Damned Sisterhood @tieflingfingers - Tumblr Blog

What and who: Thomasin meets her dream guardian. Astarion antagonizes the druids. Wyll and Karlach get along. Kagha projects her new philosophy onto Arabella.

Summary: A dream wakes Thomasin, finding that camp has become amicable after their long night. The gang splits up at the grove and Astarion proposes a bet to get new boots. Thomasin finds herself wrapped up the commotion of the Sacred Pool and pretends to be a full drow to defuse Kagha.

Warning/Content: Re-write of Kagha/Arabella conflict. Intro of lore in brothel and surrealist dream. Tension and camaraderie. Comfort and angst. Humor and the whole thing. Part of series/can be read as one-off.

Word Count: 8,488

Ao3 Link

Brothels, bordellos, and cathouses. No matter where they operated, homes of vice held their own culture. Their own social standards. Riding the line was hair thin and any madam worth her salt maintained a well-oiled machine.

Normalcy within a house of ‘ill-repute’ wasn’t well defined, but there were endocentric tenets. Laws of the land. Consent was vital. As was never drinking gifted liquor. Always know your guards, but always keep a weapon on hand. And, of course, embrace sandpaper profanity.

Often, those same words became terms of endearments.

Terms that could make the gossamer gasp.

Their den was a vision of a home stuck in liminality. Where curtains shut tight and smoke wafted between the spaces where bodies had not yet met. Where pocket watches rendered into tin cans. Hours refused to act in a linear fashion and emotion overtook all. Now, the familiar was uncertain, and the uncertain, titillating.

It was tourism. Each day, a new desire or request, every flavor respite, willed themselves in existence. A sort of bartering that ended in the sunken core of down pillows for most never occupied the home for long.

There were the trembling hands of sheltered sons. The temptations of merchants with shiny baubles for their shiniest toys. Noble men with no decorum boasting of diets rich in cassil seed and honey. And lest she forget the wrinkled sailors. Their silly little nicknames and slit chapped lips.

No matter the glamor, no matter the grit, it was a sanctuary where Thomasin placed bets on heads and made due with tails.

Shifts ended, staggered, never quite the same. Even the insatiable had their fill eventually. Thus, as they buttoned their trousers and bid the sisterhood adeiu, rushes turned to lulls. The floorboards ceased their constant creaking. All that was left was a rewarding washcloth, fibers baked with decades of insense, and comfortable hidden corners.

Between those walls, the word ‘sisterhood’ encompassed all. Its definition unraveled. Gender became an afterthought when stripped down to flesh. The masculine donned heels and the feminine stood tall. Lipstick matched with undertones and everyone’s feet hurt by nightfall.

Out of their temporary beds and into the halls, it wasn’t uncommon to find the sisterhood after hours, huddled away in various corners. Some preferred tucked away balconies. Others, rooftops and ale cellars. Even crammed into dressing rooms where packs of cards spread across vanities under dim candlelight. Excuses to rejoice and rebuttal. Exchange scandalous stories with their thumbs pressed up to blades, slicing cheese from thick wax seals.

These were more than spaces for rumors. Petty proclamations. For the mrathaera gloss smacking upon their lips. Gossip was a tool.

Their lives were structured around lace acknowledgements. Dainty perforated designs that offered delicacy. Holes on every scallop, forever keeping an eye out for themselves. For once another. For, that was where the truth lied. The sisterhood shared the good word and the bad.

In the end, they were strung together by binds outside of blood.

Thomasin’s favorite decompression was literature. Their contents did not need to be dry, fantastical, or even peer reviewed. In times of unstructured spines, any reason to be read to would do.

“Depths of the Dream Domain” was a classic. A thick tome whose findings were written by wizardly scholars which none had heard of. But accuracy was none of their business. Their house was plagued by dreams and interpretations were ripe for discussion.

The bizarre, terrifying, and wonderful. The possibilities were endless. Wizards’ lists depicted loose teeth and bled into seven other tropes with their own illustrations and bullet points. Thomasin could recite the most common pages like the back of her hand.

Yet, in this very moment, as she lay sleeping in her tent , one fled from memory.

What did falling mean?

There was little rhyme or reason to her descent. A thick screen, presumably smoke, blacked out her surroundings, but she could not decipher how fast she was falling. The air did not whistle. Winds did not rush past her ears in thunderous gusts. Her lungs were not bothered. Her eyes did not sting.

The only evidence of Thomasin’s free fall was gravity. Her hair whipped her face, brushing against her cheeks. They were a thousand surrendering flags. Her clothing clung flush against her as though she leapt from a cliffside.

This was that transitional moment. Those seconds of weightless bliss, extending and stretching. Perhaps her body would hit the water any second now.

The smoke deftly parted. Thomasin braced herself as she dunked through a pool of liquid. It shimmered like pure mercury. Although, upon impact, found not a trace was left on her skin.

She was somewhere new.

Gravity lessened further. The atmosphere, suspending her fall, tasted of the crispest air. Dew that left obscure notes on one’s palate, as if infused with every color, both seen and unseen. As she landed, she sat upon a small plot of grass. One of the many floating around in cosmological bloom.

Silken violets and turquoise. Crystalline structures and flora. Chunks of terrain were strewn across the plane as though a resting place for the gods’ unfinished projects. A boundless, expansive, illogical skyscape.

Unfortunately, it was difficult for the half-elf to appreciate. Everything seemed to reflect light like a dusky coastline. So, she simply shut them tight, focusing on what echoed off in the abyss.

Whatever she heard hummed with soothing vibrations. Invited all to listen. Its sound, reminiscent of friends running their fingers along leftover wine glasses. This tone, however, was difficult to pinpoint. The shape of the glass. The liquid at its brim. For it was her, humming. Not her own vocals, but the sound was within.

She was the glass.

The vibrations soon turned into the rumbling of an omnipotent baritone. At first, nothing was coherent. But one thing was certain, it wished for her attention.

And, with utter reluctance and fistfuls of grass, Thomasin felt herself give in.

The light was still disorienting. But, it introduced a figure. A being backlit so heavily, fine details were cast to the shadows of a silhouette. Their voice had evolved. Funneled into the bravado of a single entity.

The being was long, lean, and broad at the shoulders. Their ears tapered to a fine point. Her thoughts raced and she took up the impossible task of sifting through a catalogue of every elven presence she’d ever met.

Until, suddenly, her mind went silent.

A hand reached out towards her. Their presence ebbed in and out of existence through squinted eyes.

By now, reverberation forged itself into the suggestion of language. Phrases with blurred edges and distant messages. It’d become too sentient for her. Too real.

Thomasin sprung back. She scuttled on her hands and feet, heels slipping in the grass where she found herself nearly stumbling.

“Ei-Eil-E-Eil-Eilistraee. I-Illmater. Sharess. Gods, anyone. Anyone,” she sputtered in a hushed trembling voice. “I do not ask for much. I do not. Spare me, I plead of you. I know I’m beyond redemption- that I am wretched.”

The voice’s response remained muffled. Direct. Concise. Still, communication filtered as though shouting from a room far, far away.

“What is it that you want? Strike down my belongings. Strip me of the little coin I have. I only wish to see my friends back at the Gate. They must worry. They do worry. I know it.”

It wasn’t until she answered that she noticed she may not be speaking aloud. Each individual letter, syllable, and space, smashed into varying shapes by a newfound gravitational pull.

“Do not f…” the voice answered, distorting into a wavering boom like a distant god. “…sav…”

“Please. I do not und…”

Her own voiced trailed off. Forces beknowst to her dominated what vibrations wafted in the air. This elven entity. They hushed her.

The hands’ details began to dust off its glare and cleared from unnatural shadows. Was this was a god she’d never seen the texts of? Assuming they were a god at all.

An amalgamation of those she’d met in her travels all melded into this elven man, leaving him unrecognizable. Was there not a chapter in the wizards’ tome? On those we meet in the realm of dreams?

Upon his dark complexion, his hands appeared beaten by trade. Acid ate through calluses. Discolored patches contrasted against the thick of his palms and fingers. A metallic cap wedged tight onto one blunted amputated knuckle where a ring finger once was.

“I’ve saved you once. I w- if- follow...”

“Where do… wish… lead me?” she responded in words broken in the ether. Her eyes were wide. Her body trembled with the helplessness of a child. Of not being able to flee when she wanted nothing more.

“You will not…flay... There is great potential in you… must nuture… do not resist. Learn to wield it.”

“Who are you?”

“Protection. Your parasite will n- consume you if- protect. Now awake. Fight.”

-

Thomasin awoke.

Curses leapt off her tongue. Her head whipped itself from Astarion’s shoulder. She could only cough, pressing her lips against her forearm. Crisp. From altitudes higher than she’d ever encountered, raising thin hairs along her arm.

Then, she clutched her chest.

Astarion did the same.

“Tymora’s tits. We have got to find you a book on reverie or something or another,” he huffed, uncoiling from his voluntary slump where she’d napped. “You stopped my heart for a second time.”

Astarion’s impulse was to present a browbeating, but his spiny words flattened inside. A reminder stared him back in hues of bruised yellows and blues upon her throat. The puncture wounds had faded out of existence, but its ghost lived amongst freckles. A pin on a map where he engraved coordinates.

“Look at you though. Alive. As ever. Brilliant. How are you feeling?”

“Well... I….”

It was difficult for the half elf to recall much. She strained for details. Where they chronologically stood, disjointed, bending around his fingers and her hippocampus. The fear, relief, aching, brewing into concoction, unfiltered and hazy.

That keg was to be kept sealed tight.

“Like I drank unfathomable amounts of bathtub gin. Like a party I cannot recall, but my stomach still holds the score over... I’ll survive- assuming I don’t sprout bat wings within the foreseeable future.”

“Cheers to us, you sweet little thing,” he chirped, relief unhinging his wrists. “Still, I must be the bearer of the most disappointing news. Nocturnal flight is a luxury. Reserved for those lucky enough to yield the power of a ‘full vampire’.”

His air quotes were both bold and ornamental. “Spawn can’t create other vampires, let alone do much of the mundane. The sun turns us to cinder. Our bodies cannot pass enter buildings without invitation. Running water, well, I don’t know the forces stopping me from standing in one, but its persistent.”

He placed his thumb where the bite marks once lived, which she allowed. Pressed firm into its rich blue halo and manipulated what blackened blood slowly dissolved beneath.

”Could an invitation into a river work?” Thomasin entertained, her words stretching and fading into a yawn.

“Hm?”

”Can someone let you splash around? Negating the barring or what have you.”

He coerced away an urge to laugh at her suggestion, feeling a string popped behind his eyes. Though, his body did not falter. His performance remained filigreed whilst forcing himself to forget the priors night’s hunger pangs.

“I don’t know the rules, but I don’t intend to waste my precious free time reading them out of some decrepit book. All to figure out if I can get sopping wet? Might as well rub silver in the wound.”

“Such dramatics could make Rondeval throw his hat into the ring. You’re impressive.”

”Aha! Have no reservations, there are plenty of impressive things about me you’ve yet to experience.”

He let go of a different laugh. Freed it. It was high and haughty knowing he had not a clue about Rondeval, the womanizing poet of the Dragon Plane. The punctuated ‘ha’ demanded attention until petering off, where he then noticed an uncanny feeling coating his throat.

“…Thomasin. Darling. I… appreciate how sensible you are about- well, all of this. Half expected to be used a sheath for your daggers and left in a ditch to spend the rest of my days.”

The half-elf lowered her voice, catching microscopic shifts in him and knocking her knee into his. “You’re in good company as long as you play nice. Can’t throw the ravenous baby out with the bathwater when you can’t even stand in its current.” She leaned in a little closer and tapped her index finger atop the highest point of his nose. “Beside that… there’s no need to flatter yourself. You’re far from the scariest thing I’ve befriended.”

“Only to be terrifying for your benefit. Understood.”

The two felt familiar ground between them. Their egos, while split in different directions, was fostered from ruddy, parched soil. The same ailments forming at their buds, but his vines had been long bound to a trellis.

Devoid of explanation, Astarion arose with much haste. He glanced about, apprehensive of his bridges and what they could withstand. If their rickety stilts could handle any amount of weight.

“Well, I can’t sit around all day. Much to be done, Thomasin. Right then, I’ll gather your things as well.”

The half-elf tried to protest, but he was off.

On the other end of their small encampment, Wyll and Karlach discussed digestible topics and packed with great care. It almost devolved into camaraderie. Karlach smashed a thick mat with her boot and Wyll rolled its binds, tugging it taut. Their sense of teamwork not hindered by their once butting heads.

It wasn’t long before Astarion swept up his meager belongings and took down Thomasin’s. Swift, but precise. Disassembled stick structures and bags placed in neat orderly piles.

Thomasin spent time healing her neck and tending to domestic duties. Not that domesticity was usual for her, the role rarely one she found herself in. Late nights in the city meant tavern perpetual stews and whoever could be convinced to heat her kettle in the brothel kitchen.

Now, any excuse to station beside the campfire would do.

Their fire pit was cobbled into a bundle of leftover twigs. Tea leaves floated inside a humble little pot, metal wedged in between stones and fluttering flames. Creek water boiled, cooled, simmered, and steeped until the colors of a fall evening.

By the time the sun was high in the morning sky, all were ready to head back to the grove.

They packed the last crumbs of their breakfast for the road.

Karlach insisted she carry most it. A hankering could strike at any moment, despite the grove being not far away. The tiefling savored dried meats adorned in edible flowers. Its garnish was the only thing separating the meat from the stiffened leather pouches she stored them in.

Not bothering to let it cool, she latched scrap metal atop their pot to fasten a lid. While not perfect in execution, it rolled along her hip with each step from one of the many tarnished hooks upon her belt. The remaining tea hissed against its cool metal cage. Its heat, however, not more than a tingle against her thigh.

“Can’t remember the last time anyone made me breakfast. Left me with a whole bouquet in my teeth,” Karlach admit, using the sharp point of her ring finger nail to wiggle a leaf free. She held it pinched between her fingers as though holding a small creature, examining its fragile remains. “Never imagine we could eat daisies! Thought they were just for lookin’ pretty.”

“There’s nothing wrong with eating pretty little delights,” Astarion chimed in, humoring himself.

Thomasin let out a chuckle.

“Please don’t gobble up every flower you see or you’re going to lose your gut over a snack. Those were pansies. We’ve only a dash of them, but I’m a proponent of a pansy or two in one’s life,” the half-elf explained.

“Pansies were a new one for me, “ Wyll added with baked sugar crystallizing in her eye, glazing over her double entendre. “Have you tried lilacs baked into vanilla cookies? A little lemon zest melded together, ah. Makes the whole kitchen smell like a… what I can only imagine the gods indulge in daily.”

Karlach rolled this newfound revelation around on her mind. The last decade included eating transgressive cuts of meat and spindly limbs. Carapaces crunching like roasted nuts and never asking what was in a meal. Everything was meant to be eaten. Her body, a machine.

The four bantered about less dire means and Thomasin began to feel like herself again. Albeit, on edge. But, a touch of impending doom lingered, tadpole or not.

She was somewhat protected.

Somewhat fed.

By the time they reached the gate, Karlach had spent a fair amount beating her chest. Heightened emotions got dimmer and dimmer along their walk. It started with clearing her throat. Then coughing. Congestion that sounded like crackling in her windpipe. Like the toll house she destroyed, maintaining its humble, consistent burn, eating away at its former foundation.

“The Blade of Frontiers has returned!” Wyll yelled up to the ramparts. “As per Zevlor’s request! Thank you!”

A few soldiers activated a pulley system and the heavy wooden door began to lift.

“Let us hope the blacksmith has some means of solace for you,” Thomasin said to Karlach, softly.

“I’m sure he can do something. Nothing to cry over,” Karlach answered through grit teeth framed like a smile. Her palm was flush against her glowing ribcage.

“If you say so…”

Their last visit to the grove had been so chaotic, Thomasin wasn’t able to take it all in. Behind the gate was a vastness of open caverns, referred to as The Hollows, where its sediments formed in open walkways and spacious nooks. Grassy paths wound around built structures standing tall on platforms, pressed against stone walls.

These upper levels were where most of the refugees held up.

They operated with a sense of community. Sleeping mats unfurled and trades set up despite knowing they may need to flee any minute. Those hauling packed carts assembled and re-assembled their contents, as though the answer hid an inside antique wooden trunk. Young and old inevitably drank their woes into either distracted giggle fits or depressive slumps. Parents were left chasing wily children and whispering concerns over their shoulders.

“I’ll speak with Zevlor and report back. Make sure Karlach find some aid,” Wyll urged.

“Can’t miss him with that racket”, Astarion complained, the blacksmith’s consistent tink tink melding with the air.

Wyll laughed as he did with every miffed remark that came out of the elf. He reassured he’d bring back news, but avoided predicting it be positive, contrary to his usual inclination. The human made his way toward the inner edge of the Hollows where Zevlor remained holed away.

Karlach appeared to be enamored by the commotion. Their distress wasn’t lost on her, but her breathing crackled and her cheeks were plump with excitement. The refuge was the safest space she’d ever been with others, especially folks that looked like her.

“Don’t burn out before you even meet the guy,” the half-elf teased.

“Aye, can’t promise I won’t break ‘im!” she hollered back to the two, already wandering off. “Don’t leave without me! I’ll find you guys!”

Thomasin wiggled her fingers in a goodbye before following Astarion. He set himself atop a nearby fence, where cattle workers inhaled rolled herbs that consumed the smells of animal husbandry. She parted momentarily . A quick barter of dried meats for something to smoke. She didn’t care what it was.

From his seat, teetering along a thin bar of wood, Astarion peeked over the cliff behind him.

A steep drop where the landscape’s division was most notable.

Below, in the grove’s heart, the druids had been preparing a ritual for days. One that all had to witness from above, most opting to ignore it for more productive matters. Dwelling on it was no good. The tieflings knew they had to endure whatever its finale may be.

Astarion began to rotate his ankle once Thomasin returned. She noticed him groan. The way he was begging her ask what ailed him. But, it was obvious. A constant state of walking was not in his repertoire and his shoes did him no favors. They were flat, embroidered and mended with almost exact matches of thread.

“Those are for walking around an art gallery,” she said, igniting a cantrip to light the rolled joint before taking a drag. She coughed aside. Then, her eyes flicked between his disgust and the dried ring of mud clung around his short heel and pointed toe. “You need something with more ‘umph’ if you’re going to be trekking through the woods.”

“These have plenty of ‘umph’. Gnats be damned if they think I’m not going to look my best out there. It’s bad enough we’re always covered in dirt.” His posture leaned forward with growing defenses, until he felt his oversized linen shirt hang from his frame. The long night spent pouring canteen water and grinding rocks into it lit up in his mind. Her blood tinting it pink until it washed away.

He exhaled. “It takes a lot of effort to look presentable… You of all people should know that.”

Thomasin snorted but disguised it under the guise of clearing smoke from her throat.

“Little corpse flower, just wrap up the artisanal ones and find a pair of boots. Shoes, y’know, with a substantial sole. For your new nomad lifestyle.”

“I haven’t had a soul in decades, ha!”

How he reveled in his own jokes. Entertaining himself was his most harmless priority. It didn’t cause harm, aside from the occasional humor at another’s expense. The octaves of his giggles made them impossible to ignore and, to some, mildly endearing. Others, a nuisance.

Nevertheless, Astarion soon fell into a bout of silence. It seemed his vision narrowed onto curled horns and whipping tails. Their perseverance. Their afflictions. Their belongings sitting in crates and reused potato sacks.

Thomasin tapped off a short length of ash, trying to read his thoughts.

“…Are you really considering stealing from the tieflings? Haven’t they had enough punishment for a lifetime?”

Astarion didn’t respond. His eyes were locked in. There was almost predatory examination of everyone’s movements and walking paths. It was like he drew mental maps of their footsteps, painting invisible dashes in the dirt predicting the possibility of every second.

That was, until he spotted his white whale. Or rather, humble cod.

“I think I’ve found a way to buy my own boots…“ He tilted his head back, nose pointing to direct her attention past the crowd, to a building being used as temporary storage. There was a perpetual line of tieflings awaiting rations, but it had become backed up.

A long horned man with rounded features stood his ground, hiding the tail curled against his ankle. He was tasked as one of many facilitators dispersing goods. Although his deeds were disrupted, having to contend with volunteer druids patrolling the upper levels. A handful of guards took umbrage with any space tieflings occupied, viewing them as encroaching.

“The heft upon that druid’s belt,” he murmured. “Those little burlap bags must be heavy with... something precious? Semi-precious?”

Astarion straightened his back, pondering hypotheticals until his sights floated back to Thomasin. She proceeded to blow smoke in his face, watching it engulf his pale visage. But, he seemed unbothered.

“And you cross me as a betting woman,” she noted.

”I said nothing of it. Are you?”

”Of course I am.”

With that, Astarion’s motivations were renewed. Revitalized. He went back to watching the guard’s body language, studying his behaviors and patterns.

“If I get caught… I’ll finish the beading on your bag. The one you’ve tediously poked at… And if I’m successful, as I will be, you… you’ll allow me to taste that lovely neck of yours again.”

Her brows dipped into a furrow.

“…I also get a third of the spoils, regardless.”

“On what grounds?”

“On me being very generous. Consider it a rover’s cut if you think you got an easy one on your hands.”

“You- Fine.”

Thomasin made herself comfortable against a grey wooden post as he left her side. Her last drags suckled down, a stub of a joint smashed into the neighboring post. Its mystery blend left her mind airy, but she had suspicions of her tolerance. A lifetime of ingesting garden variety delights could sometimes damper said high.

She flicked it aside in defeat, crossed her arms, and occupied herself with the bet.

If one were to keep a keen eye on Astarion, his concentration flipped with sudden transitions. Or, the lack there of. In an instant, nnatural stillness was traded for his perfect route. He ventured into the leftmost entrance of the Hollows, leaving her sight for only a moment, until popping up on the right side, where the ration house stood.

While the half-elf hadn’t asked, she figured he wore a blade tucked into his cuff. A staple. His shoulder appeared to slink down. His movements, fluid and unassuming, until passing the harrassing druid.

All it took was one knick. The cord snapped and a burlap bag rolled gently into his palm. In a sleight of hand, he pretended to adjust his belt and tucked the bag between his shirt and compressed waistband, allowing the excess of his clothing to billow over.

But, he wasn’t finished.

Before making his way back, the elf acted aghast. Threw his arms in the air as children passed by several feet away, feigning a collision. She was too far to hear what tale he spun, but the guard didn’t take it kindly. The elf was biting into his time.

Astarion turned on his heels in his groveling victimhood. Wallowed until he was out the druid’s peripheral. Then, like another switch flipped, his face dropped to one of neutrality. His steps, unhurried. Somehow smug as he grew closer to the cattle workers.

“As amicable as hemlock,” he informed Thomasin upon arrival, bag twirling by its neck between his fingers. His eyes fixed onto it like it gold, itself. “I don’t know why folks always say the nature types are peaceful. He’d never give this up if I asked nicely.”

The elf liberated their spoils from its burlap, misshapen colors tumbling into his cupped hand. His eyebrows dipped. For a few moments he was quiet, deep in thought, appraising them from a mental list he kept on hand.

“Limestone. Quartz. Bunch of rocks that could use a good polishing. Could dress up of a lapel, maybe….” he rattled on, pressing each to his shirt to imagine its accent.

Then, he pulled out two decent chunks of gemstone and raised them toward the sun, dazzled by what light glinted off its sharp facets. It was verdant. Transfixing to a deep biological desire ingrained in him. A desire that dragged across Thomasin’s face with an emerald glow. Its illumination highlighted yellow specks floating within her hazel pupil. He could feel his untethered impulses transferring over to her and let it flow.

“I’m not sure what this is, but the way it shines in your eyes makes me lose all thought…”

“It’s laculite. From the Underdark if I’m not mistaken…” she answered. Any hint of delight from his words leveled into nothing more than a suppressed, semi-flattered laugh. “But I don’t believe I’ve seen a piece this large in person. Always embedded in rings and the like. Little shards people acquired from one mysterious merchant to another.”

“The Underdark? Well, it’s found its way to you. Meant to be.”

He dropped the larger, thumb sized piece in her hand, letting it roll into the splotchy center of her palm. A long crystal form clattered amongst other smooth striped crumbles and cream colored slivers. They nestled within embedded lines. The bends and crosses countless mediums had pressed their fingers into to foretell her future.

But, before she pondered its deeper meaning, if there was any, a cacophony of noise bounced off the mountains cradling the grove. Their ears twitched with the same paranoia of cattle, both pressing their stomaches against the fence to peer over the cliffside. Their stones, shoved in their respective pockets and pouches.

The path winding down to the druids’ sacred pool had become congested. A cluster of tieflings gathered within its curvature, creating a body that threatened to push past the barrier of druidic guards. Upset voices pummeling what invisible boundary was made not far from the ritual. Only when a druid transformed into a bear did the front line of grievances scatter back.

It was all incoherent from where the two stood. Nothing but intensity and demands.

”Oh my. What are they saying?” Astarion thought aloud.

“I don’t know, but no misfortune comes singly…”

This wasn’t run of the mill conflict feeding elven schadenfreude. By the time Eltural’s descent back to Faerun would get to his ears, he’d only hear of gossip. This was the source. An inevitable fight between devils and nature. He could hardly pull himself from staring.

And, just as he prepared a grand statement to convince to Thomasin of eavesdropping, she was already nearing the trail.

Every step reminded the half-elf of her hesitance. In truth, she didn’t want to get involved. It was involuntary. Curiosity piqued, not out of wishing for entanglement, but from perfecting the art of survival.

If she understood how their wagon wheels were torn from their carts, she could avoid her own being upturned.

But, as she blended further into the crowd, the bolts in her wagon wobbled. Deeper, deeper, weaving through tieflings, their anger culminating into a mass of disenfranchised shouts and shaken whispers. Until Thomasin could only focus on on thing.

Two parents. ruly focus on was the mother. Her face, framed in near compositional perfection worthy of putting oil to canvas. Expressions distorting with each strained cry.

The injustice of two parents. A mother with piercing orange eyes and soft aurburn hair thrashed about in her husband’s arms. Her face, framed in near compositional perfection, like tragedy brushed from oil onto canvas. Expression distorted with each strained sob.

Both were in different stages of grief, each protecting the other while not processing their own emotions. Beads of sweat ran down her husband’s ash grey temples. He was boiled down to pleading for a chance to speak with their leader, Kagha. Begged his wife to practice mindful breathing, fearing she might further a narrative of their incivility, even if he knew she was right.

The crowd’s upheaval was met with frustration by three druid’s flush against the entrance. The protectors of the sacred pool. They stood in traditional natural garb, roots keeping them steady , fortified by a belief system vibrating in the air.

”One of those little horned children stole a sacred idol? And they say children this generation contribute to absolutely nothing,” Astarion scoffed, whispering commentary to Thomasin, but landing upon preoccupied ears.

”Let me talk to Kagha, you damn mragreshem, or I’ll rip out your damn throat,” the mother spat from her binds.

”Margre-Mragreshem….“

Astarion tried the cursed word upon his own tongue, melding its unfamiliar dialect against his own. Even repeated it a few times to find the similarities with his own elven speech patterns.

As he was about to guess its translation, he spotted Thomasin slip from his side and snake her way further into the crowd. He picked up speed, ducking fists and dodging shoulders.

”No, no, no, we are not here to solve every problem! Thomasin!”

By the time he caught up, they were halted at the front lines.

“Oakfather, they’re letting the drow in,” one guardian bemoaned, her stance widening with dominance despite a petite stature. “We do not discriminate unfairly. You must understand we cannot let the rot continue to grow on our land. You have have no say, now. Get back.”

”We defended your gates from goblins while you hid and my blood concerns you?” Thomasin’s focus tunneled to near needlepoint, their tips glowing red hot. Embers poured into the crevice of clenched fists. While she did not yell, there was a sudden firmness in her voice. “Why worry about my blood when you’re content spilling that of a child’s upon your land freely?”

The guard audibly huffed from her nostrils.

The beast rumbled within.

“Your concern should be how you’re forcing my hand. You don’t know what our claws can do.”

“Joerna, this is no way to conduct yourself,” an elder in furs interjected.

The young druid’s back arched. Where her vertebrae grew malleable and bent to accommodate a quadrupedal awakening, shoulders rolled in wide circles, preparing for migration. A growl erupted from her throat, causing the crowd’s singular body to step back again.

The half-elf, nearly inches away, closed her eyes, preparing for impact. But, as she opened them, she was untouched. The elder wrapped his hand around the young druid’s pant straps like a leash, interupting the formation of bones and rage.

”Joerna, we cannot let this get out of hand more than it is. Do not disembody what you do not know,” the elder scolded, turning his displeased sunken eyes up towards Thomasin. “Kagha heard of your arrival and wishes to speak.”

Thomasin lost her train of thought. This was not her fight. This was not her struggle. Yet, all the energy, the fervor, fed on something. Something slumbering she had not yet reckoned with.

Wind chapped faces she refused to give the space, inviting erosion upon their fine chiseled features with each passing years’ winds.

The collective shouting behind her dulled. Not its volume, but its existence. Their jaws, still unhinged with pain, but the sounds appeared garbled like they were sinking deeper underground. Thomasin realized this was no time for rationale. For contemplation.

She was forging forward with the tenacity of a wound up rusted tinker toy, vampire at her heels.

From the ground floor, it was all so palpable. The ritual. This was the deep heart of the grove and now she was marching through its arteries.

Five chanters encircled at its core. They channeled the essence of Silvanus, the Oak Father, through their precious idol, chipped away from stone. A conduit that sat atop a perch and vibrated in shades of lush green. It richoeted between tall pillars, relaying faith older than any of them could fathom.

Thomasin did her best to avert her eyes. Druids sat along what mountain walls cradling their santuary. Tunics, woven with soft sturdy leaves and well-kept pelts. Weaponry carved and sharpened by masters. Unuttered questions on their minds.

What would the presence of unvetted blood do? Silvanus would certainly hear their pleas, embody their anxieties, and protect the suffering. But were they trapping in disease?

Many looked at Thomasin and Astarion as though they would taint the soil. As though her and all the tieflings were born with an inherent rot. Intrusive roots from far off lands invading their summoning circle. Infecting the flora. Spreading cracks, unsightly veins, and infiltrating the very stone their idol sat upon.

Spiraling thoughts consumed her until flushed away by Astarion’s touch. She flinched. His hand settled against her back for he was leaning in, buzzing with comments eager be set free.

“You need to learn how to be a voyeur. An innocent bystander watching a little blood shed. Is it attention you enjoy?”

Irony rolled off his shoulders. Astarion refused to stop ogling back at the druids. His eye contact was a challenge and visibly prodded them in his nonchalance. In fact, the elf began greeting his audience with half-hearted bows.

“These disgruntled shapeshifters want nothing to do with us. It’s about ethics,” Thomasin murmured.

”Ahhh, pride. I am not judging, dear. I do think it’s a little percurliar with your… background- caring about ethics. But I’m not here to preach.”

Astarion swept his hands outward, landing on a particularly burly man in stitched furs. With a raised voice he announced: “If you haven’t requested private time, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Let our people know and we’ll find an opening!”

”You know not what you sow, outsider,” the man growled.

”Actually, I’ve stitched some incredibly finicky fabri—“

Astarion’s humor dissipated in a flash. Both Thomasin and him were belittled by the grand stone door before them. It was embedded in glowing runes and well-fed moss. Rumbled not unlike the belly of starving bears. And, as its rounded edges rolled aside, Thomasin involuntarily clutched the elf’s forearm and released it just as fast.

Inside its great maw was a subterranean cavern. Sunlight streaked through the ceiling and filled it with a cool dim light. Four frescoes lined the walls and told spiritual history in vivid aged pigments. Greenery coiled around makeshift furniture and retrofitted offices, each a ventricle meant to ensure the heart of the grove kept pumping.

It was a meeting place for those in the highest order of the Oak Father. Where wise, read leaders organized and discussed maintaining the land’s health. A large table set in rock positioned itself in the center, lined with stools, yet most seats were empty. Only an elder with an antler crown and a stout healer, adorned in traditional makeup, were present. Frustration stained their lips.

Kagha caught Thomasin’s entry and locked eyes on the two. But, their preparations for thorns was bizarrely met with stripped smooth stems. Eager hospitality. She welcomed the strangers with open wide arms, inviting them to take in the scenery. Her hair, two bright red tendrils, cascade down sharp cheeks.

This was jubilance.

This bypassed the authority they could sense she usually upheld.

“Praise be, a deep elf in our home,” Kagha preached. “On this day. A sign- or better yet, a gift! Someone with sense. A child of Lolth. Someone with true understanding. In time to see the viper defend her brood with a killing blow.”

She proceeded to introduce herself as the “rightful broodmother”. With Halsin’s absence in place, she was taking matters into her own hands, despite her community appearing quite divided. It did not damper her confidence. The way she spoke of goals and ethics had twisted into contradictory milestones.

Thomasin made a conscious effort to nod every so often, feigning cordiality, but there was no denying the inevitable presence a mere few feet away. The tiefling child was only nine years of age. Arabella. Beads of sweat misted her grey temples, pasting loose strands of hair from her ponytail.

An unfiltered noise escaped Arabella as a hefty irridescent viper, affectionately named Teela, slinked around the child’s ankles. Under Kagha’s order, it help her captive. It dragged its weight in deliberate patterns across her shoulders and hissed directly into her ears.

How one could attempt normal conversation whilst a child wept for their life was beyond her.

“Your name,” Kagha repeated, noticing Thomasin’s thoughts drift. “And whatever you wish your companion be addressed as.”

The half-elf’s speech would’ve been steady if it weren’t for her raising heartbeat. The tingling in her arms. Not one pulling her to crumple, but manifested as an internal buzzing.

“My name is Thomasin. And this is Astarion. I- this doesnt—“

The elder, Rath, stood from his seat to interject.

“This is madness. This is a child, Kagha.”

“Why don’t we wait for Halsin’s return?” Nettie, the healer chimed in. “He’s invaluable to—“

“Hold your tongues lest they’re dissected,” Kagha snapped. “You’re being rude to our guests. If Halsin hadn’t spent all his time seeking knowledge and wanderlust, he’d be here. Not out researching bugs and storybook legends. Leadership requires instincts. Intuition.” Then, she turned her attention back to Thomasin, her voice assuaging, bordering on intimate. “You see, a deep elf joins us as I cast punishment for our rite. It’s a sign. I know it must be. Another that can sense a parasite when they see one.”

Unfortunate little soul , Astarion whispered to himself.

“The rite?” Thomasin asked, hesitance heavy on her breath for an answer she may not wish to hear.

“This is out of necessity. The Rite of Thorns is commmencing now we’ve taken back our idol and you’ll witness us seal the grove from further harm. You must have similar tactics in Menzoberranzan. Or, where in the depths of the Underdark do you reside from?”

Kagha’s eyes narrowed, repeating herself.

“ Do you reside from there?”

Thomasin wrestled with which persona would lead to least resistance. Playing along with Lolth never vowed for pacifism. It was rarely a garuntee. What it could grant, when approached with caution, was a bitter faux authority.

She huffed through her nose, slipping into an austere display, although reading more tepid.

“My relationship to the Spider Queen is none of your concern. We are not in the underground matriarchy now,” the half-elf responded, short and blunt.

Kagha’s heart skipped a beat. The possibility of proving ignorant, of insulting the Spider Queen, left her wary. Albeit, a twinkle remained. So, the wood elf adjusted her behavior to mirror her guest. “Of course, of course. Different lands do not owe one another the same formalities. Still, your existence proves immense self-preservation, does it not? You and the high elf. You must know more than anyone about the shadows. It’s purification.”

“What is it you want from us?”

“Lend me your guidance, if I may request…”

Thomasin could feel her chest tightening as the wood elf lowered to Arabella’s height, a corrective hand pressed against the girl’s back. Fingers splayed. A nonverbal threat. This radicalism wouldn’t be written in prolific texts. Arabella would become an afterthought. A name on a summarizing ledger, if given a name at all.

“There is not misunderstanding or overrreaction here,” Kagha continued. “She drinks our water, eats our food, takes shelter on our land, and still has the audacity to steal our idol. That’s vital to our protection .”

Arabella sputtered out apology after apology. She begged for forgiveness she knew would not be given. Her little body, flanked. For, in her captor’s grasp, she was constricted beyond a semblance of hope.

“Shhhh, the adults are speaking, little one. If you wiggle around too much, Teela may just get restless.”

Gods , Thomasin expelled almost inaudibly.

The half-elf suppressed every muscle in her face that tugged and contorted in distaste. She had to close her eyes. Inhale and exhale.

Kagha’s theatrics were one of pride and accomplishment. The Druid was not asking for reverence by her god, but for acceptance of her martyrdom. Of the reputation she could be sealing into an early tomb. For the Oak Father to pat her on the back. For a Lolth-ridden approval.

Thomasin forced herself to commit to a plan. It was the only solution she could muster. She would lean into disapproval where they were already seeds of doubts and soil tilled in insecurity. Letting her eye contact settle on Kagha with unflinching will to let her know she meant every word.

“If your goal is to leave Zevlor and his followers to their own demise, what is the purpose of a premature death? Does a child’s theft scare you?”

Kagha looked to her with an unpolished juncture of silence. After all the backlash and division, she hadn’t expected to say it out loud. Let alone in weakness.

“A… It’s a warning. If they stay, we perish. We cannot risk interupting the Rite of Thorns- it’s pertinent they stay away. Once completed, our grove will be cloaked in thorn and bramble, keeping us in and those outside out. Finally safe. As respectable brood mother would, right?”

“It appears some of your fellow druids are not as keen on the idea of isolation and bloodshed…” Thomasin let the sentence hang in the air. “…I fear you may have some detractors. The devotion of the Oak Father’s tenants may be stronger than your word. Or is bloodshed a core value I do not understand? Is that how he is secretly appeased?”

“No, no, you’ve been mistaken,” Kagha reiterated, a panic nagging at her. Her defense fled from her lips like a quill plunging itself into a pot of ink until it was dripping, unable to write legible script. “I only bare my fangs in defense. The invaders will see us as a mighty people purifiying the land and the great followers of the Oak Father will grow to understand. I promise you.”

“Naturally. To be seen as a fearsome leader rather than a merciful one, as everyone expects the guardians of nature. You might as well scorch the paintings along these walls. You act in confidence, yet have not a clue whether your leap of faith will simply make you look cowardice with child’s corpse on your hands. Children of drow have done worse and still lived.”

Kagha could feel her ideals blurring and her knowledge of the Underdark faltering. She was a leader. She was strong. Yet, she looked up at Thomasin like an ever looming presence standing over her.

Her audience of clashing opinions already caused splinters. They looked to her, anticpating her next response and its subsequent justification within shadows. A dark abyss only she could decipher like a prophet. But the thrill of dictating Arabella’s future was molting into dire straits.

The wood elf turned on her heels to face Arabella, peering into the weeping orange glow of her eyes in search of resolution. Her own face, a blank slate. No comfort to be shed. Even her tone bordered into the performative as though still workshopping the person deemed fit to lead.

“I am no monster, child. I do not revel in your pain. Do you view me as a monster?”

Arabella hesitated. Was she allowed to speak her mind?

“Would you like me to be?” Kagha added.

“N-No,” Arabella uttered.

“If you were to live, would you speak of my mercy to your people? Of my fair ferocity and gentle hand?”

“Yes. Yes, I would,” Arabella answered with immediacy.

Kagha spent a long time staring at the Arabella, although wasn’t sure what answer would appear. Motives to theft or a divine calling, perhaps. Yet, all she could see before her was a child shaken to her core. One she was pledging to silence by poison for the community’s benefit.

With a swift snap, and a click of her tongue, Kagha disengaged her snake. It hissed between a temperamental forked tongue and slithered behind the druid, nestling at her feet. She ran her fingers along her pet’s slick scales in thanks, then released her hand from the child’s back, standing tall beside her.

“Go speak to your people of my mercy. You are free to go.”

Rath watched as Thomasin’s face scrunched up in relief. A betrayal of her dominance as though her body hadn’t been allowed to slacken the entire conversation. He noted how the half elf raised her hand out. How she pacified every aspect of herself for Arabella, not lending any of this kindness to Kagha.

“Darling, your parents- they’re are worried sick about you,” Thomasin had a tender approach. “Would you let me take you back to the Hollows?”

“Please. Yes. Please. We should leave,” Arabella repeated, impatient as she was surveyed for possible injuries.

“I will alert the others that she is not longer captive… Thank you,” Rath sighed.

“Please, do speak to Zevlor,” Kagha jut in with a sharp tongue that had dulled at its point. “They could use a capable rational person to guide them away from our home.”

“And look out for Halsin in your travels. He must be out there,” Nettie said from her seat.

Thomasin nodded to the druids, still offering Arabella a hand to hold. In most circumstances, the child felt she was too old to cling onto an adult. But, she was regressing into that of vulnerable youth, needing anyone to tell her she would be alright. Their trembling ashen hands joined together.

May the oakfather forgive you for your torment, the half-elf whispered under her breath as they ventured toward the door.

And, as their bodies hit the warm embrace of sunlight outside, both recognized what adrenaline coursed through the other. Arabella teetered between shame and the sensitivity she buried to keep said shame at bay. A scrappy girl. Someone Thomasin saw herself in.

The ritual still commenced. Those on the side lines either chose to ignore the strangers’ existence or glared at Arabella as she made her way through their sacred territory. Every step, feeling like a lifetime. The entrance, seemingly miles away.

Astarion leaned forward and, to Thomasin’s surprise, was being supportive. A distraction. While his reasoning was unclear, she was far too drained to dig for pitfalls.

“There’s nothing exciting about following the rules, don’t let them you otherwise,” he encouraged.

“Nor is there anything wrong with you. Sometimes we get ourselves in situations stickier than intended,” Thomasin added.

“Still, little fiend, impressive. A career of slippery fingers usually starts small but a holy idol is no easy feat. Most your age are looting coins for candy or toys or whatever else. Make sure you exchange tricks and tips with your friends, I’m sure they’d–”

“But- let’s not commit too many light-fingered antics for awhile, yes? I’m sure your parents would appreciate the break.”

Arabella was navigating her mysterious flood of emotions, keeping quiet and nodding along. She felt scolded by the adults, scared of the druids, but, an inkling of the unknown cracked a smile upon her face. She’d not yet know how to define it though. Maybe empowerment. Validation.

By the edge of the sacred pool, where a few tieflings still gathered, Thomasin let her grip loosen and watched Arabella dart toward her parents. They clutched her in their arms, hugging her tight and swearing they’d feed her to gnolls the next fright she caused. A powerful feeling swelled within the half-elf.

Her parents insisted on rewarding them for saving their ‘little hellion’ with a gift of a locket. They had not much to their name, prompting Thomasin to reject the gift until Astarion swiped it from their hands. He was never too prideful to accept an object that reflected the light.

Eventually, the crowd dispersed and she rubbed her eyes. Not from fatigue, but the pure concentration she forced herself to endure. The two began to walk up the trail, catching stray appreciation from others along the way.

Astarion had begun to dent his fang into the tarnished shell of the locket, testing how malleable its metal was.

“Stop that,” she laughed, snatching the locket by its chain. “Let’s find the others. I need to let the ocean air salt my skin and thirty seconds where nothing goes awry.”

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