shjack180

“TOV!” My companions say incredulously.

There is a bustling of bodies as the ghustil’s laboratory is filled with almost all of my adventuring party; save Halsin… and Wyll?

Did something happen to him? Or did he choose to escort the traded tiefling prisoner away from the creche? Alone??

Anxiety wants to take a hold of me, however, I am not given a chance to worry or fret about our wayward warlock as a pair of strong, fiery arms emerges from the fray of familiar bodies and engulfs me in the warmest and safest hug. It steals the breath from my body, and the flames that emit harmlessly from our barbarian have nothing to do with the way that I melt into her fierce embrace. 

It feels like coming home. 

“Ugh! You had me worried sick, stinky!” Karlach chokes out, burying her nose into my tussled pale hair. “I mean, I knew it’d all work out and we’d find you again, it’s just-!”

“Unhand her, istik!” A youthful voice cracks from beside me. “Ra’stil, control your slaves!”

We all turn to see my would-be slaver squaring his thin shoulders at Lae’zel. His brow glowers and his fists quiver with indignity, and he seems intent on picking a fight with our experienced fighter. The fool.

“No, no.” Our barbarian says firmly, clutching me all the more protectively. “We’re done with all that slave business now. You had your fun, kid, but it’s time to get back to reality; where we’re here as proper guests, with pressing business with your healer, and you’re a daydreaming rookie on dungeon duty.”

“I quite agree.” Our smooth talking vampire chimes in, angling himself slyly at the shoulder of our githyanki. “Having our canary wander out of sight -and out of mind- is far more irksome than having her tag along on these minor quests. Let’s return to the matter at hand, shall we? Before someone loses a touch too much blood for their liking.”

“Indeed.” Lae’zel hums passively, her attention half of the boy and half on the bored looking ghustil. “This farce has turned maudlin. We have come to seek purification, there is no higher priority than this.”

The boy quivers with rage.  

“We had a bargain!” His voice cracks, gesturing towards me, still held tightly in our barbarian’s grasp. “In Creche Y’llek, Vlaakith decrees that we honor our word upon pain of death. Do they not teach such things at your creche, or are you hshar’lak to your kin?”

Uh-oh. 

This insult will not stand. 

Our own githyanki all but snarls, her patience with this youth now entirely run out. 

“I am a Child of Gith, not discarded rat flesh!” She bites back, grabbing the handle of her holstered Sword of Justice. “I will be shown due respect by all such children that follow after me, including delusional half-wits!”

The hackles on the youth rise as he and Lae’zel seem to face off against one another. Space is made within our group so that they may argue -or fight- without impedance, and one clever companion thinks to close the heavy wooden door to the laboratory before more giths become alerted to the rising tensions in the room.

“DO YOU HAVE A QUESTION?” The forgotten ghustil asks loudly, garnering all of our divided attentions. “Or can this sword measuring contest be taken elsewhere? My work is of vital import.”

My head turns toward my would-be slaver and I see what happens next in slow motion; the turn of the youth’s yellow predatory eyes, the flash of inspiration on his freckled pale green face, the deep inhale of his wiry body as he is about to bellow out his accusations…

He is about to tattle on us. As any child is want to do in an unfair situation. 

I've got to stop this.

Through the charged silence, I force my voice to cut through before his does.

“I HAVE AN ILLITHID PARASITE IN MY HEAD.” I say quickly and clearly. “CAN YOU TAKE IT OUT?”

The others freeze. The youth’s jaw hangs open in disbelief and shock at my proclamation. The gears in his young head work overtime to try to fit this new piece of information into his childish daydream of being a proficient slaver, but the mechanisms of his mind have ground to a halt. The ghustil, however, immediately transforms from a curmudgeony scientist that has had their research interrupted, into an inquisitive and hospitable host. The shine in her blue, un-bespecktacled eye is eerily unnerving, but not too unexpected, at least.

“Child.” The ghustil says, sickly sweet, not turning to face the shocked youth as her attention bores into me. “Close the door on your way out.”

“But-”

“Now.” The ghustil repeats in a soft and threatening tone. 

At a loss, the would-be slaver's shoulders droop. He shuffles aggressively through our party, up to the closed laboratory door, and pauses. He turns back one last time to see me -his prize- still wrapped up in our fiery tiefling’s arms, surrounded by my powerful allies, and under the full attention of his creche's ghustil. He puts every ounce of disappointment into a deep frown, opens the door angrily, and slams it closed with such force that the glass instruments nestled on the wall's wooden shelving jingles prettily. 

The youth could have used that same force to shove me into an abyss just a few moments ago on our way up here, but he didn’t. I guess I should be grateful that he had been too greedy to let me go so easily, and brought me to the ghustil to preserve his own vanity instead. 

That’s the Sunk Cost Fallacy for ya. Thankfully, it’s all the way out here in Faefun; taking names, sinking costs, and saving lives. 

Unconsciously, I lean into Karlach's embrace, stealing as much comfort and strength from her as I can before the next part of our adventure begins.

“Istik.” The ghustil asks smoothly, parting the tension of the room like a skiff over troubled water. “You have a parasite you say? Tell me, how and when were you infected?”

Ugh. It’s time. 

Lae’zel opens her mouth to speak, to tell her people’s healer of all that has befallen us; from our kidnapping by the illithid nautiloid to our unprecedented ceremorphosis stasis, but I push out from our barbarian’s hold to explain the situation first.

“I was infected many days ago.” I say hastily, shooting our group’s disgruntled githyanki a glare. “But I haven’t transformed. I’m hoping you can ‘purify’ me.”

It takes everything in me not to shrink under the ghustil’s silent, obsessive scrutiny. For the past few days, I’d been planning to be very brave during this moment, but now that I’m here, doubt poisons my courage and makes me feel dumb and weak in the face of what is about to come.

“You are infected, but showing no signs of cerebral impairment?” She says, the gears of her mind whirling behind her clinically blue eye. “Fascinating.”

A beat passes, as Lae’zel glowers, the others hold their breath, and the ghustil -predictably- glances at the zaith’isk. 

“Either your tadpole is special, or you are.” She contemplates almost judiciously. “We must find out which.” 

The ghustil excitedly turns to her desk and begins resetting her workstation; parasites are recategorized, instruments are dipped into sour media and hung to dry on a nearby rack, and finally a large, empty bottle is selected and filled with water. 

“Get to the zaith’isk.” The ghustil clips out, striding to a side panel of the large, metallic machine. “I will ensure that you are cured.”

I move to follow after her, but my arm is caught in the steel vice of our gritted githyanki fighter before I can pass through our group. 

“What is the meaning of this?!” She hisses lowly. “My time for purification has come. You WILL stand aside.”

“You would still be hunting for this place in the wilds without my guidance!” I whisper back with feigned indignity. “I will go first.”

I could pretend to be strong enough to wrest myself from our fighter’s grip, but instead, I rely on the sternness in my voice and face to convince her to let me proceed. 

I can almost see the D20 rolling above her head as I hold my breath, waiting for her answer. 

“You walk the line between confident, arrogant, and mysterious, Tov.” She exhales, loosening her fingers. “A beguiling turn of events. Go on. Into the zaith’isk. I will follow.”

‘No, you won’t.’ I think treacherously, as I turn towards the insidious looking machine and begin climbing the steps to the awaiting seat.

“You got this, soldier!” Karlach calls out, whooping encouragingly from the front of the group, her red face glowing with optimism and hope. Gale and Astarion behind her are polite enough to clap as well, while the rest of our companions watch intensely as I am fitted into the waiting jaws of the taut flesh and pockmarked metal of the zaith’isk. 

‘Emperor?’ I call out in the empty psionic space of my mind. ‘Are you ready?’

The creature does not reply. 

“Do not fear.” The ghustil calls up soothingly from her strange control panel at the foot of the device. “My expertise in operating this machine is unparalleled. There is nothing on any plane stronger than a zaith’isk for curing unwanted afflictions.”

Doubt. X.

I can already feel the cold metal of the machine sapping away the warmth of my body as it gurgles and thrums to life. The seat of the zaith’isk reclines and I am seemingly inserted into the jaws of the machine. Then, like the strike of a viper, the top half of the metal jaws bites down, lowering four humming, pointed fangs to each side of my head. The two nearest begin to glow bright white as layers upon layers of magic waves themselves tightly around my head. The tadpoles in my head squirm and retract as they try to hide within the folds of my poor brain. 

“You must focus on the parasite at all times.” The ghustil instructs from across the safe distance between herself and I.  “The zaith’isk will do the rest.”

I barely hear her. This is like sending a tiger to hunt a mouse, except instead of destroying a home in pursuit of its prey, the tiger is hunting, clawing, and biting its way through the every inch of my skull while two fighting-fit brain worms wriggle and skitter through white matter and cerebral fluid to escape. My body’s muscles twitch violently and involuntarily, but the power of the zaith’isk holds me in place while it hunts. If the machine continues on like this, without direction, something in my body is going to be permanently damaged. 

I want to die. Dear god. I want to die. 

I try to focus on the tadpoles. I know it is futile, but anything to alleviate this pain, this agony.

The zaith’isk digs in, enticed and excited to search for the tadpoles. I can feel its hunger as it hunts, its craving. It wants the tadpoles, but also, maybe something more…

“That’s it!” The ghustil shouts, her excitement matching that of the device she controls. “Ignore the pain! Think of the tadpole. Think of it purged!”

I can think of nothing but the pain. Every faculty in my body is paralyzed but unmoored. My jaw is locked, my muscles strained, and the leash I have on my psionic connections broken. I can feel everything, too much; my pain, my fear, my lack of control. This bleeds through psionic space and out to my companions. 

Their faces turn from patience, to horror.

Lae’zel is the only one who can find her voice in this confusion. 

“This… torment. You- you must persist. You must be cleansed!” She urges desperately.

The parasites in my brain, once fat and smug, are afraid. They burrow deeper, sinking their teeth into my brain’s exposed tissue, and suck greedily.

My soul’s tether on this body, only just fully secured earlier this morning, now ebbs away, while the dual feasting tadpoles grow stronger, more powerful. They are no longer afraid, they are evolving.

“That’s it.” The ghustil purrs. “Almost there. The zaith’isk never fails.”

Another, more anguished cry comes from the smattering of people below the dais. “This can't be right! The things going to kill her! Move- now!”

Are there people talking to me? Am I supposed to be doing something? It’s taking every ounce of my strength just to stay conscious. How can anyone ask me to do more than that?

The machine yearns for the parasites. For every part of me that has even been tainted by its presence. It will consume them. It will consume me.

The tadpoles in my brain quiver, my brain matter is fueling them. A different magic is building within their foreign bellies. This magic is ancient. Rotten. 

A familiar psionic voice screams through a vast void into my head. ‘No! No more!’. I cannot tell if it speaks of the zaith’isk or the parasites. No matter. I agree. I need to do something. This is my body, my life! 

I pour my soul into supporting the tadpole’s putrid magic -anything to get this damnable machine from out of my head!- and I feel their strength multiply. The pressure is agony, but it turns the tides. My parasites unleash their power onto the invading machine. The two forces fuse violently together, my brain their conduit. My soul and my poor body start to drift apart. 

I am being undone.

Did I make a mistake? 

Was this not the path I was supposed to take?

‘ENOUGH!’

An explosion launches me into the air, ripping me from the magical restraints that had tried to rip the tadpoles from their embedded sockets in my brain and destroy my mind. The cranial pain in my head dissipates as I fly through the air, but so too does all sound and the external feeling of my limbs. I slam against the cool granite flooring of the laboratory, and bits of the alien machinery clatter angrily around me. 

The room swims back into focus as I ground myself in my body once more. My mind is intact, yet somehow unfamiliar. The tadpoles are alive and well, and more powerful than ever, nestled against my poor ravaged brain, but something about me feels… different. I am freed of the zaith’isk’s torment, but some sort of horrible price has been paid in its place. 

‘That was beyond foolish.’ The deep, judgmental voice of the Emperor echoes in the empty cavern that used to be my skull.

With the last of my strength, I flick my thumb upwards as best I can. ‘All according to plan.’ I think groggily, my inner voice booming across endless amounts of time and space. 

Others around the room, who had also been knocked prone by the explosion, begin to rise and get their bearings. 

“TOV!” Someone yells, their voice muffled by the ringing in my slightly pointed ears. “Fringe! We need some help over here!!”

I look up blurrily to see our tiefling and cleric fretting over me. Shadowheart is giving Karlach clear orders to position me in a certain manner, and muttering to herself in her archaic, magical language. Massive fiery hands hold my head steady as a healing blue glow hovers over my temples. As the magic seeps beneath my skin, I feel blood vessels reconnect and a small click in my inner ear that seems to turn the sound of the world back on. I hear whispered questions thrown back and forth amongst our party, I hear metal crack and clatter to the floor, and above it all, the strangled scream of rage from Creche Y’llek’s ghustil. 

“No-NO.” She yells, staring incredulously at the obliterated machine. “The zaith’isk! What have you done?!”

She runs to the top of the dais, looking to see if there is anything salvageable from the wreckage. 

“My life’s work… gone.” She laments, before turning her obsessive anger towards my still prone form. “And yet you live. And so too, does your parasite.”

Her voice cuts with a fanatical edge -an obsession bordering on mania. If there’s a chance that the parasite in my brain still lives, she wants it. 

I lull slightly to the side, testing my bodily autonomy and forcing myself up to my elbow.

I’m supposed to roll for charisma. What’s the DC on this check again? And where’s the button to roll the D20?

No, wait, that’s not right. 

That’s in the Game, not in real life. 

My head pounds and I close my eyes to the dull throb of the two tadpoles sitting smugly within my skull. 

“You’re wrong.” I groan, unable to rise higher than from my elbows. “They… died. I felt them die. They’re dead. That’s why I’m so… lively.”

“Really?” The ghustil huffs in disbelief. 

I force myself to breathe as evenly and as least infected-ly as possible. 

“So all this destruction…” She goes on, eyeing the obliterated zaith’isk. “Was a symptom of the parasite’s power?”

Dark liquid drips from my inner ears and down my lobes, and blood is trickling down my nose and into my mouth, coloring my teeth a ruddy shade of raspberry. 

“Yep.” I answer simply.

We stare at each other -this mad doctor and I- while the rest of our party stares at us, starting at each other. 

Nobody moves.

“Incredible.” The ghustil breathes in awe, her body relaxing and the gears of her mind turning once more. “I am disappointed that we could not extract it alive. It would have been an exceptional specimen.”

She turns her back to us and looks to the dais once more. “In any case, your problem is resolved. Leave me. I must salvage what I can.” 

“We are not through here-!” The indignant voice of our gith protests, her double fangs bared. 

I can sense it immediately; her rage, her confusion, her grappling with her entrenched protocols and innate sense of justice. All of it is laid bare due to a heightened sensitivity from the parasites in my brain. I can feel all of my companions' emotions, unconsciously it seems. 

‘Lae’zel.’ I cut in psionically. 

My companions wince at my one psionic word. I did not mean for it to be so loud, but the tadpoles in my mind easily amplified my protest, as if it were as simple as turning up the volume on a radio. Since when has the radio of our shared connection been so sensitive?

‘Let’s speak out of earshot.’ I whisper with great effort, as I get to my wobbly feet. 

Karlach is at my side, helping me stand, while I have to flit back and forth between controlling the projection of my psionic voice for the others, putting up an internal wall between my thoughts and the wildly loud thoughts of my companions, and finding the strength to put one foot in front of the other to try and exit this decimated laboratory. 

Our fighter wants to argue, wants to fight back, but a long look at me and the gentle touch to my back by both Karlach and Shadowheart reigns in her bubbling rage. She follows us -barely contained- through the infirmary, past shouting children, staring teenagers, and suspicious adults. Luckily, one gith child comes in wailing that his finger had been sliced off, and a few veterans opt to try and reattach it themselves, instead of disturbing the ghu’stil after she had been supposedly experimenting with explosions in istiks. 

We make it through the infirmary and to its empty outside hallway without incident, but there is a whispered back and forth about where we should go to speak more privately, or what we should do next. Some companions suggest we retreat back to camp and regroup, while others deliberate about hiding just within the closed doorway between the long hall and the quartermaster's cavern near the kith'rak's office to plan our next move. One companion even suggests we abandon the creche all together and make for the Shadowcursed Lands at once, but this suggestion is ultimately shot down, although it is not the group's least favorite option.  We eventually decide to take a short rest outside of the kith'rak's office, behind the door that leads to the germaphobic quartermaster. It seems that both the githyanki youth and adults are nervous about approaching the office while the ch'r'ai is still here, making the office the least visited place in all of the creche. 

We pass by stiff students and grim paintings of Vlaakith on our way to the faraway office; one such painting even has a hastily scrawled blazing comet on the corner, but I can commit no energy in appreciating this small mark of rebellion against the lich queen. I can barely walk straight. Shadowheart, bless her black little heart, has taken her glove off and has a glowing hand at the back of my neck. My nose has stopped bleeding, and my ears are less clogged, which is helpful in picking up some bits whispered complaints of our vampire at the back of the pack, but mostly it allows me to hear the long and colorful curses that our dear tiefling has for the zaith’isk and the ghustil. Her creativity is probably my favorite part.

When we are at last all shuffled through the metal doorway between the kithrak’s hallway and the quartermaster’s cavern, our silent githyanki finally lets loose the hurricane of her troubled mind.

“I followed protocol!” She hisses. “I kept to my faith. Yet… tsk’va! The zaith’isk might have killed you! I felt your torment, I felt-!”

She looks me up and down closely. No matter how bedraggled I might have looked after coming out of coma, apparently this is somehow worse. Our gith growls at the sight.

“Someone must have tampered with it.” She reasons, half to me half to herself. “An aberration I cannot begin to understand!”

“Oh, yes.” Our devilish rogue agrees sardonically. “‘Someone must have tampered with it!’, not the damned device was meant to kill us in the first place.”

Lae’zel snorts angrily from her short nose. 

“There must be hshar’lak in the creche- a traitor. The sort that is hunted, slaughtered, and erased from our histories!” Our fighter declares, her reasoning trying desperately to match this situation with some distant text of githyanki protocol. “Few would dare dishonor their queen. Fewer still would be so brazen…”

She holds her sharp chin for a moment as she considers her options. The others shift uncomfortably from side to side as their faith in their gith expert starts to evaporate. I blink slowly, waiting patiently for Lae’zel to come to the conclusion that I have already planned for.

“We should hurry.” She says, staring at the closed door to the inner creche. “We must go to the ch’r’ai and inform him of the zaith’isk’s tampering.”

Our githyanki strides forward, but all eyes turn towards me; bloodied and dazed, with healed-over burn marks covering each of my temples.