☽L.Ricci Art☾

Shadar-kai do not form lasting bonds, nor do they cultivate a culture of love or friendship – only service. The concept of closeness in his homeland narrows to mutual respect and brotherhood. The shadow fey-elves have no need for it, for they barely feel any emotion, and if they do, it is only sorrow, grief, and melancholy. They find salvation in pain and murder, desperate to wring a single fragile drop from their mute souls. If, now and then, something bright seeps into the elves, it becomes the faintest echo in the depths of a bleak, undying soul. So faint and brittle, so secret, that it's always kept silent. Perhaps – also secretly – cherished.

Illusen was never like that. He felt.

Felt everything, felt far too much – so much so that very soon, feeling itself became an addiction.

Yet, every time the seed of infatuation took root inside him, the feeling shattered the moment it met the emptiness in the eyes across from him. He remembers the relieved exhale of the girl he first laid with. Not a cry, nor even a moan, but a sharp exhale at her release. For a shadar-kai, that was all it ever was: relief. The release of an endlessly prolonged tension. A faint physical sensation. He also remembers that when he came, the sensation was so blindingly bright that he screamed, and snarled, and moaned – all at once. His mind, body, and soul were flooded with such a violent torrent of euphoria that, for a time, he believed this was how gods must feel. Then he laughed. Then the girl, emotionless and polite, merely asked him never to speak to her again. "You're truly sick, Illusen. Please, stay away from me," she said.

And then he wept.

Next time, he tried with a boy who made him shiver all over. He had rich eyes, a deep semblance of laughter, and strong arms. Illusen longed to be with him beyond training, beyond lessons, ritual dances, and chants. Wanted to share every secret, to learn his depths, and simply be near. Stay together afterward. Hold him. Spend the night with that face pressed against his own chest. It was then he understood: loving another shadar-kai was impossible. He realized they were all like this not because being different was forbidden, but because they truly could not feel. But he felt. And he had no idea what to do with it, what it was, or what to name it.

After that, he never tried to love again. And afterward came nothing but absolute darkness.

What was he like when he served Bhaal? Could he love then? He doesn't know. But he knows he can now. He can love the one he saw but once, spoke to for a few stolen seconds, and in whom he saw *everything*. Yet he doesn't have that person, and the fact that this affects him so deeply irks him enough that, out of habit, he wants to feel a heart stop beneath his fingers. Only out of habit, because the hissing screech of madness in his head has finally quieted. The unbearable itch deep within his very bones has dulled – the itch that sears veins, pouring pure agony into blood thick with urges and boiling fury. His head no longer splits with a pain so blinding he wants to claw a hole in his skull just to shake his brains out. For the first time since the day he woke upon a sun-drenched shore, he can breathe without the overwhelming urge to pulp someone's eyeballs between his fingers. Because Father no longer commands. Father is silent. Father is dead. Truly, now.

Father.

The word makes Illusen's whole body shake with soundless laughter, brittle as shifting gravel. He shuts his white eyes for the hundredth time that night, then pries them open again, as if startled from a nightmare. He was no true son of Bhaal – not the way Orin was his daughter. He learned that from Orin herself, before she dissolved into nothingness. He had expected that being his Chosen meant being a son – everyone expected it to be so – but he *was not*. All that remains to him of Father is a vile scar, cleaving his entire sternum in two. A scar, and the silence of emotions muted to numbness.

Mother.

He was no true son of the Raven Queen either, he learned that from her own lips, shortly after she reminded him of his name. His divine mother, who restored every memory of childhood and youth, of the Shadowfell and the service within it. Of herself – beautiful, incorporeal, cruelly kind. She had returned everything pertaining to her own realm, yet concealed all traces of Bhaal and that long, mysterious life on the Material Plane. A mother so insistent on reclaiming her child that she flooded his fractured mind with visions before he could even memorize the names of those he journeyed with to Baldur's Gate. A mother who was not truly his, even if her shadow coiled within the veins of every shadar-kai. Everyone in the Shadowfell knew he was her son, but he was not.

Progeny of two gods, yet in truth, merely an orphan.

Did he even need parents? Perhaps his mind and body would have remained untouched if neither of them had reached out with greedy claws, tearing away chunks of flesh and soul for themselves, devouring him, stuffing him with their own divine curse. As if, on his own, he's merely a shell. Empty. Insignificant. Worthless. A weapon in their hands, and without them – nothing.

"Orphan," Illusen's lips shape the single, soundless word, tasting its ruinous weight. His hand, colder even than his chest, comes to rest over the scar, fingertips tracing its jagged ridges, beneath which a wronged, unnatural heart barely beats.

"You are no orphan."

An uninvited voice forces Illusen to reluctantly part his eyelids. No light is needed to recognize the familiar shape in the darkness, no sight to know: it is his own shadow. There, in the corner of the shared tavern room, where his companions lie asleep in the dead of night, just beneath the high ceiling, he sees it. A black, formless clot – limbless, faceless, even eyeless. It writhes chaotically, yet seems to cling motionless to its spot, while around it, in fluid, ragged tatters, translucent tendrils of lesser shadows lick at its form. Illusen hates this shape it takes. It is as though the creature lacks a visage of its own, ready at any moment to plunge inside his body, merge with flesh, and become him.

"You have a mother. The woman who bore you," the shadow whispers. Its voice coming from nowhere and everywhere at once, rumbles within the elf's skull, in his mind, in the very fissures of consciousness.

An overwhelming urge to laugh scrapes at his throat like a nauseating spasm, but finally breaks free as a contemptuous snort.

"Just because Livet pushed me out of her filthy gash doesn't make her my mother."

"But she is your mother. Livet gave you life, looked after you. Even loved you, in the way she knew how."

Of course. Loved him so much she fled her own son in terror, only to return a stranger to him. Her long-forgotten face, warped by time, surfaces before his eyes, stirring a weak trace of true fury like bile in the stomach. A burning, white-hot hatred had always consumed him, but now that rage has frozen into sharp shards of ice, cutting him from within.

"She betrayed me! Gave me away to the Queen like I was some thing," Illusen snaps in a hiss, sitting up in bed. Eyes scan the room briefly, checking whether his whisper has woken anyone. The spacious chamber remains wrapped in silence and darkness, disturbed only by his ragged breathing and a sudden flash of spectral blue.

The blackening shadow has already elongated into a grotesque form, stretching its faceless head toward its master. It hangs from the ceiling lower and lower, consuming the space between them even as it reshapes itself. Folds and hollows ripple across its dense surface, coalescing into features around luminous blue eyes – until Illusen finds himself staring at his own spectral double. The same scars, the same wrinkles, the same curve of full lips, and the sharp angles of nose, cheekbones, and jaw. They could be more than twins, were it not for the fact that this counterfeit face is woven from translucent black shadow, and its eyes are merely clots of light in the slits of false eyelids. Their noses almost touch. Illusen's sharp exhale stirs the shadow's surface as if it were nothing more than a cloud or a coil of steam.

This likeness of his shadow companion the elf hates even more. It's always summoned only to reflect the worthlessness of his existence – an unnatural mirror showing pieces of himself he would rather never see again. Would rather forget.

"Oh, poor, wronged Illusen," the shadow breathes into his mind, mimicking his own voice and expression as vilely as possible. "Abandoned by all three parents, betrayed by the world itself. So unfairly rejected by everyone for whom you've never felt a thing. You're blind and ungrateful, Illusen. Even for the fact I filled your dying heart with a piece of myself."

"Fuck. Off," the shadar-kai spits through clenched teeth, leaning even even closer. "I hate that you did it. Hate feeling you there. Hate you."

It's true. He hates that Illusion has become an inseparable part of him in flesh as well, that he now owes Luce his own life far more than ever before. It's a lie, because Illusen also loves him. He always has. From the very first moment he laid eyes on him – he couldn't not love him.

For Luce isn't just a shadow, of course. Not just ordinary darkness, inert and will-less. Not even one of those shadows that prowl the Shadowfell, devouring mortal lives. He was the first who had been a friend to the shadar-kai since childhood. The first to speak to him in an empty room. The first to throw the ball back and make him not alone. He is a part of him. The first part the Raven Queen noticed.

Illusen's chest rises and falls far faster than the rhythm of his too-slow heart as he stares at the shadow and sees them both as children. For a moment, he mourns that things between them have become so complicated, so sharp and bitter. They weren't always like this. And that, almost certainly, is Bhaal's fault.

"I had no choice," Luce whispers almost sympathetically. "You were dying."

Illusen is hurled from childhood memories straight into recent ones. Oh yes, he was dying. His heart failed, rotting in his chest, pouring cursed decay into his veins and muscles. The pain was so unbearable he wanted to die. Yet Luce saved him.

The man wrenches himself from the agony of memory, and his gaze softens at once into apathy. He sinks limply onto the pillows, gladly embracing melancholy. Numbness. He no longer feels as brightly, and he has already come to terms with it.

So he tells himself.

"I still feel like I'm dying. Nothing's changed. I am a corpse." Even his whisper sounds corpselike. A voice from the depths of a sodden grave. Words of someone long dead.

He was never truly alive, was he? A partially mortal creature cannot be alive.

Illusion sheds the likeness of his master like a hound shaking water from its fur and once again hangs over the elf as a black cloud.

"This isn't about your parents at all, is it?" The shadow twists his spineless neck until his shapeless head juts almost upside down. He studies Illusen's emotionless face, suspicion flickering in spectral eyes, drinking it in.

"I don't want to talk abou–"

The shadar-kai doesn't get to finish before Luce forces his way inside him with an uninvited thrust of phantom body. It's a familiar sensation, yet no less shocking. The shadow fills every crevice, every crack and fissure, every tattered scrap of his soul. Even his heart – he fills that too, though he was already there. The man remembers the first time this happened, how ticklish it was, but now he just wants to vomit, for the bastard turns his entrails inside out, winding his guts around a fist, rattling bones as if wanting to swap each one's place, to shuffle them like a fucking deck of cards. A convulsive shudder shakes the mattress as Illusen thrashes beneath the suffocating pressure. Through a wave of nausea, he notices the fury clawing its way to the surface with renewed force. He strains for a breath that freezes halfway. It's torture, when Luce rummages through him like this. The shadow doesn't amplify his emotions, as he'd thought as a child, but adds his own. Right now, they don't align, and torment him. Usually, he barely notices the foreign presence in his body, but only when he's ready for it, when consent has been given. But for this barbaric invasion of his innards, it is impossible to be prepared. He wants his body back. Wants to stop feeling the intruder slithering through his limbs and licking his ribs with a cold tongue. Wants it to stop.

Illusion retreats, and a sudden rush of air fills Illusen's lungs with a wheezing whistle. The man shoots out of bed like an arrow and seizes the shadow by his spectral throat. Not so spectral in his hand, since Illusen is the only one for whom the shadow cannot become intangible at will. Anyone else's fingers would close around mere air, unless Luce himself desired the touch. But these fingers, oh no – they close around shadow-flesh and squeeze, craving to wrench a rasp from the filth.

"What the fuck did I tell you about barging in uninvited?!" Fury pitches his tone to a thunderous roar. Rage tears itself free, punching a tiny hole into a terrifyingly vast chasm in the coffin of his apathy.

Oh, this feels so good – so much better than the perpetual stagnation of his meager emotions. Boiling wrath in thick veins, the burning kiss of outrage. Spite. The acid mixture speeds his heart, forcing it to truly beat, tensing every muscle, kindling heat in the gut.

Alive – so damn alive.

Illusion only cackles, baring sharp teeth, not even trying to twist free from his grip. "Oh? Ohhh... so it isn't mommy-daddy issues after all, is it? This," the satisfied shadow licks a row of razor-edged teeth, even mimicking drool, "is your new obsession. How delicious."

From the other end of the room, a pillow flies at them along with Gale's irritated, sleepy voice, "Shut your mouths, both of you! Some people are actually trying to sleep here."

"Fuck off," Illusen and his shadow reply in unison. Neither hears Gale muttering curses, for they're focused on each other once again. On what they feel.

"Not an obsession," the elf spits hotly, his fingers clenching tighter, knuckles whitening, veins bulging on his tattooed forearm. "Fucking love."

The bastard's sinister grin doesn't even flinch – on the contrary, it widens. Luce feels pain, but not as humanoids do, not as a distinct sensation, but as a distant echo, mocking the real thing. He doesn't breathe, doesn't eat, doesn't shit, doesn't live. Cannot die. His existence is bound to the shadar-kai's life, that's why he saved him. That's why now he is unafraid. Can allow himself everything.

"How sweet. A saccharine lie. What could you possibly know of love?"

Cruel words scratch Illusen deep in the chest. It feels as if a long-healed scar has split open into a new festering wound. In all the world, in this moment, no one exists but the two of them. The living and the non-existent. The truthful and the liar. The victim and the monster.

But which of them is which?

"Definitely more than you." Breathing hard, the man shoves the shadow away, breaking the hold of his fingers. He is furious, and he adores it.

After weeks of silence, of maddeningly quiet anguish, he feels something so vivid it consumes him entirely. Everything inside thrums with impulsive urgency and panic, for he knows these precious moments won't last forever. Won't even last long. In a few hours, or even minutes, every last drop will drain out, like from a faulty tap, and he will be nothing but a thin, barely breathing shell once more. As good as dead.

He knows he must keep this, preserve it like a newborn child, hold it within himself. Find something that will awaken it again. And there is an absolute knowledge of what can bring salvation – only his love can become that wellspring of feeling.

The mind is empty of everything but this unseen goal; limbs are already moving. The bed creaks beneath him as he hurriedly finds and pulls on leather breeches, not even bothering to tie the laces properly. The cloth of a dirty shirt soaks through with cold sweat, clinging to his back and chest; the collar sits askew, further tangling the too-long strands of hair. Illusen doesn't reach for the cloak – it was a gift from Sceleritas, a useful trinket there's no wish to touch. He wants nothing that isn't truly his, so stepping barefoot across the smooth floor, he snatches up only his own, half-empty bag. Stumbling, he steps into the heavy boots and, on the move, coils his only weapon around himself – a spiked chain, stained with dried blood. It settles in heavy loops around his waist and hips, reminding the shadar-kai what he's truly capable of, and who he truly is.

A deadly dancer in shadows.

A mindless killer and a jester.

A traitor.

The clank of metal through the silence screams louder than heavy, rapid steps: he's fleeing. From everything that was ever kind to him. Shamefully running from the people he's grown to love. His conscience stretches only enough to force a falter at the threshold. A final glance into the darkness reveals only his own frantic breaths and Illusion, darting from one cluster of shadows to the next. The whole world doesn't exist – only what he craves most.

Good.

Dim light in the tavern corridor barely tethers him to the here and now. A door left ajar further ahead brings a fraction of sobriety. A memory of those behind it. His dearest friends. The ones who have held him together, accepted and loved him. Isn't that what he always wanted? Illusen shakes his head violently, but his steps now fall far softer as he creeps toward that other room. Muffled sounds and voices seep through the gap, halting his stride. If they notice him, escape will be impossible.

He expects to hear them fucking – it is what he would have done the moment victory was won, if he had that one person. But when he edges closer, he hears weeping. And when he peers through the thinnest crack – sees those tears.

Yara, the leader of their forced little band, a ranger with a heart of gold, who pulled the tadpoles from their heads, accepted and shielded him, who was his friend and sister – weeps like a child. No, this human woman who forgave him everything is bleeding a deep grief that borders on the maternal.

She was the first he saw on the nautiloid. The first to laugh at his foul jokes. She never judged him for the blood-hunger, seeing him as something more than just his urges. She defended him when he butchered Alfira and left her corpse amidst the camp – a mutilated heap like an animal carcass. Defended him to the others with such ferocity that he almost fell in love. In the end, though, things settled as they should, and the two of them wound up bound by a deep-rooted friendship that ran through their very bones. She was his first in this – in care and trust. In closeness without sex. In all that is human.

That woman never betrayed him. Not even when she should have.

The elf holds his breath, clenching his fists, thinking how her heart is nothing like cold, precious metal; it is alive, kind, and unbearably incomprehensible to him. He sees death as a snuffed candle, while she sees it as a soul lost forever. She believes she failed, having lost so many people under her leadership, but in truth… He burns to burst into the room and tell her how proud he is of her. In name, Illusen was a leader too, but next to her he's done fuck-all. He ought to be ashamed for it. He could have helped her save those people. Instead, he is the one who let her down.

The shadar-kai clenches his jaw and shifts his gaze to Astarion. The burned, yet calm, elf quietly strokes her hair. Seeing them like this, the two of them – it hurts, and this is the moment he hesitates for the first time, truly feeling like a traitor and a runaway. They'll both hate him if he just leaves. Well, maybe Astarion will hate him less and not for very long, but she… They have each other, Illusen convinces himself, I am not needed.

But does he need them?

They will be better off without him. He ought to have his own life – they already have theirs. They aren't his family, even if this is the first true family he's ever had. Bards will write a heap of mawkish ballads about Yara, about her heroism and humanity, and leave him out. That's how it should be. She will be happy in her hard-earned glory and love, and he can only find that thing beside the one who steals into his meditations every night. Only this way… Only this way… – his heart hammers wildly.

He cannot stay. None of the three of them deserves this curse.

"I'm sorry," Illusen mouths, and it feels as though his heart's been dropped into a thorn shrub. Yet he's still feeling, and that fuels his resolve.

The rest of the corridor and the stairs, the man crosses soundlessly and fast. Not looking back. The skin upon his nape prickles as if from a stare, but he knows – it's only Luce. And in a moment, he's already forgotten everything – the hesitation and the phantom of regret. For Illusen has long had neither true conscience nor long memory. The noise and laughter of lingering drunks storm his ears, his nostrils flood with the rancid stench of ale, tobacco, and sweaty, filthy bodies. Even with the city in ruins, strewn with the decay of recently living flesh, they will still drink and bellow. Celebrate their own lives over the death of their loved ones. Not that he judges them.

Elbowing through the crowd by the bar, the shadar-kai spots familiar faces. He'd thought everyone was already asleep, but Jaheira and Shadowheart are sharing a bottle of wine by the counter, both faces stained with fatigue and pain. Their whole company ought to be rejoicing tonight. Drinking that damn wine differently: spilling laughter, roaring songs and jests, loving their lives. Being heroes. Instead, they all look as if they've met their own end with no new beginning. It's especially plain on Jaheira – the half-elf has met such ends more than once.

The older woman's gaze skims his face, and the man flawlessly dons what he believes to be a charming smile.

"Where in the hells are you off to?" The cleric pushes her hip off the high stool she was leaning on and arches a brow.

He knows he'll lie, and they will not believe him. Lies anyway.

"Back in a few hours."

"Illusen," Shadowheart's delicate hand on his forearm halts his stride, and the flare of concern in her eyes nearly makes him feel an even greater wretch than he did at the door upstairs. "Hearing voices again? Or is the Queen calling?"

By the frozen sorrow…

He'll miss her. Will regret for an age never having dragged her into bed, and will grieve like hells, remembering her once a year. The troubled gaze of those eyes pierces demandingly into his profile, forcing him to freeze. The smile upon his dark lips twitches but doesn't vanish. The simmer of fresh emotions, still seething inside him, tugs at fine threads, turning his body into a willing puppet. Emotion – his eternal engine – and he obeys them. In one sharp motion, he pulls her by the arm, draws her body close, and presses dry lips to her tightly shut mouth. This not-the-first kiss of theirs is meant to be a charming distraction, but it's spoiled by the bitter tang of deceit. He holds her arm another moment, then pulls back from her mouth.

Repeats, "Back in a few hours."

And then he walks away, leaving them behind as well.

Unsilenced voices lash at his back like a whip.

"He's not coming back, is he?"

"Of course not," Jaheira lets out a sharp, bitter scoff, incinerating the man with one last look.

The fey-elf rolls his shoulders proudly, smothering the feeble urge to turn around. To turn around and stay. To turn around and finally belong among them. Or just to drink that wine he tasted on the former Sharran's lips. They have every right to hate him, but he won't hate himself for simply wanting to live. They won't make him.

The heavy wooden door shuts, severing him from the clamor. Just as decisively, he severs his own mind from everything left behind – the torn wound weeps blood, and over still-warm ash invisibly stains the cobblestones. The elf pays no mind to the tender pain of this self-maiming, though he knows that cauterizing the torn edges of his soul will only be possible once he reaches that person.

The likelihood that by then he'll have bled out, dying an apathetic death while remaining alive, isn't zero.

Illusen snorts, feeling the heady adrenaline paint a fresh smile onto his face.

The city air is thick and stifling, still tinged by the nearby fire the locals cannot manage to extinguish. Though by now the blaze looks more like a slow smolder, as if it grew too lazy to burn over the course of the day. Its yawn releases a column of sparks, scattering halfway into the sky's darkness. The city, of course, isn't a complete ruin, but neither is it what he saw when he first stepped through the gate many weeks ago. Not truly the first time, of course, but that was the only time left in his battered memory. This street has already been cleared, but he knows that the further his path leads, the more scattered coffins, dead bodies, and gravediggers he'll meet. His friends will also have plenty of work in the city, and the man almost feels guilty for fleeing like this. Almost.

Taking wide strides through the streets, he notices Luce's presence once again breaching the barrier of his personal boundaries. But this time, his shadow merely clings to his boots and clothes like a dark shroud, not daring to break into flesh.

"Stay out of my sight until I call for you," the shadar-kai hisses into the night, and hears the vile little laugh of the wretched thing, reverberating like an echo between the walls of tall buildings.

Illusion has things to occupy himself with. Baldur's Gate breathes sorrow and pain that the shadow can devour, diving between the ribs of mortals and filling the void in their chests with viscous nausea. Illusen doesn't mind. In truth, he doesn't give a shit. For his cravings already turn to pale skin beneath his fingers, a hoarse, trembling voice, and long, ashen hair. His mouth waters at the thought of all the things he wants to do to that person's body. To their soul.

But then, in a fit of morbid revelation, he recalls that his beloved is actually long dead.

Undead, to be precise. A vampire.

As if that changes a single thing.

He still wants to watch him as he falls asleep and wakes, to hold him in the unyielding lock of his arms every free moment. In the cage of his broad ribs, there will be no heartbeat, and no blood will course through veins. His viscera stilled more than a century ago. So what? He'll still leave marks from his teeth on the pale skin of those thighs and stomach, bruises from his fingers, and rope burns on calves and wrists. He'll still lick sweat from the hollow of his back – and if dead skin cannot sweat, Illusen will kindle a heat so fierce that moisture will bead upon that marble flesh, like condensation on a chilled glass. And then he'll paint that body himself with crimson smears of someone else's blood.

Into the dust of the wounded streets weaves a quiet, maniacal laugh, as with no small pleasure the shadar-kai realizes that this blood will most certainly be his own.

“It can’t possibly be Karlach….” He mused. “The Tiefling wouldn’t be bothered by your ashen scent…. The druid, then? Is that why you put on that dress?”

Repressing a chuckle, Ellith shook their head, both hands resting on their hips. “Hunting for gossips, are we? Unless… Wait, are you jealous, Astarion?”

“I… What?! No!” He shook his head vehemently, as if trying to chase a fly away. “Jealous? Me? Wouldn’t that be ridiculous?”

“That’s almost cute, you know.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Astarion gave them a look that only he could display: Disgust and arrogance mingling into the snobbiest wince. It was getting harder for Ellith to keep their laughter in. He hissed and turned away without any further ado.

“See you in the morning, Astarion.” The bard scoffed, and they knew from the way he flinched that he hadn’t expected them to bid their goodnight so early in the evening. But they had no more time to waste on teasing the vampire spawn. They reached their tent, only to brush and tame their curls. There were still clutters of dry blood stuck in their mane, but they could tell that it wouldn’t bother the Drow. Especially after the slaughter of those Duergar. That man was no stranger to cruelty, torture and blood clots.

The bard hummed softly, a familiar heat now pulsing in their belly. It wasn’t just about the Drow. The thrill of the battle was still floating in their mind, almost as intoxicating as their plans for the rest of the night.

The Ecstasy of Murder, some called it. And Ellith could hardly deny it, although it wasn’t just the act of killing itself. The smell of blood, the viscera bursting from the open wounds, the putrid smell of their victims pissing themselves as they drew their last breath. Each killing was like an explosion of sensations, a farandole of burning delights coursing through their whole body.

At first, Ellith had thought it was the tadpole feeding on their cruelty, fuelled by the rancid aroma of decay.

But no, it couldn’t be it.

The others experienced no such rapture. And it wasn’t boiling in their brain, like it done with the Zaith'isk or Omeluum’s potion. It was their guts burning with the sweet euphoria of their slaughtering.

It should worry them, shouldn't it?

But the only thing that was worth their concern was those headaches and fits of nausea. Especially when they happened during a fight. And of course, the amnesia, although they had accepted it by now.

Halsin had said he would try to help them with it, but every attempt had failed so far. The only thing which had helped -not with the headaches but with the memory loss - was the noblestalk. But they had kept it to themselves, unwilling to reveal the gory memories to their companions. Unwilling to admit that drowning the butler in the bladder of a living victim had made them wet.

One last look in their hand-mirror. Ellith adjusted their makeup, but otherwise, they liked what they could see. And that outfit which they’d found among the ruins of the forge, was perfectly underlining their timid curves. Small tits up, broad shoulders revealed, fleshy hips swaying and soft rolls showing. And an easy access to their thighs and…more.

They could have kissed themself.

Their companions’ voices were echoing outside: Gale had prepared a healthy stew again, which Ellith hadn’t touched (they had picked up a few hearts on the Duergar’s corpses), and apparently, Karlach and Wyll were honouring it happily. And so was Scratch, according to his joyous barks.

Ellith’s new favourite dagger was waiting for them on their bedroll, but they couldn’t take it with them tonight, much to their regret. Their outfit was too revealing to hide it, and the Drow wouldn’t let them close with a dagger at their side. Although Ellith had never lived among the Drows, they knew about their cultural… traditions in terms of treason. Especially when males were involved. Nere, they supposed, would expect any female-like individual to stab him in the back, True Soul or not.

The mark left by the goblin priestess on their hand was no longer painful, sadly, but they knew it gave them an advantage in this situation. They did not try to hide it.

Reaching for a satchel, they picked up a long needle which they had found in Walskin’s Rest. They couldn’t tell why that little pointy thing felt familiar in their hand. In the course of the few days, they had carefully sharpened it to make it lethal, but had never had the opportunity to use it yet. It was the size of an index finger, thin and pointy. They slipped it into their stocking.

“El’! Get out of here and come sit with us.” Karlach’s voice barked behind the flap of their tent. “You should try this stew, Gale had made a miracle with those shrooms!”

Following their friend’s voice, Ellith stepped out, only to gently push away the spoon Karlach was offering them. “The owlbear cub needs it more than I do.”

"Don’t worry, Durge. Clawy already had his share.”

And indeed, the cub was still chewing on what seemed to be a large mushroom, delighted by the spongy texture. “Then keep it for breakfast; they said it’s better cold.”

Unimpressed by Ellith distanced stance, Karlach beckoned them to follow her near the campfire, where a few bottles of wine had been opened by Barcus.

“We’re celebrating!” Wyll smiled, mimicking a chef’s kiss. “The way you dealt with that foul Drow was perfect, convincing him to free the gnomes.”

Barcus bowed diligently and handed them a glass. Ellith took the bottle instead and swallowed half of it. “Don’t you get used to it, Little blade – I am no hero.”

Karlach and Wyll exchanged a silent look that spoke volume, but Ellith pretended not to notice it.

“First you helped the Tieflings, now you save a handful of gnomes.. I say you should get used to it, bard.” Shadowheart snorted as she joined the group.

“Don’t make me laugh, Sharran. I did it for purely selfish reasons. It’s all calculated.”

“Oh, I see.” Shadowheart purred teasingly as she stood right in front of Ellith. “And pray tell us, what are those reasons, exactly?”

“You need not know.” Ellith answered sternly, not flinching an inch under Shadowheart’ inquisitive gaze. “As for you, Barcus, I hope you won’t make me regret it.”

The gnome gave them a nervous look, Karlach gave them a scolding look, Wyll gave them a nefarious look.

They ignored all of them.

The Cleric took the glass of wine Barcus was still holding. She too was ignoring the disapproving gazes of the company. “So, El… what’s your plan with that Nere? Shall we follow the Myconids’ instruction and bring them his head, or are you siding with that True Soul?”

The bard looked into the cleric’s eyes for a few long seconds, silent, but unreadable.

“I’ll do it my way.”

“Which means?” Gale stepped in, crooking his head to the side and squinting suspiciously.

Ellith took another sip of wine, before walking straight to the wizard. “You don’t want to know, dear.” They purred, shoving the half empty bottle into his hand.

They winked, and threw a quick glance toward Astarion’s tent. He was pouting, they thought. And they were probably right.

“You smell nice.” Shadowheart noticed. And as she said so, all the other companions started to sniff.

“Wait, isn’t that… Astarion’s perfume?” Wyll asked, his voice obviously amused.

“And how would you know, boy?”

“Hey! It’s my duty to keep an eye on such creatures, and my nose too.”

“Sure…” Ellith smirked, clearly unconvinced, but relieved to be able to avoid answering. Tonight wasn’t about Astarion.

No other night should be about Astarion.

The bard shrugged. “Have a good night you all. I’m going for a walk.”

“A walk?” Shadowheart repeated. “Wearing this? In an abandoned forge?”

Ellith shrugged again. “I like feeling hot, especially in a forge, dear.”

And with that, Ellith stepped away, caring not from the inquisitive look their friends were throwing at them. Pushing the heavy doors that secluded their camp, they walked into the heat of the ancient forge.

-***-

“Shouldn’t you be on your way to deliver my message to Moonrise, True Soul?”

“Shouldn’t you be cleaning that mess and follow that trail to the temple, as the general’s orders commanded?”

Nere was lounging on a few cushions, drinking an old vintage. There was no Duergar in sight.

“Hm. You have some guts for a new recruit of the Absolute.” He smirked, and there was something utterly dangerous in the way he was scrutinising the bard. “I can appreciate that trait, if it’s well-targeted.”

“And I would appreciate a drink, if that’s all the same to you.” Ellith smirked back, stepping closer and watching him expectantly.

The Drow snapped his fingers but stopped mid-motion. “Ah, yes… no more slave to serve me.”

“They’ll be more useful out of this tomb.”

Without waiting for Nere’s invitation, the bard picked up a glass and poured themself some wine. The Drow’s eyes followed their every movement.

Ellith scanned the man, tall for a Drow: He was clean now, dirt and ashes gone from his dark skin, and he had discarded his cultist robe and cloak to replace it with a loose shirt. His stance was that of authority and pride, and there was, in the way he held his chin high, an undeniable desire to prove himself in control of the place.

Something called in the bard’s guts, the urge to break him, to step on his pride and rob him of his so-called authority. They wanted him whimpering and powerless under their thumb… between their thighs.

Had they already done such a thing before, breaking a man of authority and relishing in his pathetic moans?

Why does it felt like that was their favourite thing to do to such men, those who thought themselves above them.

A delicious shiver of anticipation ran up their spine.

“Where is Sergeant Thrinn?” Ellith asked, scanning the surroundings. “I haven’t met her on my way here.”

“Hm?” Nere arched an eyebrow. “Two other Duergar corpses were found by the elevator. Poisoned. I suppose one of those ridiculous gnomes is behind it. Thrinn is taking care of it.”

Ellith repressed a chuckle. The Drow didn’t need to suspect who had actually poisoned those drunkards.

“Good for her.” The bard nodded.

“I’ve heard you retrieved her boots, half-blood.”

His scornful label barely hit the bard, and with a smile, they sat down next to him, waiting not for an invitation.

The Drow gauged them but said nothing. His eyes lingered on their naked legs, as expected.

“I had no use for dirty boots… and they were too small for me anyway”.

The careless statement reached its target: Nere chuckled, and peeked at the bard’s feet, tucked in high stockings.

“And just so you know, Nere, I’m not taking mine off.” They smirked, rubbing their knees together in the most lascivious way.

Nere wetted his lips, probably thinking that the bard wouldn’t notice it. But Ellith was an experienced observer, and they never missed a clue in one’s behavior.

It felt like they’d done this all their life.

It only encouraged them. “Tell me, Nere… you’ve been stuck in this old forge for a quite a long time, haven’t you? You must have felt… lonely, as the only worthy soul around.”

The Drow chuckled knowingly, clearly acknowledging what Ellith was point at.

Perfect.

“It’s been quite a challenge, indeed.” He nodded, still gauging the bard’s form. “But I can sacrifice my own needs for the Absolute, and so should you, True Soul.”

“…So that the Absolute eventually rewards you by acceding your every needs.”

“Aaah…” He smirked, squinting his eyes. “You are smart… for a half-blood.”

Again, Ellith braced themselves. It’s not like they really cared about their blood, or origins. For all they could remember, their home had always been Baldur’s Gate, and the strict hierarchy of Menzoberranzan was of little matter to them. But if Nere wanted to play that game, they could indulge.

“And you happen to be rather useful.. for a male.”

It was almost imperceptible, but Ellith didn’t miss it, the way he pinched his lips as the barb reached him.

And then they felt it; Nere’s mind, trying to pry their own sick brain through their tadpoles, clawing at their mental shield to get through the cracks. Too bad for him, the bard had always been particularly good at mind games, and in the course of the past weeks, they had learned to control their little wriggling friend, and with the assistance of Omeluum’s potion, strengthen it.

Nere’s mind ploughed into the defensive mental walls, spurned by Ellith’s tadpole. There was no way in.

He scoffed and took a sip, hiding his wince into the cup.

In the meanwhile, Ellith started to hum a song. Not just a song. That song, the one they could use in battle to better numb their opponents’ minds. But this time, they didn’t mean to numb the Drow, and they rearranged the tonality to make it more… arousing. They sang softly, pretending to do it carelessly as they dusted a few ashes from their dress.

At first, the Drow didn’t seem to notice the melody, too focused on his drink. But before long, Ellith could notice how his shoulders were relaxing, and as he put down his cup, his features were not as tense as before. His smirk had turned into a soft smile.

It suited him.

Yes, he was attractive, that Ellith couldn’t deny. But they also knew they were taking a risk. If any of the faithful Duergar had a mind to come back, their plan would fail, and fighting all of them on their own was a risky move.

On the other hand, they had no doubt about their own charms, and they knew Nere was very close to fall from them.

Had they already fucked a Drow before? They couldn’t tell, and didn’t want to dig into the abyss of their lost memories. Not now. They needed to focus.

“Lovely voice.” The Drow murmured, his eyes finding their way to the bard’s face, clearly unaware of the effect of that voice on his mind.

“Would you like to hear more?”

Another ogling gaze, followed by an appreciative hum. “Would you indulge?”

“I would, Nere. But only if you work for it…” Ellith purred, sliding closer, just enough for their knees to brush against his extended leg. “I’m confident a powerful True Soul like you could make me sing beautifully…”

Their voice trailed off, living room for his imagination to flourish.

It was almost too easy.

They watch him swallow, they felt him shiver, and followed his eyes as they fell on their cleavage.

“I suppose I deserve a break after the whole cave-in accident.”

“We both do…”

Lunging forward, Ellith could smell the scent of the Duergar’s blood on his skin, mingling with the remaining dust and ashes. The Drow made no move either to reject them or welcome them, but the lustful spark in his eyes was more than enough. Ellith straddled his lap.

He was hard, but calm. His hands remained still at his sides, as if waiting for the bard’s next move before taking any initiative. Smart boy.

It would be fun.

Ellith's thighs tightened around Nere’s legs, ever so imperceptibly. Just enough to ensure their grip around their prey. A powerful prey, that they could feel through the fabric covering his thighs. Strong muscles tensing beneath their apparently frail body.

“The Absolute will make a good use of your audacity…”

“Forget the goddess for a moment, I’m the only one you’ll be worshipping tonight.”

Nere was about to retort but Ellith stole his breath and words with a ravenous kiss, greedy lips nibbling shamelessly, tongue sneaking into his mouth, seeking for contact… and to make his shut up. Which was quite effective. It took only a few seconds for Nere to grab their waist and pull them closer so that he could press his hardness against their crotch.

The dress was getting in the way.

Ellith broke the kiss. A few movements sufficed to get rid of the piece of fabric, and before long, their body was fully exposed, safe for their red stockings which they were determined to keep on.

Half a second later, the Drow’s lips were sucking and lapping at their hardening nipples, and Ellith cradled his skull to keep him there. His breath was getting jerky, his touch more possessive on their waist, fingers digging into their flesh as he started to rock his own hips against their exposed cunt.

“Aren’t you the eager one, now?” The bard mumbled, guts clenching through their craving. A craving for his sex, for his blood, for his head… Yearning to be filled, dripping and breathless, yearning to be the last thing he feels.

Ecstasy through death, lost in the swarm of their Urges, of their own lust.

“You… hm… such indecency…” Nere moaned through the wet kisses with which he was lavishing their breasts. “Distracting me… from my holy mission.”

Ellith cupped his chin, their grip firm and their face stern but not devoid of playfulness. “I am your mission now.”

He looked up at them, lips trembling with need, and before he could say anything else, Ellith was unfastening his trousers and pulling them down his legs. Following their initiative, the Drow took off his shirt, already sweating, already leaking precum, his whole body trembling in anticipation.

“I’ll be your diligent recruit, True Soul…” He said.

“Good boy”. The bard purred and they felt him quiver at the humiliating praise, his cock jerking ever so slightly against their thigh. “Now feast on the Half-blood, pet.”

Again, they anticipated his protest, and before he could react, Ellith pushed him down on the ground. They were half expecting him to struggle, and their hold-person spell was ready, but as he had promised, Nere was diligently obeying.

With a few expert movements, the half-Drow straddled his face, and sat down against his mouth, caring not for his breathing.

Why did this assault feel so… familiar? Their eroticism taking the better of them to not even consider the well-being or consent of their partner? they had felt no such need with Astarion, on the contrary, their nights together had always been… like a dance they were dancing together.

Was it because Nere was a stranger to them? and a pathetic bastard on top of it?

Or was it because he was a Drow, and their own blood, no matter how tainted and sick it could be, was inherently driving them to step on him?

Unless it was the tadpole, commending them to overpower this True Soul.

They couldn’t tell. And honestly they didn’t want to think about it.

It felt too good.

The miserable Drow was lapping at their folds like a starving pup, half suffocating between their pale thighs, glowing purple in the eerie lights of the place. His hands were on their ass, nails digging in their cheeks in the most adoring way, and Ellith closed their eyes to better enjoy the tingling sensation of his tongue against their flesh.

He was working well, better than Ellith would have expected. His tongue rolling smoothly around their clit before digging between their folds, teasing their hole well enough to make the bard moan softly.

Technically, he wasn't as good as Astarion but --- No, this wasn’t the time to think about the vampire spawn. Why were they even having thoughts about him while riding the Drow’s handsome face? Ridiculous.

Ellith shook their head, ran their fingers through Nere's hair, before grabbing his white strands. They were soft, thin and silky despite the steaming air. He struggled a little between their thighs.

Reluctantly, they pulled away from his hungry mouth so that he could catch his breath. “Keep on with the good work, and I’ll take care of that leaking cock of yours.” 

Nere nodded, and after a few deep breaths, he dug in again, plunging head first into their core with a muffled whimper.

“That’s it… That’s a good parzdiamo…”

The word had come out naturally, as if Ellith had always been able to speak the Drow language…; Which they had no memory of, or so they had thought. In any case, Nere moaned louder at the comment, his voice still muffled but no less desperate.

Ellith was positively dripping now, pleasure burning in their core, numbing their common sense and reason. Rocking their hips and pressing their clit against the Drow’s mouth, they no longer cared if anyone could see or hear them, and they allowed themself to moan louder. They were pretty confident their companions couldn’t hear them from camp, but the faithful Duergar were still somewhere around the forge.

And somehow, it excited them… to imagine those servants hearing their moans and whimpers. Hm. Interesting.

But now they needed to be filled. They needed that deep chasm inside them to be stuffed and coated with semen, satiating that devouring emptiness which threatened to swallow them whole.

One hand slid down to the Drow’s throat as they pulled away from his face, only to carelessly impale themself on his cock. The cry of surprise and delight that escape Nere sounded like a treat in Ellith’s ear; a little reward for making him drool and leak for them.

With one hand still on his throat and the other on his shoulder, the bard rode him like their life was depending on it; fiercely, stubbornly, breathlessly. Nere managed to follow their passionate rhythm, his own hips swaying in synch as Ellith slid smoothly around him, flesh pulsing and dripping.   

The moans they sang were all but shy, and their voice resonated around the place, mingling with Nere’s own whimpering yelps.

“Don’t come right away, Drow.” They breathed as their flesh tightened around his cock. “I need you hard a little longer.”

A hasty nod, and Ellith felt his fingernails dug even deeper. He would surely leave a few marks on their butt-cheeks. And they couldn’t have cared less.

“I… ah… Get why the Absolute chose you… True soul.” He managed to articulate through the unrelenting waves of pleasure coursing through him. “You are….”

Ellith didn’t let him finish his sentence as they pushed their thumb in his mouth, making him suck on it as if honey were dripping from their nail. They were getting tired of his gibberish.

it would soon be time anyway. They had to be quick, before the Drow could no longer hold back his orgasm.

Still sucking on their Thumb, Nere was keeping his eyes closed, and his movements were getting more chaotic.

It was now or never. 

As Nere moaned desperately around their finger, Ellith’s free hand reached for the thin needle they had been keeping in their left stocking, and with a subtle groan they stabbed the Drow, aiming at his jugular vein.

It only took a few seconds.

His eyes widened as he choked on their thumb, but at no point Ellith stopped wriggling their hips around him.

“That’s why they call it a little death…” they purred through their own ecstasy. Just as they had expected, he came inside, just as the blade sank even deeper through his flesh.

Blood was flowing out like an eerie crimson fountain.

Ellith’s orgasm was quick but intense, fuelled by the salty smell of his blood, by its warmth, and the sound of his wheezing agony.

Breathless, they looked down at the dead Drow. Their flesh clenched one last time around his now flaccid cock. There was nothing left of him. Nothing left in him.

They sat up on their knees above the corpse. Fortunately, he hadn’t pissed himself, and only his semen was dripping down the Bard’s thighs. The last living parts of him, soon to dry and agonise on their skin.

Their whole body quivered at the thought of it. They’d have to use those mushrooms Halsin mentioned to make sure not a single drop of it could reached their cursed egg. 

The place was lost in complete silence, as if the stones themselves were scandalised by the gruesome display. It wasn’t enough to impress the Half Drow, and they had no time to waste.

They stood up, pale skin covered in blood, and picked up Nere’s blade, propped up against his tent.

Kneeling near the Drow’s lifeless body, they pressed the sharp weapon against his neck, and used it like a saw, slicing through the flesh, bones and muscles. It only seemed to awake their receding orgasm, but they repressed it, focusing on the task. Sweat was now mingling with blood, and their arm was sore from the effort, but they kept on sawing, moaning at the sound of nerves breaking.

When only a thin layer of skin tissues was keeping the head attached to the body, Ellith snatched it up carelessly, the movement fierce enough to severe the flesh.

Head in hand, long fingers clawing at his hair, they stood up and threw away the cursed blade.

One last look on the headless corpse drew a satisfied hum from their lips. He was still rather attractive live this, they thought.

They needed one last token.

_***_

The camp was calm, but not silent, and the fire was still burning bright. Ellith had no idea what time it could be, but they nonetheless expected their companions to be asleep. Much to their surprise, Karlach, Gale, Shadowheart, Halsin and Astarion were still awake, all of them gathered around the fire.

When she heard the bard’s footsteps, without seeing them, Karlach immediately reached for her axe, but Astarion, who, as usual, had recognised the sounds of the bard’s breathing, waved in her direction. “There’s no need to be so defensive, Karlach. It’s just our dear leader coming back….” He scoffed. “And they’re covered with blood, if my senses aren’t tricking me.”

And indeed, when the half-Drow appeared in the firelight, naked and tall, with iridescent sparks burning in their eyes, they looked like they’d bathed in a pool of blood and guts.

“What happened, Ellith? Are you hurt?” Halsin immediately asked, standing up to meet them… until he saw it. He stopped mid-way as his eyes fell on the severed head they were carrying.

“I feel great.” Ellith answered, their voice too carefree and innocently melodious for the situation. “I hope you had a lovely evening without me.”

They were all staring at them, agape and bewildered by the gory display. Ellith's eerily disturbing silhouette, naked and uncannily slender, seemed to be stepping out of a nightmare.  

Walking slowly closer to the group with an inexpressive face, they threw the head on the ground.

“Is that… Nere?” Shadowheart asked calmly, one eyebrow arched as she stared a the lifeless face.

“Impressive.” Astarion added with an approving nod. "One question though, darling: How come you smell like sex?"

Everyone held their breath, even more uncomfortable now that Astarion had pointed out the obvious musk, his eyes ogling the fluids drying on the bard's inner thighs.

Ellith shrugged. “He did suffer.” 

It didn't alleviate the tension, but no one dared say another word. Ellith was satiated, and they needed not to justify their deed.

Without any further explanation, the bard head back to their own tent. 

They should have a wash, but somehow the feeling of the drow’s blood and semen on their body felt… comforting. Like a soft layer of sin brushing against their flesh, against their oh so sensitive ecstasy.

Alive. It made them feel alive.

And as they lied down on their bedroll, caring not for their friends’ mumbles out there, Ellith realised their mistake.

Their dress.

They had left it near his corpse. The Duergar would know.

Shit.

Ellith couldn't help wondering what Thrinn would think when she'll find Nere headless... and cockless.

They giggled softly, licking their own fingers.

Another fight would be waiting for them tomorrow morning.

So be it.

It was worth it.

@archduchessgortash you asked me to tag you for this one 🖤

This chapter is about this pretty son of Bhaal