It’s unnerving, how easily Naia can move through Moonrise Towers. Convenient, yes, of course- but unnerving, all the same.

She clutches her bag closely to her side, putting her utmost effort into appearing cool and confident as she sweeps out of Balthazar’s rooms, still half-expecting to be caught and questioned at any moment. The guards watch the gray-skinned tiefling as she goes, but it is with little interest; she has been verified as a True Soul. In their eyes, she belongs here.

The belief, she admits, is not even a particularly misguided one. Balthazar did send her here, did put her on the lead to understanding more of his research, and it would be a lie to claim that his teachings on the deeper levels of necromancy were received without a small, begrudging amount of admiration. That admiration gnaws at Naia’s stomach with an echo of guilt…but it does make it easier for her to play the part of a willing student in Ketheric’s loyal army.

Naia descends the long staircase and makes it halfway through the entrance hall without incident, and the tension within her begins to ease. It was wise to come here alone, she knows this. Ketheric’s guards may not prove so amenable to a large group attempting to navigate the fortress’s upper levels, but she is quick and capable enough on her own. And this way, she does not have to worry about her companions’ eyes upon her as she studiously unravels the undeniably impressive magic woven by Moonrise’s necromancer.

Yet she is also anxious to be done with this place and return to her friends waiting just outside the gates. Mostly, she is anxious to return to Shadowheart, who has sequestered herself within the locked rooms of Shar’s Gauntlet so as to better focus on her trials. This solitude is just one of many worrying tendencies Shadowheart has indulged in as of late, and Naia can only hope-

“You there.”

Naia winces at the voice, but it is too late to duck and run. With no small amount of reluctance, she turns to greet the drow woman sauntering across the hall with a self-satisfied smirk on her lips.

A look of such smugness upon the face of Araj Oblodra cannot be a good sign. Unfortunately, Naia dares not risk ignoring her outright; the drow is the only one in Moonrise who seems to realize Naia’s true loyalties. As of yet, she has not cared enough to announce this to anyone else, but recent events have left things tense between them, and her good grace is surely wearing thin.

Those same events have also thinned Naia’s patience, and despite her resolve to remain diplomatic, her voice is curt as Araj draws near. “If you’re here to ask me about Astarion again, the answer is still no.”

The woman’s red eyes flash with petulant anger, but her pointed smirk remains in place. “How adorably stubborn of you. But regarding my intentions, you are wrong- a feeling which I’m certain you are quite familiar with.”

Naia has no interest in granting this woman the benefit of doubt. “As I told you before,” she hisses, stepping closer so as to shield their conversation from passing soldiers, “he is not inclined to speak with you, let alone do anything else with you. A feeling which I’m certain you are quite familiar with.”

Araj tilts her head, that look finally slipping from her face. “Such a clever little tongue,” she says, a hint of dark amusement still lurking under her tone. “A pity it’s wasted on a creature with no spine.”

“If you’re not here to say anything useful-”

“I speak the truth,” Araj snaps, cutting through Naia’s words. “I’m not here for him. I’m here for you.”

The resulting look on Naia’s face must betray her emotions, for Araj releases a sharply delighted laugh. “Not for that, my darling. Some may find your demon’s nature enticing, but I am a lady of more acquired taste. What I require from you is for a purely scientific purpose, I assure you.”

Naia crosses her arms, her tail swishing angrily against the stone floor behind her. “You still haven’t told me what you actually want.”

“Is it not obvious, for a specimen such as yourself?” Araj asks, cloyingly sweet yet still somehow dripping condescension. “I am a sanguine alchemist. I want your blood.”

Naia stiffens, arms tightening around herself. “No.”

Her quick response earns a scoff from Araj. “You remain too easily offended. This is as much for your benefit as mine. Allow me to draw a sampling of your blood, and I shall distill a portion of it into a potion, which you may have and use however you see fit. A trade more than fair, considering I shall be doing all the work. All you have to do is bleed.”

The answer should, once again, be a quick and decisive no. Yet against her better judgment, Naia asks, “What will the potion do?”

Araj’s entire demeanor seems to brighten, her eyes sparkling at Naia’s reluctant interest. “I don’t know. Each one I make is unique, attuned to the blood of its source. And you…you are more unique than most, True Soul. Are you not curious as to what may come of it?” She licks at her lips; her gaze sharpens into something hungry. “I am.”

If only an honest denial could be made. But Naia is curious by nature, and her attentions are often most caught with subjects that others consider best left alone. The pages upon pages of necromancy research stowed away in her bag right now are testament enough to that fact.

Araj waits through Naia’s internal arguments, but finally rolls her eyes and gives an impatient toss of her hair. “Don’t give me that sour face, darling. It will only take but a moment of your time.”

“Fine,” Naia relents. These potions may be useful; if she observes carefully, she may even be able to reverse-engineer Araj’s formula and process. It is, overall, a pragmatic decision.

Araj lifts her chin in triumph, and Naia is quick to add, “But take one drop more than necessary and I shall rot the flesh from your bones.”

The answering laughter from Araj is almost fond. She turns on her heel and waves for Naia to follow as she sets off to her makeshift laboratory. Naia obliges, and she is relieved to see that the space is empty; if she’s going to do this, she’d rather do it without the Moonrise guards hanging over her head.

Once in the lab, Araj’s bearing shifts, if only slightly. She makes her way to a corner of the room and begins clearing her books and scrolls, her movements sharp and focused. Soon enough, she has assembled a collection of glass vials and alchemical ingredients, some of which even Naia cannot name. Each action she takes in this process is precise and intentional; her fingers are deft as she arranges the glass-encased chemicals, her eyes vibrant as she assembles the space exactly to her liking with gleeful anticipation.

Loathe as Naia is to admit it- and oh, she is loathe to admit it- there is something about the woman that makes her just as intriguing as she is infuriating. Such devotion to her craft can only be admired, and few others can claim to have reached her level of passion for this type of science. While her methods are hardly standard…well, Naia is once more reminded of the research in her bag, and the spells inscribed in her own grimoire. She is hardly one to judge.

Hells, Naia’s begrudging interest is perhaps a signal of danger all on its own. Gods know that her own tastes have always had a tendency towards the ill-advised.

Araj finally steps back from the table, apparently satisfied with its arrangement. She pulls a chair forward and looks to Naia, blood-red eyes gleaming. She must be proud of those eyes, seeing as how she decorates the skin around them with identical red shimmer, emphasizing the striking color. Araj’s smirk sharpens as she catches Naia’s watching gaze, and she waves a hand over the chair in exaggerated welcome.

“Please, darling- make yourself comfortable.”

That won’t be happening, so Naia settles for dropping herself stiffly in the offered seat. Araj circles her finger through the air in a get on with it motion, and with a deep breath through gritted teeth, Naia rolls up the sleeve of her robe and presents her bared arm.

This is the part she is looking forward to the least- but when Araj’s hands make contact, it’s not as bad as she was expecting. In fact, there’s something oddly comforting in the detached professionalism of the drow’s touch, in the precise press of her fingers as she searches for a vein. Her fingers are cold, and as she trails them down Naia’s arm, she leaves goosebumps in her wake.

Araj is silent as she locates her desired point of study, even as she picks up the scalpel and vial. It’s only when she presses the sharp blade into Naia’s skin that she releases a small sigh of contentment.

Naia herself barely reacts to the cut; this pinprick is nothing compared to other injuries she’s received these last few weeks. Her muscles barely quiver at all as she watches Araj stare at the trickling blood, bright red against pale ashen skin.

“I wasn’t sure you’d have any to give at all,” Araj murmurs as the blood slowly collects into the vial, which she keeps in place with a summoned Mage Hand. “You look half a corpse already.”

“With your proficiency for astounding scientific observations, you might have noticed I am a necromancer.”

“That’s hardly an excuse, darling. I know Balthazar considers himself a genius, but you needn’t go following his example. You’ll decay into a boring old husk and lose the pleasure of this.” The scalpel presses just a little harder, and Naia releases a sharp hiss of a gasp- more in irritation than anything else, she insists to herself.

“Isn’t it a beautiful thing?” Araj continues blithely, her voice sinking into that awful, sensual rhythm of hers. “The bite of the pain…the slow drip of the blood…the fragility of the connection as your lifeblood spills for the sake of another’s pleasure…have you truly never been tempted by the idea?”

“Hard as it may be for you to believe,” Naia bites out, “vampirism has never appealed to me.”

Araj’s dreamy expression shifts into a pout. “No…of course not. That’s not quite your type, is it? But what about that Sharran that used to cling to you? Does she not spill blood for her goddess? Is her devotion so different from my desire?” As she speaks, she studies Naia’s reaction, a single eyebrow raised as a taunting lilt enters her tone. “Where is she now, by the way?”

The mention of Shadowheart does more to affect Naia than Araj’s little blade ever could…but she’ll be damned if she lets Araj see that. “Nowhere that is any of your business.”

Araj sighs, a taunting, pitying sound. “Nor yours, I should think. Those Sharrans always did guard their shrine so jealously. Is that why you’re here alone? Has she gone and locked herself away from you, to better offer herself up to something grander?”

“Do you remember when I threatened to rot the flesh from your bones?” Magic flares in time with Naia's anger, and the air around them grows colder. But Araj hardly seems intimidated; in fact, she chuckles.

“How could I forget?” Her lips curl upwards in amusement at Naia’s answering silence. “Let the Sharrans have their hiding hole, I say. Their dark lady will never deliver on her promises, no matter how much they bleed on her behalf. That is where the gods and I differ. I could show you something truly worth your pain.”

Cold fingers curl over Naia’s arm, and Naia wants both to pull away from the touch and lean in closer. It’s a foolish notion, and more than that it is petty…but Naia must admit, not all of the anger she carries today is pointed towards Araj. Something in her chest does ache at the way Shadowheart has closed herself off in the walls and shadows of that temple.

So when she should withdraw and snap once more at Araj to back off, Naia instead locks her dark eyes on the drow’s face and allows herself to lean the smallest bit forward. “And just what does that mean, blood-witch?”

“Are you interested in finding out, necromancer?”

“…I might be.”

Araj hums, and she shifts ever closer to Naia. Her tongue darts out to lick at her lips, and her fingernails dig just a little deeper into Naia’s arm. Where once she’d been standing above the tiefling as she drew her blood, she’s now practically in her lap, and her leg slides slowly against the skirt of Naia’s robes.

“Isn’t that adorable…” Araj breathes. “All your bluster, and you wish to be the one at my mercy? Are you imagining my teeth at your neck, your blood on my lips?”

Naia wasn’t. But Gods, she is now.

She swears Araj must be able to read her mind, because her eyes gleam even more viciously. Those eyes roam over Naia’s body, taking her in with an air of greed. Silver hair has fallen from where it was tucked behind her ear, and Naia is struck with the inane urge to brush it from her face- yet she also finds herself frozen in place, unable to move even as Araj presses herself closer. Naia’s stomach twists in a heated combination of anxiety and anticipation.

And then Araj pulls away, twisting a stopper onto the vial which Naia had all but forgotten about. “Done.”

A shaky breath escapes Naia’s lips; blood trickles down her arm from the cut left unattended. Araj stows away the small glass vial and returns to Naia’s side in a flash; her thumb traces over the cut, and with a small surge of unexpected healing magic the skin stitches itself back together. The blood remains, and Araj’s touch is not quite gentle as she smears it with her thumb and runs her hand down Naia’s arm, leaving red fingerprints down to Naia’s wrist.

“You were a perfect specimen, darling. What a shame it is, then, that I prefer to be the one bitten,” Araj muses as she lifts Naia’s wrist to her mouth. Her lips press a kiss against Naia’s thudding pulse; her teeth graze and tease at the skin, but nothing more, and then she’s pulling away again with a violently victorious edge to her voice as she whispers, “Were I so inclined, I’m certain you would be delicious.”

She then turns back to her assembly of vials, and her professional demeanor settles into place even as Naia is left half-frozen in the chair. The tiefling swallows and shakes her head, and finally regains enough composure to ask, “What about…”

“Your potion?” Araj responds innocently, throwing a smirk over her shoulder. “It will take some time to prepare. You may return for it tomorrow.”

It’s a clear dismissal, one that leaves Naia’s head reeling, as if she’s just lost a round of lanceboard she hadn’t even realized she was playing. But she rises to her feet, ordering her legs not to shake as she does so, forcing herself back to the state of passive distaste she’d held before Araj sunk her scalpel in.

“Tomorrow, then, if you insist on dragging your feet. I would have thought someone who thinks so highly of themselves would be capable of a quicker delivery, but I suppose even that is too much to expect in a place like this.”