#lcftyambiticns

|| @lcftyambiticns ||

ᒥ🕷ᒧ—      The time that had passed since they had last seen each other was mere days to the drow, he often forgot that time was more precious to humans. Certainly, it was something unfair, but unavoidable when those of elven kind made friendships with humans.

When his seemingly endless journey throughout Faerun took him back around the lower Sword Coast, he had always planned to see his friend again. Upon hearing the renown the name Lorroakan held within Baldur's Gate, he wasn't all too surprised. The man had always been driven, determined to meet his goal. It was a quality Rinnill had respected and admired in the human.

Years had passed, but as he stands at the entrance of Ramazith's Tower, the unfair and unequal aging of a drow compared to a human was quite obvious. Rinnill hadn't aged in the slightest since they had last seen each other. Not a single line blemished his face with age, the only visible change was his black leathers accented by purple had been changed as surely, they had worn during the hunts and years passed.

His companion, Nym, was hidden from sight for the time being. She watched from the Ethereal plane, hidden away from the public who wouldn't take kindly to her. The ranger knew the spiderling would be happy to see their friend. He predicted that enthusiasm would overcome her, and she'd phase into the Material plane to greet the human.

Having the apparently famed Lorroakan join their ranks had been a surprise to the sorceress, as she'd been doing her best since the beginning to keep the peace. Not everyone in their merry band of misfits enjoyed spending time together, and sometimes forest politics helped her to calm them all. Especially in situations like this, where they had pissed off a literal Lich goddess, but this wouldn't be the last time, she was certain.

She was starting to make it a habit to piss off powerful beings.

Still, she took a seat next to Lorroakan by the fire, listening to the words that came out of his mouth. He was as much of a broken record as Lae'zel had been about the Créche, which had of course served to be less than satisfying. They'd almost lost her in that damned machine, and she still remembered the Githyanki she had slain to get them all out of the godforsaken place.

With a sigh, Eve glances at the fire. ❝I've begun to wonder if we're searching for the wrong things at this point,❞ she admits as she watches the flickering of the flames and then turns to look at Lorroakan. ❝What makes you think that finding the Nightsong will do us anymore good than finding the Créche? I'm not saying we won't look for it, I just want to understand why you think the outcome will be any better?❞

At this point, Eve was actually starting to consider dragging them all to the High Forest and seeing if they couldn't perhaps weaponize some Netherese in the Dire Wood, or something far more dire. At this point, things were starting to get more serious than just tadpoles worming farther into their skulls. Perhaps another trip to the Underdark was necessary...

Gale frowned, regarding the wizard in front of him for a moment. He trusted Lorroakan, as his fellow traveling companion and, dare he say it, friend. He hadn't expected Lorroakan to accept his death easily, but he had expected him to accept it, eventually.

"If I die, no one else has to," Gale insisted earnestly. "That's the point." It wasn't the best ending he could have hoped for. But it was better than he'd thought it would be. He wouldn't be just another footnote in history, his death would mean something.

“Lolth. A fickle spider who devours her own.”

He doesn’t step back from her sharp words but leans in, whiskey eyes glittering with odd warmth as they roam her face.

“Yes, I can see it. Quite the warrior. The fire in your gaze could melt the ice of Cania itself.” He smiles sharply. “Lolth gave you chains; the Absolute pulled your strings. Crude, brutish masters for a woman of such. . . magnificent command. They didn’t deserve you, did they? They saw a weapon to be wielded. I, my dear, see a queen in need of a throne.”

A flourish of his hand punctuates his words.

“You speak of selling what remains of your soul, but what if I’m not interested in buying? What if I simply wish to invest?”

To polish a rare, flawed jewel until it outshines the Spider Queen’s own eyes.

She was fluttering in and out of consciousness; her ears were ringing, her vision was blurry, and time had lost all meaning. This had to be it. Her final moments in the cold and cruel world were full of confusion and pain. Lyrazel grimaced in protest. Or- she thought she did. This wasn't how she was supposed to go. She was too young, only twenty-seven years old, and had a lifetime ahead of her to accomplish many great things in her life. And then- Relief?

She could feel her body again beyond pain. She could hear again. Her vision was returning. She was suddenly keenly aware of being on the ground, splayed out and- gods, were those arrows? Why were they lying next to her? Had they been imbedded in her? Lyrazel groaned and rolled her head sideways. She was being knelt over, and not by Shadowheart or Halsin. No. Lorroakan was kneeling over her. Her brows knitted weakly in confusion and distrust. But then- if he was trying to harm her, his hands would have had something in them. Her body would not have been soothed. He had helped stabilize and heal her.

"Wh-" She reached for his wrist; gods her arm felt heavy. "What- Happened...? You're... helping?"

The tongue in which Lorroakan was speaking was unknown to Alaara; she had no clue what he was saying. Even so, something about the words and cadence tickled her brain... She just couldn't place a finger on why.

"What on Toril are you saying?" she asked, head cocked. "Which language are you speaking?"

During his time here waiting, Connor spent the majority of his time in Baldur's Gate at Sorcerous Sundries.

That had nothing to do with Lorroakan. It just had to do with the fact that most people in this space were a bit more open minded to the idea of an undead with a mind of its own walking around than other parts of the city. Plenty of books, and an array of individuals to talk to. No one in particular stood out.

When he'd go to retire, it'd be at one of the nearby inns. When he walked among the city, people kept a wide berth. Fine by him.

The days passed by fairly quickly. A lot of the time he spent it standing in a corner of his Inn. When the sun rose on the 30ths of The Fading, Connor had been right at the entrance of Lorroakan's residence waiting for the doors to open, and the moment that they did, the undead unceremoniously invited himself within the deepest parts of the building that were cut off to the public.

Intruding just like he did the first day that they met. He knew where to go.

Wizards and their towers.

Following at the undead's feet is his familiar--a golden retriever puppy with wings named Charly. Still no sign of Connor's tentacles out on display. Just the four arms. Lorroakan doesn't need to be too overwhelmed at once.

"Lorroakan."

Connor calls out, as he steps within the precious territory of the man he's supposed to safely escort to Waterdeep.

The idea that they could take on Cazador was enough to send Astarion into a spiral. Nobody could take him on and win... he was a vampire lord, among the most powerful in Baldur's Gate. The people that have tried have all failed spectacularly, and Lorroakan even suggesting that they could take him on was enough to make Astarion cringe. Instinct demanded he tell Cazador of the potential threat... but he was no longer under the man's compulsion, a fact that has him shaking off the instinct with ease.