Chapter Text
The Underdark. Somewhere between Blingdenstone and Mantol-Derith.
1600 DR — Eight tendays since the last dire corbies migrated toward the Whorlstone Tunnels.
Graphite crossed paper one last time before he snapped the notebook shut. He pocketed the small, weathered pencil and tucked both beneath the tight layers of his spidersilk armour.
Pressing himself deeper against the cold rock, he unsheathed one of his daggers. The wet clenching grew louder, punctuated by the crack of bones giving way between teeth. He peered from the edge. There, under the sick glow of bioluminescent fungus, a humanoid feasted on the poor bastard foolish enough to venture alone.
As his vision adjusted and the creature's hair took on clearer tones in the fungal light, he snapped back, spine meeting stone. The sound alerted the feeding creature. It turned, startled, before resuming.
No. He won't ask for a name. He won't be asking anything at all.
Once the slurping began anew, he moved.
With his trusted dagger in hand, he lowered himself to the ground and slipped from cover, creeping behind the unsuspecting.
A single leap—close enough for the jump to drive the blade through the back, piercing the ribcage and straight into the heart. The shriek died before it could properly claim the vocal cords, and now the creature lay atop the growing puddle, next to the duergar it had been eating like a feral, raging thing.
He stood there until the feral red glow from the eyes dimmed to conscience, and it gave its last twitches. Lowering himself, he pressed the dagger to the neck and leaned into it, bracing with one boot until the head came free.
He grabbed it by the hair and shoved it into the rothé-hide bag tied at his hip with a practiced flick.
His gaze dropped to the sprawled duergar woman; her open eyes were still frozen in horror. Lashes clumped with drying blood. And now, as the adrenaline ebbed, the deep ache in his stomach returned.
It wasn’t like him to waste a perfectly good meal.
The weathered wooden door creaked, and he was met by the dim interior of the tavern and the weary stares of duergar, who lowered their voices to assess the possible threat. The drow present, mostly women, ignored him. No svirfneblin in sight.
He adjusted his hood and moved deeper into the gloom. Fungal glow bled through the warped bottles lining the bar. The air was choked with spores. Insects spun lazy, spiralling circles near the hanging lights, their wings clicking as he passed. Eyes followed him.
At the far end, he found the group of gray dwarves he was looking for, hunched over dark ale. They didn’t look up, and without waiting to be acknowledged, he tossed the head onto the table.
“Blasted Laduguer—!”
They nearly leapt from their stools, jerking away from the splash of stale blood.
“That one, yes?” Astarion’s voice came muted behind the mask. He didn’t meet their eyes.
The one they called Flagonfist stepped closer, and Astarion watched his gray fingers push aside the blood-matted hair. Blonde. The body had been small.
He looked away.
“Yeah, this one it is,” Flagonfist muttered. “Been givin’ us trouble ‘round the lake.”
“I want what is owed.”
The smell was stronger now; the head had begun to deteriorate. He swore the thing was still looking at him.
“Aye, fine, here.” The Merchant Leader waved the others down and dug into his pouch. He counted, lips barely moving, and then tossed the coin pouch onto the table with the same careless flick the head had come with.
Astarion scooped up the bag and spilled the contents across the table, counting each and every coin with his eyes.
“The deal was for two hundred.”
The laugh that came from Flagonfist made him clench his fists. He raised his gaze to meet the duergar’s piercing eyes. There was hatred there.
“Two hundred, aye, but not fer the likes o’ you, bloodbag. Be glad I’m payin’ at all. Now take it, and get outta my sight.”
In the corner of his vision, another dwarf shifted, adjusting his grip on something heavy beneath the table. The tavern’s chatter had quieted behind him.
With one smooth motion, he swept the coins from the table, dropped them back into the pouch, and turned away.
The stares followed him as he walked, but none of them moved. He slipped the pouch into his gear and pushed back through the door into the cavernous air.
The damp chill tightened its grip the moment the door closed. Only the soft drip of water and the faint hum of crystal veins overhead to guide him home. Ha, home.
Purple and orange jewels, embedded in the rock, pulsed as he passed beneath the dripping arches of the empty fungusmarket. The time beacon above had burned down to ash. Nullhour, then. From deeper corridors, the faint voices of patrol guards echoed closer, and he quickened his steps.
At the exit arch, the newstable caught his eye: a row of bounty sheets flapping loosely. Some bore crude sketches. Others listed only vague descriptions and partial locations.
One had been torn through, leaving only a single word visible: SPAWN, pinned by a rusted dagger.
Beneath the postings, inked in a thick, blocky script:
UNMARKED FEEDERS WILL BE PUT DOWN ON SIGHT.
He turned from the board and moved faster, tugging at the edge of his sleeve, the thin black parallel lines safely concealed beneath his glove.
The blood from the bag had begun to seep through his gear, sticky against his skin.
By the time he reached the inn’s room, the weight in his stomach had worsened.
His knuckles had locked around the dagger, and he had to pry his own fingers loose. Both were tossed on the table. Before removing his face covering and hood, he tapped the nightlight mushroom once. The glow responded with a pulse of violet, casting shadows across the walls as he finished disrobing.
He pulled the drow armour over his head, and the coin pouch slipped loose. It struck the floor with a clatter, opening just enough to spill its contents.
Cursing, he cursed after it.
They had scattered next to the rothé-hide bag, just close enough to catch the mushroomlight. The wet stains—blood, it is blood—glistened a dark crimson, almost black. The colour of aged blood, the colour that shows over pale skin, the colour that meant hunger had turned to madness.
The coin's shimmer returned it.
He staggered back. Eyes fixed on them as if they’d move without him. It wasn’t the blood. It wasn’t the bag. It was what wasn’t inside it anymore.
He spun—fast, too fast, struck the bed leg—hands fumbling the cabinet open.
First shelf, no. Second, no. Third, the jar was empty. Blasted hells, not now, not now. He had run out—when he had run out of blackcap? Nevermind—he had dreamspores.
He snatched the jar and swept clean the centre of the table. Dagger in hand, he dumped the contents and drove the hilt into the dried spore until it turned to dust.
The darklake stout came next, opened with a pop. He scooped the powder with the sharp edge of the knife and tapped it into the narrow neck of the bottle. Shook it once, maybe not enough, didn’t care, and took a long pull, head tilted back as the stale malt hit his tongue, followed closely by the dry astringency of the spores.
Backing up until he found the bedframe, he let his weight drop. The mattress responded with a soft noise, its dampness seeping faintly through the fabric into him. He crawled into the corner until his spine met the wall, and lowering the bottle, he felt a tightness gather in his chest, sudden enough that he pressed his fist against it.
A trembling sigh left his lips.
His fingers choked the neck of the bottle, and he drew his knees in, held on to both as if one might steady the other.
“Chessa.”
Her name had been Chessa. One of the Gur children. One he had delivered to Cazador.
𖡼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊𓋼𖥧𖤣𖡼