Chapter Text
Valyrd recalls his day so far. Halsin’s promise of information on the tadpoles and Moonrise Tower made fighting the leaders of the goblin camp more worth it than before. He’s still on edge, trying to focus on the task at hand with dread.
The last of the goblin pack’s leaders is a drow, and while he holds no love for his old home nor any sworn fealty to Lolth, he isn’t eager to fight another drow, much less interact with one. If she’s anything like his old mistress, then his day is about to turn ugly.
Nonetheless, he presses on towards the corner of the temple where Minthara is, according to the directions he got upon first entering the day before. As he turns the corner, seeing the woman conversing with a goblin, Val signals to the group to stay back. He considers their best chances of avoiding suspicion is for him to go in first, alone. And if he’s lucky, maybe the Absolute’s influence muddled her recognition of drow custom, or even the Menzoberranzan houses.
As Minthara finishes threatening the goblin underling as part of giving orders, she turns after noticing the sorcerer approach from her peripheral. She lifts her head, turning up slightly to look down at Val.
“So, the Absolute’s love extends to even a jaluk . Come closer and make yourself known.” She beckons him forward with her finger.
Instinct kicks in, and Valyrd silently follows her direction to approach further, keeping his head lowered slightly just below hers. However, he chances a moment to send a venomous glare her way.
Jaluk. Technically meaning ‘male’ in drow, but eons of Menzoberranzan culture turned it to mean more. Or rather less.
A reminder of Valyrd's role, his value, his place in it.
He always hated the word and would’ve loved to spend at least one more day without hearing it again.
He feels a shiver across his spine as the tadpole in his head quivers in response to Minthara’s. Her mind intertwines with his, like an icy hand caressing his mind and soul. He stands frozen in place as scraps of her memory dances across his mind’s eye.
One of the Absolute’s Chosen, the pale-eyed woman whispering in her ear, a map detailing plans for an attack on Waukeen’s Rest, and a flicker of a tower enshrouded in shadow. He then realizes he’d been holding his breath, quickly inhaling with a soft gasp. The unpleasant experience of tadpoles connecting and the drow woman’s dominating presence make a particularly nasty combination.
“A True Soul?” Her voice snaps him back to reality. “But do not think this makes us equals in the slightest, jaluk .”
She takes a step forward, lifting a palm to his chin as her nails lightly dig into his cheek. “So long as you are here, you will know your place beneath me. Intimately. ”
Valyrd swallows a lump in his throat as he adjusts his expression to its practiced, unnatural tranquility. “Understood, alur .”
“Good.” Minthara’s voice trails off as her red eyes drift towards the left side of his neck, settling on the icy blue flower inked into his skin. A brief pause of silence passes before her expression sparks with recognition.
“Marked with the Sussur brand, I see. So, you belong to House Alet’tar then, jaluk ?”
Valyrd quickly tries in vain to adjust the collar of his robe to conceal the tattoo. Minthara’s free hand stops him, gripping his wrist tightly as she pulls his hand away. Her gaze meets his and stares on, hungrily.
“The Absolute may have touched your soul, but Alet’tar’s ilharess has already laid claim to your body. So too she has made a claim to your blood and the faer within it. All this I see in your mind and in the Sussur bloom that marks you as hers.”
As she speaks, Valyrd stays firm in her grip. He feels his mind drift away from the present. Neither the room nor his body feel present as Minthara’s voice drones on in his ears.
Her voice lowers to a whisper as she leans in, her face inches from Val’s. “A shame really, jaluk . I’d have far more use for you, give you purpose. But perhaps, if you please the Absolute, join my hunt for the druid grove wherever it’s hidden…”
Her attention is fully on the lesser drow and so does not notice the other newcomers circling around her, some failing to hide their apparent disgust and discomfort, listening to her. “...then perhaps she will dissolve that which binds you, that which keeps you from being mine . I promise you a finer fate, full of purpose as my pet.”
Val’s pupils dilate as years of fear he’d bottled up rush back into his mind. It took everything he had to escape his old life, and now yet another drow wants to drag him back into it.
His body tenses, with adrenaline building up, but he neither fights nor flies. He’s frozen. His breath is irregular and rapid as tears form in his eyes. No more. Stop. Let go. Stop talking.
Minthara chuckles dryly to herself. “And once your faer belongs to me, I might even consider adding it to my bloodline. Hm, yes. I can see now the glorious issue I can make with—”
She is cut off as a fist slams into the side of her face, knocking her into a wall and away from Valyrd, who drops to his knees. She stumbles to her feet, swiping blood from her nose as she glares murderously at the horned human who threw the haymaker.
“How dare , you wretch!” Minthara unsheathes a pair of maces from her back as Wyll stares her down defiantly.
The warlock says nothing as he brandishes his rapier, fiendish magic swirling up the blade. In that moment, the True Soul finally notices the other intruders as Gale destroys a nearby war drum with a crash.
“Guards, to me!” She then raises her maces to block a strike from the furious Blade.
Swipes, parries, and blows are traded, but few attacks find purchase against the surrounded drow.
Meanwhile, Shadowheart brings a blast of thunder down upon the scrying eye and two other goblins.
A third goblin breaks into a sprint to escape and calls for reinforcements. Just before he makes the last turn around the bend, Lae’zel swiftly leaps upon him, carving tendon and flesh until he stops moving.
Gale provides covering fire against the straggler goblins to ensure the Lolth-Sworn has no support.
Minthara is focused on parrying a swipe from Karlach when a rapier sparking with lighting whizzes into view. She takes only a single step to avoid it as Valyrd stumbles forward.
“Insolent jaluk .” She snarls at the sorcerer as she flicks her wrist, using magic of her own. The Seldarine drops to the floor hard, paralyzed by the spell.
With a whirling spin of her maces, she momentarily drives her attackers back, leaving only herself and Val. She circles him like a hawk before crouching down. She grabs a fistful of his ponytail and lifts his head up to face her with a rough yank. A yelp escapes Valyrd despite his immobilized state.
“You not only defy the Absolute’s will and mine but also conspire with iblith . No amount of agony will suffice.” She grins with a sadistic glint in her eye. “But that will not stop me from trying.”
With a pull, she flings him into a wall, slamming his back into cold stone, before swinging both of her maces full force into his chest. Valyrd cannot scream, as he feels the blows shock his organs with radiant energy and break his ribs with a sickening crack.
A strangled cry is cut off as a rib pierces his lung. He collapses to his knees as a surge of blood spews from his mouth and nose, before finally crumpling in a heap with a weak, wheezing cough.
Minthara’s moment of smug satisfaction is cut short by a dagger piercing her back and a second gashing her shoulder. Astarion, who had landed the attacks, pulls his blades out with a twist as Wyll rushes forward, driving the end of his blade into her abdomen quickly.
She slumps against the wall, leaving a red trail smearing down the stones. No one takes time to confirm if she breathes her last as she loses consciousness.
All eyes are on Shadowheart, pulling Valyrd from his own sanguine puddle with some difficulty before Wyll lends a hand. The two carefully roll him onto his back, taking in the damage. Gale, who’s been standing a few paces back, chokes down a bit of bile at the sight before glancing away.
As the cleric gets to work healing his wounds directly with spells while the warlock supports him, Astarion sets to carefully yet quickly prying the enemy drow’s armor off. After one last undone strap, the leather slides off her with ease, and the elf doffs his own armor.
“Really? Is this really the time or place for that?” Karlach shoots an incredulous look his way with her hands, gesturing at the emergency healing being carried out.
“What? It’s high quality drow armor, devoid of sun damage. Besides–” Astarion glances at the drow companion with a wince before glaring at Minthara, with spite in his eyes and venom in his voice. “You can’t seriously expect me to spare her some dignity after all that .”
Once Shadowheart could stabilize Valyrd’s wounds, the group made their way back with him in careful tow to the worg pens where Halsin waited.
Upon arrival, the druid rushed to attend to everyone’s wounds. The least he could do after waiting in hiding for them, he explained. As he channels druidic Weave into Valyrd’s chest, those present fill him in on what’s become of the goblins’ leaders.
However, they were more or less careful about leaving out the plethora of vile things the last target said to their wounded companion before the fight had started.
Halsin nods grimly as the magic radiating from his palms ebbs and fades away. “I suspected fighting those three would be difficult, especially the drow. You did well, and your friend has my deepest respect and sympathies for the risk he took in this endeavor.”
Astarion scoffs indignantly, “Your sympathies ? You owe him more than that, considering less than an hour ago he almost died doing your dirty work for you.”
His remark meets little to no protest as most of the party feel similar to a certain degree. The vampire half expects the druid to argue, but he just sighs.
“You have a fair point. And I know it would be an insignificant gesture, but I will wait until he recovers to provide the intel I have for him personally.” Halsin stands up and steps back a bit.
“…It’s a start.” The pale elf concedes bitterly.
“But for now,” the druid clears his throat, “I must return to the grove, restore order there, and deliver news of your victory. Until then.”
He then wildshapes into a rat and scampers away. An hour of near silence passes before Valyrd regains consciousness. His violet eyes open blearily as he wakes with a groan. He blinks slowly as his vision focuses, finally recognizing the dark, scarred face within his peripheral vision.
Wyll quickly turns to the group. “Everyone, he’s awake. Karlach, please give him a minute.” He raises a hand to the tiefling who’d shot up to her feet, stopping just before she could rush over.
The warlock then turns back to the drow on the floor. “You really gave us a scare. But thankfully, we could mend the worst of it.” He glances down at the wrappings around the sorcerer’s chest and shoulder. “Though not all of it.”
Valyrd drifts a hand to the wrappings, lightly picking at the edge of the bandage with his fingers as he recalls the fight. He remembers losing control of his body, then pain, and then darkness.
“Min…thara?” His voice is cracked and dry, which he notices before trying to clear his throat.
“Defeated,” Wyll answers, deciding against bringing up what Minthara had said and done to Valyrd. “Halsin already headed back to the grove after he helped patch you up.”
He extends a hand to help Val up, but the drow recoils from the offered help. After a failed attempt to stand, he settles for just sitting up, wincing as his sore ribs and chest protest from the movement.
Wyll studies the drow, his gaze drifting across his torso, then towards his face. While difficult because of the dim light and his near-obsidian dark skin, subtle discoloration showed signs of bruising. The severity is nigh imperceptible, but Wyll could still see bruises marring Val’s chest, face, and left arm.
“What are you looking at?” Valyrd pulls his knees closer, feeling uneasy under the warlock’s stare.
Wyll blinks. “Sorry, but I couldn’t help noticing you’re bruised all over. I can check if we have anything to help reduce the pain, at least.” His voice stays low to not start a commotion.
“I’m fine.” Val says flatly. The fact his bruises were being pointed out was unnerving to him.
“No offense, but you look like a pit fiend chewed you up and then spat you out.” The warlock digs through a pocket in his armor before fishing out a small potion. “Here.” He holds it out towards the drow.
Val gingerly takes it and drinks the potion in a quick, discreet gulp. While the bruises don’t fade, he can still feel the pain dulling to a lighter throb. After a few seconds, he inhales deeply before gradually standing up, wincing a bit.
He then turns to see Astarion, who had been quietly approaching, raising a hand in a coy half wave. However, when Valyrd flinches on sight, the vampire eases back slightly, confused. Glancing down at the armor he took off of Minthara and is now wearing, he glances back to Val, realization writ on his face.
“That bad?” Astarion echoes Valyrd’s words from when he killed the Gur in the wetlands.
Val retracts his hand, which had sparks of electricity arcing between his fingers, and averts his gaze. “That bad.”