The tadfools form a plan to rescue Wynn
Characters: Shadowheart POV, Astarion, Jaheira, Orin
Tags/CW: This one is just a few friendos adventuring. Still grimdark but SFW for once!
“Wynn is not in the dungeons,” Astarion yelled into Shadowheart’s ear, straining to be heard over the constant clank of metal on metal.
Shadowheart flinched at the unexpected sound of his voice, missing the vial and spilling runepowder all over the desk. The passage of time felt abstract underground. Rather than relying on things like clocks or sun positions, Shadowheart now measured time in the number of bombs she had put together. Astarion has been gone for exactly one hundred and thirteen. Wynn, for four hundred and twenty six.
”Could they have moved him from the fortress without the Harpers knowing?” she asked and moved to bite her nails but realized her hands were covered in explosive chemicals and thought better of it. She carefully swept the loose runepowder onto a piece of parchment and directed it back into the vial.
Astarion moved to wipe a streak of soot from his cheek with the sleeve of his formerly ivory shirt. He only smeared it further.
“Either that or our beloved archduke has him in some private torture chamber.” He picked up an empty bombshell from the heap and stared at it, wrinkling his brow. The dark circles under his eyes have only gotten worse since she last saw him.
Shadowheart shivered despite the sweltering heat. She shoved her chair aside and began circling around the handful of feet of unobstructed space.
“It certainly does complicate things,” Astarion admitted bitterly.
“Few things are more certain than the existence of a private Archducal torture chamber,” grumbled a burly dwarf who slumped on the floor a few steps away. He leaned one hairy arm on a crate of metal slags, taking greedy bites out of a loaf of sourdough bread. Shadowheart had forgotten his name but was reasonably sure he was the blacksmith.
“Here’s to hoping Jaheira brings some better news,” Shadowheart said.
The Ironhand Clan hideout brimmed with frenzied energy. Two forges roared at the center of the cavern that the gnomes converted into their base of operations. Smoke billowed and pooled around the fires. Too heavy to escape through the hastily constructed vents, it covered every inch of the space with a thick layer of grime and made Shadowheart’s eyes water incessantly. An unrelenting river of workers, almost all deep gnomes, flowed around the two forges.
Shadowheart took a deep breath, coughed and willed herself to sit back down. Breaking Wynn out of the dungeons would have been a piece of cake but things were never simple, were they?
Opposite the forges stood two rows of tables littered with a miscellany of tools. Hammers, chisels and empty bombshells were strewn about every surface. Under the dim light of torches, a dozen gnomes put together all manner of explosives.
Shadowheart noticed Laridda hauling a sack of grain practically the size of her body and absentmindedly waved to her. The small woman waved back, then tripped over a mold that lay forgotten on the ground.
The blacksmith finished his meal and, with a groan, lifted the crate of metal he had been leaning on.
“This one's for Wulbren,” he clarified to no one in particular before shuffling away.
A fluffy cat, somehow pristinely white despite its surroundings, hopped onto the pile of chopped wood beside Shadowheart’s desk. It yawned and moved as if to stretch but its small body continued to elongate in all directions, shedding clumps of fur. It grew and twitched, an uncanny mix of beast and human. Astarion wrinkled his nose and turned away, still twirling the empty bombshell in his fingers.
“I found Wynn,” Jaheira said, smoothing back her long silver hair and brushing a pile of white fur off her lap. Laridda appeared seemingly from nowhere and handed her a black cloak. Jaheira smiled appreciatively, covered herself and studied the room for a long moment before Astarion finally butted in.
“Do share with the class,” he said.
“Would you get me something to draw with, dear?” Jaheira said to Laridda.
She waited for the gnome to leave before turning to Shadowheart.
“Nothing happens in Baldur’s Gate without the Harpers knowing,” she whispered and winked.
A vaguely familiar tiefling child weaved his way through the mass of workers. Moving with spring in his step as if out for a lovely stroll, he bound over to Jaheira and handed her a package wrapped in thick linen. She nodded and whispered something in his ear. The boy beamed, tapped two fingers to his forehead and slunk away.
“They’re holding Wynn on the top floor,” Jaheira said tucking the package away, “across from the lordling’s own quarters but blessedly, in a bedroom and not a torture chamber.”
Shadowheart bit into the stubby nail of her index finger tasting the bitter explosive powder and then the salty copper of fresh blood. The difference between a bedroom and a torture chamber was but a matter of circumstance.
Laridda appeared again with ink and parchment in one hand and two flashblinder grenades in the other.
“All we can spare for the moment,” she said apologetically as if the gnomes haven’t repaid their debts a thousand times over.
Jaheira passed the grenades to Astarion and began writing, mumbling under her breath.
“We could go through a window,” Astarion suggested.
“No, you can go through a window,” Shadowheart corrected.
“Besides, the issue isn’t so much going in as it is getting out.” She bit the nail on her middle finger and watched the blood pool around the grungy cuticle.
“Last I checked Wynn doesn’t fly and he sure as hell can’t climb down a fortress wall,” she added.
Jaheira nodded, scribbling something.
“We must speak to him,” she said, “there may be a way we could use this to our advantage.”
Shadowheart crossed her arms and began pacing once again; The idea did not sit well with her.
Shadowheart pulled her cloak tighter and stared straight ahead, weaving through the crowd. The crimson glow of the setting sun flashed in the few windows that hadn’t been shattered or boarded over.
Rivington looked more dour by the day. The Flaming Fists received firm instructions not to allow any refugees into the city proper which meant the outskirts were flooded with the dispossessed. Forced to sleep in the streets, they took to erecting makeshift shelters to protect themselves from the elements as best they could.
A bearded man grabbed Shadowheart by the elbow, pulling her into his chest as if for an embrace.
“You’re one of them Sharess’ Caress lasses aren’t ya?” he said, licking his lips, assaulting her senses with the rancid stench of alcohol and sweat. Shadowheart recoiled and spun out of his grasp. The man lurched, spat at her feet, and stumbled away shaking his head, looking offended.
“Gods, this place is positively vile,” Astarion said, stepping closer to her and discreetly placing one hand on the hilt of his dagger.
“The city has plenty of resources to accommodate the refugees,” Jaheira said, forging ahead. She pushed past a group of shouting women and slipped a scroll out of the sleeve of her cloak. A stout half orc bumped into her, grumbled something into her ear and disappeared into the crowd, tucking Jaheira’s scroll away beneath his shirt.
“This situation is hardly the fault of the people,” Jaheira added.
“This way,” she said and, urging her companions on with a small wave, dipped into an alley between two dingy buildings. The alley stank of piss and rot. A frail beggar girl huddled against the wooden fence that separated it from the cliffside and the river below. Across the river, insurmountable walls of Wyrm’s Rock loomed, barring free passage to the city.
The beggar reached for Astarion, her pleading stare that of a wounded animal.
“Shoo, get out of here,” he hissed, waving her away.
The girl scurried around the corner and faded into the gap between the crooked buildings.
Astarion hoisted himself on top of the fence and, squinting against the fiery sunset, extended a hand to Shadowheart. She took his hand and hopped up beside him.
Once atop the fence, she peered over at the cliffside that plunged into the river; Her head spun.
”No way I’m getting down there in one piece,” she shook her head.
Astarion rolled his eyes and, with an air of casual indifference, vaulted over the fence. Jaheira’s black cloak dropped to the ground and a white raven emerged. It soared above the fence and over the narrow expanse of the river, perching atop a boulder on the other side.
Shadowheart pointed her soot-stained fingers at Astarion and muttered two spells in quick succession. A cloud of fine mist engulfed him, then absorbed into his skin making him glow a faint blue.
“Wish me luck,” Astarion cooed. He blew Shadowheart a kiss and dashed toward the cliff’s edge, hurling himself off and sending a shower of gravel and twigs raining upon the calm waters below. Rather than plummeting to certain death, his body glided over the water and landed gently on the other side.
The white raven cawed and began preening itself.
Shadowheart shielded her eyes and watched until the two disappeared into the thicket beneath the fortress walls. She hopped off the fence, snatched Jaheira’s discarded cloak and headed for the alley’s exit.
A small voice trailed after her.
Shadowheart rolled her eyes but tossed the black cloak to the urchin as she walked past. It wasn’t much but the kid’s own clothing was no more than rags.
The revolting sound of snapping bones froze Shadowheart in place.
“Look at it, weep and wail and pity the innocent, ripe for the slaughter.”
The unmistakable singsong cadence sent a twinge of panic through Shadowheart’s chest.
“Orin,” she spat the name out like a bite of rotting meat. Turning on her heel, she frantically rummaged for a suitable weapon.
The changeling cocked her head too far one way then the other, blinking her milky pale eyes. With a mad grin she drew closer, lithe and careful, stepping silently - a wolf on a prowl. Shadowheart thought to run but that would only serve to thrill and hardly prolong the inevitable.
Besides, Shadowheart was no prey.
She fished out the vial of runepowder and shook it at the changeling, fixing her with a stony gaze.
“Recognize this?” she spat, “or is your brain too rotted from your so-called worship?”
Orin grinned even wider and pointed the split tip of her dagger at Shadowheart.
The curves and ridges of the metal made it seem organic - the glistening tongue of a monster ripped from its maw with her bare hands. The blade itself and the Netherstone encrusted in the hilt glistened the same grisly crimson as the suit of human flesh that Orin wore for armor.
“It means to kill us both,” she snickered and licked the blade almost salaciously, circling her quarry, testing for weakness.
“You make allying with the tyrant sound tempting,” Shadowheart said and forced a faux-confident smirk.
A venomous shadow fell over Orin’s face.
“Do not let the lordling hiss hot air into your worm-weakened brain. His throat spits lies,” she snarled.
”I’m well aware,” Shadowheart said, smirking in earnest now, “any other pearls of wisdom you care to impart?”
“Your doe-eyed sweetling brat already sings into the tyrant’s ear,” Orin said with a distinct undercurrent of mockery in her voice, “and so your seconds and minutes and hours cowering in the gnome pit are numbered.”
She stuck her lip out pretending to cry.
Shadowheart bristled, sickened by the implications.
“Wynn would never…” She started but trailed off into a bitter silence.
Wynn was a scared little boy, alone and helpless, left to his own devices.
“See for yourself tonight, tonight, tonight,” Orin licked her blade not taking her pale eyes off Shadowheart, apparently delighted by her reaction.
“Tick tock,” she pranced, retreating into the shadow, “tick tock.”
She disappeared in a puff of smoke leaving Shadowheart alone in the alley. Trembling, Shadowheart slumped against the stone of a crumbling façade and hugged herself.
