His companion was a Flaming Fist no more... Well, perhaps that was for the better — they weren’t the most noteworthy organisation out there, anyway. The Flaming Fist swarmed Baldur’s Gate like a flock of seagulls, and their boisterous comportment and lack of deference for illustrious, as well as aspiring artists drove many to the cusp of insanity. On several occasions, he’d witnessed them disrupting performances, claiming one of the actors was a con artist or a charlatan — whether these claims were verifiable or not... Their derogatory derisions were boundless, unjust — and plentiful...
Perhaps words of compassion or consolation were in order, but from what he’d gathered, the drow was better off without those pestiferous, arrogant knights — there was, probably, no love lost there. No Flaming Fist had ever aided him, nor would they, should he be in dire need of their services. Instead, the bootlickers would, in all likelihood, falsely accuse him of trickery and fraud as well — an argument established solely on the grounds that he was affiliated with a theatre company. A prejudice he found downright repulsive.
Luran wasn’t that well-versed in the arts of restorative magic either; his knowledge didn’t stretch further than mending lesser wounds — grazes —, but that was, regrettably, all the prowess he possessed in that particular genre. A hum of rumination vibrated in the back of his throat as he contemplated their options — the meagre few they had left. A process that reached a premature impasse when Rhaenor mentioned Waterdeep...
‘Waterdeep?’ he iterated, a quizzical frown emblazoned his brow, slightly taken aback — as if someone had smacked him in the face with a bag of holding.
Granted, there were learned scholars, powerful mages, and expert healers in abundance, Waterdeep, itself, was a city he’d prefer to circumvent — for the next two centuries, at the very least. The metropolis was home to his egoistic parents, who’d disowned him like he was but a rabid cur, and because his aspirations didn’t align with the one they had in mind for him. They hadn’t endured a single sliver of contrition when they kicked him out of their residence, to roam the streets for evermore. Luran bit his tongue to subdue the string of sarcasm and demurrals that were woven, and grimaced.
‘I know of a handful of erudite individuals who could, potentially, be cajoled to help us...’ for the right amount of gold... Although he sincerely doubted any of them wanted to have anything to do with mind flayers...
The view, that lay beyond the bridge, was awe-inspiring. He felt an unusual sensation tickling the back of his mind — he was enthralled and petrified, simultaneously. How was this even possible? They flitted between planes like a stone skipping on the surface of a still pond — and doomed with a similar, inevitable fate. The nautiloid was in tatters, on fire. Ironically, mirroring the infernal landscape below. Gods, luck would really have to hold them in a high esteem, if they were to come out of this purgatory and be able to tell the tale.
A haze of an object — no, of someone — sailing through the air, the glint of flames bouncing off of steel, and a jeer of repugnance attracted his attention. And before any of them could act, their minds, their thoughts, memories, and feelings merged together. A most unpleasant experience. The pain was fierce and relentless, threatening to cleave his skull, and despite its relatively ephemeral duration, the discomfort perpetuated for some time, ebbing away in waves. The memories his mind — or was it his parasite? — imparted with the others, didn’t differ from the githyanki’s; it reflected his last moments in Baldur’s Gate, prior to the abduction; it contained flashes of him regaining consciousness and clambering out of his pod, and divulged his continual apprehension.
‘I must confess, I’ve had my fair share of intimate first introductions in the past, but none as aberrant as this,’ Luran admitted, slightly dazed. His words were met with the gith’s scowl, born from stark disapproval — her serpentine eyes narrowed in contempt, and he instantly changed his tone. ‘Well, let’s not batter one another’s skulls in just yet — we have a common enemy: the mind flayers. We’ — the elf gestured to himself and Rhaenor — ‘were trying to find a way off of this accursed vessel — perhaps you’d be so kind as to assist us? After all, I can tell you’re quite adroit with a sword. Very impressive.’
Had he been familiar with the githyanki and their customs, their culture, he would’ve known flattery — in whatever rendition — wasn’t going to gain their favour. It would get him nowhere. Unfortunately...
