"Isn't that right, Astarion?"
You trail off as you realise your vampire companion, who was following closely behind you as you trudged through the dimly lit underground passage, has fallen silent. As you turn to check on him, a knot forms in your stomach.
Lae'zel and Shadowheart, too.
You are utterly alone in the darkness.
The black void beyond your weak torchlight instantly feels thicker, more oppressive. Your wide eyes dart around, trying desperately to penetrate the darkness that stretches out infinitely in every direction.
A smooth voice echoes through the passage from behind you.
Whirling around, your torchlight faintly illuminates a figure standing a few feet away from you in the gloom. A man, draped in shadow, the deep purple glow from his eyes cutting through the dark like a knife.
"I'm Gale of Waterdeep. I'd shake your hand, but... well."
He raises his arm towards you. A chill races up your spine as you see the bandaged stump protruding from the base of his sleeve. You recognise your own handiwork immediately. This is the man you found trapped in the unstable rune near the nautiloid - the man whose hand is currently rotting in a pouch in your camp.
The man you thought was dead.
Gale observes you silently for a moment before folding his arms across his chest. He tilts his head as he speaks again.
"It appears that you're alone, and in desperate need of aid, my friend. Just as I was, once."
You reach for your dagger but find the sheath at your side hanging empty. Before you can turn to run, Gale lifts his remaining hand in front of him, muttering an incantation under his breath, eyes locked on yours. Your eyes widen as you feel your body become rigid, your limbs held firmly in place by an unseen force.
"I needed you then. You could have rescued me. Instead, you butchered me and left me to perish in that stone."
You try desperately to give him an explanation but your clenched jaw refuses to release the words. As you struggle in vain, Gale slowly begins stalking towards you, his flinty gaze never leaving your face. As he approaches, he moves his fingers through the air in an intricate pattern. Your breath catches in your throat as your own dagger appears before you, suspended a hair's breadth above your chest.
"Unfortunately for you, my friend - I didn't perish."
His hand comes to rest on the hilt of the blade, his face inches from yours, eyes radiating malice and hatred as he begins to press the blade down.
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