariel age differently."

Imoen stuck out her tongue. "You're still old."

Aerie sniffed indignantly. "I am mature."

"Old."

"And wrinkled."

The elf's slim hand smacked both friends' arms. "Take that back!"

"We could just leave, you know," Nalia offered in a thoughtful tone.

Imoen shook her head. "I can't. You two could, sure, but I need to see this through. I promised I'd stay with him."

"He is cruel, Imoen."

Another sigh. "I know, Aerie, but… but he's also my brother."

"So is Sarevok," the De'Arnis heir pointed out. "Half the people in Saradush right now are your siblings. You killed Illasera just a few days ago, and she was as much your kin as he is."

"That's different. He's my friend, Nalia, my best friend. I grew up with him. We're like this." Imoen held up her intertwined fingers. "I still love him. Not like that," she clarified at the widening eyes. "Not any more. He killed whatever romance there was. But he's still the only person I've ever really loved that way, y'know? And he's the only person who's ever really loved me."

Aerie squeezed her hand again and Imoen shared a small smile with her.

"Anyways, girls," she continued, rising to her feet. "It's getting late and we really should go to bed. Knowing Mr. Almighty Bhaalspawn upstairs, we'll be in a forced march at the butt-crack of dawn."

The two women groaned. Imoen was probably right.

Imoen flopped down on the bed with a sigh and rubbed her temples. "You didn't have to walk me up here," she muttered with a bit of annoyance. "I didn't drink that much."

Aerie shrugged, the flowing lines of her robe rippling as she did. "You are a bit tipsy." She took a seat on the edge of the bed next to Imoen's side. "And I wanted to talk with you, if you don't mind."

"‘Bout what?"

"You and Arkadi."

She groaned. "We just talked about this downstairs!"

"I know…" The avariel's lips pursed in a small frown. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to talk to you alone."

The redhead quirked an inquisitive eyebrow and waited for her to continue. She couldn't imagine what would be so private that Aerie didn't want Nalia to hear it; the trio of mages were as close as sisters, if not closer. "Okay."

"I– I know you're afraid of what might happen to you, Imoen," she said softly. "Since you are tainted like Arkadi. You are better than that though. You have a good heart."

Imoen's words were tight and sour. "I'm no innocent, Aerie. I've killed literally hundreds of people, and I'd kill a hundred more if I had to. I can't even pretend to be innocent anymore, after what Irencius did to me."

The elf offered a wan smile. "You still have a good heart. You can't hide that no matter how hard you try."

"How can you tell? Has Baervar shown you what's left of my soul?"

"He doesn't have to," she countered softly. "I can see it already. Imoen, you are a wonderful, beautiful person, inside and out." Aerie took Imoen's hand in her own and squeezed it gently. "You took in a scared, pathetic girl and showed me what it was like to be confident again. I mourned my lost wings and you showed me that I'd gained a new life, that there were worst things than having to walk. That's the thing I admire most about you: you have never stopped fighting no matter how bleak things are. Somehow you smiled — made us all smile — even when you were rotting on the inside."

Rotting. Imoen shivered at the all-too-apt description. "That's different, Aerie. The more I focused on others the less I felt of that pain. That's not brave or strong. That's scared shitless."

"No. Arkadi is scared. Sarevok is scared. They're so terrified of the death inside them that they will stop at nothing to overcome it. They are kicking and screaming their way to their graves."

"That's a morbid way to look at it. You know, you were a lot more optimistic before you met me."

The cleric smiled apologetically and shrugged her delicate shoulders again. "I grew up a little. Baervar knows it's a good thing! And it does not change what I said."

She returned the smile with a small, pleased blush. "I'm glad you think so much of me. You're a great friend, too, Aerie, you and Nalia both. I don't know what I'd do without you guys here to support me."

"I'm sure you'd think of some Imoen-ish-y trick to pull."

She laughed. "Yeah, you're probably right. Can't keep myself out of trouble."

"Well, that's why I'm here — to support you just as you support me."

This time the redhead's smile was deep and sincere. "Thanks, Aerie. That means a lot to me."

Aerie's smile widened. "I'm glad. You mean a lot to me." She fell silent for a few seconds, her blue eyes drifting back to the door. After a moment she turned to face her friend again, now with a thoughtful cast to her features. "You know, I've wanted to talk with you about this for a long time."

"I'm glad you did."

She nodded in agreement, but her mood had shifted. It was so slight, so subtle, that Imoen normally wouldn't have noticed the ethereal sense of resignation coming from her fair-haired friend.

"Aerie?" She put her hand on her arm. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Imoen, I just… wanted to talk to you. Which I have," she laughed softly, "so I should probably let you go to bed now."

"You sure?" Imoen's expression had turned serious. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

Another slight nod. "I'm sure. Thank you." Aerie rose from the bed and smoothed her robes back into place. She took only a single step away before pausing, hesitant, and then turned back around. "Imoen…?"

"Yeah?"

Aerie stepped back over to the bed. "Do you remember when you said that Arkadi was the only person who'd ever really loved you?"

"Yeah." Her brows drew together in confusion. Was this what had upset her? Aerie had had a brief, ill-fated fling with Arkadi while Imoen had languished in Spellhold. Was there still some jealousy there?

The confusion multiplied a hundred fold as the avariel placed one pale hand against her cheek and guided Imoen into a shy, tentative kiss. Imoen had shared embraces with her friend before — innocent pecks on the cheek — but this was nothing that friends would do. The gentle warmth of Aerie's mouth against hers expressed a soft, confident promise that her glowing words had not been just idle flattery.

The blond pulled away with a slight, sad smile and placed her fingertip against Imoen's lips before she could react. "Good-night, Imoen."

The thief-mage stared in shocked disbelief as her friend exited the room and gently closed the door behind her.

Maybe Arkadi wasn't the only one.

---

Challange

"I'm out," Alexander said, tossing his cards down on the table.

Nalia glanced up, meeting Vicona's gaze over the top of her cards. The drow woman looked back with steady, unreadable eyes. A pile of gold coins – nearly the entire spoils from the party's raid on the slaver's compound – lay gathered in front of her. Whether by skill, subterfuge, or sorcery, the priestess had managed to win nearly everyone's share. Korgan and Minsc had already departed the table, the former much less politely than the latter, and now that Alexander had bowed out, only Jaheira and Nalia remained.

"I raise you three gold," the De'Arnise heir responded, throwing the coins into the central pot. She only had four left, but the chances that Viconia had a hand better than her five nobles was slim.

"Match." Jaheira slid her last few gold over.

"Very well." Viconia matched the bid and laid her cards down on the table. Three Lords and two Ladies smiled up at the three seated women.

Jaheira scowled. Her two Pages and a trio of Cups were no match for Viconia's hand. "You win."

The druid warrior pushed her chair back, making no secret of her displeasure, and departed the room as well. Now it was down to the two.

Nalia shook her head and sighed. "If I hadn't cast detect magic on you after the third hand, I would swear you were cheating."

Viconia smirked and gathered up her winnings. "Shall we continue, rivvil, or have you had enough for one night?"

"Enough?" Nalia grinned. If there was one way to make her do something, it'd always been to tell her she shouldn't – or couldn't – handle it. Aunty Delcia had never figured that out, and the frustration of it had given her quite a few gray hairs before her time. Nalia loved a challenge, and that definitely sounded like one. She scooped up the cards and began reshuffling. "Not on your life."

One pale eyebrow arched up. "Strong talk from someone with but one gold to her name."

"Is one coin not enough for you? I figured you would want it all."

"I am not so paltry in my desires."

"Oh, please." Nalia rolled her eyes as she handed over the pack. "Deal the cards."

"How about a worthwhile wager?" Viconia suggested, taking the stack.

"Such as?"

"You are rich, Nalia, and to the rich money holds no special value: there is infinite supply." The small, arrogant smirk returned. "I'd rather wager something special. Something you're afraid of losing."

"Such as?" Nalia repeated.

"Something personal."

"Just come out with it. What do you want?"

Viconia flicked five cards from the top of the deck and laid them down in front of Nalia's waiting hands. "You," she stated. "For the rest of the night."

Nalia's finely shaped brows rose in surprise. "Me?"

"Indeed."

"What for?" she asked warily, as Viconia dealt out five additional cards to herself.

"Oh, don't look so frightened," the dark woman chided. "You won't have to clean floors or anything similarly unpleasant."

"I suspect I'll find it objectionable regardless; why else would you want it?"

"You'll object, I'm sure," Viconia confirmed, looking up with smoky blue-grey eyes and a small smile. "I simply said it wouldn't be unpleasant."

That sounded dangerous... and intensely intriguing. She had a fair idea of what Viconia had in mind; the dark elf took a special pleasure in tormenting her, in trying to bring the haughty noble down a level or two. The suggestion that Nalia would be better suited as a servant was nothing new, and the whispered comments away from other's ears had made clear what kind of service it should be. This was the first time, however, that Nalia had taken the flippant comments seriously. Viconia was raising the stakes, indeed.

Nalia tapped her lacquered fingernails against the wooden tabletop as she considered the offer. "And if I win?"

"The reverse, of course," Viconia answered, taking her cards in hand. Her voice took on her characteristic mocking tone. "I shall be your devoted servant until dawn."

"Even if you have to clean floors?" Nalia challenged.

"Even then, rivvil. I suppose it is too much to hope that you would come up with a more interesting task."

The cards were still waiting. Viconia was right: she didn't care about the money, but this wager made her pause. Tymora had been favoring the dark elf tonight, for gods-only-knew what reasons, and those five cards could change her life considerably. If Viconia won, it would cross a line that had never been crossed, and she would never hear the end of it. She doubted any of her traveling companions would care, but the Roenalls certainly would, as would anyone of any standing in all of Amn. Nalia De'Arnise, sullying herself with a dark elf, traded away on a hand of cards. It sounded positively indecent. Scandalous. Aunty Delcia would die of embarrassment.

"You're on," she said, scooping up her cards. Viconia's eyebrow shot clear into her hairline; Nalia met the surprised look with narrowed brown eyes.

Her hand was good: a pair of Lords gazed back at her — Swords and Hearts, the two highest in the game. As Viconia studied her own cards, Nalia discreetly slid the card she'd palmed earlier out of her sleeve. The Lord of Swords disappeared, replaced by a lowly Two of Cups: a losing hand for sure.

A small, rebellious smile curved her lips. She always loved a challenge.

---

Choosing Sides

They made love slowly. Jaheira's hands caressed her lover's back as the young woman moved rhythmically above her. Arryn was thin and muscular, with strong shoulders and small breasts; her skin was slick with sweat and her shoulder-length hair damp from exertion. The human's eyes were closed, her pale pink lips slightly parted, and her face completely consumed with the intensity of the moment.

Jaheira closed her eyes as well. The woods around them disappeared, replaced by a melody of the senses. The late spring grass was cool and prickled against her back; Arryn's skin hot against her flesh; the soothing glow of sunshine gentled by a cool northern breeze. She could taste the mingled salt of their sweat and smell the rich earth mixed with the raw scent of their bodies. Hidden beneath their panting breath were the songs of nearby birds.

Arryn's hips rocked against her with slow, strong strokes, and her hand between Jaheira's thighs transformed the motions into deep and powerful thrusts. The pure passion on the younger woman's face, the intensity of her need, always stole Jaheira's breath. Arryn gave that same devotion to everything in her life, cautious about committing but committing absolutely when she did; it was that which had drawn her to the half-elf's attention to begin with. It was so different than Khalid – sweet, stuttering Khalid, who waivered like the wind and jumped at his own shadow. Arryn and he were nothing alike, save the color of their hair and choice of lovers.

Arryn buried her face in Jaheira's neck. Her breath was coming harder, her fingers more insistant. The energy inside her, the divine blood that could heal or harm, thrummed just underneath the surface. Jaheira could feel it tingling against her skin: a hidden current of electricity that made her flesh prickle. In her more intimate regions that prickle turned into a spike of exotic sensation. A low moan of pleasure escaped her lips.

Another thrust; Arryn's fingers slid deep inside her, withdrew, slid in again. Jaheira spread her legs wider in unconscious encouragement. The ragged panting of Arryn's breath was interspersed with small, wordless sounds of desire. They moved together seamlessly, slick with sweat and sex. Arryn's shoulders and back were taut; the flat plane of her stomach clenched and released in time with her hips. Jaheira's muscles clenched and released as well, each time rising and opening up to the strength inside her, then tightening in protest, reluctantly left empty, only to be filled and taken again and again.

The sensation built. Arryn's form over hers, flowing, claiming, wet and raw, pulled Jaheira ever closer to her climax. The druid slipped her hand down between their bodies and into the juncture of her lover's thighs. She brushed through the short, damp curls and pressed between Arryn's sex-slicked folds. The woman above her shuddered and drew a trembling breath, but her rhythm never faltered. Her hips continued their motion, but now each press, each roll, ground her clit against Jaheira's waiting fingers.

Each woman's excitement fed the other's. Arryn's wetness, her unmistakable lust, her inability to control it, invoked in Jaheira a sense of both power and submission. Of the former, that she could drive the Bhaalspawn to such heights, that Arryn desired her so strongly that it wiped out all other concerns; of the latter, that Arryn could dominate her so, claim her, master her in such a base and primal way. The swirl of emotions drove her higher, and soon she could do nothing but cling to her lover as her climax took her. She came with a long, loud cry, muffled by her mouth pressed against Arryn's shoulder, and held on tightly as her body shuddered and submitted to the waves of pleasure and release.

Arryn was not far behind. Sometimes she would stop after pleasuring her lover, needing no further satisfaction than the exhausted smile on Jaheira's lips; sometimes, though, stopping was no option. Once the need had seized her, once her blood was thick with it, she was lost with no hope of return. Her body was in control, her mind overwhelmed, and the movements were instinctive and automatic. She panted with exertion, straining, rocking her hips between Jaheira's thighs, thrusting, every muscle in her body trembling as the druid stroked her fingers against her clit. At last she reached the edge and tumbled over with a tremendous shudder and a short, primal groan.

Jaheira held her, one hand resting in Arryn's choppy brown-blond hair as they both recovered their breath. They were sweat-soaked, bodies thrumming; Jaheira felt infused with warmth, and the small aftershocks still made her lover quiver. Arryn's fingers were still inside her, a delicious reminder, but Jaheira slowly drew her own hand away.

"Why do we keep doing this?" she asked with a sigh.

"Because it feels good." Arryn's reply was muffled and tickled her neck.

“We should get dressed.” Jaheira's tone made it clear that she wasn't amused. She gave Arryn a small push; the latter obediently rolled off of her and sat back in the grass with a sigh. Jaheira rose and immediately started gathering her belongings. They were supposed to be on guard duty, but more and more often the hours of watch turned into moments of passion which were increasingly hard to control. Tonight it had been less than an hour before the temptation had become reality.

Arryn sighed as well, levered herself up on one elbow, and returned the half-elf's exotic green gaze.

“When are you going to tell Khalid?”

“Put your clothes on.”

“When are you going to tell Khalid?” she repeated.

“I don't know,” Jaheira said irately as she pulled on her pants. “I don't know that I will tell him. I shouldn't be doing this. It is a mistake.”

“It's not a mistake.”

Her voice was exasperated. “Arryn, don't be difficult.”

“We fit together, Jah. Why can't you accept that?”

"Because I should know better. There is absolutely nothing right about this relationship and we both know it."

"You know it," Arryn countered.

“So do you,” Jaheira shot back. She scooped Arryn's pants up and threw them over. “I am married.”

Arryn got to her feet. “You love me.”

“Don't say that.”

“It's true.”

“It doesn't matter,” Jaheira stated firmly. “I am married, and of all people, I should not be involved in an unnatural relationship.”

“Because I'm a woman,” Arryn asked bitterly, “or because I'm a Bhaalspawn?”

“Both.”

The blond ranger had pulled on her pants as well and now approached the half-elf while buttoning them shut. “And those are the same reasons why we connect the way we do. We understand each other. I know what it's like to be part of two worlds and yet belong to none. I know how it is to have people damn you just because you're a half-breed.”

“You know that I hate that word.”

“Half-breed,” Arryn repeated. “You can pretty it up any way you want, but it's true. We both are. And both women, both tied to Silvanus. I understand you better than Khalid ever could.”

Jaheira slipped her tunic over her head and began working her arms into the sleeves. “Khalid is a marvelous man. You underestimate him.”

“No, I don't. He is marvelous. He treats you like a queen. He does anything that you ask him to, and that's the problem, Jaheira.” Arryn reached for her arm; Jaheira tried to turn away, but she was easily caught and drawn back into her lover's embrace. “He doesn't understand you,” she insisted. “He can't be the strength that you need, can't know what you go through. He can't be your shelter in the storm.”

Jaheira turned her eyes away. “Arryn–”

“I can be, Jaheira.” She cupped the half-elf's cheek in her hand, stroking her thumb against the soft, tanned skin. “Just let me,” she whispered.

Jaheira's gaze searched hers, green to green. A small tremble of her lip gave away the struggle in her emotions, but as much as she would have loved to give herself over to Arryn's embrace, her strength, the comfort that her arms promised, she was too strict on herself to allow it. It would only lead to more trouble, and to an acknowledgement that she agreed.

“I don't know, Arryn. This is not easy,” she admitted, speaking the words as she pulled far enough away to look the younger woman in the eyes. “I lov– I care for you,” she corrected. “But I have never felt so confused. I am supposed to know these things – I am supposed to know what is right and what is wrong. And I must do what is right.”

“Then you should tell Khalid.”

“It's not that easy.”

“Why not?”

“Because he is my husband, Arryn,” Jaheira said, exasperated. “We have been together for seven years. What do you want me to do? Walk up to him and say, 'I'm sorry, Khalid, I've met someone else?'”

“Yes! And that it's me, and that as much as you tried to fight it, you couldn't. That you had to follow your heart.”

Jaheira shook her head. “My heart leads to Khalid.”

“Then why are you here with me?” Arryn challenged her. “Why does this keep happening?”

“It is a mistake–”

“No, Jaheira. One time is a mistake. Two months is something else. Every time you look at me you smile. Every time we talk it's like the world goes away. When was the last time you and Khalid made love? Did you feel half of what you feel with me?”

“That is none of your business!”

“It is completely my business! I love–”

The sentence stopped. Jaheira looked up in confusion. Arryn's face had gone blank and her eyes were focused on something beyond the woman in front of her. Jaheira reflexively looked over her shoulder and suddenly felt sick as she recognized the figure there.

“Khalid...”

The name was barely a breath on her lips. Jaheira pushed Arryn away from her, but the move was too late, and the scene too damning. She had donned her pants and shirt, but the lacing was still undone, and her boots and armor lay on the grass unattended. Arryn was barefoot and topless, clad only in her leather breeches. There was no way to interpret it as anything other than suspicious, and with the words they had just spoken–

He stood there for a stunned moment, the expression on his face indecipherable. His eyes went from his wife to the woman she had been embracing, back and forth, over and over again. Jaheira's face had gone white in panic. Arryn stood silently.

“I-I-I-I–” His stutter choked his words. His jaw clicked audibly shut, and he turned without further speech and walked away.

“Khalid.” She started after him. “Khalid, wait!”

“Jaheira.”

It was Arryn who spoke. Jaheira looked back over her shoulder. The younger woman still stood where she had, regarding her with sadness mixed with compassion. She didn't have to ask her to stay; the request was visible in every line of her body, every detail of her face.

Khalid hadn't stopped; she could hear him moving through the woods, trampling leaves, snapping twigs underfoot. Arryn watched her, unmoving. She couldn't be with both. She couldn't be a part of both worlds.

“Arryn, I–” She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what she wanted to say. “Wait for me.”

“I won't wait forever, Jah.”

“Please, Arryn,” Jaheira pleaded. Khalid was leaving; she had to catch him. She had to have a chance to explain. “Just– please.”

Hesitation, then a nod. Jaheira instantly broke into a sprint in the direction he'd gone.

“Khalid!”

---

Girls and Their Dresses

The evening had started out slow, but now a steady flow of patrons trickled in and out of the Copperpint tavern's doors. The staff bustled about at a frantic pace, taking and filling orders as fast as humanly possible. Most of the tables were already full and dusk had barely fallen. It was going to be a busy evening.

Kharinlashelli sat at her usual seat, leaning her chair back on its hind legs and resting her boots on the edge of the table. She was stretched out relaxedly, one pale hand resting around a mug of warm spiced rum. Her vivid red hair was worn loose tonight, falling in waves over her shoulders, and her green eyes were half-closed. Although normally the bard was never found without the friendly smile and easy laugh that was her trademark, tonight she was unusually quiet.

Galdor and Ilstiris also shared the table. The elven man was dressed in his characteristic dark breeches and vest, while the sorceress was clad in a ravishing red one-piece dress which accentuated her ivory skin and raven hair. She was shy as a shadow, that one, but for whatever reason she'd been flirting with Kharin for several days now, and gone increasingly far in seeking the bard's attention. The dress was new, doubtlessly purchased from the Temple of Sune — no other place in Athkatla would carry such a bold and suggestive design. It was sleeveless, with a heart-shaped bodice that cupped and lifted the woman's breasts. The cloth was sheer and satiny, hugging her waist and falling all the way to the floor. Two slits were cut up either side from ankle almost to hip, revealing the half-elf's pale thighs whenever she walked. Or sat. Or stood. Or moved.

It'd definitely gotten Kharin's attention.

Galdor was talking about something, but Kharin had been only half-listening for the last fifteen minutes. Ilstiris was sipping a glass of wine, alert green eyes darting over to the bard now and then, sharing a smile or a laugh. If she knew just how much of Kharin's attention she'd gotten... The red-head let out a slow, steady breath. That dress was driving her mad. It'd been a long time since she'd had a lover, and longer since she'd had a woman. How could she be so shy yet so blatant? The whole point of such an outfit was to entice someone to remove it — and yet she wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if Ilstiris was a virgin.

Kharin lifted the mug to her lips and slowly drained the rest of the rum. The warm tingle slid down her throat and pooled pleasantly in her stomach. The rest of her body already had a slight sensation of warmth, and the rum only increased it. A waitress came over to offer her a refill, and Kharin accepted it absentmindedly. This would be her third rum of the evening, and probably not a wise idea.

Ilstiris laughed at one of Galdor's quips, smoothing her dark waves back from her face and smiling happily. The gentle motion of her chest immediately drew Kharin's attention. Gods damn that dress.

She drained a quarter of her rum in a single drink and stood up. 'Wise' and 'Kharin' weren't words commonly found together — especially not when she was drinking.

"Galdor, could you excuse us for just a minute?" she asked, flashing a smile and nodding towards Ilstiris. She didn't wait for a response before heading for the stairs, catching Ilstiris' hand and practically dragging the woman after her. The sorceress's eyes widened in surprise as she gave a helpless but apologetic glance back at the elven man at the table.

"Where are we– oh." They were already up the stairs and standing in front of the door to Kharin's room before the half-elf managed to voice the question.

Kharin opened the door and led her inside without speaking, then quickly shut it again and pushed Ilstiris up against it. The woman's startled squeak was immediately silenced by Kharin's lips, still warm from spiced rum and sweet from the honey mixed therein. Kharin raised one hand to Ilstiris' face, cupping it, pulling her in and forcing her to accept the kiss. Her tongue flicked against the sorcereress' lips then slipped between them, and Ilstiris gave a surprised, involuntary whimper of pleasure. The onyx-haired girl had stiffened in reflex, unsure what to make of the abrupt turn of the tables, the sudden switch from the one chasing to the one caught.

The kiss broke, leaving them both breathless. Ilstiris' heart was pounding so fiercely that she was sure it could be heard even downstairs. One of Kharin's hands still held her by the arm, but the other now rested on the wooden door next to Ilstiris' head. The bard's gaze dropped to the woman's pale, milky chest, which rose and fell in deep, quick breaths. When her eyes rose again, they were dark with passion.

"I want you out of that dress," she breathed softly.

Ilstiris nodded unsteadily. Her heart jumped into her throat at the sudden mental flash of her nude body under Kharin's own, her back arched, their hair spilling like fine silk across the bed's pale sheets as the red-head moved over her in sensual, steady motion. Her legs trembled and she closed her eyes, trying to supress the vision and pressing her own hands against the wood to keep herself steady.

Kharin lowered her head to the half-elf's neck and gently brushed her cheek and lips against the pale skin. The sorceress smelled of fresh powder and a hint of rose. She tasted her with a light touch of her tongue. A shiver ran through the woman's body.

"Not yet, though," Kharin murmured against her neck. She released Ilstiris' arm and slid her hand over the girl's side, down her waist, and settled it comfortably on one slim hip. Her lips continued their exploration over the woman's throat and down over the swell of her breasts, just above the fabric of the offending garment, as Kharin continued to talk.

"I still have to perform tonight," she explained. "And Galdor is still downstairs. I said we'd just be a minute."

Ilstiris nodded again, eyes still closed, panting softly as each touch sent a new spike of raw sensation racing through her blood. The vision in her mind expanded, wavered, mixed with a reality she'd never expected. A warm, pleasant tightness slowly came to life between her thighs as she submitted wordlessly to the red-head's attentions. Going back downstairs now would be torture.

"Right now–" Kharin's mouth rejoined Ilstiris', interspersing the words between tastes of her ruby lips. "I just want to know–"

Her lower hand slid into the slit in the fabric just below the woman's hips. Ilstiris raised her knee slightly, letting more of the sheer fabric fall away from her skin. The performer's fingernails trailed over her bare thigh. The mage found her arms instinctively seeking out Kharin's neck, curling around her shoulders and her hands burying themselves in the thick red waves of her hair. She was now returning the kisses willingly and ferverently, even as the fire in her blood made it hard to breathe.

The singer's hand slid between the sorceress' thighs. "What's underneath," she finished. It was a disappointment to feel the thin cotton barrier of Ilstiris' undergarment; judging from the tightness of the dress, she'd been sure she'd find bare skin. Kharin stroked her fingertips against the fabric and felt the girl shudder in response. The cotton was already damp with her wetness.

The black-haired beauty had frozen at the touch to her most sensitive of places and now watched Kharin's eyes with fear, desire, and anticipation. "You okay?" Kharin asked softly, pausing her motion. She was probably moving too quickly, and she didn't know how experienced Ilstiris was.

Ilstiris nodded breathlessly, her hands still curled in the woman's hair. "I–I think so." She hoped so.

Mmm... well, maybe she had told Galdor 'just a minute', but time was relative. Kharin slipped one finger under the cloth as she claimed the woman's lips once more, this time with gentleness and care. Her tongue delved into Ilstiris' mouth as her finger slid through the wet heat between her legs and brushed the woman's clit. The mage moan softly, her entire body quivering from the touch. The finger moved down once more, and Kharin's eyes widened as she felt the resistance of a maidenhead at Ilstiris' center.

"You're a virgin," she said, half-questioningly, as she slowly pulled away.

A flash of panic stole the blood from Ilstiris' face. She already knew that Kharin was more experienced than her — a lot more experienced. "No! I mean– y-yes." Her hands went to Kharin's shoulders and urged her closer. "Please don't stop," she pleaded. "Please. I want this."

Kharin smiled. "Oh, I know," she assured her. "But that takes more time than I'd anticipated."

Ilstiris sighed and ran one slender hand through her dark hair. "I'm sorry," she said frustratedly, lowering and averting her eyes to hide her embarassment.

"Don't be." Kharin touched her chin and guided her gaze back to her. "But I perform in half an hour, and we need to get rid of Galdor. After that... if you still want to..."

Oh gods, did she ever. "Yes."

"Spend the night?"

That brought a smile to the half-elf's dark lips. "Definitely."

"Good." Kharin cupped her face again and sealed the deal with one last kiss. Ilstiris responded eagerly, leaning into her red-haired paramour and guiding the singer's hands back to her hips. It escalated quickly as they tasted and explored one another, the heat from their bodies mingling and rising, until Kharin broke away with a mischevious and breathless smile.

Without a word they opened the door and decended down to the common level, resuming their seats at the table. Their breath was still a bit quicker than normal, and the flush in their skin not yet completely faded. Galdor looked from one to the other with a cross between curiousity and suspicion.

"That was quick," he finally stated with a polite smile.

"Just had to ask her something," Kharin returned with a faint smirk. Suddenly she was feeling much more sociable.

"Oh? Might I inquire?"

Ilstiris giggled. "She was curious about my dress."

The elven man continued to look on expectantly. The bard just nodded. "I love pretty outfits. It's a girl thing."

"Oh." He sounded slightly disappointed. "I suppose so."

"I have some other outfits you might like," Ilstiris offered shyly.

Kharin grinned. "I'd love to see them."

---

Ilandra

They talk about me behind my back, thinking that I cannot hear them. They call me a madwoman, and say that I am crazy. I am not deaf to their words. I have led them for nearly a year now, yet still they watch me with fear and suspicion, and whisper in the darkness that I am cursed and possessed of demons.

And they are right: I am possessed. Of demons, no, but possessed all the same. My curse is the voice I hear inside my mind, the words that come to me alone, day in and day out, advising me, taunting me, manipulating me. Her voice, Ilandra's voice, the voice of a woman dead and rotted for a thousand years.

It amuses me, in its way, that my own predecessor as leader of this rag-tag band of soldiers, the man I killed to gain my position, was the very one who began it all. It was Ashan who placed the silver bracelet around my wrist, unaware that it served as a vessel for Ilandra's immortal soul, and it was he who dragged me from the rocks and revived me after, in a desperate attempt to rid myself of her presence, I had hurled myself off a nearby cliff. Without realizing it, Ashan had introduced us, his murderer and her accomplice, and sealed his fate with the gentle click of the bracelet's clasp.

My changes — "improvements," to hear Ilandra tell it — began mere days after I started wearing the bracelet. I heard voices when no one was speaking, remembered details of a life I had never lived, and could speak and understand languages I had never heard. Ilandra told me of people and places long lost to the living world, taught me the wisdom of ancient sages, and trained me in the arts of warriors who had fought and died long before my grandfather's grandfather first drew breath. But behind her careful lessons, her first interest lie, as always, in herself. Everything she told me, every secret she whispered into my eager, naive ears, was just one step further towards her ultimate goal, the prize which she coveted above all others: a rebirth into the realm of life.

Ilandra needed me, needed my physical form as a host for her own immortal soul. She promised me power and riches beyond all imagine, should I co-operate, and such was my awe and fascination of myself and my new companion that I readily agreed. But with what I have come to know as typical Ilandra shrewdness, she neglected to tell me that in order for her to lay claim to her prize, she needed an empty body, one vacant of mind and spirit; and now that I was within her grasp, my own soul became forfeit to her whim. And to think I once wondered at the source of her laughter…

Once I realized this myself, I fought her in every way I knew how. I removed and crushed the bracelet, prayed for days on end for some heavenly force to drive out the evil within me, even threw myself from a cliff in the hope that, in killing myself, I could kill her as well. All to no avail. By now Ilandra was possessed of considerable strength. She was anchored firmly in my mind, and was no longer dependent upon the bracelet. My attempted suicide gained me nothing save a few broken bones, and my physical wounds had no effect on her spiritual health. In my hour of most desperate need, God seemed to desert me. She could control my body as if it were already her own, and I was forced to keep constant vigil against her attempts at domination. Between her incessant meddling and my fatigue-induced apathy, my relations with Ashan declined from occasional lovers to outright hatred. Yet despite our mutual inimicity, it was he who first noticed my external changes.

Before, I had known nothing of Ilandra's physical appearance, but now every time I looked in the mirror I was confronted with her face. My hair was darker and longer, wavy when it should have been straight. My skin had lightened to pale, delicate white, my lips had turned from soft pink to a dark, crimson red. Her mocking, derisive laughter rang loudly in my ears, and I knew then that Ilandra was winning. All that remained of my former self were my eyes, still bright and pure as the eastern seas.

And when I killed Ashan, it was Ilandra's mind that pulled the strings, as the puppet slept on, unknowing. But when I woke to the sharp, brittle snap of breaking bone, it was my body that stood astride his corpse, and my hands that still cradled his head, having broken his neck only seconds before. What was left of my humanity grieved for him, he who had been both friend and foe, but Ilandra forbade me any display. Only my eyes showed the depths of my sadness. That day I shed the last of my tears.

The soldiers accepted my leadership without question; they were afraid not to. Ilandra killed six more before a week had passed, and the survivors obeyed her — obeyed us — with a fierce loyalty born of fear and rooted deep within the urge to survive. Yet if it were between their fear of being killed and my fear of living death, I would gladly take their place. For hours on end I would isolate myself in my tent and stare into the mirror's glass, searching my eyes for some shred of comfort, some thread of peace, or some glimpse of what was to come. Yet no matter how long or hard I searched, the answers I sought eluded me.

Soon the soldiers began to spy on me, now and again, trying to discover more about their new commander: her habits, her routines, her weaknesses. I argued with Ilandra constantly, but when I spoke aloud my responses to her biting, haughty remarks, my men saw me time and again shouting at trees and rocks and empty rooms, and soon the rumors began to make their rounds.

"She doesn't seem to sleep," I heard one man whisper to a comrade.

"Perhaps her kind have no need of sleep," came the hushed reply.

My kind. They speak of me as if I am no longer human; which, I suppose, I am not. I am a freak, an abomination of nature. In me the old suppresses the new, the weak overcomes the strong. I am a perversion. In me the natural order is reversed.

Dawn approaches; I can feel Ilandra stirring. Privacy to me is now like water to a man dying of thirst: rarely found, hoarded and reveled in when encountered. I must finish this and hide it before she awakens fully. Today, I think, will be the end of my privacy, the end of my two-year war against her. I hope, for their sakes, that my troops slay me before the day is done. If they do not, I shall undoubtedly end up slaying them.

My eyes have changed from blue to black.

Ilandra has finally won.

---

Imoen

I did not sleep well that first night. The darkness was more vast and imposing than ever before in my scant sixteen years. I was curled up in the hollow of an old elm's trunk, covered with only my traveling cloak, my leathers fouled with blood and sweat and the rank scent of my own fear. Gorion, my father, lay out there somewhere in the darkness. He lay much quieter than I. After the armored warrior had ambushed us on the trail, Gorion stayed to fight — to protect me — and bade me to run. I escaped unharmed, more or less — a single arrow pierced my arm, which now throbbed and burned as if poisoned. Maybe it was. But Gorion...my father...

It's a wonder I managed any sleep at all. But rest I did, and tossed and turned, waking and sleeping again nearly every hour through the night. Nary a time did I close my eyes that I did not see that hideous figure raising its sword at me, or streaks of bright magic lancing their way to my heart. Wouldn't they find me here? Had I run far enough? Had I run too far? How could I escape them, when a mage such as Gorion had fallen so easily? But a few hours before dawn, my body gave in, and a hateful, dreamless sleep finally claimed me.

And when I awoke, she was there. Imoen, young Imoen, barely fourteen in those years and with joyous heart half that age. Ever a rogue, she'd been in trouble with everyone in Candlekeep at some point in her life — and ever a charmer, she'd weasle her way out of punishment with her bright smile and carefree words. It was that night that I first realized that there was something much deeper in her than anyone suspected — even more than I myself. Alone that night, with only the vague sense of direction and the care of her heart, she had snuck out of Candlekeep to come find me. She left behind the stable walls and peaceful life to travel a wilderness and unknown future, although I doubt she realized it at the time. And somehow she found me, tracking my hurried flight from where Gorion had died, and discovered me there, battered and afraid, huddling against that ancient elm. She found me, and she stayed.

"I'm so sorry," she told me once I had awakened. Her eyes were red and bright with tears of her own — Gorion had been as much her father as mine. She helped to bandage my arm, and stood by me as I returned to the scene of the ambush. We both trembled as we slowly stripped the belongings from his body, sick with the realization the now we had no way back and that robbing the dead was the only assurance of our future. Without food or water, with neither clothing nor weapons, what else could we do?

I hated it. I hated it with every fiber of my being. Scavaging what we could, wandering the roads as a misfit pair of vagabonds, never sure whom to trust or what stranger might turn assassin. We murdered — we both did — both in defense and in desperation. And each night we would seclude ourselves in the smallest, darkest shadows we could find and curl up in fitful sleep, hoping that we survived until morning. Each night we cried in each other's arms, terrified of what had happened and terrified of what yet may come. Even after we joined Khalid and Jaheira, the guardians Gorion had bade us find, Imoen and I clung to each other for safety, security, and understanding. We trusted no one — not even the Harpers — save each other.

Imoen... young Imoen. Her impish smile and dancing eyes so innocent despite everything which happened. Tending my wounds, lifting my spirits, always cheerful and goodnatured no matter what Hellish land we roamed or how dire the situation seemed. Smiling, teasing me, telling me not to worry as she lay injured while my inexperienced hands fumbled to staunch her wounds.

She never gave up on me. She never let me down, never let me sink into the darkness of despair that surrounded us, never let me forget what it was like to live. Companions came and went. Some loved me, some hated, some feared and distrusted. But not Imoen. Her loyalty and devotion never waivered.

I sleep better now. The days of frightened youth have been left behind, replaced with years of jaded battle. No longer are my hands so unsure when dressing wounds, and no longer do I doubt the future. Companions have come and gone, rivals risen and fallen, cities been saved and burnt.

And still each night there is Imoen. She still holds me to soothe the nightmares, to help me fight the taint within. She still sees me as 'big brother,' not as 'son of Bhaal.' And I still give her grief as my little sister, no matter how powerful a mage she has become. I know, no matter what, that she will always be there.

Imoen found me, and she stayed.

---

In My Mind

In my mind, you're already mine. We're laughing over some shared joke in a Paseo coffeeshop while an aspiring disenchanted plucks a heartbeat from his guitar. The nine o'clock news drones out from the TV, but my attention is on the way your hair accents your eyes, and on the beautiful curve of your smile. You reach for my hand across the table and run one warm, soft finger across my wrist. The newscaster says they've contained the fires; I'm sure I can see them captive in your eyes. God, I love your eyes.

Back in the club, I turn mine away, lest you sense that residual warmth. Techno tribal drumbeats thrum their rhythm through the walls, but you and I exchange views on The Prince. It is better to be loved, you state, still smiling. And my opinion? Like Odysseus, I'm lost within the seas. My heart echoes bass percussion, trapped by the Charybdis of your gaze.

That evening, back at home, we slow dance to a woman's lonely voice. I'm taller than you, just an inch, and your head is on my shoulder. You smell of soap and skin and feminine wiles. My arms around your waist sing praises; my hands seek out and memorize the curves of your hips. Should I ever be Pygmalion, your porcelin visage I'll create. I can't help but pull you closer. I feel your lips caress my neck.

Distracted? At the club I lower my eyes again, trying to hide my blush. You laugh as I make up something witty, tell me I'm a charmer. I've always had a silver tongue. You stop the waitress for another margarita: strawberry, the hue and taste of your sweet lips. Nothing for me, thanks. Do coy brunettes come in bottles? Y ou're still smiling at me, but you look intrigued. Am I hiding something? Just thinking? I waylay your curiosity with another gilded phrase. Merriment curves your lips. I'm a brat, you say, but your eyes still regard me. Would I like to dance? With you?

The pressure of you against me is indescribable and inhumane. Your body guides mine, riding the waves of primal beat. The lights paint your face in urban warpaint, fierce and feral. Inviting. Dangerous. I pull away with an apology and make an excuse to go home. My words are cut off by your lips against mine. You taste like honeysuckle and wildfires and all seven deadly sins. I'm not going anywhere; your gaze demands I stay. Someplace more private, you whisper, and I follow helplessly your lead.

Suddenly you are with me again, against me, around me. I am against the wall, crushed between you and delirium. Our hands frantically cast off the confines of civilization and catching our breath becomes a battle; our lips feast as if starved. Blood thunders over the music as my hands lay claim to your flesh; your thigh between mine and my nails in your back. My jeans are no match for your fingers, and soon you are inside me as well. We rock together in harsh, gasped breaths; the demand to fuck me lingers in the air without a speaker known. It's all I can do to stay standing beneath your assault. We crest together: I fuck you, you fuck me. We crest together again. Teeth draw blood to further fan the flames. Your mouth against mine, flesh to flesh, wildfire. We crest. Again. Again.

In my mind we entwine together, sweat-slicked with sex-scent. In my mind later will be gentleness and slow, soft possession. In my mind you already love me.

In the club, though, your girlfriend has returned from the bar. I say hello to my best friend.

---

Ksaria - Chapter 1

"Have you ever just stopped and watched her?"

Corinne cradled her company-issue coffee mug in her hands and sipped gingerly as her pale eyes followed Nate's across the room. The target of his comment was crouched beneath a faux-white metal workstation, visible only as a pair of black-clad legs surrounded by an impressive array of tools and scattered computer parts. The woman had been there for the last forty-five minutes, her work punctuated with occasional curses at the wires.

"Can't say I have," she murmured into her coffee.

"It's eerie."

She glanced at him curiously. "Eerie?"

"What's eerie?" Roger came around the corner in a beeline for the break room, stopping only momentarily at the sound of office gossip. Dressed in a sharp, navy-blue suit-and-tie arrangement, his dark hair impeccable with every strand in place, he cut a dashingly handsome figure.

Nathan pointed his well-rounded chin over to the workstation. Although also dressed in a business suit, Nathan's was more of a casual brown, tailored to fit his decidedly chubby form. But whereas Roger had the roguish charm, it was hard for Corinne to imagine Nate as anything but a fatherly corporate Santa Claus. "Sar."

"Oh. Kiss...Kas...Ka..." Roger frowned as his tongue tripped over the name.

"Ksaria."

"Yeah, thanks, Cory. You take Russian in college? I've worked with her for a year and still can't pronounce it."

The blond woman shook her head. "I took French."

"French?" He chuckled. "I bet. So Sar's under the desk, eh?"

Nate nodded, picking up his own mug for a quaff of steaming caffeine. "Been working on that station for about an hour. Haven't seen her get up once."

"We can fix that," the younger man promised with a conspiratorial wink. "Hey, Sar!" he shouted, pitching his voice to carry across the background noise of the office.

The woman under the desk reflexively raised her head before remembering her cramped quarters. The resulting impact of bone and metal echoed with a hollow thud across the room, along with a curse of pain. The two men started laughing.

"Roger!" Corinne gave him a scathing look, then transferred it to his comrade-in-arms. "Nathan, stop laughing, that was cruel."

He wrestled his mirth down to rosy cheeks and a sheepish smile. "Sorry, Cory."

"Oh c'mon, Miss De Marcos, have a little fun."

"Don't be a jerk, Roger."

"Don't be so uptight. We tease her all the time."

"You could have hurt her."

Roger rolled his eyes. "Christ on a cross, she'll be okay! Go check on her if you have to, but the witch is fine."

Cory's gaze was as cool as her tone. "Thank you, I will. Nathan." She nodded a curt goodbye to the older man and started across the floor.

By the time Cory had navigated the maze of cubicles and boxes over to the disassembled station, Ksaria was sitting back on her heels, gingerly touching her head and scowling.

"Are you okay?"

Sar just shot her a dark look. "Joke go sour?"

"Roger's a jerk," she apologized. "Do you need some ice?"

She eyed Cory for a moment, then backed down. "Dunno," she admitted. She touched the injured area gently and winced at the contact. When she brought her fingers away from the dark brown waves of her hair, they carried a bright smear of blood. Ksaria sighed. "Fucking Mondays."

"Oh geez..." Corinne's lips pursed in sympathy and she reflexively moved to help the woman up. "You might need more than ice. Is there a nurse in the building?"

Sar regarded Corinne's outstretched hand for a few wary seconds before taking hold and getting to her feet. "No, but there's a bathroom down by the stairwell."

"That'll work."

They stepped over the scattered plastic bags and circuit cards, Ksaria having a much easier time of it in her simple black boots than Corinne in her three-inch heels, and made their way down to the hallway. The women's bathroom was tucked into a small alcove between the stairwell and the water fountain, advertised with a tasteful little plaque which was thankfully devoid of the skirted stick-figure which haunted every other lavatory in the building. Cory held open the door for the dark-haired woman, then flicked on the lights and the faucet in preparation. She tore off a wad of paper towel from the dispenser and moistened it with some warm water.

Sar hissed as the towel touched the wound. Corinne breathed out a sheepish apology. "Sorry."

"You're new here, aren't you?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Oh?" Cory tilted her head. "How so?"

"You didn't laugh at Roger's joke."

"Oh." She frowned at the implications of that.

Sar was definitely the odd man out in the office. There wasn't really a formal dress-code, but men tended to wear suits and ties not dissimilar to Roger and Nate's, while Corinne fit in with the female representatives with her knee-length blue skirt, white silken blouse, and high heels. Ksaria, on the other hand, routinely made her rounds in solid black slacks and shirts, complete with knee-high boots. Smooth, classy, and imposing: the overall impression was more like assassin than a businesswoman. She was definitely different – and definitely a target for people like Roger.

"How bad is it?"

Corinne pursed her lips, dabbing once more at the wound. "I don't think you'll need stitches, but I'd definitely recommend a trip to the doctor. It's still bleeding."

"Well shit," Ksaria swore, growling. "I am never going to finish that project."

"I'll walk you to your car if you want."

"My car's in the shop," she said, shaking her head. "I got a ride from a friend today."

The blond woman tossed the bloodied paper into the trash and ripped a new length from the wall-dispenser. "Let me get my keys, I'll drive you."

"You'll get in trouble," Sar protested.

"I'll blame it on Roger." Cory flashed her a smile. "Give me just a second, and I'll meet you by the elevator. Keep this pressed to your head for now, okay?" She handed Sar the folded up paper towel and walked out of the bathroom before the other had time to object.

Roger was waiting for her when Corinne came back to her desk. "Told you she was okay."

She opened the bottom-left drawer, pulled out her purse, and rustled around in it to find her car keys. "You bloodied her head. I'm taking her to the doctor."

"She's bleeding?" His voice was shocked.

"Yes."

"Is it red?"

The drawer slid closed with a heavy metallic clunk. Cory shouldered her purse and scribbled a note on the legal pad on her desk should anyone walk by wondering where she was. "Of course it's red," she answered. "What kind of question is that?"

"Well, you never know..." he drawled, smiling. "I thought it might be black on Sar."

A muffled chuckle was heard from near the breakroom.

Cory shot him a look that left no questions about her opinion of his sense of humor. "Cute, Roger. Have any jokes about dead babies or are those too high-class for you?"

The voice by the breakroom guffawed as Cory walked past Roger and back out to the hall.

Sar was standing next to the elevators around the corner, leaning against the wall with the paper towel against her head. The jingle of the key ring drew her attention the moment her coworker came round the corner. Ksaria watched her skeptically as she approached. She definitely looked like one of Roger's crowd – the executive type, all pantyhose and faux pearls. But, to her credit, the woman looked professional rather than plastic, which was a feat for the women at the ATIA offices. Her sandy-blond hair was left to fall down her back in a carefully-managed pony tail, not a single hair shed across the fabric of her dark blue skirt or costly white blouse. Her makeup was light but effective: mascara, gentle eyeliner and subtle shadow to bring out the pale ice of her eyes. Ksaria couldn't tell if she was wearing base or not, and could barely see the rose hue of blush across her cheeks.

"Ready?"

Ksaria nodded and hit the button to call the elevator. It arrived within seconds, chiming its arrival to the sixth floor and welcoming them with open doors. "First floor?" she asked. Her coworker nodded.

"Are you still feeling okay?" The blond was looking at her with concern.

The darker woman nodded. "Light-headed... still a hell of an ache, but I'm fine."

"Has this ever happened before?"

"Childish pranks?" Sar snorted. "All the time."

"To the point of blood?"

"No..." The elevator dinged merrily as they reached their destination. "Normally I'm not under a metal desk." The doors slid open and they stepped out, heading for the revolving glass door which lead to the parking lot. "By the way, what's your name?"

"Corinne De Marcos. Most people call me Cory."

"Well, Cory, I'd say it was nice to meet you, but it's just been one of those days."

Corinne glanced at her wristwatch. The hands read seven till noon.

"So what's the verdict?"

Ksaria sighed as Corinne re-shouldered her purse and rose from the waiting-room chair. "No concussion or anything, just a wicked headache for a while. And doctor's orders not to go back to work today."

"Not a total loss, then."

"I suppose not."

Sar lead the way out of the maze of sterile hallways back to the entrance of the hospital. A few of the nurses and passing patients nodded a quick hello as the two retraced their steps to the car. Ksaria reached the exit first, pushed open the glass door to the parking lot, and was caught with a stiff blast of wind. She glanced up to the skyline where the thin bank of greyish clouds were beginning to gather. In like a lion, out like a lamb... Whoever painted those cutesy paintings of spring being sunlight and clear skies had never lived in Texas during March.

"Can you take me back to my house?" Sar asked.

"Sure, no problem. How far?"

"Up by 18th and Walker."

One pale eyebrow arched in surprise. "Really? That's a very nice neighborhood."

Ksaria glanced over her shoulder and fixed Cory with a dark hazel gaze. "Yeah, pity they have me roaming around."

The blush in Corinne's cheeks deepened. "That came out wrong."

"I'm used to it."

Sar waited patiently for Cory to unlock the doors to her dark maroon Toyota Camry XLE. She wasn't much good at cars, but this was definitely a nice one. It looked brand new; leather interior and power-everything. Either the girl was sleeping with a manager or had robbed a bank. Possibly both.

The security system bleeped its deactivation to the world and the locks snapped open. Ksaria slid inside and fastened the seatbelt across her chest. The interior of the vehicle was as spotless as the exterior: no trash in the floorboards, no fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror, everything dusted and shined to look showroom-fresh. The only thing missing was the heady 'new car' scent; instead there was the subtle scent of skin lotion and perfume. Not a bad scent... kind of pleasant, actually. It was a soft, fresh sensation, not the heavy musk of grandmothers and aged socialites. And at least it wasn't smoke and cheap air fresheners. She leaned back against the supple leather seat as she closed her eyes and tried to quell the throbbing ache of her skull.

The Camry pulled smoothly around the corner and began a leisurely drive up and down the hills of the city as they approached 18th Street. Downtown between about Main and 12th wasn't very impressive or clean, but the slow progression northward gradually changed the scraggly bushes to blossoming redbuds and the studio apartments to grand old houses amidst carefully manicured yards. Occasional pedestrians wandered the sidewalks, some with dogs and jogging shoes, others just watching the newcomers to their neighborhood with a quiet paranoia.

"What department are you in?"

Corinne glanced at her passenger, who for all intents and purposes appeared to be enjoying an afternoon nap. "Web design, corporate side."

"You're a coder."

"I guess you could say that." She could tell by the tone of Sar's voice that the term was not entirely a compliment. "I took over the job from Pamela Stiles."

"Mm."

"How about you?"

"Mm?"

"What department are you?"

Sar opened her eyes long enough to glance at a passing street sign. "Right at the next sign, up two blocks. I'm Dedicated Access."

"Hardware? Like DSL and cable connections?"

"DSL, yes. Not cable. Most of my configuration issues are with SDSL and frame-relay connections. Dedicated bandwidth. Hardware configs, IP mapping, routing tables... If it connects from point A to point B, then it's something I do."

"Sounds like a difficult field."

"It can be. But it's fun. It's a challenge."

Cory laughed. "You seem to be the type who likes a challenge!"

The corner of Sar's dark lips tilted in amusement. "I'm obvious like that."

"I wouldn't necessarily say obvious... you have your mysteries, I'm sure."

"Oh?"

There was an unusual undercurrent to the question; something that made Cory re-think her response. "You seem like the type," she repeated cautiously.

The non-committal reply hung in the air a few moments until silence reclaimed its hold. It was a taut silence, balancing an awkward line between comfortable and non-, until they reached the designated corner. Ksaria motioned for Corinne to pull over to the side of the road as they made the turn. "I'll walk from here."

Her coworker frowned in protest. "I'll drive you up to your house."

She shook her head as she unbuckled herself and swung open the door. "Nah, I'll walk. Thanks for the ride."

The blond leaned over to keep Sar in her field of vision as the other woman stood up and dusted off her slacks. "Are you sure? It's not a problem."

Ksaria leaned down and fixed Corinne with her dark green eyes. "I'll walk," she repeated, voice quiet but firm. She pushed the door shut and the safety locks automatically slid home.

The lock on the door clicked gently open in the silence of late night, allowing entrance to the furnished one-bedroom flat. Cory stepped inside the threshold and flicked up the main light-switch. The room blazed to life with incandescent glory from the small five-armed chandelier that hung in its center. A quick, habitual glance around the room assured her that everything was as it had been before she'd left for work that morning: slightly disarrayed, a few articles of clothing tossed carelessly on the couch, but overall quite tidy. Next to the couch rested an antique red-stained wooden nightstand, where her answering machine sat blinking contentedly that she had three new messages.

"Mmm." She eyed the pulsating red light warily for a few seconds before finally giving in to routine and punching the button. She edged up the volume and kicked her high heels off into the closet.

Beep!

"Miss De Marcos, this is Edward Costella from Southwestern Bell. I was just calling to offer you a new service we have recently expanded to your area -- our new pre-paid data and internet cellular phone plan. For only $39.95 a month, you would receive..."

A bunch of crap, she finished mentally and skipped over to the second message.

Beep! "Corinne, darling, it's your mother."

The wince of pain that accompanied the introduction was intense and heartfelt. She finished removing her bracelets and earrings and laid them next to the machine.

"I know you're busy but I had to call in and check up on you since I hadn't heard from you in a while. You know how we worry about you. And your father and I were wondering if you'd like to go out to dinner with us this Saturday. There's a wonderful new restaurant that we found not too far from where you are. I hear they serve the most divine Alaskan king crab...."

Cory sighed and let the message run on to the bitter end before deleting it. Not that she didn't love her family, but... Ugh. She shivered and rubbed her arms briskly. Just the saccharine and strychnine in that woman's voice was enough to make one ill for weeks. You know how we worry about you... I hadn't heard from you in a while. Could you neglect your family a little more, Corinne?

And a dinner on Saturday. Leave it to her mother to figure out a marvelous way to ruin a weekend. Dinner with the De Marcos family!

"Jesus Christ." She was already in a bad mood from it, and the dinner wasn't for another five days.

Corinne Alexandria De Marcos, how dare you take His name in vain!

Shut up, Mother.

The reflexive guilt stung her despite the bravado and she embarrassedly crossed herself and murmured an apology to Heaven before entering the bathroom to wash off her makeup.

"C'mon, Cory, it's only one day," she murmured to her reflection encouragingly. "Could be worse, eh?"

Beep! The third and final message wound its way faintly into the bathroom. "Hey, Cory, this is Roger--"

Her eyes widened and she made a mad dash back over to the end table. A quick punch of "rewind" assured her she hadn't been hearing things.

"Hey, Cory, this is Roger from ATIA. I know I'm not supposed to have your number, and don't ask how I got it." He chuckled good-naturedly, then continued. "I wanted to apologize for how I was acting today. It was a little immature -- okay, a lot immature. So, as a gesture of peace, I was wondering if you'd let me treat you to dinner?"

Yeah right.

"Pretty please? I know what you're thinking, but I promise I'll behave."

Corinne had to smile at that. He did have a pretty good handle on what she was thinking.

"Think about it, Cory. I'll see you tomorrow."

She shook her head, still smiling, and decided to leave the message on the machine. "Roger, Roger, Roger..." She sighed, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. "You're such a dweeb."

Still, it was better than dinner with her parents. She'd think about it.

"Chère, you look like hell."

"Nice to see you, too."

Sandrine smiled at the black-clad figure sprawled out in the over-stuffed leather recliner, who somehow managed not to look out of place amidst surrounds of antique oak and aged brass trimmings. "Bad day at work, chère?"

"Something like that."

The soft click of heels against hardwood approached Ksaria's resting place, followed by the gentle smell of perfume. Sandrine's Parisian accent turned her words into a throaty purr. "Let me see that. You hurt yourself?"

"Ow!" Sar opened her eyes far enough to give the socialite a dark glare. "Something like that. Don't touch it."

"Then get your feet off my Italian leather," she responded. "Ça coûte très cher."

"English. My head hurts."

Sandrine took ahold of one of Ksaria's boots and shoved it off the arm of the recliner. "I said it costs a lot. You forget what I taught you already?"

"I like English better."

"You like ugly things."

The dark-clad woman levered herself into a sitting position with a heavy sigh and rubbed her eyes. "C'mon, Sandy, today has really sucked."

"Mm." The willowy redhead regarded her through thoughtful green eyes. Standing a few inches shy of six feet tall and with a figure that made heads turn clear off their shoulders, the native of France was a striking and imposing woman with an equally striking lifestyle.

Sandrine reached to take her friend's hands in her own, then gently helped the wounded woman to her feet. "If you must place your boots on the furniture, let it be the couch, non? Here, lay with me." She somehow managed to sit down gracefully even in the form-fitting emerald-green evening gown she was wearing. Ksaria followed her lead and stretched out across the remaining length of the couch, laying her still-throbbing head on the redhead's lap.

"You will be okay?"

"Yeah, I think so. I just need some rest and maybe a day off work."

"What happened, chère? You have never hurt yourself before."

Ksaria sighed. "It wasn't me. Roger yelled at me while I was under a desk. I started to stand up; the desk met me half way."

Sandrine's ruby lips pursed in sympathy. "Desolée."

"Not your fault."

"Non, but I am sorry nonetheless. You should do something about him, that Roger."

"Like what?"

At this she merely shrugged. "Who brought you home?"

"New girl at work. Cory."

"Perhaps you have an ally then?"

The short, sour laugh was answer enough. "Maybe for a week or two until she figures out I'm the local freak."

The socialite sighed and ran her fingers gingerly through Ksaria's dark waves. "It is the price we pay, non? You have survived worse."

"That doesn't seem to make it any easier."

"It is not supposed to."

A somber, thoughtful silence descended on the room for a minute or two before Sandrine's soft accent brushed it away. "You are ready for the trial, chère?" she asked quietly.

Christ. Ksaria sighed and draped one arm over her eyes. "I was trying not to think about it."

"Not thinking of it solves nothing."

"Neither does running it through my head five hundred times a day," Sar snapped back. "I don't want to think about it, okay?"

"Kiss--"

"And you know I fucking hate that name."

"Ksaria," Sandrine amended. "You will have to speak to Amy."

"I know."

"And to her parents."

"I know."

"Before Saturday."

"I know, Sandy." She sighed again and uncovered her face, catching Sandrine's concerned gaze. "I just... I'm tired. I'm exhausted. I don't want to do this."

"You are the only one who can." The words were almost apologetic. "Do not doubt yourself. The others rely on you; you are their strength. Our strength."

The shadows of late afternoon danced across the ceiling in a Zen parade of light and dark. Ksaria's eyes followed their silent ballet. "I don't know if I'm that strong."

"You are, chère, you are..." Sandrine's long fingers brushed tenderly against her cheek. "But you are right. Thinking too much is also bad. How about a happier subject?"

"Such as?"

"Well..." Sandrine smiled. "Tell me about this new ally of yours. Cory, you said?"

 

---

Ksaria - Chapter 2

"So what'd you decide?"

Corinne sighed and hit a quick-key on her keyboard to save her work before turning around. "Decide about what?"

Roger was leaning up against the side of her desk and had his arms crossed casually across his chest. "My message."

She smiled a bit. "It was cute."

"Great! So we're on for dinner?"

"I didn't say that."

"Well, you didn't not say that," he reasoned. "If you have other plans, I understand. But the offer is sincere. I just didn't want you to think that I'm a total jackass."

Cory pursed her lips. "Well...my mother invited me out to dinner on Saturday..."

He uncrossed his arms and held up his hands, smiling genteely. "No problem. No offense taken."

"No, no, that's not what I was saying. I mean, yeah, I should go, but..." She pursed her lips again thoughtfully, resting her chin in her hand.

"But your family drives you nuts?"

The blond smiled ruefully. "Pretty much."

"And I drive you nuts?"

"Not exactly," she countered, raising her head and leaning back in her chair to meet his gaze. "I just didn't like your behavior on Monday."

"I know." He shrugged. "Didn't make the best first impression. But, that's why I'm offering to make it up to you. If you survive shrimp scampi with me and still think I'm scum, then fair is fair and I'll leave you alone. We'll do what everyone else in the office does: politely ignore each other."

"I don't know. My fam-" The telephone on her desk let off a shrill, unexpected call for attention that interrupted her train of thought. Cory sighed and held up a ‘just a sec' finger at her coworker as she answered the phone. "Advanced Technology Instruments of America; Corinne speaking."

"Hey."

Her brows knit together in momentary confusion. "Who is– oh! Hi!"

"I don't have time to talk right now," Ksaria's voice said from the other end. "Just wanted to let you know I appreciated the ride home day before last."

"Not a problem," Corinne assured her, switching the phone to cradle on her shoulder and swiveling her chair away from Roger's inquisitive eyes. "I was wondering where you were the last few days."

"I decided to take the rest of the week off. Had some personal stuff come up."

"Oh." She didn't bother to pry. "Hope it turns out okay."

"Me too. Look, grab a pen or something?"

Cory arched an eyebrow, but quickly fished a Bic out of her desk drawer and pulled a pad of Post-It Notes over to write on. "Yeah." She scribbled down a set of numbers as Ksaria gave her an unfamiliar address on the northwest side of town. "Got it. What's this?"

"Just in case you need me to help you out in return. Ask for me or Sandrine."

She jotted down that name as well. "Okay. But what is this? A house?"

"You can't miss it. Got to go." Click.

The fair-haired programmer furrowed her forehead in puzzlement and slowly placed the phone back in its cradle. She regarded it thoughtfully for a few moments until the sound of Roger clearing his throat brought her attention back to him. "Oh. Sorry."

"Who was that?"

"Friend." The less she brought up Ksaria around Roger, the better things would probably be. "Anyways, as I was saying–"

"You could use me as an excuse to avoid the family dinner and get to know a wonderful guy instead?" He tilted his head and wiggled an eyebrow at her, smiling encouragingly.

She laughed at that. "You sure you weren't a car salesman in a past life?"

"Does eight years ago count as a past life?"

Corinne shook her head, still smiling ruefully. "Okay, okay, you've made your sale. One dinner."

"Great!"

"And this is not a date." She leveled one finger at him accusingly.

He looked surprised at the suggestion. "Never said it was."

"You didn't have to. I know that look in men's eyes."

"Ah." He winked at her knowingly. "But I'm not just any guy."

"No," she agreed. "You're probably worse."

---

The Shadows of Small Teeth Pass

Small Teeth Pass wasn't the safest or most scenic place to be after dark. We had argued a bit over whether to camp or move on through, but everyone was exhausted and our weary legs insisted on rest. Besides, we'd camped out amidst the denizens of the Underdark and left a Drow city in chaos in our wake; what night-borne terror could possibly top that? So camp we did, and set up a rotating watch for safety. Wood was gathered, fire was lit, and tents pitched to ford against the darkness. I was in one of them now, as the rest of the party finished off their evening meals and prepared for sleep outside. I didn't keep watch any more. I was the Daughter of Murder, tainted offspring of the god Bhaal, and lately that taint ran very deep indeed.

Imoen carried that taint as well, I'd discovered. It didn't seem possible. She'd always been so…light-hearted. So cheerful. Even the tortures she'd be subjected to at Irenicus' hands had failed to break her down. And me? I'd fought my way across the known lands to find her again, to be re-united with my sister. She rested with her head in my lap now, and we small-talked about nothing in particular. It was wonderful to together again. She was dear to me, in many ways. In ways she would never suspect.

She gazed up at me with a lazy, content smile as I ran my fingers through her hair. I was struck again by the beautiful depths of her eyes, the way her lips curved, the frame of her face. The scene I'd dreamt of night after night flashed through my mind again - her body under mine, the sheen of sweat on her skin, moaning as I rocked against her, my fingers deep inside…

"Whatcha thinking about?"

My mind snapped back to attention. Imoen's eyes were half-closed now; she was completely relaxed, just idly watching me through the haze of slumber. She was…malleable.

"You." I smiled.

She giggled. "The amazing Imoen?"

"Definitely."

"That's cool." She closed her eyes and continued talking. "We have a lot to catch up on. Seems we never got the time anymore. Always having to deal with the latest grand poobah of psychos that shows up."

"Yeah, we do."

I could kiss her so easily right now. She wouldn't even know it until my mouth met hers. I'd wanted her since we were teenagers, but never had the courage to act on it. The temptation had only grown stronger through the years, and now, this night, it demanded to be indulged. She was half-asleep, and she trusted me. In the privacy of the tent, there would be no witness. What better time than now?

"Why s'quiet all the sudden?" she asked.

"Still just thinking,” I answered.

"What now?"

"Still you."

Another soft laugh. "What about me, sis?"

"This."

It was the only chance I'd have, alone the way we were. I leaned over and touched my lips to hers. Her mouth was soft and yielding, and to my surprise she tenderly returned the kiss. Tasting her softness was like tasting rich wine, and a giddy rush of excitement filled my heart at the contact. It flooded through every fiber and vein, setting flame to every nerve, and coiled in a hot, tight center in my stomach. Just that first forbidden touch brought a sudden wetness between my thighs. I had to have her. There was no going back, no question, no doubt. I had to.

Suddenly she seemed to realize what was going on. She jerked her head away and stared at me with now-wide eyes. She shook her head and started to say something, but I quickly moved to quiet her. I couldn't let this slip away

"No. No, it's okay, Imoen" I breathed, placing my fingers against her cheek. "It's okay." The brief burst of adrenaline had shaken the sleep from her system. Now she regarded me in pure shock. "I love you, Imoen."

"You're my sister!" she whispered.

I edged myself closer to her. "So?"

Her brows furrowed in confusion at my lack of concern. "We're sisters," she repeated.

"I love you, Imoen," I countered in a soft voice. "You know I do. Don't you love me?"

"Well…yeah, but–"

"I just want to show you how I feel. Make you happy." I gave her a playful wink. "You know, be nice for a change instead of ragging on you while we walk."

That brought a reflexive grin to her lips. "Brat," she accused.

"Whatever. You like it."

She rolled her eyes, still smiling.

"So did you like it?" I asked.

"The…kiss?"

I nodded. She pursed her lips. Those beautiful, tempting lips.

"I– I dunno. You just shocked me, that's all."

"You don't know? Then how about this…" I cupped her cheek against my palm and tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head to the side.

"Don't, Audrey…

"I just want to make you happy," I repeated. It was true, to an extent, but I was much more interested the low thrum of desire still burning in my stomach.

"I know." Her tone was uncertain.

"I'll stop if you don't like it, okay?" That was less true. "All you have to do is tell me. I promise I'll stop." That was an outright lie.

I could see the conflict in her face, the indecision. Imoen had always followed my lead, always tried to make me happy, but I'd never asked her for something like this before. I'd never manipulated her like this, using her innocent hero-worship as a lever. But now, lying next to her, both in our night clothes, bundled up in the same blankets... The urge was too strong. I couldn't remember when I first started fantasizing about her, but it'd been long enough to smolder that pent-up lust into open flames. When I'd had a soul I never would have though of seducing my own sister, much less lying to her to do it. But Irenicus had taken care of that problem, and that lack of guilt was something I was starting to enjoy.

"I promise, Immy," I repeated, turning her face towards me again. "If you don't like it…"

I let the words trail off unfinished as I brought my mouth to hers once more. She stiffened, still unsure, as my lips suckled hers and the warmth of my breath brushed her cheek. I didn't stop. I'd waited months for this opportunity and wasn't about to give up so easily. After a few seconds her defenses weakened and I felt her respond to me again. She nipped her teeth lightly against my lower lip and yielded to the demands of my tongue. She was kissing me back.

I explored her slowly at first, tasting her, feeling the soft, warm wetness when her tongue caressed mine. Each and every touch increased the heady dizziness of my arousal, and suddenly I found it hard to catch my breath. The movement of our mouths together evoked a million lustful echoes in my blood and a new spike of desire between my thighs. Soon I found myself kissing her with an insistent, demanding passion which surprised us both.

She pulled away from me again. Her face was flushed. "Audrey, I - I think we should stop."

My heart was pounding in time with the quickened pace of my breath. Stop after drinking in that intoxication? I couldn't. There was no way. “Don't you like it?” I asked. Surely she did; why else the blush in her cheeks?

"I do," Imoen offered hastily. "I do like it. And I like you! I just... I don't think this is a good idea."

“Why not? We're both adults, Imoen,” I reminded her. “If you like it, if I like it–”

"I'm not really comfortable with this," she admitted reluctantly.

“It seems weird,” I acknowledged, then tacked on a reassurance. “But it's okay; you'll get used to it. Give it a few minutes; you'll enjoy it.”

“I don't–”

“Give it a chance, Im,” I insisted. “Just try to relax. For me?”

She looked stricken, torn between herself and the older sister she'd grown up with; between her own life and the person who had saved it so many, many times. I knew Bhaal was probably smiling approvingly on me right now, but I didn't really care. This was too good to be true, and morality be damned. I wanted more.

"For me," I repeated, and after a moment she nodded a hesitant agreement. Gods, this was far too good to be true!

I smiled at her encouragingly and laid down next to her, simply holding her for now. I had to move slower, work her up to it in a more natural way. Imoen had always claimed I had a silver tongue, but body language could persuade just as well. She way she'd returned my kiss – there was no doubt that part of her, somewhere, felt the same flames as I did. I had to find that secret self, coax her out of hiding, persuade her, turn her mind away from what was right and towards what felt right – or towards the scandelous pleasure of what was wrong.

My nightclothes were a simple pair of shorts and cotton tunic, rather boyish in comparison to her long sashed robe. I made certain as I lay down that the warm flesh of my legs and arms touched hers as much as possible. Imoen was still tense as I held her. I stroked her hair, feigning a more sisterly affection for now. I drew her into small talk, reminiscing about pleasant memories from our childhood. I dwelt on the good, the closeness, the friendship, and played upon her emotions this way. She soon began to relax again, but I waited. Timing in this game would be important.

When the right moment came, I brushed my lips across her forehead and captured her gaze with mine. Her warm brown eyes held a note of confusion, of uncertainty, but lacked the pure shock they had earlier. My fingers interlaced with hers and I kissed the corner of her lips. Her hand squeezed mine gently. That was encouraging. I raised her fingers to my lips and kissed the tip of each one. She smiled.

We lay there for several minutes as I bestowed her with small, gentle affections to accustom her to my touch. It was hard to believe it was really happening. Each time our skin met it stoked fire within me and the delicious knowledge that what I was doing was scandalous by every moral standard. The thought of what would come next sent shivers through me. Jaheira, Korgan, and Viconia were still outside, unaware of what passed within the tent. The risk of being discovered aroused me even more.

At last I tasted Imoen's lips for a third time. This time there was no hesitation as she closed her eyes and welcomed me. She was bolder now, and soon I felt her tongue tracing my lips in request and invitation. Our tongues met, enjoined, and retreated again in a sensual play of motion. My free hand instinctively sought out the wild red flames of her hair and made its home therein, holding her as my hungry mouth suckled hers. My sister's hands rose to cup my face as her tongue delved between my lips, tasting me as I had her. The dampness between my thighs had become a torrent of raw desire.

I broke the kiss and moved my hunger to the soft flesh of her neck. She had a soft, natural scent which was uniquely hers and undeniably feminine. I inhaled deeply, breathing her in, as her hands slid from my face to the sandy waves of my hair. I took another breath and let her presence fill my lungs. Gods! Was this what I'd been missing? My lips and tongue explored the curves of her neck and shoulders, occasionally rising to playfully nip her chin or ear. I was breathing fast again, my heart pounding, but above the rush of my own desire I could hear the quickened sound of her own. My sweet little sister was feeling this fire too.

She didn't seem to notice as my fingers loosened the sash at her waist. I didn't undo it completely - not yet - but adjusted the tie until the sides of her robe opened a mere few inches. I rested my hand on her stomach, atop the satiny fabric, as my other hand held hers tightly and my lips continued their eager exploration of her skin. My tongue lapped at the hollow of her collarbone, just above the line of her robe. This close to her heart I could feel it tapping out a rapid, tell-tale beat within her chest. Her fingers smoothed through my hair and over my shoulders, and I thought for a moment of the beautiful image we must make. Her rich auburn hair against my short sandy blond; her pale, soft skin against my woodlands tan.

She balked immediately as my hand slid beneath her robe. I tensed my arm around her waist, forcing her to stay where she was, and returned my kisses to her face.

"It's okay, sis," I whispered to her, tucking her hair behind her ears. My fingers on her stomach painted a slow circle around her navel. "See? I'm not hurting you." The doubt in her eyes faded slowly, struggling to hold on against the tide of bliss. "Just relax. Don't ruin it now."

I didn't give her time to think about it. I returned my attention to her neck, seeking out the tiny spot just below her ear that I knew, from the games of our youth, would send a shiver up her spine. The heat of my mouth was greeted with a shudder and a small gasp of breath. Another tremor raced through her flesh as my other hand trace the curved contours of her waist. Her arms curled back around my shoulders. She was mine.

My hand slowly traveled upwards as my face moved down. They met at the small rise of her breasts. I rested my palm just beneath the right, trailing one fingertip along the underside, as I nuzzled her left breast through the cloth. I glanced up to Imoen's face and found a rapturous sight: her eyes closed, lips slightly parted, hair like rich wine spilled across the pillow. I lifted my head to better look at her, and slowly parted the top of her robe with my hands. The dark blue fabric slid like water over her skin and divulged the creamy swell of each beautiful globe. Imoen's fingernails bit into my upper arms, but her face remained lost in sensation. I pushed the fabric aside. The robe fell open, revealing her to me, and I could see each delicate breast perfectly. They were flushed pink with desire and each small nipple was taut and erect in the evening air.

I swung my leg over hers and moved to lie half atop her, quickly stripping off my own thin cotton shift. Her eyes fluttered open and met mine. I could still see the lingering hesitation there and the blush in her cheeks as her eyes traveled over my nude torso. I wasn't feeling any more hesitation. I knew exactly what I wanted.

I cupped each breast in my hands and squeezed lightly, then brushed the flat of my palm against the hardened tips. Imoen gasped, her whole body trembling, and I grinned in wicked delight. Again I squeezed, harder this time, and drew my entangled leg up along her half-clothed thigh. The hot friction of skin against skin nearly drove me mad. I rolled her nipples between my fingers, teasing them, pinching, ducking my head to draw them between my lips and bathe them with my tongue. Each suck, each tweak of my fingers brought a matching twitch or gasp from Imoen's aroused body. I tugged the sash loose and spread her robe open, finally laying her young body bare to my gaze. She was fit, toned, yet undeniably feminine with all the right curves. Her skin was smooth, marred here and there by scars and scratches from our life on the road. Their imperfection only highlighted how beautiful she was. A small, trimmed patch of reddish curls marked the center of her desire.

My hand slid down her stomach and toyed briefly in those curls. Was she as wet as I was? I traced the valley with my finger tip, provoking a low moan as she arched against my hand. It came away slick with arousal. I could smell the scent of her, the thick musk of sex.

"No... No, Audrey, don't." Imoen caught my hand and sat upright. She was still panting. "We can't do this."

What? She wasn't supposed to object now! "What do you mean?"

"I don't want to do this."

"That's not what your body is saying."

She blushed and took a deep breath, perhaps just now realizing how her body had betrayed her. "My body is responding to... a very pretty, very skillful person whom I like a lot. But this is too far, Audrey."

I growled low in my throat. Gods, how I wanted her. For years now I'd watched her, witnessed her grow into womanhood, seen her develop a body which matched the lovely soul within it. For months I'd tossed and turned at night, fighting the images in my head, fearing that I was sick and perverted for dreaming of my sister's body. I couldn't count how many nights I had laid beside her, wanting to touch her, caress her, rock her body with mine and hear her moan as my fingers curled inside her. And now….now I had it!

"No."

Her brows drew together in confusion. "What?"

I answered her with another kiss, this one not at all tender or caring. The time for that had passed. This one was hungry, demanding, unashamedly rough. She pushed me away immediately.

"What are you doing??"

I grabbed her wrists and yanked her towards me, holding her bare chest against mine. "I want you, Imoen."

"Stop it, Audrey!" she demanded, trying to pull her hands away. I held them firm. "Let me go!"

I was stronger than her – I always had been. I had little difficulty keeping her near me as I kissed her again. She jerked her head away and scrambled to push herself away. I shifted my weight to hook her leg with mine and immobilize her.

"Don't fight me, Im," I warned her. Her struggling was only heightening my lust. Her skin was flushed with sex and anger, her eyes flashed as she bared her teeth at me. "Just relax. Enjoy it."

"I'll scream!"

I laughed. “To Viconia? To Korgan?” The former wouldn't give a damn, and the latter would probably enjoy the show. Imoen knew it as well as I. “What do you think they'd do?”

My words made her eyes thick with uncertainty. "Jaheira," she whispered after a moment.

"And what are you going to say, Immy? That you were this close to fucking me and changed your mind?"

I could see her eyes beginning to shimmer as she realized I wasn't joking. I was stronger, more experienced in fighting. All I had to fear was her magery, and with her hands held there wasn't much she could do.

"Don't make this hard, sis," I whispered to her, still fighting her as she jerked and twisted her arms to free herself. "I want you to enjoy it. I'll let you go if you just cooperate, okay? Just cooperate."

She caught my eyes and watched me warily.

"I'm going to let your hands go, okay?" I continued softly. I needed my hands for... other things. Imoen nodded.

I released her wrists and she slowly withdrew her arms, still eyeing me carefully. Suddenly she bolted, scrambling backwards as fast as she could, ripping at the blanket with her hands as she sought some form of purchase.

I'd expected that.

As soon as she moved I was on top of her, my hands on her hips, pulling her back down as she fought to get to her feet. The robe worked against her now, tangling in her legs and slipping beneath her feet, and dropping her proved easier than I could have hoped. She rolled to her back and lashed out with her feet, one of which slammed into my chest. The hot burn of lust mingled with a surge of anger and with a snarl I yanked her towards me, pinning her leg down as I swung myself over her hips to straddle her, and delivered a hard, fast slap. The blow stunned her for a moment, and I quickly seized her hands again. She opened her mouth to scream and I clamped my hand down over it, silencing any sound. She struggled, but it was in vain; she was no match for me and she knew it. Tears welled up in her eyes and began to trickle down her cheeks, but eventually she lay still beneath me. I removed my hand from her lips.

"Please don't do this, Audrey," she whispered. "Please, please don't this."

"Sorry, Im, but I'm doing this." I moved forward, pressing her arms down to either side of her head, and leaned in so that our faces were only inches apart.

"Do you have any idea how long I've wanted you?" I asked her, brushing my lips against her cheek as I did so. "How many nights, even when we were teenagers, I watched you undress and thought about running my hands over your body? I never said anything because I was afraid to. Afraid and ashamed. But the taint changed all that, Imoen. The taint set me free. Losing my soul... set me free." Her eyes widened as I admitted the darkness which dwelt within me. I kissed her ear. “You're tainted, too, Im,” I reminded her. “Just give in.”

"No, Aud-"

I squeezed her wrists viciously, making her yelp. "Stop telling me 'no.' I want this. You want this – those moans weren't fake. I will have what I want, little sister," I promised her in a low voice. "And you will enjoy it."

She whimpered and tried to pull her hands away again. "Please…"

"Kiss me, Imoen."

She shook her head, and I released her wrist to take her chin firm in my hand. Her cheeks were wet from her tears.

"Kiss me," I repeated. "And don't fight me; you won't win.”

She nodded briefly, then raised her head to touch her lips to mine. The embrace was stiff and shallow.

"Like you mean it," I clarified. "Like you did before."

She kissed me again. It was awkward at first, but I pulled her closer, engaging her, and our mouths quickly and seamlessly melded together. She pressed herself up against me, using her free hand to hold my head to hers as her tongue slipped between my lips. She kissed me with desperate passion, trying hard to please me where before she'd passively enjoyed my attentions. Whether she did it out of fear or desire, I couldn't tell.

"Touch me."

I released her wrist and felt her hands immediately go to my back, drawing her short nails over my skin. They circled my shoulders as we kissed, and I put my own hands on her breasts. They were perfect; so soft and lush that they begged for attention. Her movements mirrored mine and I felt her cup my breasts in her palms. Her hands were hesitant and trembled slightly as her fingers traced the curves. Her thumbs grazed my nipples and sent a shiver through my entire body. The reaction reassured her and her touch became more confident. She squeezed and kneaded my flesh as I sat astride her. The position wasn't the best for what I wanted, though.

"Imoen."

Her motions froze and her eyes met mine with a spark of fear. “What did I do?”

"Nothing, nothing. You're doing great," I assured her with another smile. "I just need to move." I shifted my weight and slowly began to lay down next to her, keeping one leg hooked over hers and watching for any sign of a struggle. There was none. I settled next to her and guided her hips until she faced me, leaning slightly over my prone body. She looked at me questioningly.

"Keep going," I instructed. "Touch me, run your hands over me."

"Where? How?"

"Like this." I took one of her hands in mine and guided it to my ribs. She pulled back before it made contact and shook her head again in refusal. I ignored it and took her hand again, more firmly, and placed it on my side. "Just touch me," I explained, guiding her touch as I spoke. "Slide your hand over my waist…over my chest….my shoulders."

She bit her lip and tried to withdraw again as her hand neared my breasts. "I can't," she whispered. “We're sisters.”

I locked my eyes with hers and squeezed her fingers. "Do it, Im. Touch me like you would want to be touched."

I released her again and watched her as she carefully leaned over me and flattened one slim hand against my stomach. She explored me slowly, tentatively, guiding her quivering palm over my sides, the curve of my hips, the top of my thigh. My hands caressed her shoulders and neck, occasionally dipping lower to evoke a shiver when I teased her nipples with my fingernails. The tremble faded from her touch when she lowered her mouth to the side of my neck and kissed me there. No matter how she protested, the wetness I'd felt earlier didn't lie. Sisters we might be, but soon we'd be more.

Her tongue licked a delicate path over my collarbone, painting my flushed skin with sweet wetness as she made her way down my chest. One hand slid beneath my back to support her weight as her other circled my bare knee and began to return along my inner thigh. My fingers curled tightly into her hair when her lips found my eager nipples and surrounded them with warmth. She alternated between gentle pressure and the hard edge of her teeth, enveloping then biting softly, and her hand ceased its motion at the bottom hem of my shorts. Her fingers circled my thigh just below the fabric with a light, feathery touch. My body twisted beneath her and I whimpered in frustration.

Now her attention switched to my other breast. Her tongue lathed the tip in heat, then she blew cool air across it. Her other hand rose to caress the taut muscles of my neck. Another swirl of wetness, another breath of chill, followed immediately by a sharp, sweet pain as her teeth closed playfully around me. At the same time suddenly I felt her, her fingers pressing between my legs, a single rough stroke which rubbed the coarse fabric against me with delicious friction. My entire body tensed and I bit down on my lower lip, transforming the moan of pleasure into a muffled, tortured cry. Her hand retreated, and her mouth returned to mine. I realized with delighted frustration that she was teasing me.

"Don't stop," I panted. It was half-plea and half-command.

She placed her hands at my waistband and drew the cloth downwards. I arched my hips off the blanket to quicken the process. She moved leisurely, taking her time, and I could see and feel each inch of my body being exposed to the cool night air and Imoen's dark gaze. A faint, pleased half-smile curved her lips and I wondered briefly if she was smiling because she liked pleasing me, or because her taunting was some level of revenge for my earlier roughness.

Finally the shorts were removed, and we lay naked together. She leaned over me, scratching her nails over my inner thighs, not hard enough to hurt. My legs parted willingly as her fingers neared their juncture, but again I was denied as her touch withdrew. Instead her hands rested on my knees, pushing them further apart, wantonly exposing me to her. Her eyes were locked with mine and I saw a challenge there: a challenge of her will versus mine. Our gazes held and my eyes widened in anticipation as she slowly lowered her face towards me. The smoldering energy in her eyes bade me to be still as her hair tickled against my hips and the heat of her breath caressed my center. I watched with a pounding heart as her nose brushed against my short brown curls.

The warm velvet of her tongue slid along my labia and tasted the wetness there. Imoen's hands kept my legs still as I writhed in sheer, unabashed pleasure at the touch. She covered each one with a long lick from bottom to top, savoring me, goading my arousal to new heights. I knew I was swollen and pink from my lust, sensitive to every motion, and Imoen doubtlessly knew it as well. She brushed her lips against the bottom of my slit, pulled back again, then did the same at the top. Light, cursory touches which pleased without parting me, until at last she judged me ready. She took me into her mouth, kissing and nibbling my lips, darting her tongue over me and into me. I moaned as my body shuddered and my hands tightened reflexively in her hair. I was completely open to her now, completely vulnerable to the teasing tip of her muscle, and she seemed to know exactly how to use it. Had she done this before?

"Keep going!" My voice was rough and strained from sensation. "Please!"

Her lips closed around my clit and sucked it in to be teased and bathed by her tongue. Each flick of the tip against the sensitive nub made me jerk my hips against her face. She soon found a rhythm, found that I moaned the loudest when her tongue caressed a certain spot, and began licking me with renewed enthusiasm. She lapped up my juices as I ground my hips against her mouth and fought to keep from screaming and alerting our companions outside. The sensation welled up inside me to a breaking point and I came with a barely restrained cry. My body trembled and shook as the orgasm consumed me, as my thighs tightened around her, as my sister's face buried between my legs made me shudder again and again. The shocks subsided slowly in glorious, delicious waves.

I pulled Imoen into my arms and kissed her. My own taste was there, mixed with the familiar sweetness of her lips. My hand slid between her thighs, which she had tightly closed.

"I did what you wanted,” she said. The soft sheen of sweat across her skin and rapid rise and fall of her chest made the protest – if it was one – sound feeble at best.

"Sssh." I kissed the tear from her cheek. "I'm going to make you feel as good as I do."

I'd watched her for years, feigning sleep and observing her through half-closed eyes. More than once I'd seen and heard her pleasure herself in the silence of our bedrooms, watched her finger herself and seen her cum. Sometimes I'd do the same and masturbate even as she did, pretending that it was her hand between my legs and mine between hers. I'd watched and I'd learned. I knew how she liked it.

I trailed my fingers through her auburn curls and ran one fingertip along the slick edge of her lips. She was even wetter now than when I'd touched her before, and her swollen inner lips peeked outwards from the larger folds. Oh, she'd enjoyed it, all right. Her body told the truth. My finger parted her and caressed the inner edge of her labia. She closed her eyes and gasped softly. The resistance was gone as I used my leg to urge hers further apart and levered myself above her. I kissed her gently and she responded with trembling lips. I let her guide the intensity while I continued to stroke her center. At the top of each stroke I pressed against her clit, causing her to arch her hips against me in wanton lust. Soon her mouth had transformed our embrace into a hungry, desperate battle as she wrapped her arms around my shoulders and crushed me tightly against her naked form. Small whimpers and cries of passion greeted my ears and her body twisted in an attempt to maintain contact with my fingers.

I knew what she wanted.

"Imoen."

Her eyes flashed open and locked with mine. The molten brown depths were livid with desire and I could see nothing on her face but pure, unbridled passion. She was nearly lost to it.

"Tell me what you want."

"I– Audrey, I - ah!" Her words dissolved into a wordless cry as my fingers pressed into her clit again. She twisted her head to the side, panting hard and fast.

"Tell me," I repeated. I wanted her to say it.

"I can't," she gasped. "I can't, I can't!"

"Tell me."

"Damn it, I ca-aah!" She twisted again, every muscle in her body tensing in readiness only to be denied again as my fingers started another stroke. "Fuck!"

I smirked. I was enjoying this. "Is that a request or a demand?"

"Both! Neither! Just-" she moaned again and her nails bit painfully into the back of my shoulders. "Gods, just fuck me! Please!"

The words made my heart redouble its beat. That was what I'd wanted to hear! I captured her mouth with mine once more and pushed two fingers hard and deep inside of her. Her cry mixed pain with pleasure and was smothered against my lips. I covered her mouth with my hand and then leaned down to close my teeth on her neck, biting hard, marking her skin. My fingers thrust inside her, pumping in and out rough and fast, each time burying myself up to my knuckles. She met my thrusts with equal fervor and her muffled cries urged me on.

"You like this," I growled in her ear. "You like it to hurt, don't you?" I didn't expect a response and I didn't get one. Imoen was too far gone in the cascades of pleasure; her moans against my palm were all she could say. "You like having your sister fuck you."

I punctuated the word with a particularly vicious thrust and she jerked against me in mindless response. I could feel her body quickly building to a climax beneath me. She was about to cum, and cum hard. I loosened my fingers to allow her more air; her rough, ragged panting was music to my ears. Three final, strong strokes sent her over the edge and her nails broke through my skin as she screamed. I clapped my palm back over her lips but the sound had already escaped; surely everyone in the camp had heard her. I held my fingers inside her for a minute as her muscles squeezed and contracted around me, holding me as the orgasm shook her. Finally she collapsed beneath me, sweat-soaked and shining with the afterglow. I withdrew my fingers and uncovered her mouth.

We lay there for several minutes and I simply held her. Small aftershocks made her naked form tremble against me even after her breathing and heart rate had slowed to normal. I could hear the others talking outside, but if anyone wondered - or cared - what had happened, they did not come in to ask.

I watched her eyes as I lie beside her. There was desire there, contentment, wonder — but also confusion, fear, and shame. I wondered if that's why she'd protested - not because she didn't like it, but because she had liked it, and felt that she shouldn't. Perhaps she'd liked it too much for her own comfort.

She'd get used to it. Next time it would be a little easier, a little more natural for her. And I already knew there'd be many, many 'next times.'

---

The Joys of Nature

"I hate you!" Imoen hissed, balling her fists at her sides and glaring. "Hate you, hate you, hate you! Why don't you just crawl off and die?"

The five-inch long wooly monster which was camped out on her carefully folded clothing didn't seem ipressed. It watched her boredly and chewed a leaf which had fallen there. Maybe it wasn't boredom. Maybe it was anticipation. Pure, evil anticipation waiting for Imoen to freeze to death in the middle of the lake.

"Look, c'mon, just gimme the clothes," she pleaded. "Puffguts's gonna skin me alive if I'm caught sneaking back into Candlekeep without my skivvies." She swam a little closer, keeping low in the water, until she was next to the ledge that she'd thought was a safe place to hide her stuff. The caterpillar took a pointed munch out of the leaf, just daring her to make a go for it.

"Good caterpillar," she murmured, flashing it the same charming smile that worked on the denizens of the library. "You're a girl, right? We redheads gotta stick together." The thick scarlet bristles shivered in response. Hey, maybe this thing really was intelligent. She'd heard of stranger things in those dusty old tomes. "I'm just gonna reach out..." Her hand slipped forward. Even if she had to go home wet, at least she'd go home clothed. "...just reach out and take my pants, okay? Good caterpillar. Good, gooooood fuzzy red monstrosi–eep!!"

The beast made a lunge for it, darting towards her hand with unnatural speed, and Imoen launched herself back into the water with a less-than-graceful splash. She sputtered and spit as her head broke the surface of the lake again and shook her wild red hair out of her face as she glared at the wooly worm of Hell with renewed vehemence. "If I was a mage, I'd summon the biggest, ugliest bird alive and make it eat you!"

"Yeah, but you aren't," came a chuckled reply. "Hell of a trick if you could, though."

Imoen spun around — well, as best she could while keeping afloat — and her eyes widened. "YOU!" Three quick strokes of her legs brought her to the edge of the left bank. Nessime sat a few feet from the embankment with her arms around her knees, looking at her with the god-awful, knowing smirk she always had. "Go get my clothes!"

"But you were so close! Don't let a little worm outfight you."

"It's not little! D'ya see how it came after me?"

Another lopsided smile. "Yes, all five inches of leaf-eating fury."

"It tried to eat me!"

"Oh, it did not."

"Dammit, Ness, you know spells and stuff," Imoen huffed. "Go zap it or something!"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"'Cause I'm cold, you dork!" She slapped her hand against the water but the splash didn't come anywhere near the other girl.

Nessime stood up and smoothed out the pleats in her long, dark green skirt. Unlike her childhood friend, Ness actually put a fair bit of attention into her appearance and usually dressed accordingly. Right now, in the ankle-length skirt and a pressed, short-sleeved white blouse, she looked out of place in the forest. She was a few years older than Imoen — she'd be 17 this year — and to the redhead's vast annoyance she had definitely developed some womanly charms. All the boys oggled her when they thought she wasn't looking, and Nessime did nothing to discourage them. She was pretty, and she knew it. In fact, lately she'd taken to putting slits in the sides of her skirt so that flashes of her slim legs could be seen as she walked. This particular skirt's cut stopped at the knees.

All of it made Imoen uncomfortable. Her and Ness'd been together for as long as they could remember, and on some level she knew it'd just be a matter of time before they grew apart. If — when — Nessie found a boyfriend, she'd want to hang out with him instead of the michievious girl two years her junior. She'd be all fawning over him, kissing him, being alone with him instead of helping Imoen with her latest scheme to give the monks a heart attack. A bit of magic did wonders in practical jokes. She didn't want to lose that friendship. She was jealous. She didn't want Nessime hanging on some icky boy. She wanted her to hang on... on her.

"Hey, you! The redheaded nymph in the water!"

Imoen shook the thoughts out of her head and realized that Nessie was standing over by her clothes now and trying to get her attention. She ducked under the surface and pulled herself through the water, resurfacing once more a safe distance away from the bushy thing of evil.

"So tell me, fair maiden — how exactly did you end up being held hostage by the fiercesome red wyrm?"

Imoen gave the brunette a scything glare. "Just gimme the clothes."

She grinned, green eyes sparkling. "No way. I want to hear this."

"Nessime!"

"I have all day, sugar. You, however, were supposed to be back for chores an hour ago."

"Well I would've been if somethin' hadn't hijacked my stuff!"

"You mean you've been here for an hour trying to battle off a bug?" The grin widened and took on a very familiar wicked cast. Oh, this was going to be gossip for weeks. "Come on, dish up the details."

"You're as bad as that furry fiend," she accused.

"You know you'd tease me if I was the one in the water."

"That's different!"

"Is not."

"Is too!"

"Is not. Now tell."

The redhead's lips pursed together in a frustrated pout. "Okay, okay. So I was minding my own business just enjoying the sun, it bein' the first day of summer and all, right?"

Imoen minding her own business? The smirk returned to Nessime's lips. "Right."

"So there's this lake, and I think to myself, 'Y'know, Imoen, today's a great day for a swim, dontcha think? Yup, Imoen, it sure is!' So I'm looking at all this beautiful blue water and figure I'll take a dip. And that's the story."

"Where's the part where your clothes magically flew off onto this rock?"

This time the splash of water hit Nessime in the chest. "So I went skinny dipping, is that such a crime?" the girl demanded, her cheeks reddening in embarrassment and anger. "It's not like anyone was here to see anyways. And if it wasn't for that damn caterpillar y'wouldn't've been any the wiser!"

The young sorceress looked down at her blouse. "Dammit, Im, now you got me wet. Besides, you can't spend your whole life being afraid of every creepy-crawly. Get out of the water."

"I'm not afraid of all of them, just the scary ones. So gimme my clothes," she demanded again.

"What, you're going to change in the lake?" Nessime scooped up the pile of fabric, caterpillar included, and went back to her former, drier location.

"What, I'm gonna frolic naked in the woods?"

"There's no one around but me, silly."

"That's enough."

Nessime pulled the offending insect off Imoen's shirt with a bit of effort; he had quite a grip. Once free she let him crawl across her fingers for a moment before setting him down in the grass. The wavy lump-lump-lump of his body slowly crept away.

"Im, c'mon, it's almost dinner time."

Imoen sighed, still slowly scissoring her legs to hold her place in the water. "Cantcha give a girl some privacy?"

"When'd you get all modest?"

"About the same time ya started showing off your gams to everyone in Candlekeep."

"Well if everyone's looking at me, what do you have to worry about?" Her eyes twinkled mischeviously. "Kids run around naked all the time, nobody cares."

"I care," Imoen informed her. "And I'm not a kid!" The tone of the girl's voice had changed, and Nessime realized she'd pushed the teasing too far. Imoen was honestly upset. "You aren't the only one with a nice body, y'know."

"Hey, I'm sorry. I was just teasing."

"Well it's not funny."

"I know." She set the clothes down on the grass and started to get to her feet. "Look, I'll just wait by the trail, okay? We can walk home together after you're dressed."

"Fine."

Nessime waited by the trail about five minutes, sighing and berating herself for the exchange. Normally Imoen would have had an immature retort ready to fire at a moment's notice, but she was... well, just so edgy lately. Around her, at least. The mage couldn't remember doing anything that would have upset her prankster friend, but Imoen had a surprisingly long memory and just because it wasn't recent didn't mean you'd gotten away with it. She'd learned that the hard way when Imoen had spent nearly six months plotting up an elaborate revenge for when Nessime cast a cantrip that made her smell like rotten eggs all day. Still, it wasn't like Imoen to be so obvious when she was mad. Usually that was the warning sign — Imoen always took pains to be excruciatingly nice just before you sprung her trap. No... something serious was definitely up.

She finally asked her about it about five minutes into their walk.

Imoen shrugged it off. "Nothin'."

"C'mon, Im, something's bothering you. I'd like to know."

"It's nothing, okay? I just..." Her lips pursed into a soft, unconscious frown. "I know I'm just a kid. I just wish ya didn't see me that way."

Nessime chuckled a bit. "Everyone thinks we're still kids. I don't see how they couldn't; you know the youngest monk in there is like thirty or something? So old!"

Another light shrug. "Eh, I don't care 'bout them. Not their opinions, I mean."

"Yeah, I know. You love 'Old Puffguts' to death," she smiled, using Imoen's pet name for the gruff old innkeeper.

She smiled back. "Yeah, I s'pose. And Mister G isn't too bad."

"Have they been ribbing you about your age?"

The smiled faded a bit. "Nah. Not them."

"Who, then?" Nessime snapped her fingers and made a small flicker of flame, no larger than a match, dance between them. "I'll give'em a hot foot. That'll teach them."

Imoen laughed and punched her lightly in the shoulder. "Dork. You couldn't do that if ya tried."

"I'm getting better."

"Whatever!"

"I am! Yesterday I created a new spell."

One fiery eyebrow arched up in disbelief.

"I did," the brunette insisted. "It's my very own varient of Magic Missle. I call it.... Magic Fizzle!" This time Imoen's punch was a bit harder and Ness rubbed her shoulder ruefully. "Ow."

"Dork," Imoen smiled again.

They walked a few more minutes in soft, easy silence as the Candlekeep walls loomed before them. The guards had strict instructions not to let in anyone — including them — without proper payment, but that'd never stopped Imoen from figuring out increasingly more elaborate escape plans. This time she'd managed to steal a grappling hook from gods-only-knew where and used that and some rope from the barn to scale the wall.

"Hey, Nessie." The redhead slid closer to her, placing one arm around her waist. The older girl put her arm over Imoen's shoulder and waited for her to continue. "D'ya think I'm just a kid?"

"What? At fifteen? You're practically an old hag."

She pinched her side, illiciting a yelp from the taller mage. "C'mon, I'm serious."

"Then... well... yes." Nessime could tell the answer disappointed her, and hastened to explain. "We both are, Im. I'm only two summers older than you are, after all. Sure we have chores and such, but we don't have half the responsibility that the adults have yet. Could you imagine if something happened to Gorion or Winthrop? We'd be clueless."

Imoen seemed to consider that for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. "D'y'think I'm pretty?"

Nessime pursed her lips thoughtfully and glanced down at the head on her shoulder. Imoen wasn't looking at her. She'd never really stopped to think about that before, whether or not she was pretty. Imoen was... well... Imoen. Unique. Special. She had inner beauty, doubtlessly. She could flash a smile that would charm the gods themselves, if she had a mind to, and butter up a troll into pleasant mood. And whether or not she realized it, Imoen was getting some looks from some of the boys around the library — and one of the girls, Nessime had noticed with surprise. Not that Imoen had ever shown any interest back, to anyone.

But pretty? Her mind flashed through all the memories they'd had together, all the laughter, and the occasional tears. The curve of Imoen's smile, the way her eyes flashed when she was happy or glittered with warning when her wild impulses struck. She remembered the way her hair caught the sunlight and shined with natural fire... and her body, at the lake today. Flustered, cold, and embarrassed, but Imoen was right. Nessime wasn't the only one with a nice body. Her physical looks would rank as 'cute,' but once you added in her personality...

"Yeah, Imoen," she answered, equally as soft, and squeezed the girl closer. "You're beautiful."

"I think you are, too." The arm around her waist tightened in response, and Imoen's dazzling smile rewarded her. "So... uh... you won't be mad that I can't remember where I put the rope, right?"

---

They Always Say That

They said it wouldn't hurt.

Doctors always say that, especially dentists. Or sometimes it will only hurt "a bit" – as if they know what you will feel, where your nerves run, and how many of those tiny electrical impulses zap from your skin to your brain every second. No one ever tells you it's going to hurt like bloody hell, or that you'll pass out and wake up on the floor with a bunch of strangers in medical uniforms surrounding you. If you're lucky, you fall face-up, vulnerable derriere safely flattened against the tile floor instead of peeking out of that flimsy paper gown for all the world to see. And laugh at. Being laughed at usually hurts more than whatever made you faint. Why don't they ever tell you that?

I like to think about things when they're poking at me. Sometimes they'll have headphones for me to listen to: jazz music, the local radio stations, some evangelist preaching about the end of the world. Other times they'll have posters to study. My favorites are the 3D-image kind that you have to cross your eyes to understand. There's one on the ceiling now. It's beautiful in a chaotic way, all green and blue specks and yellow streaks. When I feel the scalpel dig into my skin and cleanly divide my last barrier to the world, I try very hard to focus on the poster. In a way, those little 3D posters imitate reality. Art mimics life, they say – whoever "they" are. Life mimics art, say others. I wonder which I am. I don't think I'm a "they", so I must be an "other." Shallow, distant, faceless, flat... one of the ill-defined masses of society known simply as "others." Being a "they" must be more interesting; every witty quip and poignant proverb is attributed first-hand to your lips. The steady razor-edge of the blade traces its graceful line down, down, down, down, separating the epidermis and the thin layers of fatty tissue below.

Definitely an "other." Because "they" said it wouldn't hurt.

"They" muttered now and then. Doctors speak like they write – unintelligibly. I wonder if their minds are like their handwriting. Small, cramped, missing various pieces, and totally mystifying to the outsider. To the others. Maybe they're more like that poster: small, chaotic, and totally mystifying. There's not much difference, really. Maybe that explains why so many of them have these little 3D posters all over the place. A glimpse at familiarity. My eyes keep trying to adjust focus to bring out the hidden image, but just when it solidifies it disappears again. A glimpse at madness. And we trust these people with our lives.

I'm pretty sure it's a fish.

The blade lifts momentarily before piercing the flesh in the same location, different angle. Connect the dots, paint-by-numbers, please be careful about staying inside the lines. How do they make such straight cuts when they can't even write legibly? How do I see patterns in a massive blur of strokes and dashes? Another lift, another angle. That smooth, eerie feeling of my skin peeling back from the intruding edge. It feels dryish. Arid. Bloodless. Maybe they're really vampires. No one would ever suspect someone employed in saving lives of siphoning those lives away.

The scalpel stops. Hands replace it. Latex fingers the edge of my slit in the most intimate of fashions. Skin is lifted, and something long and hard slides inside me. The connective tissue which hold flesh to muscle are severed. Terminal unemployment, you might say. They, others, and you. Introductions all around. I'd giggle if I could.

They withdraw then penetrate once more, then again, each time caressing the opening their steel makes. Connectivity lost. No carrier. Can we re-establish the connection, Lieutenant?

Finally the skin is lifted a final time, folded back and set to rest to either side of my opening. A blurry figure of a man appears. Perhaps a woman. One of "them." They stand over me, look me over, raise a hand. There is something small and dark encased there. Squarish, like the poster.

Click.

"White female, approximately 20 years of age, hair brown, eyes blues, height of 5 feet 6 inches, weight approximately 135 pounds...."

At last the chaos clarifies and the poster reveals its secret. It is human, the hidden item within. Was? Is? Dark hair, pale skin, blue eyes. Her gaze is vacant. Her chest is cut open along the central line, down the sternum, into the abdomen, with two diagonal cuts over the lower stomach. The flesh had been peeled away and neatly folded, giving full view to the delicate organs encased in the abdominal cavity. There I lay, out for all to see, lacking even flimsy paper gown to hid my nakedness. At least they weren't laughing.

"Brought in at 9:43pm, November 10th, 2000. Cause of death: negative reaction to anaesthesia during benign tumor removal."

Click.

The mortician's hands set down the tape recorder and begin examining my innermost secrets laid bare by his razor-steel. I wonder if he knew what death was like. They always mention a light in the tunnel, sunshine in Heaven, brimstone in Hell. I wonder if when they die they'll realize just how wrong they are. Harps, pitchforks, glowing lights... no 3D posters, though. Sorry, Doc, wrong again. I shouldn't really be surprised. They said it wouldn't hurt, they said death leads to a better place.

They always say things like that.

---

Untitled Baldur's Gate Erotica

The sun had long passed her zenith.  Tired and defeated she gradually sunk beyond the horizon, exhausted from the never-ending cycle that she suffered again and again each day.  The last fading rays just barely reached the dry, sandy earth.

Lost in her thoughts, she watched how the shadows slowly crept up the ancient walls.  They were eroded and weathered, in some places already covered with moss.  This wall, too, had been built to stand forever, staring out over the barren sea.  And, she thought with a grimace, this wall too would fail to fulfill its promise.  Cities throughout the land had burnt down to ashes; villages were plundered and nations had crumbled.  Why should this wall, this monastery, escape that same fate?  Because there was knowledge here?  Power?  Because of its connection with the sage Alando?  Aliya looked away from the stone wall, following the horizon over the furrowed fields, towards the sea.  No, she thought bitterly.  Someday time will crush my home as well.

She sighed yet again.  She'd done little else today but sigh.  She started walking, the north wind pushing in her back as if it could sense her reluctance.  She inhaled the scent of salt and sea-foam.  More and more she felt a kinship with the swelling waves as they smashed themselves into nothingness against the jagged shoreline.  Deep clefts and gorges in the rocks testified to nature's readiness to destroy itself.

She could stare at the waves for hours in fascination.  They symbolized her thoughts.  People, nature, cities – everything was relative.  And temporary.  Those truths looped continuously through her mind.  When she looked at the waves she saw her unspoken rightness, the thoughts that people would rather not hear.  That they ignored or repressed.  Here, alone, she could confide her thoughts in the waves.  She had to.  Who else would listen?

She shut her eyes.  How long had it been since she'd thought about laughter, the clink of toasting glasses, and the intimacy of private jokes?  It seemed like an eternity.  Minutes stretched past as she racked her memory to find an answer – any answer – to even one of the countless questions that ricocheted through her head.  She shook her head, shook the long blond hair out of her face.  No effect.  She opened her eyes and looked towards the heavens.  Tears burnt in the corners of her eyes.  Why?  Why me?  And why am I crying now?  This last thought she shook resolutely away.  No weakness.  She already felt so small, so shut off from the world she'd always trusted.  Tears only proved that she'd failed.

As a child she'd been full of dreams.  Her father, Gorion, had always nurtured them.  Dream, he always said.  Dream, because you can make them come true.  In fact that had been something that and always given her strength:  she knew and acknowledged her own talent.  Magic.  Gorion had read forth the first incantations, back when she hadn't been able.  Not much later she'd realized that saying these incomprehensible words had an effect – an effect that she couldn't explain.  Her father had embraced her that day and told her that she was unique, extraordinary, and special.  For years she'd fixated on those words.  She began to feel different.  She was different.  Until one day she'd received a lecture on empathy.  On compassion.  On kindness to one's fellow man.  They've made me submissive, she thought.  Thanks to the monks she now felt guilty, guilty because of what the old men called her 'feelings of superiority.'  And that wasn't good.  So they said.  What did she know?  Who were these bald, wrinkled monks to demand that she show compassion?  And compassion to whom, for that matter?  She had never met someone her equal.  No, that's not true, she corrected herself firmly.  Not everyone was inferior to her.  Not Imoen.  Imoen was different.  Imoen was her equal.  Even more – Imoen was her friend.  If the world came to an end – which happened faster than people would think – then she would take Imoen with her.

A gust of wind whipped her hair into her face.  Goosebumps crawled across her neck and shoulders as she shivered.  The day was dying.  Still she stood motionless.  In her mind's eye she saw a smile, delicate pink lips, brilliant eyes.  Soft red hair that fell across small, finely-muscled shoulder.  Those shoulders blended fluidly into graceful arms.  Arms that were slim and sculpted, but so quick that should you blink, you would miss it.  She was beautiful, enviously beautiful.  Aliya felt so ugly in comparison.  Her stomach, arms, and legs were also thin, but she felt no pride in them.  Her mother was an Elf, her father had said, and she'd inherited her lithe, statuesque figure from her.  Not that it mattered much in the end.  She cloaked her body in long red robes – wizards' robes, as they were so grandly described.  She radiated wisdom and power.  Here, now, she need not bite back her 'superior' thoughts.  She was in her own world.  No one would hear them.

It was Imoen who had chased her into those robes.  Although she was far from cursed with her appearance, she could never compete with what her best friend was, and why every gaze was drawn to her.  And she abuses it, she thought bitterly.  Why Imoen bewitched people so wasn't difficult to guess.  Though not overly daring, her tight leather tunics and simple linen pants were elegant and invited you to follow each line and curve of their contents.  She saw how the boys, while they were talking to Imoen, couldn't resist the temptation to steal a quick glance at her subtle décolleté.  Imoen saw it too – of that she was certain.  She did absolutely nothing to stop them, and simply let the boys make fools of themselves.  Maybe she even enjoyed it, how their eyes slid of her small straight nose, over her smooth, soft chin, down towards her chest.  Hadn't she doen as much herself?  Hadn't she lain next to her best friend for hours, enjoying the sun?  Hadn't she, while Imoen told her about locks and how to foil them, nodded as her gaze wandered south?  It was Imoen's own fault.  When she was with Aliya she traded her leather for simpler linen fabrics.  Imoen saved the form-hugging leather for the boys, she thought.  But when she was alone with her, the material was lighter, looser, and sat more comfortable against her skin.  Revealed more of what was underneath.

Stop.  She forced her eyes open.  The image still danced before her.  Stop, she repeated, more firmly this time.  She drew in a deep breath.  Another.  She found herself breathless, as if she'd just ran at full speed.  A little dizzy.  The contours of the image began to fade; the field behind it came once more into focus.  She wanted to fall to her knees and rest her head against the earth.  She forced herself to stand firm.  She sighed deeply once again and resolutely turned around.  Enough.  She needed space in her mind, fresh air in her lungs, but she trembled.  How long she had stood there like that, she didn't know.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw curious, surprised, and perhaps even concerned faces.  She didn't want to see them.  She certainly didn't want them to see her.  Not here, not now.  No weakness.  She strode away from the great gothic gates of Candlekeep with a firm and purposeful stride.

She'd lost track of time.  How long had she stood there?  How late had it been when she had still stood, staring at the worn-down walls?  Her memory seemed empty.  A sudden, panicked thought struck her.  Spells, texts, sayings – was it all gone?  She slowed her pace, then forced herself to stop.  Formulas, techniques, parchment... it was still there.  It would never disappear.  With a sigh of relief she continued walking, her steps now more in control.  For the first time that day she allowed herself to look around, and to see.  Suddenly the walls didn't seem so sea-beaten and rotten.  The people were no longer creatures that could expect nothing from her but disdain.  She almost even felt a smile come to her lips.  Out of shame, she shoved it away.  Have compassion for others, she reminded herself.  But stay true to yourself.  Inside, she regarded the happiness in her heart with mixed feelings.  It felt good, but it confused her.  All these months of bitterness, of holding herself back, and now this?  She didn't know what to do.  It was as if she had thrown the blanket of cynicism from her shoulders and at the same time suddenly felt cold.

Before she could delve deeper, she found herself in front of the Candlekeep inn.  The building, situated against the monastery's walls like all of the prominent buildings, was like a second home to her.  When she hadn't been studying in the grand library, she'd be found here, amidst the cluttered tables upon a cracked wooden floor that had seen better years.  Somewhere against the wall, she and Imoen would sit, engrossed in conversation.  She pushed open one of the two oaken doors and paused before the candle-lit, half-shadowed room.  The inhabitants of this self-contained universe looked up at the sudden invasion of daylight, and the intruder responsible for the unexpected disruption.  She saw a few hands rise, waving in greeting, as their sun-blind owners assumed it was one of their own.  She wasn't given time to adjust to the change in illumination.  Two lithe arms wrapped around her and pushed her against the wall, a warm cheek against her own.  She felt two lips press against her cheek in a quick, feathery kiss.  When she finally regained her equilibrium, she found herself eye to eye with Imoen.

A wave of warmth swelled inside her, as pleasurable as it was frightening.  The rational part of her brain tried for a half-nonchalant reaction, despite her sudden need to support herself against the wall as she recovered, her cheek still burning red.  There was no time to recover.  Imoen looked at her expectantly.  She knew what was expected of her.  Half in panic, she quickly looked upwards.  Imoen flashed through her line of sight and she cursed herself that the image of her friend's leather-hugged breasts lingered in her mind as she desperately sought out Imoen's eyes.  She clumsily tried to smile despite herself – something that likely ended up looking like an awkward half-grimace.

At that moment, if she could have, she would have happily crept into the smallest, tightest hole under the Earth's surface, peacefully contemplating her triumphs and defeats -- if only she'd learned the right spell.  Instead she forced herself to focus on the here and now.  Could she get out of this?  Where could she run to?  The muscles of her stomach clenched together, her cheeks flushed red, and she knew that she couldn't look Imoen in the eyes.  She couldn't; she didn't dare.  The cramp in her stomach intensified.  The image that she tried with all her might to banish burnt itself forcefully into her retinas.  Imoen's breasts, shield from her vision by leather straps, cotton, and lacing.  They pressed against the material and the leather moulded itself effortlessly to their contours.  The covering melded seamlessly with the lines of her body, as if crafted expressly for that reason.  For a moment she almost touched her.  Had she not held her arms tight against her body, her fingertips would have grazed the kid-soft leather.

Stop.  Stop now.  She had completely lost control of her breathing.  The shreds of her quasi-nonchalant air had been ripped away.  Her eyes flashed down, focusing on her lower extremities and the simple leather shoes.  Her neck cramped in protest.  Even had she wished to look up, her neck muscles wouldn't have allowed it.  She muttered something about homework as she slipped out and around her friend.  She stumbled hurriedly towards the staircase, barely managing to catch herself on the railing as she tripped over her own dress.  She thrust out her foot, found the first step, and ran up the stairs without looking back.

For the rest of the evening she tried without success to concentrate on ancient texts, written on age-yellowed parchment and illuminated by a slim, half-burnt candle.  The words in front of her, scattered over a stack of documents both on and around her knees, flowed past in an indistinct blur.  She struggled to separate out the words and letters from various lines.  It was an impossible task.  The sea of letters transformed into a tangled skein of incomprehensible scratches, lumps of spilled ink that her intellect had no grasp on.  It reminded her of the times before she learned to read; back then, though, she had had Gorion, who had been able to make that leap between sigil and story and taught her the contents of the glyphs.  Now she had to do it without him.  She spoke with him often, but the duties of education had long since been taken over by the monks.

Those accursed, Gods-be-damned monks.  Why would they do that, anyways?  They already had power enough to transform sprouts into trees, earth into water, and even the living into the dead, should they wish it.  An abrupt spark of rage flared to life.  She hated this fortress, this building, this room.  But most of all she hated that Imoen slept in the self-same chamber as she did.  True, a sheet hung between their beds, but it hid little.  Why not a wall?  How could the Gods do this to her?  Wasn't her intelligence punishment enough?  Must she further suffer the sight of her best friend, her beautiful friend, her Imoen undress herself, pull on her night robe, and lay in bed dreaming of Gods-only-knew what?  Probably of boys.   She couldn't stand to hear the stories anymore.  Day in and day out Imoen kept her informed of each exchanged smile and every possible consequence.  Why did she do that?  Didn't she see that she, Aliya, had so much more to offer?

Couldn't she see that they had so much more in common?  Didn't she also have a body?  Also a feminine form?  Breasts?  Did she have to throw off her robes before Imoen would even notice?  Should she bend over and force Imoen to look?  Press her chest against her when she greeted her?  Why didn't Imoen look at her like that?  She sniffled softly, swallowing down her tears.  She was desperate, she admitted to herself.  The questions had thundered through her head for weeks already, like some sort of sadistic torture.  She had even considered donning something more...daring.  But her pride couldn't bear it.

She pushed the papers from her bed with a hard, sulkish shove and shook out her bedsheet with more force than necessary.  In the distance a stair creaked.  She quickly doused the candle, glancing for a desperate moment over the stack of papers now strewn across the floor.  There was nothing she could do, and she breathed a half-second's prayer that it wouldn't be noticeable in the dark.  Her back trembled.  She'd lain still too long, clad in only a modest nightgown.  She levered herself gingerly into a half-lying position against the backrest of her simple bed.  Her stiffened spine protested the sudden change, but she silenced it with a firm thought.  Sighing, she pulled out the blankets from beneath her legs and spread them out atop her.  The noise she'd heard a moment earlier had apparently found its way to the narrow hallway.  It was dark as well, but the usual stumbling and muffled cursing that came from small, unlit passages and bumped and bruised guests was absent.  It could mean only one thing.

A moment later her suspicions were confirmed when the door opened with a soft creak.  The single ray of moonlight that shone through the window gave light enough that she could make out the vague shape her friend from behind half-closed eyes.  Her slim body cast a wispy shadow across the floor as she approached the bed next to her in absolute silence.  Aliya turned her head to follow the motion.  Imoen left the hanging sheet undisturbed, likely hoping not to wake her, and Aliya realized to her horror that that same wave of excitement from earlier in the evening now washed over her body again.

She watched as Imoen slowly began to remove her clothing.  For a moment she wanted to look away.  You didn't look at your best friend that way.  Certainly not like this:  secretly, feigning sleep, keeping the other ignorant to your desire.  Spying.  Watching.

Watch her.  The voice didn't come from her unsettled conscience.  Where this sudden intruder in her thoughts came from, she didn't know – and at that moment, didn't care.  They were simple words, but the tone... the tone intrigued her.  There was no hesitation, no gnawing guilt as so often plagued her at the most inconvenient times.  No... it was more a seductive invitation.  Not quite a command.  Watch her.  She didn't want to smile, didn't want to listen.  Yet she did.  She watched as her friend deftly loosened the leather straps along her back.  It was a dim, shadow-shrouded scene, but nonetheless she could clearly distinguish Imoen's fingers from the darkness that veiled the rest of the room.  Gods, what nimble fingers, she thought.  When the leather bands had been removed and soundlessly tucked away in the small nightstand against the wall, Aliya's breath suddenly caught.  Now was the moment.  Now Imoen would take off her shirt.  Now she would see what she'd always wanted.  She craned her neck further, almost to the point of pain.

Imoen stretched her slender arms into the air and took hold of the end of one sleeve with her other hand.  Her fingertips pulled the fabric slowly higher, up and off her arm.  Aliya's pulse spiked to new levels as Imoen's bare stomach came into view.  It was tight, her waist trim.  With agonizing slowness, Imoen's hand went to the cuff of her other sleeve.  She pulled her arm out in the same elegant, sublime manner.  Her undershirt would be next.  That one simple sentence played over and over again in her head.  Take it off, she urged softly.  As if she'd heard the thought, Imoen reached for her throat and her fingers found purchase in the ring of her collar.  Once again she slowly stretched her arms, gradually revealing more and more of her young, firm body.  She paused a moment, the material seemingly caught fast beneath her breasts... then exhaled and finished the motion.  Aliya's breath caught as well as the delicate fabric slid over Imoen's youthful breasts.  She saw how the soft linen glided over the thief's sensitive nipples, and how they tightened as they came in contact with the cool outside air.

Aliya felt warm all over.  This time she knew what it was.  She knew the cause, knew who had caused it.  She bit her lip.  She didn't want to admit what she was feeling, let alone for whom.  She crossed her legs, trying to ignore it.  The sensation of her smooth thighs sliding over each other only made it stronger.  Her eyes stayed fixated on her friend, who was pulling her shirt soundlessly over her head.  Her thighs slowly rubbing over each other, Aliya stared, fascinated, at Imoen's moonlit breasts.  They were small, smaller than her own, but also firmer, younger.  Her nipples, too, were smaller – and obviously taut.  With a simple, elegant gesture the thief let the cloth fall to the ground.

Touch yourself, she heard herself whisper soundlessly.  She didn't know if her lips had moved, if she had truly said it or merely thought it.  I want you to touch yourself.   Now she knew that she had said it.  To her own amazement she felt her hands, which she had pressed against her sides to stop their trembling, begin to move.  Her sweat-dampened palm slid towards her stomach.  Imoen's hands lowered to her face, her fingertips softly grazing her cheeks, moving back towards her neck.  Aliya felt the warmth of her fingers on her stomach.  The molten sensation of flesh on flesh evoked a tingling trail that followed the path of her fingertips.  Imoen's hands stopped for a moment at the back of her neck as she used both thumbs to massage away a spot of discomfort.  The slight arch of her back and upstretched arms thrust her breasts forward.

If I could just touch them, she whispered softly, feeling a hand on her own breast.  She wished fiercely that it was the small, nimble hands of her friend that softly squeezed her.  She bit back with difficulty the moan that threatened to escape.  Touch me, she urged as her fingertips twisted and rolled her now-hard nipples.  Imoen's hands left her neck and gradually slid down, over her shoulders and across her sides.  One hand strayed from its course and brushed the side of her breast.  Yes, touch me there.  Aliya pinched her breast, imagining behind barely-slitted eyes that Imoen followed the motion.

Aliya's other hand traced soft circles on her lower belly, under her navel.  She drew a never-ending spiral, slow at first, then more quickly, then slowing again, the intensity of the pressure against her skin growing with each motion.  Keep going.  Both of Imoen's hands had drifted to her stomach, her fingers now hooked in the waistband of her breeches.  More, she pleaded silently.  Her prayer was heard.  Imoen slowly unfastened the topmost button of her pants.  Aliya pressed the flat of her hand against her abdomen as she stroked herself with increasing insistance.  Open them, Imoen.  Her trembling hand slid lower.  Imoen loosened the second button of her pants and gingerly pushed them down over her hips.

Aliya's hand moved to her other breast, kneading it slowly.  Her patience was gone.  She had to have more; there was no choice in the matter.  She watched as the breeches slowly glided over the thief's small, tight buttocks until her cotton underwear, so long hidden from sight, came into view.  Touch me.  Right there.  Aliya's hand on her stomach slid further downwards.  Short, soft, damp hair greeted her fingers.

Imoen's hands took hold of her underpants and slid them downwards.  Her smooth hips and the perfect roundness of her bottom were revealed, free of any obstruction, for the very first time.  Aliya barely noticed.  She stretched her neck, trying to see Imoen's feminine center, as her own hand lay impatiently atop her curls.  It began to stroke her gently, up and down, over her wet and slippery lips as Imoen took off her panties.  In the darkness it was difficult to see, but nonetheless she could make out the small patch of hair between her friend's thighs.  Aliya smothered her moan as she pressed two fingers slowly into herself.  Finger me, she mouthed.  Imoen stepped out of her cotton slip and bent over the bed to straighten the blankets.  Aliya's fingers quickened their rhythm, becoming more and more demanding.  She was looking straight at Imoen's hidden lips, tucked beneath two taut buttocks.  Her breath came faster and faster as her fingers pushed deeper.  Her other hand squeezed her nipples roughly.  Fuck me, Imoen, she moaned softly, her hand now moving at a desperate pace between her thighs.  She couldn't restrain it.  She pressed her mouth against her pillow to muffle her groan as her climax crashed through her.  Then, utterly exhausted, she slowly let herself roll onto her back.  Imoen, with a smile, slid into bed.

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