An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Fandom: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Baldur's Gate (Video Games)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Characters: Original Gith Character(s) (Dungeons & Dragons), Original Githyanki Character(s) (Dungeons & Dragons)
Additional Tags: ceremorphosis, Body Horror, Illithids | Mind Flayers (Dungeons & Dragons), Gore, Angst, Tragedy, if there were two gith in a room and one turned into a mind flayer would that be fucked up or what, bg3 adjacent for mention of orpheus
Summary:
Fever. Headache. Memory loss. Ghaik capture.
Dirin’s never been the best student, but he doesn’t need to be to come to the conclusion his mind is inescapably barreling towards. The other gith is infected with a tadpole. And Dirin is here to… to do what? Serve ghoulish witness to his demise?
(or: the process of ceremorphosis takes seven days. it's a long time to spend thinking.)
well i got sick and then i created some ocs and made them suffer. unprecedented
more thoughts on this. i've been reading too many drizzt books now the writing style has infected me and i need to be quarantined or put down or something. tw for haarlep's deal (implied) (deleted and reposted this bc im indecisive over it)
(DISCLAIMER. THIS WORK REFERS TO EYES AS “ORBS”. WEAR APPROPRIATE PROTECTIVE EQUIPMENT AT ALL TIMES)
Dirin explained everything. His defection, his disguise, the innkeeper that had taken him under her wing and the bards he learned from on the road. He spoke with as much urgency as he could muster- this was a hero he was talking to. And he knew well the reputation his kin had.
Heedless of his tale, the ranger took a potato from her pack. It had sprouted, taking root in the darkness of her bag of provisions- but she began to peel it nonetheless.
Dirin began to feel, infuriatingly, as if he was making excuses and defending himself to an implacable sa’varsh.
“Why did you call me out on my disguise if you didn’t wish to speak with me? Lay it out plainly, please.” He bit out with no small amount of barely reined-in irritation.
“Fine, fine. Like I said, I had a gith friend. And I like to stick my nose places it’s not needed.”
He nodded, understanding it to be the most important quality of those fabled heroes he so looked up to, but the tiefling barreled on.
“I mean, it passes the time, y’know? Not much else to do.”
“You’ve done a lot already, if the tales I’ve heard are true.”
“They aren’t.” Her reply was prompt.
“None of them? So the curse of Moonrise Towers still stands? So Baldur’s Gate is overrun by gh- by mind flayers?”
“I know what ghaik means, mate, you don’t have to translate yourself to me. And what does it matter if I did all those things? A half dozen others were right there doing more than me.”
Yes, he knew all about them. The noble Blade of Frontiers, the archmage Gale of Waterdeep, Karlach Demonsbane who laid down her life for the city; even fragmented tales of a woman that must have been a Githyanki. Well, the ranger’s claim that she had a gith friend would corroborate that. It would have been the perfect tale to tell to get him in the spotlight were it not for his treacherous, cowardly heart skipping beats at the thought of mentioning his kin.
“Is there something special about this town, for you to stop here?” There didn’t seem to be. In the few months Dirin had spent in the town- more of a village, really- the people had proven themselves to be nothing but ordinary, though perhaps with more of a tolerance for novelty than he’d expected.
“Absolutely nothing. Didn’t you hear me? I’m not doing anything.”
It had been six months since the Netherbrain fell, and Dirin had heard many tales of Riah, the tiefling fighter- now a ranger, it seemed- and her stalwart defense of the Sword Coast’s frontiers. Her small knife pressed through the potato, and she dropped the cubes into the simmering pot. Her hair fell into her face hampered only by her horns.
She looked tired.
The stew was finished before the sun had fully set. Despite Dirin’s insistence that he didn’t need anything from her, he had his own food, she ladled it into two wooden bowls and pressed one into his hands. The warmth, at least, brought some life into him as they both sat there, sipping at it in silence.
A violent shudder passed through Riah’s body. Though Dirin could see nothing afoot, she convulsed strongly enough that the bowl of stew in her hand slipped and spilled over the packed dirt. Recovering quickly, she shook off the droplets that had landed on her hand and simply stared at the stew slowly absorbing into the ground.
“What happened? Are you al-” Dirin brought up his hand, ready to cast a healing spell, though he knew well that his prowess was very limited; but she stopped him with a gesture.
“Fine. Just an old wound.” Her breath hissed through her teeth. There was something tightly wound about her posture in that moment, the horrible tension of prey unable to flee. “It doesn’t la- ah- last too long. Usually.” She leaned down to pick up her bowl, her scarred red knuckles bleached pink from tension.
“You’re a hero. I’m sure any healer along the Coast would-”
“No, they wouldn’t. Couldn’t.” Waiting for Dirin to finish his sentence was too much of an effort, it seemed. “‘S what I get for dealing with… well, I told you already. It’s fine.”
But she made no effort to pour herself more stew, and spent the rest of dinner staring silent into the fire. Her nails bit bloody crescents into her palms.
Following some unspoken agreement, they took watch in shifts. The strangeness of the situation was almost soporific to Dirin, but ingrained discipline kept his eyes open from the middle of the night to the morning.
He’d almost expected Riah to pack up and leave. Instead, she cleaned up the campfire and took her turn sleeping with no words exchanged. She was asleep in moments- but the twitches and shudders remained. Sweat beaded on her brow and pooled in the wrinkles of her twisted, pinched expression. If this was an illness or injury, it was like none he knew of.
Dirin woke with the dawn. Riah was still up, poking at the coals of the campfire with a long stick.
“It doesn’t usually last that long.” She said in lieu of ‘good morning’. “I’m fine now.” There was something in her other hand, a balled up piece of paper- a letter of some sort?
She staggered to her feet, unfurling the crumpled sheet. Her piercing blue orbs examined it for one long moment, flitting between it and his face, there and back.
“Say, Dirin- your name was Dirin, right? How do you feel about going to a party?”
