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i-was-bored-so-this-happened · 4 months

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Greensleeves Chapter Eight: The Lost Art Of Keeping A Secret

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Warnings: N/A Wordcount: 4.1k

As the party find a routine, things seem to settle down. Then Xaph learns what killed that boar. And what's bothering Gale. She shares her own burdens.

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Gale and Xaph don’t get their quiet moment, not for over a week. Their night watch schedules don’t line up, and the House of Hope has provided them with enough food for over a tenday so there’s no need to forage. No one protests when Gale cements himself as camp cook, and he listens attentively when Xaph talks to him about mushrooms, when Wyll shows him how to decoratively cut fruit as though for presentation. Even Lae’zel starts to wean off her gith rations. The party figures out their hierarchy. Xaph has slipped into a leadership role. She manages to keep them on task and she knows how to navigate the land. She’s smart, and she has good instincts, and it’s working so far. Wyll is invaluable, a seasoned adventurer who does an excellent job of keeping tempers below boiling point. More than once he has to separate Lae’zel and Shadowheart like spitting cats, and that’s where Astarion comes in. He and Shadowheart bitch to one another in Elvish and they’re as secretive about their personal lives as ever but it gives them an outlet and no one can begrudge them that. Xaph takes Lae’zel to a dead tree and lets her take out her feelings on it. Joins her, sometimes. The rift between races is eased, if not yet quite erased, and the party at large begins to find their rhythm. The nightwatch rota is set and solid. The only true rule is not to schedule Lae’zel and Shadowheart together, not until they burn through the fighting frictions between them in daylight hours. Everyone has learned how to erect and collapse their own tents, though it still takes Astarion a while, and that rest time is precious and shouldn’t be wasted. Time spent around the campfire feels precious too. It’s around their food they begin to understand each other and build trust.

One night, Xaph is restless. She’s caught in limbo,not quite awake and not quite asleep. The worm is exploring her brain and she just can’t get comfortable. Eventually, she wedges an arm under her head so her horns don’t dig into the ground and closes her eyes against the stars, determined that the worm is not going to take another night of sleep from her. In the end, this struggle might be a good thing. She’s only just barely asleep when she senses it. A presence. Not far away, either. Close. An animal, perhaps, tempted by the smell of food. A light-footed goblin scout. A vampire, she remembers the exsanguinated boar. When her eyes open, she’s still not sure what she’s looking at. Astarion. Pale as the moon against the night sky. His red eyes look down into her green ones, both sets equally surprised. Fangs an inch away from her throat.

“Shit.” He knows that she knows, but Xaph acts before he does. She moves instinctively, bringing a leg up to hook it over his hip and rolling until she has him pinned and her arm is braced against his collarbone. When he lifts his hands her tail snaps forward and smacks his wrist and he obediently holds his hands above his own head. He knows she’s stronger than him. “If you wanted to be on top, darling, you only had to ask,” the words are familiar, every jab he ever has is said as though he and his combatant are between sheets, but the tone is a little off, “Listen, it’s not what it looks like.”

“It looks like you’re a vampire.” Xaph says plainly.

“Alright, so maybe it’s a little bit what it looks like.” Astarion admits. Is he…pleading? Desperation does not suit him. “I wasn’t going to hurt you.” Xaph eases her weight off him, and again his eyes widen in surprise as he scrambles into a seated position.

“Talk.” Does she trust him? Yes, yes, she thinks she does. He’s scared, and he’s still close enough that she can grab and overpower him.

“I just needed…well, blood.”

“That was your kill, wasn’t it? That boar.” She does trust him. Trusts him to have her back in a fight, and that’s what she needs.

“I’m not some monster. I feed on animals. Boar, deer, kobolds. Whatever I can get.”

“It’s not enough, is it?” Xaph asks, “You couldn’t even hide that boar.”

“The pig was fucking heavy!” Astarion cries, taking offence and throwing his hands out, but he sighs. “You’re right. I’m too slow right now. Too weak. If I had just a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.” Yes, he’s pleading. She doesn’t know how to feel about it. A strange sensation charges through Xaph’s veins. He’s opening his mind to her, like Lae’zel had. He’s opening up. She was starting to think he couldn’t do that. He’s letting her in. She accepts, but tentatively. Letting him lock her out at any moment, but he doesn’t. Their worms connect with only minimal squirming. The memories are full of cracks and they shake. Scared. She’s seeing through his eyes again and none of the faces are clear, but there are dark eyes at the centre of all of them. Commanding. And he’s compelled. He can’t resist. But he doesn’t get to choose what he eats.

“That’s who you were talking about. The one who liked to play with people. Your master.” Xaph says, hushed. His ears relax, the very tips drooping. She didn’t know elf ears could move like that. Never paid enough attention to them, she supposes.

“Yes. Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So you can see why I’m slow to trust you,” he hesitates here, as though he’s not fully comfortable with his next words, “But I do trust you. And you can trust me.” Xaph watches him. She keeps her hands on her knees, palms up and open.

“I do,” she tells him, and she knows she does, “I believe you.”

“Thank you.” It’s the most genuine gratitude she’s ever heard from him. “Do you think you could trust me just a little further? I only need a taste. I swear.” It makes sense. To feed from her, asleep and unknowing or awake and willing, would expend far less energy than chasing something and having to hold it down until it stops moving. He’s hungry. He’s in pain. He’s in need.

“Alright.” Xaph says eventually, and he’s surprised all over again. He’d expected her to shove a stick through his ribs, slice him open with his own dagger. The surprise pinches Xaph’s stomach. How long has it been since he was trusted? “But not a drop more than you need. I rather like life, whatever of it I’ve got left.”

“Really?” There, for just a moment, his confidence falters. The smooth veneer that covers his words shows a single hairline crack. “Of course,” he recovers quickly, “Not one drop more.”

“What do I do?” Xaph asks. Astarion gestures towards the bedroll,

“As you were. More comfortable, you see.”

She obliges. She has the upper hand should things go south. She lies on her back, as she had been, arm wedged under her head. Astarion hovers above her, going back to his own pose. He’s high on his knees, and each hand presses into the ground by her shoulders. She has the upper hand she has to remind herself. She’s not used to feeling like prey. The fangs are like shards of ice in her neck. Cold isn’t a familiar experience. Tiefling blood runs hellfire hot. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it’s not pleasant either. Numb pressure on her neck, and a draining sensation. She can feel her pulse in the roof of her mouth, and then it starts to recede. To fade. Lightheadedness punches in. She punches him, pushing her fists into his shoulders until he detaches himself from her neck. He’s out of breath, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Xaph’s blood. She can’t say she’s ever experienced this before. Her hand goes to her throat and finds twin puncture wounds, just like that boar. Her hand comes away coated red.

“Amazing,” that single word carries more weight than every syrupy pick-up-line he’s tried combined, “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel…happy.”

“I should hope so,” the night air is freezing against the bite marks, “I’m glad I could help.”

“Raphael was right about one thing. Your heart does bleed something awful. Not that I’m complaining.”

“I look forward to seeing you fight. Maybe you’ll win our next duel.” Xaph says, and it’s refreshing to hear him laugh. She wonders if her blood will bring colour to his cheeks.

“If you’ll excuse me. You’re invigorating, but I need something more filling,” Astarion says this somewhat dismissively, but he doesn’t turn away from her until she nods and settles back on her bedroll. Maybe now she’ll sleep. She sits up again to retrieve the blanket that had been tossed to the side when she’d launched herself at Astarion, and she sees that he hasn’t fully left yet. His back is to her, but his head is turned to the side so she can see his lips moving when he says,

“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

***

Gale doesn’t sleep any more than Xaph does, pain chewing at his ribs and the muscles of his chest. Eventually, he rolls over and tugs the flap of his tent open to let the sunrise in. He can’t bring himself to move any further, not yet, so he lies on his stomach and lets the sun warm him up. Watches the rays of light dapple through the leaves on the trees. Xaph is already awake. She’s tied a burlap sack that must be full of rags and leather scraps to a branch, and is practicing with her bow. She’s still working on getting her arm in, and she can be found practicing most early mornings. Her stance is impeccable. She’s barefoot, as she tends to be in camp, her trousers slung low on her hips. She isn’t wearing a shirt, just her smallclothes. Red fabric that covers her chest and little else. Gale can see every muscle in her back moving, tensing, releasing. She’s strong. Could she lift him, if she wanted? The pink light of dawn is tinting her skin lilac. The skin of her back, her arms, is fascinating. There are raised lines, small spots. Freckles everywhere. Everywhere? No. Don’t. He has to move. He can’t lie here and watch her and let his mind wander. He manages to pull himself up into a seated position without making too much noise, though several muscles he’d forgotten about clench in complaint.

Astarion enters the picture, the frame made by the blue fabric of the tent. His skin shines in the sun. His shirt is unlaced, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He must say something, because Xaph turns her head to look at him as she lets her last arrow fly. Astarion gestures, and she raises her bow again though she frowns at him. She pulls her bow to full draw and he slides his hands over her shoulders as though to adjust her position. Down her arms, along every bump and ridge. Gale doesn’t know what to make of it, but he can’t bring himself to look away from the interaction and he fumbles for his clothes blindly. Xaph turns, shaking Astarion’s hands off her, and relaxes her own arms. She shows him how her fingers are positioned on the string of her bow, and Gale can’t quite tell but he thinks he sees her fingers flutter as they change position over and over again. Her gaze is fixed on her fingers. Astarion is watching her face. She smiles. She never shows her teeth, they’ve noticed. Astarion’s head tilts to the side. Then he puts his arms on her shoulders again. He pushes, turning her. Turning her to face Gale’s tent. Red eyes have found him. He’s been caught. At least he’s found a shirt to pull on before he’s dragged out of his tent.

“Don’t skulk, wizard.” Astarion calls. Xaph hisses something at him about not waking the others, hitting his shoulder, but he just smiles back at her. Down at her, he’s taller if you don’t count the horns. She elbows him and Astarion stumbles dramatically, hands clutched to his stomach as though she’s stabbed him. They talk a bit more, and Gale thinks he hears think about it, Astarion, as he ducks out of his tent. He’s managed to wrap his shirt around himself and tie it, but he’s struggling with the ties at his wrists and he doesn’t want to conjure a mage hand just for it to flicker in and out of the air. That would be one too many embarrassing missteps. First getting stuck in a rock, then freezing in combat, and then to fail at a simple cantrip? No, better to leave the ties trailing. When he reaches Xaph her back is turned to him as she pulls her arrows from her makeshift target. She leaves both her quiver and her bow against the tree. Navy, three or four shades darker than the rest of her skin, stripes her stomach. Previous battles scar the skin of her limbs. There’s a mark on her neck, but he can’t quite make out what it is. A small pile of fabric by the tree turns out to be a robe that falls past her knees. Deep green and patterned with yellowing ginkgo leaves. The ranger allows herself some luxuries then.

“Shall we walk?” she asks, extending an arm to the woods. The sleeve of the robe is a handwidth wider than it needs to be and as she moves various sections of her abdomen are shadowed and highlighted. “Astarion can handle the watch until someone else wakes up.”

Xaph meanders away from camp, careful not to be walking with Gale rather than ahead of him. Something about this feels soft and timeless. The party don’t spend the majority of their time in simple clothes, and when they make camp it’s Xaph and Lae’zel who have the least qualms about shedding layers. Not Gale. He sits by the fire and tells stories and lulls the camp to sleep, but always wrapped up in purple robes. She didn’t know the shirt under his robe was the kind he has to fold about himself and tie at the sides. It ends halfway to his knees, not yet tucked into his trousers. The neck is a wide v, a shape she knows, but there’s a mark in the skin she hadn’t noticed before. Part of a circle, wispy. A tattoo. The wizard can be surprising when he wants to be. The silver in his hair is turned gold by the dawn, and the brown of his eyes reveal hidden depths in the light. He could weave enchantments with a squint of his eyes alone, she thinks.

The bank of the Chionthar is only fifteen minutes away. Trees rustle above their heads and the river rushes beneath their feet. Xaph settles cross-legged on the bank and lets her tail dip into the water just to feel it. Successfully tempted, she reaches out and lets her fingers slip under the surface. The water of the Chionthar is clear here, though she stirs up some mud with her fingers. Gale finds a low, nearby rock and sits. In silence. He watches as she devotes herself to feeling. The end of her sleeve is falling into the water but she doesn’t care. Her hair is loose and falling over her shoulder. Sunlight, pale yellow, dances on the river. Ripples where she makes contact. Sets her hair alight. A stranger could mistake her for a naiad if they stumbled upon her like this.

“It’s a wonderful morning.” Xaph whispers, her words a lily pad alighting on the river.

“A picture.” Gale agrees. Neither of them voice the next part of the sentiment. How many more mornings will they see? This morning, this sight. Immortalised in their minds for fear it might be their last. In another life they might be seeing it memorised in paint. Rather, Gale would see it in paint. Xaph may have seen the real thing. Felt the cold water against warm skin. Breathed the fresh air, nearby moss. She shuffles to face him, wiping her hand dry on her trousers before she presents it to him.

“Here. Let me tie those.” She offers. He leans forward after a moment’s hesitation, letting Xaph takes his hands into her lap. She smells of ginger. Their hands have touched often enough that the contrast of colour is no longer off-putting, but Xaph doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to how soft the skin of Gale’s palm is. She’s all too aware of her claws, as though she’s liable to tear him open. As though he’s made of silk. But he trusts her. He said so. She finds one set of ties and brings them high above his wrist. “You wax poetic about my virtues, Mr of Waterdeep, as though you have none of your own.”

“I can’t imagine what-”

“Shush.” She tells him, pushing a thumb into his pulse. She doesn’t expect him to listen, but he does. When she pushes, his fingers curl in on themselves. His veins are almost purple in his wrist.

“You’re a good man. You helped me without even knowing me. You calm Lae’zel and you take Shadowheart’s jabs,” when she looks up from her fingers it is directly into his eyes and they’re like pots of honey as light shines on him, “We trust one another, but we haven’t been entirely honest with each other, have we? And we are not in a situation that is conducive to keeping secrets. You intend on being honest with me, so I will be honest with you.” She leaves Gale’s wrist, now wrapped in the cuff of his sleeve, and moves onto the other one. Once she starts to work on that knot she looks up at him again. She’s offering him a trade, and he’s going to take it. He’s going to take it, but it still takes him a beat to get the words out.

“You see, I have this…condition. Very different from the parasite we share, but just as deadly,” Xaph’s brow furrows, but she doesn’t interrupt, “The specifics are rather personal, but suffice it to say that it is a malady I have learned to live with - though not without some effort.”

“Does it hurt?” she asks then. The back of his hand is flush to one of her palms, and the fingers of her other hand have stilled and curled around his wrist. The combination of contact and words soothes, if only superficially.

“Yes. Yes, it does. But one must take these things one step at a time. What it comes down to is this,” here he goes, all or nothing. Well. Not quite all. Not yet. “Every so often I need to get my hands on a powerful magical item and absorb the Weave inside.”

“Raw magic? Why?”

“I can say no more on the matter. Not now, anyway. Just trust me when I say it’s all of vital importance. It’s been days since I last consumed an artefact. Since before we were abducted. By that I mean it is imperative that I find and consume the Weave at the earliest possible juncture, and I need your help to do so.”

“Where do we find these artefacts?” Xaph asks. We, that’s a positive. She finishes the knot at his cuff and settles her hands in her lap.

“As luck would have it, Faerun is full of them. Though I do feel obliged to point out that items of power tend to be in hands of power. There will be danger involved. Or great cost.”

“That sounds about on track with our lives at the moment,” Xaph admits when it’s clear that he’s done, “It sounds draining. Unlike anything I’ve ever heard of. Mind, I’m not primarily a spellcaster,” she pauses, then shifts so her palms are open to his again, “You ask me for help. I offer my hands.” Gale thanks her in as few words as he can manage, which is still a good dozen more than most people would use, and Xaph prepares to uphold her end of the bargain.

“I told you I’d had brushes with the infernal before. I’ve met Raphael more than once. He did offer me a deal, like I said, but that was only a year ago. Ten years ago I was messing around somewhere I shouldn’t have been, and Mephistopheles noticed. My family’s from his line, you see. He thought I’d found something - to this day I don’t know what - and he handed me over to his son to get the information out of me. Raphael had his fun with me but he knew I couldn’t give him what he wanted. I convinced him that I would be more useful to him alive than to his father dead.”

“You signed a deal.” Gale realises aloud. She’d told Wyll she hadn’t.

“Not in the traditional sense. It wasn’t a contract for my soul, no devil could convince me to part with that. It was a contract for work. Twenty years commission. I owe him one job a year, no questions asked. In exchange, my family and I are sheltered from Mephistopheles.” She ends her story there, staring at her tail in the river.

“Like you told Lae’zel. Your people aren’t compliant. You’re survivors. And you survived.” Gale lets his hand find Xaph’s. His fingers circle her thumb, not wanting to cross any sort of boundary he’s unaware of, but her fingers curl around his hand and squeeze. “You outmanouevered an archdevil and talked a cambion’s price down from your soul. Frankly, Xaph, I’m impressed.” A smile flickers. Her skin is warm and textured and he lets his hand sit in hers until she pulls away and starts to fiddle with a ring on her pinkie finger. It’s a plain thing, that ring, a copper band that only holds a single stone. An opal, he suspects, from the ever-shifting colours of it. He’s never seen her without it, but now she takes it off. Slowly easing it over the knuckle, leaving a strip of skin that is a slightly paler blue than the rest of her, hidden from the sun. She holds it out to him without a word. He takes it, though he’s a little confused as to why he’s being asked to examine it. Was it a gift from Raphael? Could he even use that word for such a thing? He knows the answer the moment he touches it. This ring is stuffed full of magic. It sits in his palm and he passes his other hand over it. The ring levitates, then drops.

“This is a ring of sending,” sending stones. Rare, powerful magic. Smiths in the Sembia region used to set them in gold necklaces. No mention of Sembia comes without mention of Netheril. “Where did you get this? If you don’t mind my asking.” Pain makes his manners something of an afterthought, but Xaph doesn’t begrudge him an answer,

“My mother made it,” she’s rubbing the join between her finger and her palm, “She made two pairs. One for me, and one for Quahala,” her sister, the one that lives in Waterdeep, “So that no matter what plane we were on, we would never be lost to her. Spell went a bit wonky a couple years ago and she couldn’t fix it. Only works when it wants now, but it does still hold magic.” She had been heard crying and cursing a few nights ago by Wyll and Shadowheart. Was this the reason? Had she been wrestling with the ring, trying to reach her family?

“I know it does,” Gale closes his hand around the ring, just for a moment, to strengthen his resolve. Then, “This is a precious thing to you. I can’t accept it.” When he goes to give her the ring back, she pushes his hand away.

“Take it.”

“Xaph-”

“Gale. It doesn’t work, and it can help you. Take it.” She insists. Compassion. Sympathy. She can’t bring herself to smile. It feels like she’s giving him her whole finger, ring still on. He tries to say her name again, but the soft sound of it is drowned out by a yell in the distance.

“A vampire?”

“Oh shit.” Xaph stands and brushes her trousers off.

“I’m sorry, did Lae’zel just say-”

“She did. Well. Uh. We all have our secrets. Astarion’s is that he’s a vampire, and it seems he’s decided to tell the whole camp without me,” her words are rushed and panicked now, and their sanctuary is broken, “Excuse me, I need to make sure they don’t kill him.” Xaph races away without another word. Her robe billows out behind her as she rockets back to camp. Gale is left sitting on the rock, her ring burning through his palm.

#rae's writing #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfic #bg3 #bg3 oc #rae's ocs #xaph [tav]#wyll ravengard #shadowheart #lae'zel #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #astarion #astarion ancunin #raphael #bg3 raphael #greensleeves

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i-was-bored-so-this-happened · 4 months

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Greensleeves Chapter Seven: The Horror And The Wild

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Warnings: Brief description of dead animal at the very end Wordcount: 4.1k

The party adjust to their newest member and set out on their journey to the goblin camp. They're interrupted by an old business partner of Xaph's

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Gale and Xaph return to their companions without further discussion. He shares what they have learnt from the goblin prisoner, about this Absolute. A god none of them have heard of. Xaph peers at the map and plots possible routes with Wyll and Shadowheart. Two black circles are on the parchment now: the goblin camp, and where Zorru had encountered the githyanki. One is much further west than the other. The goblin camp must be their priority. The githyanki can wait a few days. The tieflings can’t.

“Your kind prove compliant, Xaph. A useful trait.” Lae’zel tells Xaph as the group collect themselves and begin to move. The tone of her voice almost makes it sound like she’s trying to compliment rather than insult.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” Shadowheart butts in, “You ought to reconsider keeping her around, before she causes real trouble.”

“Let’s not start a fight,” Wyll reasons, “Not here.” He’s right. She shouldn’t start a fight within the group, not after accepting Lae’zel and bickering with Shadowheart. Besides, to bring violence inside the grove would certainly have them tossed out by the druids, and they might take that as an opportunity to evict the refugees too.

“We’re not compliant. We’re survivors. These people are running for their lives.” Xaph informs Lae’zell, refusing to break her stride and let the githyanki goad her into an argument. That’s far too easily done with Shadowheart already.

“Cockroaches are survivors. Yet I do not congratulate them.” Lae’zel points out. Xaph’s tail twitches, but she still doesn’t stop. Astarion and Gale note the movement, and the latter mumbles,

“Steady. Remember she’s acting out of fear, like the rest of us.” He’s right too. She can’t pick a fight with every being they come across who has something against tieflings, but it’s always somehow worse being the butt of the joke in front of a group of people who aren’t.

“The teeth-ling was clear. If there are githyanki west of here, that must be our objective. Purification cannot wait.”

“We are tieflings. With an f.”

“I am unfamiliar with the - well, I shall not say culture. Custom, perhaps.” Lae’zel says, eyes rolling behind Xaph’s back. The tail twitches again, more violently this time, but Xaph’s jaw is set.

“Nor am I familiar with yours.” Is all she says.

It is decided through vote that Xaph is least likely to get them lost. As a ranger, she has a better grip on maps and traversing rough ground than the elf who looks like he hasn’t seen the sun in a century and the self-proclaimed wizard of Waterdeep, and Shadowheart and Lae’zel both carry the prickly presence of lone wolves who are distinctly uncomfortable in a pack. Wyll is well-suited to keeping everyone on task, which Xaph thinks will work well to curb her habit of going off the beaten trail in pursuit of interesting tracks. When Shadowheart points out the impracticality of her armour for hiking, Lae’zel makes that noise between her teeth again, tchk. In loose formation, Wyll puts himself between the cleric and the githyanki. A fight between them seems inevitable, but hopefully the Blade of Frontiers can keep it verbal for the time being. It scratches a pleasant itch in Xaph’s brain, that from above they must look like an arrow. She, Astarion and Gale form the triangle of the point and Lae’zel, Wyll and Shadowheart the shaft.

She revels in being outside again. The sun is warm, but pleasantly so, and the wind moves enough to keep cool air circulating around them and prevent overexertion. The air carries only the occasional waft from the nautiloid, and is otherwise deliciously clear. No longer drowning in the stink of burning flesh, blood, and acrid smoke, she can dissect every delicate note of the grasses around her and the flowers they hold. When they pause so Wyll can shake a stone out of his boot, Xaph takes the opportunity to retie her hair so it’s all gathered up and she can feel the breeze on the back of her neck. Even the unevenness of the ground beneath her feet is a delight. It’s been a while since she’s travelled with others, and it takes her a while to correct her speed so Gale doesn’t lag behind, so Lae’zel doesn’t snap about them going too slow, so Wyll stops fretting about them burning through energy. Eventually, they settle into a rhythm and keep to it until the sun reaches its peak and several members of the party start flagging. Even those used to roughing it are struggling, weakened by the tadpole. They should endeavour to sweat no more than necessary to retain fluids.

Now several miles away from the grove, they’ve reached a bridge. Deciding to make a brief stop before crossing it, they find a good clump of trees that cast enough of a shadow to hold them all. Xaph slides down the trunk of a tree, lets her head fall back onto the bark, and reaches out blindly for her bow to unstring it and give it a break. Food, provided by Okta, is doled out and eaten in near silence. Lae’zel stays standing. Pacing, actually, questioning if there’s any real need to stop. No one answers her, too tired. Once they’ve eaten, Wyll and Shadowheart split from the group to investigate voices they can hear not far away. Gale tells the remainder of the group his Yawning Portal story with suitable dramatics, and Xaph resists the urge to correct his grip when he mimes holding a crossbow. Lae’zel shows no such restraint, but to look at Gale her words are no more than irritating flies, and his blasé attitude makes Astarion chuckle. It’s a neat little pocket where, for a moment, Xaph thinks this group might work. At least for the next few days. As long as none of them turns. Or dies. Or kills another member of the party. Alright, it’s a little complicated.

Wyll and Shadowheart bring disturbing news back to the shelter of the trees. A man has died nearby, leaving his siblings under the impression that the Wyll and Shadowheart were True Souls, beings chosen by this new god the Absolute as vessels of her word. Their brother had died after foolishly following an owlbear mother back to her nest, and after convincing the siblings not to avenge him they had run off into the woods. A tadpole had squeezed out of the dead man’s eye not long after. With more than mild concern at the third mention of this new god now coupled with a mind flayer worm, they end their break early and continue to move.

Their redoubled efforts do not last long. They don’t even get to cross the bridge. Halfway across, Xaph skids to a stop as bright red and gold sparks swirl in a vortex in front of her. She groans audibly as the sparks convalesce into the form of a man. He looks human, even if his skin carries a reddish undertone. Middle-aged. Not particularly remarkable.

“Don’t.” Xaph warns at the sound of multiple weapons being readied. She herself hikes her bow up her shoulder and waits.

“Xa-pha-ni-a,” he stretches each syllable far longer than necessary, until they’re transparent, “Well met, muzz.” Xaph’s companions have heard her use this word on the tiefling children when she wants their attention, when she demands their respect. He knows her name, this swirl of sparks that stinks of sulphur. Astarion can taste cherries in the air, unable to overwhelm the smell of the hells. Shadowheart can feel her hair prickling at the back of her neck at the untoward curl of his lip. Gale can judge the track of his eyes from Xaph’s boots to her hair before he appraises her friends. Wyll and Lae’zel know devils when they see them. Xaph closes her eyes as she breathes in through her nose and opens them as she heaves a world-weary sigh,

“Raphael,” worse, she knows him, this must-be-infernal, and she does not show him the respect he has ordered, “What. The everloving fuck are you doing here?”

“Mind your manners, little mephit. Speaking of, what manner of place is this that I find you in? The path to redemption?” his voice rumbles ever so slightly deeper than it should, “Or the road to damnation?” he leans forwards, into Xaph, and she leans back to maintain distance, “Hard to say, for your journey is just beginning. What would suit the occasion? The words to a lullaby, perhaps?” there’s whispering behind Xaph but she doesn’t listen closely enough to make out what her companions are saying. Raphael always did like delivering his riddles in song form, “The mouse smiled brightly: it outfoxed the cat! Then,” he drags a hand through the air, “Down came the claws, and that, love, was that. They know how to write them in Cormyr, don’t they?”

Lots of lullabies and faiytales come from the Cormyr area. Wine, too. He’s been listening. Watching. The air around Xaph and Raphael shifts as something red-hot teases the bones of her spine. Gale shuffles his feet, uneasy at the mention of Cormyr, under the same suspicions as Xaph. This devil had heard their late-night conversation. Her tears.

“What’s brought you down here with all us worms, Raphael? Hardly your scene.”

“Quite right,” his eyes rove over the party again, “Too many pests, and decidedly too middle-of-nowhere for my tastes. Come.” Raphael offers Xaph his hand and, to Wyll’s dismay, she takes it. The entire group is engulfed in the same red-gold sparks that had brought the devil to them, sparks that turn to flames that flare white without burning and are snuffed out in an instant.

***

They are no longer on the bridge. They stand in a grand dining room. Dining room, because there’s a behemoth of a table in the centre, round and positively overflowing with food. Every good cooking smell in the world comes from this table. There are huge roaring fireplaces, huge black statues, huge everything. They are ants here.

“You’ve redecorated,” Xaph notes. “New portrait,” she flicks a hand towards a towering painting that hangs on the wall above the fireplace behind where Raphael now stands. Ten-foot tall canvas, easily, the frame itself adding another two feet around the perimeter. Xaph turns her back on the devil while her companions are still trying to process what had happened. It’s an illusion, Gale can tell that much, but such a strong one of the like he hasn’t seen in…well, in a while. Wyll’s eye darts nervously along the walls, looking desperately for the windows, for assurance they aren’t actually in the hells. “Liked the old one better.” She tosses the words over her shoulder as an aside to the devil. The devil. A devil is talking to them. A devil knows the tiefling. Maybe she isn’t as soft as Shadowheart had thought.

“The House of Hope,” the showmanship is for the benefit of the party rather than Xaph, who is nonchalant, surveying the table, “Where the tired come to rest, and the famished come to feed. Lavishly,” He chews on that word for longer than necessary, making it more than it is, “Go on. Partake. Enjoy your supper.” Xaph picks up a loaf of bread. Tears it in half. Squeezes the halves into dough balls in her hands. Holds them up to her nose. Licks them. Listens to them. She tosses another loaf of bread at Astarion and he catches it without a second thought. His eyes are everywhere, there’s just so much to take in, but he has enough wherewithal to catch it.

“The food’s safe. Take what you can carry,” her words are light, but when she looks at her companions her eyes are dark and deadly serious. Her voice pushes into their skulls, Trust me. Please. Let me handle this. Astarion and Lae’zel begin to fill their packs as advised. Gale’s eyes are stuck on Xaph. He hadn’t considered that she too might have her own secrets. Wyll fidgets, entirely unable to stay still. His eye keeps going to the door, but it snaps back to Raphael as flames roar around him. A devil indeed. It’s confirmed, made official. He is showing them his true form. His skin fully red, his bone structure sharpened. Winged. Horned. A genuine product of the Hells, and one with power too.

“What’s better than a devil you don’t know?” Raphael asks the room at large.

“A devil you do.” Xaph replies.

“You’re stepping on my lines, love.”

“Maybe you need a new script.” Wyll is in utter shock. As are several other members of the party. Xaph is treating this fiend as though he’s just another human, another elf, another githyanki even. Her surety worries Gale, but it fascinates Shadowheart. “What do you want?”

“Some respect would be a suitable start. On your knees, mephit. I am not known for my patience.”

“Or for your sta-” This, apparently, is too far. Stale air rushes over the party as Raphael’s wings open. He almost seems to grow taller. It’s not clear if Xaph kneels of her own volition or if she’s forced. The stillness of her tail indicates the latter. An apology flies from her lips, then, “Don’t hurt them. Your business is with me.” Her voice has taken on a strained tone. Pained.

“That heart of yours bleeds as much as ever, then. No matter. You won’t have use of it for much longer.”

“I’ve been lower than this. Why now?” A dozen questions burn in the minds of her companions but not one of them dares to move. The extra height Raphael had gained recedes, and he steps forward so as to more effectively look down on the tiefling. Her hands are behind her back, as though bound.

“Don’t play hard to get, not when you’re in so deep over your tadpoled head. One skull, two tenants, and no solution in sight. I could fix it all,” the devil snaps his fingers and a flame leaps up between them, “like that.”

“He spits lies. The only way to cleanse-” Wyll clamps a hand over Lae’zel’s mouth before she gets them all wiped off the mortal plane. She bites him, but doesn’t say anything else once he lets her go.

“And you know I’ll never agree to your terms.” She sounds as though she’s running out of breath.

“Oh, never say never, love. But very well,” with a wave of his hand, Xaph is released. The ranger falls onto her hands, whipped out from behind her back to break her fall, and she coughs like a cat trying to bring up a hairball, “Try to cure yourselves. Shop around. Beg, borrow, steal. Exhaust every possibility until none are left. And when hope has been whittled down to the very marrow of despair, that is when you’ll come knocking on my door.” He laughs, and they can feel it rumble in the floor beneath their feet.

“I’ll rip out your tongue first.” Xaph tells him, still out of breath.

“Ah, yes. The tongue. Yet another piece of pleasurable anatomy you’ll soon have to do without. All those pretty little symptoms - sundering skin, dissolving guts - they haven’t started to manifest yet, have they? You’re a paragon of luck, muzz. But luck always runs out eventually. I’ll be there when it does.”

With a thud that rattles their knees, the party are thrown back to earth. They’re standing in the same fashion they had been in the House of Hope, still arranged around a table that isn’t there anymore. Xaph is on the ground, crumpled, still trying to clear her throat. Wyll reaches her first, on his knees in front of her and lifting her head to see her eyes.

“What in all the hells was that?” Shadowheart’s next, and her voice is sharp and accusatory, but she deliberately stands so that she’s not in the way of the light Wyll needs to look Xaph over.

“Raphael,” Xaph’s words rasp, but she sounds less congested, “Mephistopheles’ heir and a fustilarian shitfire,” the words she shouts into the dirt path devolve into Infernal.

“More importantly, darling, how in the hells do you know him?” Astarion asks, though he keeps his distance. He and Lae’zel, packs bulging with food that has proven not to be illusory, stay a few feet away from the rest of the party as Shadowheart takes Xaph’s pack and Wyll and Gale slot their shoulders under her arms to get her to her feet.

“You don’t have a deal with him, do you?” Wyll asks. The group begins to move across the bridge they’d almost forgotten was there, all of them wanting to put as much distance between themselves and Raphael as possible.

“No, gods, no,” Xaph assures him, having to stop to cough again and her face pinches in a wince, “He came to me about ten years ago, when I was as close to starving as I ever will be. He preys on the hopeless, offers them a way out in exchange for their soul. Gets quite offended if you refuse.” That can’t be it, Gale thinks, the story’s too short, but she doesn’t say anything more.

“You shouldn’t have provoked him.”

“It’s the quickest way to get him out of your hair,” Xaph tells him, “If you’re a mark, that is. Looks like I’m still a prospective client.”

“Just when I think I’ve got a grasp on our dilemma, a bloody devil turns up.” Shadowheart exclaims, throwing her hands in the air.

“Cambion.” Wyll and Xaph correct her together.

“He claims he can help. How true can that be?” Shadowheart asks, addressing Xaph specifically.

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

“He flaunts his paltry wings as if he wants to impress us,” Lae’zel sneers, “You saw the red dragons slaying his infernal kin above Hell’s fires, did you not?” These questions are for the group at large, though they turn out to be rhetorical, “Next to a dragon, a devil’s a gnat. When I am kith’rak, I will take my Queen Vlaakith his head as a trophy.”

“Kith’rak?” Gale repeats, his pronunciation very close to Lae’zel’s.

“Githyanki knights. The riders that chased the nautiloid. They are the commissars and enforcers of my Queen Vlaakith’s will.”

“Forget the kith’rak,” Astarion cuts in, his pronunciation not as clear as Gale’s, “There’s a devil after us. Cambion!” he corrects himself before Xaph and Wyll can, “This just gets better and better. Shop around he said. He seems sure we won’t find anything.”

“That’s his angle, to grind hope down to bone meal.” Xaph tells him.

“Maybe, but all that take your time, I’ll wait nonsense. He’s playing with us. He reminds me of someone I used to know. Someone that liked to play with people. Creatures like them don’t play games unless they know they can win.”

“We’re not his playthings, Astarion,” Wyll says, “We won’t be.”

“Besides, he can’t have a cure. Only the zaith’isk can remove the tadpole.” Lae’zel reminds them. She and Astarion descend into debate. Xaph turns her head to look at Gale, who’s hardly said anything. This close to him, still propped up by him and Wyll, she can see spidery lines of black that crawl out from the neck of his robes up to his eye. Curious.

“Rather flattering, to be invited to dine with a devil.” He says quietly when he sees Xaph is waiting for him to speak.

“For you, maybe. He’s got no patience for me anymore.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. He knows how far he can push.” She doesn’t want to go into it, how hands of hot air had pushed her to the floor and held her wrists, her tail. How motes of fire had burned beneath her skin. She’ll be left with the feeling of bugs creeping over her body for hours, until Raphael forgets or lets her go. Shadowheart presses a cooling, healing hand between her shoulder blades and she regains some strength in her legs, “But for the rest of you? That was roses and champagne.”

“He wants something from us. Badly…” Gale gets lost in his own thoughts and Xaph has to laugh at him.

“He wants our souls, Gale.” Wyll says.

“Let me play advocatus diaboli,” he borrows Wyll’s own phrase from the day before, “If there’s one quality all the denizens of the hells share, it’s ambition. A quality they share with many humans, come to think of it. He wants Xaph’s soul, yes, but why drag the rest of us tiddlers in with the catch of the day? Fact one,” he starts to count with the fingers of his free hand, “There’s something very strange and very powerful about our tadpoles. Fact two, a cambion offers to take it away. The infernal aren’t known to aid mortals out of simple kindness,” Wyll hums in agreement, encouraging Gale, “Whatever Raphael wants, we must be the key to getting it. Along with our tadpoles…”

***

They know they’re making proper progress when Shadowheart recognises a specific tree. A short detour brings them back to the place where she, Astarion, Gale and Xaph had made camp that first night. There’s a good few hours of light left, but Xaph is still wincing at odd intervals and they’re still weak from their time aboard the nautiloid, so Lae’zel’s protests are largely ignored when they decide to camp here again. Gale manages to talk her down, reminding her that no warrior can be at their best without rest, and that seems to calm her somewhat. The party, though larger than before, is as subdued as they had been that first night. The combination of hard travel and Raphael has tired them. Xaph fillets fish Lae’zel and Shadowheart had engaged in competition to spear from the nearby stream, and Gale peels potatoes Okta had given them. A look passes between the ranger and the wizard and they know they will not be able to have their discussion tonight. They have more than enough food to use foraging as an excuse between the tiefling’s donations and Raphael’s buffet. Astarion had suggested that the devil’s food might be poisoned, but Xaph had quickly quelled these concerns by shoving handfuls of the stuff in her mouth.

“Xaph?” Wyll’s voice rings out between the rocks. He’d gone exploring, and has apparently found something of interest. Xaph cleans the smell of fish off her hands and moves towards the sound of his voice, tailed by Astarion.

Wyll has found a boar. Full grown, stone dead. Xaph squats and runs a hand over the bristles of its stomach.

“The pig’s dead, my friends. Staring at it won’t bring it back.” Astarion tells them.

“I can’t figure out how it died,” Wyll says, ignoring Astarion and crouching beside Xaph, “He’s fairly young. Strong.”

“Must be five or six years old,” Xaph slides a hand under one of its front legs, “Not warm, but he’s still a little stiff. Can’t have been killed more than a day or so ago.”

“Can you eat it? Because otherwise, I don’t understand what the problem is.” Astarion says flippantly. Xaph reaches for the boar’s snout to see the length of its tusks, and that’s when she notices the puncture wounds. Small holes punched into the beast’s neck, less than a finger’s length apart. It’s the only wound on the boar’s body, as far as she can see. She twists to Astarion and holds out a hand,

“Knife?” he obliges, passing her a dagger, but he does ask,

“Shouldn’t you lug it back to camp before you start hacking away?”

“I want to see something.” Xaph tells him. She sets the point of the dagger in one of the puncture wounds and cuts.

“And? Is it dead enough for you?”

“It’s been completely drained of blood.” Xaph states, and this effectively shuts Astarion up. Wyll probes the incision Xaph has made, investigating further. He looks at her, the question in his eye forming on his lips in a whisper,

“A vampire?” he asks. Xaph nods. “So close to where you’d slept? Are we safe here?”

“We’ll be fine with the night watch, but we should keep a specific eye out.”

“So you can kill it, I suppose.” Astarion muses. Xaph stands and turns to him, and he recognises the look in her eye. Determined.

“No.”

“No?”

“They must be starving, to drain a boar of this size and still not be strong enough to dispose of it,” she glances at Wyll to confirm he feels the same and finds no resistance from him, so she locks eyes with Astarion again. His red eyes glow in the night, as her green ones do. They’re beginning to take on that nocturnal sheen as the sun sets. He’s watching her. Waiting. “And hunger makes beasts of us all.”

#rae's writing #greensleeves #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #rae's ocs #xaph [tav]#lae'zel #wyll ravengard #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #shadowheart #astarion #raphael #bg3 raphael

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