#devouringmadness

Ammit stepped beside Jaheira after they had made camp just a short distance away from Baldur's Gate. The black Dragonborn burrowed her paws in her pockets, fingers fidgeting. She took a deep breath before she finally pulled out the card, which had been on her person, ever since she had woken up on the nautiloid several months ago.

The card was covered in specks of dried blood, made out of a thicker, yet worn-down paper and had a symbol on each side. One side depicted a skull among a ring of red tear-drop-shaped spots. The backside was a circle of teeth, framing a heart.

Offering the card for inspection, Ammit asked: "Does this mean anything to you?"

@devouringmadness

Jaheira’s fingers closed around the card, its rough texture a bit unsettling. At first, nothing came to mind but a strange feeling, a bad omen that tugged in the back of her mind. But as soon as she turned it over, her brows furrowed as they met the unmistakable symbol of Bhaal — a skull wreathed by blood-like droplets. The shift in her expression was subtle, but enough to betray the unease surging beneath the surface. The druid's eyes flickered up to Ammit, then back to the card, doing her best to keep her expression controlled, though a dark shadow passed over her face. She carefully masked the tensing of her jaw, the reflex to prepare for battle or flight.

The Dragonborn’s expression was one of cautious curiosity, not malice. But Jaheira knew too well the deceits of Bhaal’s hand — innocence turned to violence in a heartbeat, memories twisted like blades. She needed to tread carefully.

No. She shouldn't be so quick to jump to conclusions. She was old enough to know better. Perhaps Ammit was a victim of the cult, not part of it. Jaheira would need more information...

“Ammit,” Jaheira’s voice was calm, but a practiced calm, and undeniably worried. “Have you had any unusual dreams as of late? Or moments where you felt... impulses that did not seem like your own? Whispers, perhaps, or an odd pull in your mind?”

The questions were gentle, but each carried the weight of battles past, of watching trusted faces contort into nightmares. She wasn't sure how Ammit would respond to this conversation, and what she could expect

Nyssala had never been great with faces, especially after coming to the surface. To her, a lot of surfacers looked the same. It didn’t help that hundreds — maybe thousands — of people passed through Sharess' Caress every year, making it even harder for her to keep track of anyone.

Names though... now that was a different story. Growing up, she had spent plenty of time memorizing the names of countless important members of Menzoberranzan's noble houses — their children, their grandchildren. She had to recite her own lineage perfectly, all the way back to the very first wretched soul that decided to name her daughter "Yvonnel". It was dull, mind-numbing work, and more than once, she’d considered throwing herself off Arach-Tinilith's cephalothorax just to escape it.

But it paid off, it seems. Now, Nyssala rarely forgets a name, and Felicitas was one she didn't expect to hear at... wherever the hell they were now. The middle of nowhere, that is. Nyssala was on her way to try her luck knocking on a massive, grass-covered gate she found when she overheard people talking at distance, and the name was the very first thing she could understand. A known name could mean trouble. What if the other drow recognized her? And worse, what if she decided that killing Nyssala would earn her some twisted favour with Matron Quenthel? (Assuming Quenthel was still the Matron, of course. Things always tended to change too fast down there...)

No, no, no, I'm just being paranoid.

After all, if the Matron wanted her head, she'd have taken it by now... Right? And it's not like she could be sure it's even the same "Felicitas." There have to be plenty of "Felicitas" on the surface, right? Though... now that she thought about it, she hadn’t met a single other "Felicitas" since she got here. The odds were definitely stacked against her.

She quickly ducked behind a giant rock, hoping to stay out of sight. She'd observe this Felicitas first, check the vibes, and then decide if she would approach her or not. But from the other side of the rock, a group — adventurers, by their gear — suddenly came barreling in her direction. They were a mess. Wounded, dirty, and clearly running for their lives. She held her breath, expecting the worst, but they rushed past her without a second glance, their voices rising as they shouted at the closed gate.

"OPEN THE BLOODY GATE!!"

The shouting at the gate kept going, with people on both sides yelling and throwing insults back and forth. Whoever those folks were, it was clear that trouble was brewing, and Nyssala had no intention of sticking around to find out what kind.

"Oh, shit." She barely had spun on her heels when a pack of goblins came into view, charging toward the gate on massive wargs, armed to the teeth, snarling like bloodthirsty beasts themselves. Arrows whistled through the air, one zipped past her so close it ruffled her hair, embedding itself with a sharp thunk into the ground behind her. By sheer luck, she hadn’t been skewered.

A battle. Of course, there was a battle coming, and Nyssala, the absolute last person who should be anywhere near sharp objects and angry beasts, was right in the middle of it. She glanced around, panic rising. Goblins charging, arrows flying — she barely knew which end of a sword to hold, let alone how to survive this mess.

She tried to bolt, slipping away from the chaos, but a goblin, quick and sneaky, intercepted her. The creature bared its crooked teeth, sneering, "A drow! The boss is going to like you!" They lunged forward, grabbing her by the clothes.

"Take your hands off me! Ah!" She gritted her teeth, fighting to free her tunic from the goblin's grip. She couldn’t believe she was losing. To a goblin! This was beyond humiliating — definitely one of the most embarrassing moments of her life. "ARGH! YOU LITTLE- Go back to the anus that birthed you!"

She didn’t expect much, but then — whoa. A weird, almost electric sensation surged through her, and for the first time, she felt her words hit like a physical blow. The goblin staggered back, clutching his head, clearly in pain. The goblin's grip suddenly loosened, sending Nyssala stumbling back until she landed unceremoniously in the dirt, sitting dazed and annoyed.