Katze in Faerûn

“Ugh,” Briar tumbles and twists on their bedroll, even pulling their blanket over their head in hopes of drowning the wild ruckus from the adjacent tent. It didn't work of course, now with the moans followed by wet slapping of skin. The warlock pulls their hair, wondering when they’ll get a good night’s sleep, and makes a mental note to tease Raegan about their orchestra tomorrow. Maybe give them a crunchy smack on the back of their head, too. It’s great to finally have the paladin back from their homecoming, and Karlach undeniably missed the hell out of their lover who's been gone for several weeks, having forced to spend her nights alone again. But gods, couldn’t they conjure a room or something? Does it have to be now? Does it have to be here?

Briar, now with their blanket worn as a cloak, begrudgingly grabs the Bhaalspawn memoir they’ve been studying (almost throwing it towards Karlach and Raegan’s shared tent), and steps out of their shelter to look for a quieter place to snooze in.

As soon as they thought they’re safe from witnessing any more private moments, Briar was almost blinded by the purple light show emanating from Gale’s tent. Counting it as their mistake to pry more, their jaws now agape from the contorted shadows of the wizard and his sorceress, Ngojo. Thankfully, both mages took camp to consideration (unlike Karlach screaming Raegan’s name), making use of a Silence spell, but the shadow theater-ish spectacle they projected sure looks crazy. Ngojo did mention one time how Gale had this book that showed different ways of lovemaking. And it’s just in Briar’s luck that Gale and his lover decided that now, too, is the perfect time to experiment.

With no more interest to see how much more arms can sprout from the wizard’s body, Briar bolts straight to the tent that’s farthest from camp: Astarion’s tent– the only tent with an inviting light and, fortuitously, absence of any malicious activities. They peeked through the open flap of its entrance, curious to discover that the tent is vacant. The vampire must have been in the woods, hunting for sustenance. So, Briar helps themself, rounds a little corner inside while being careful of Astarion’s belongings, and reads to sleep. The chapter was as boring as they expected it to be, catching themself fluttering their eyes and banging their head in a whiplash, waking them up as they hit someone’s head.

“Ow!” the voice grunted. Briar glances on Astarion huddled close to them. There’s even a trail of drool from their mouth to the vampire’s shirt sleeve. “Sorry,” the warlock responds half-awake, wiping their saliva with their hand, “How long have I been using you as my pillow?”

“Not long.”

Briar hums, matching his unbothered demeanor, “I hope you don’t mind me staying here for the night.”

“Darling, you know I can do last-minute arrangements for you,” he smirks. Briar swats his shoulder, earning another “ouch” from him.

“Stop being a creep. You know we agreed to keep it casual when it’s just the two of us,” then they stretch until a joint popped to place, “We’re buddies, aren’t we?”

“Whatever you daywalkers call it, sure,” Astarion rolls his eyes, then pats his shoulder. Briar raised a brow. “You said we’re buddies, so come here and keep me warm before my undead body freezes in place.”

“No preys sucked dry tonight?”

“The woods are apparently a sham,” he sighs, “unless you’re offering in kindness.”

“Not tonight, sorry. I need some rest,” Briar mumbles, settling their head on his rigid shoulder while sharing their blanket with him. Astarion sits stiff, still uncomfortable with the contact’s lack of sexual intention, something he was used to.

“Gods,” Briar sighed, snapping him away from those thoughts, “If only you know how everyone’s really going at it tonight.”

“Oh, I saw. They are quite the show.”

“Please spare me the details,” Briar opens their book to where they left it off, now sharing it with Astarion as he accompanied their reading time—amused with how repulsed the warlock is. As traces of feral noises ultimately died down, so did the warlock, who didn’t last five minutes in reading and dozed off peacefully on the vampire’s shoulder. He avoided ruminating on thoughts that would sour his mood, simply focused on the warmth that his companion radiated before he entered trance. When he awoke to the sunlight’s gentle caress on his cheek—something he’ll never tire of, the same weight remained: of the blanket around him, and of the warlock’s head that now lay on his lap.

His finger twitches as he catches himself fixing the strand of hair on their face. This isn’t good; he’s acting soft again.

The freshly-tadpoled warlock thought that enough regrets had happened, starting from stepping foot on Baldur’s Gate to cheapskating out of an inn room and camping outside for the night. If only they stayed more to befriend the innkeep, Briar wouldn't have awoken inside a mind flayer incubation chamber. And yet another one made its way to the list– a foolish mishap on their end to think that this pale stranger was as feeble as he acted, especially not with the sharp dagger that is dangerously digging on their skin now. Clearly, this was a devised scheme missing one important element: a gullible victim. And that victim, unfortunately, was Briar’s dumb self. The only thing stopping the blade now from ultimately slitting their throat is their hands. Still, it could be discerned that killing them is not part of the plan– not with the way he pinned them down.

“Shh,” the attacker sneered, “Not a sound. Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.”

A pervert, perhaps? The elf seemed familiar with his knife, but doesn’t seem to be the sort to greet his victims on the ground at knifepoint. Briar had met men who talked in sultry tones like him before, so they’re certain that this elf must be in a desperate position to gain something. Well, both of them are currently by the crash site, and Briar noticed a broken pod nearby, so he could also be a tadpole host. And much like them, he is needing answers.

“Very good. Now, here’s what’s going to happen: I will be asking questions, and you’ll answer them,” he asserted, “Nod.” With regards to first impressions, this stranger is absolutely ticking Briar’s nerves. Taking orders is just one of the several things they don’t enjoy doing– even as they pretend– most especially from a man , but Briar must take advantage of the time to find an opening and turn the situation around. Much like him, Briar needs answers too. So for now, they nodded. And as expected, the elf is satisfied.

“Splendid. I’m certain I saw you on that ship, so you’re going to tell me everything ,” he punctuated his statement with more force on his dagger, “What did you and those tentacled freaks do to me?”

Now Briar’s more offended, “Huh? What are you– Does it look like I’m affiliated with them?”

“Well, you were there, weren’t you?”

“And so are you,” Briar spat back with a half-chuckle, bewildered by his silly accusations, “Do I look like I have tentacles on my face?”

His brows furrowed, “Who knows, maybe you have those slithering, wet suckers under those flapping lips of yours.”

“Maybe you already have them, and you don’t know it yet.”

The elf was badly distraught by Briar’s comeback, “What?!”

Thanks to his vanity, an opening is finally offered. Briar took this opportunity to cast a fire spell enough to burn his wrist and loosen his grip on Briar and his dagger. With swift yet brute force, the warlock toppled their bodies around, with the previous prey now on top of the grunting predator while luckily snatching the dagger out of his grasp. His eyes blew wide from his blade now pressed onto his throat.

Briar loomed over him like a shadow, save for the creepy green glow of their right eye, and mocked his smile from earlier, “How does it feel to be in my shoes now?”

“Now, now,” he raised his arms in defeat, “let’s not get too dagger-happy.”

Briar feels elated to finally put him in his place, straining his body with enough brawn to let him know not to mess with them, “I might, only if you’re smart enough to tell me everything you witnessed in the ship.”

He scoffed, a retort waiting by the tip of his tongue, until he felt a sting under his jaw, “Alright, I yield! I’ll tell you, so listen.” 

Briar nodded.

“I was on the ship. Those beasts kept me in a cocoon, and put a worm in my head. Next thing I know– agh!”

A staticky, painful ringing pulsed in both their heads, interrupting their uncivilised conversation with a vision of city streets at nightfall. A figure was seen, stature made small by how he crouched from public view. As soon as the moon crept its light by his dark corner, his stark white hair illuminated, prompting him to pull his cloak’s hood. Only crimson eyes remained at view, flitting left and right to each person that passed by the lit streets.

Briar suddenly tumbled on the ground, dagger now back to its original master as he stood from a distance. In a similar fashion, the warlock picked themself up, readying their hands to cast whichever spell to counter his physical attack.

He is distraught, “What was that? What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Briar said, their wrinkled forehead explaining their defence. He saw that they were just as confused as him, but his ears perked at their deduction, “It… It could be the worm in our heads. It probably connected us.”

“Did we see the same thing?”

“I don’t know,” Briar traced the vision, now realising that the figure could be the armed man in front of them, evident by his white hair that practically shone now thanks to the sunlight, “But I met others at the ship before it crashed. They got worms in their heads too, and I had this same connection with them.”

He’s convinced, slowly stowing his dagger away, “You’re not one of them, then. They took you, just the same as me.” Briar reciprocated by putting their arms down, too. The pale elf sighed, “And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards! My apologies,” then bowed like a sophisticated elite.

Briar’s brow shot upward, “Um,” and made a similar yet clumsier bow, “Apology accepted?”

“You must be a kindred spirit,” he nonchalantly mentioned, “I respect how you striked back earlier. You clearly know how to handle yourself, and kept me alive! Very impressive,” and theatrically applauded. “Now before I forget my manners, my name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”

“You’re Baldurian?”

“I assume you are not?”

“No,” Briar said as they brushed off specks of dirt on their bum, “but I was camping by its outskirts when someone abducted me.”

“I see,” he trailed off, “Well! You seem like you know something about our condition. What more can you tell me about these worms?”

“Only thing I know is that those beasts are called mind flayers, and that these worms they put in our brains will eventually turn us into one.”

“Ha!”

Briar wasn’t sure whether the elf had officially lost their mind from his boisterous laugh. It took him a moment to tone down his amusement, a joyous expression replaced by an angry one, “Of course it will turn me into a monster! What else did I expect?” The warlock shrugged.

“Although… it hasn’t turned us yet, if that is your true form.”

“It is my true form,” Briar crossed their arms.

“There must still be time for us to find an expert– someone who can control these things.”

“ We?”

Bold of him to imagine that Briar would be willing to forget what transpired and just travel with him. But then, an idea came across: he’s Baldurian, and judging from his clothing and poise, Astarion must be networked with the rich. Rich equals money, right? And maybe after helping him solve this tadpole mess, he would be willing to compensate them for the trouble. Briar would need the connections. One of them could point a direction to a particular moon elf they had been searching for. And they know what he’s capable of; if worse comes to worst, their patron could have him for a midnight snack.

Before Astarion was able to answer, Briar hushed him with a raised finger, “Nevermind. I realised that our odds in finding more about this would be better together so…” then they stuck their hand out, “I’m Briar.”

He reached and shook their hand once. His palm was cold to the touch.

“Excellent. Lead on, Briar.”

“Somebody, help please!”

The apathetic crowd refused to turn an eye for the pleading blue tiefling. It was the district’s slums after all; a single cry for help had never been an irregular occurrence there. It’s just another day for the rest of them. One snarky lady almost pushed him out of her way, if not for the sorry little tiefling he held in his arms. He paced his walking, desperately looking in every corner he passed by. In his head, he repeats what the merchant from Rivington said: ‘a dark elf named Mur'sser, who used to be a cleric, lives near the docks’, ‘charges for less gold’, then ‘a graffiti of a spider with a missing leg’.

His eyes fled towards every wall packing the street until the heather-skinned girl wrapped around his arms groaned. Her face was scrunched and damp with tears, “The noises… they hurt, papa.”

“Shh, remember what I taught you, little Morg,” he whispered, slowing his pace down, not wanting to contribute more to her pain, “Think of that one shell you liked to play with: Imagine you’re holding it to your ear. Hear how gentle the ocean waves kiss the shore.”

“I’m trying, but everything’s too loud,” she winced, her small, quivering palms cupping her ears to mute her surroundings.

“I know, Morg. Don’t worry, we’re almost there.” Though the promise seemed empty for the meantime, her father assured her, “We’ll make sure that your headaches will go away. For good, this time.”

“Promise?”

He paused from his urgency, taking a moment to smoothen the worry of his face, then beaming a tender smile towards his beloved daughter. Though the light at the end of this tunnel is nowhere to be seen, he will cling onto hope. He won’t let whatever curse take Morgana away from him, not like how he lost his baby boy to an illness in the past. No more.

He sneaked a kiss on the gap between her furrowed brows, “I promise, my little Morg.”

As the setting of the sun dimmed the sky, torches started lighting up each block, and sketchier people with hoods and glinted daggers slowly littered the pavement. With no desire to be entangled in trouble, he took this as an initiative to search harder, being more wary of his surroundings until he passed by a dark nook with a striking insignia. Retracing his rushed steps, he finally exhaled the breath he was holding. There it was: a menacing spider with only seven limbs, the missing one’s paint– or is it blood? - seemingly scratched off, encircled by painted crimson droplets. He stared at the door by the end of the descending staircase. No friendly invitation, except for the warm light the hooded lantern above the door emanates.

“See, little Morg? We’re here,” he told her as he dismounted the cold stone steps. The child, Morgana, huddled closer to her father, feeling more fear now than pain. “I’m scared,” she whimpered as they arrived at the front door. “Me too,” he answered, hovering his fist on the door, “but we can be scared together. I won’t leave you alone,” then knocked.

A small panel slid open, revealing eyes as red as the symbol above. Eyes that gripped his chest. Eyes that screamed danger. But then he is reminded of the few gold coins that had been jingling in his pockets, then of the countless clerics who abandoned them after learning of Morgana’s unexplained curse, then of his son who died because he lacked the money to compensate. He knew that he mustn't hesitate with this opportunity.

Panic spilled from his lips, “I-I’m looking for Mur'sser? I’ve been told that he could cure my daughter. I don’t have that much gold, b-but I’ll do anything you ask to pay the rest! Just please, please help my little girl.”

The eyes that stared through him now shifted to his sobbing daughter who is still hiding her face on his chest. These eyes widened, followed by a succession of bolts being unlocked. The door swung open, a strong whiff of astringent and iron welcoming them, “Head inside.”

Each tap of his boots eerily echoed, giving him chills that ran down his spine. The room is almost pitch black, especially with the door now closed, yet he could ascertain that the jars lining up the shelves contained grisly articles he shouldn’t have noticed. He’s unsure whether it’s him who is trembling in uneasiness now or Morgana, but to his surprise, she’s oddly calmer now, slowly unveiling her face from his shirt and subtly sniffing the room’s sickly aroma. It’s strange, but maybe it’s the scent of some exotic Underdark medicine. Pushing all horrific thoughts aside, he settled with the possibility of his daughter getting better at this healer’s hands.

With a snap of fingers, floating blue flames now illuminated the room, revealing two wooden stools that faced each other, a small table with basic medical tools on top, and a rickety chair that faced the furniture. A male drow in a militaristic posture gestured both tieflings to come closer. “Please, sit down,” the drow said. Not said– ordered. The father obeyed, finally relaxing his body on the chair, making it creak. Morgana sat on his lap, her eyes returning the gaze that the drow is uncomfortably holding towards her. This itched him to wrap his arms around Morgana’s waist, keeping her close just in case.

The healer noticed his caution, smirking in hidden satisfaction, then flit his attention towards playing with his tools, “I must say, you are bold to approach an under-elf in the slums of Baldur’s Gate.” The tiefling’s brows knit together, which Mur'sser found amusing, “You do know that the hospital’s just by the opposite direction.”

Whatever type of icebreaker he’s playing does not calm the father down. In fact, it’s filtering his fear with frustration now. Fuming heat fogged his head as he shamelessly confessed all the struggles he had gone through, “None of them can do what you do. We’ve traveled far, searching for a cure that could help her, been kicked out of multiple temples, and…” his head hung low, shaking from remembering all the foul words young Morgana has been called. Their kind is no stranger to awful names for simply looking hellish, but for a meek child like her… Those words the so-called “followers of god” spat, she never deserved to receive. It’s not her fault that she was born with such a curse. If there is anyone to blame, it is whomever bestowed such a cruel thing upon her.

Mur’sser sat on one of the stools, prompting the father to come back to this hopeful reality with pitiful eyes crying out to the drow, “Nevermind. What’s important is that we found you,” then his hand fished out a miserable coin sack from his trousers, gripping it tight in front of the drow, “I swear to hold onto my word and do anything you want. The only thing that matters is my daughter getting cured for good.”

Mur’sser’s eyes sharpened, fully enticed with how the poor tiefling worded his desperation, “Of course. It’s only natural for a father to wish what is best for his child.” Portraying the friendliest smile he could manage, Mur’sser extended a hand towards Morgana, “May I look at you, little one?”

She tilted her head to face her father. After receiving a nod, she hopped onto the floor, minding her balance, and shyly placed her hand on top of the drow’s. Mur’sser reciprocated her touch with the same gentleness, guiding her unsteady self towards the opposite chair.

“What is your name?”

“M-Morgana,” she mumbled.

“Morgana,” he softly repeated, “What a beautiful name for a lovely girl.”

The compliment was effective, the drow noticed, obvious as to how lenient her posture became. She played with the hem of her dress, “But my papa calls me Morg. I like it when he calls me that.”

Mur’sser was about to ask whether she wanted him to call her with the same pet name, but he had been sensing the glare of the tiefling—this filthy hell-blood who claims to be her parent. Ha, what a jest! But somehow, the horned mortal deserved credit for bringing back the girl in one whole piece to her rightful home. And that credit he deserved will be due sooner than he thinks.

“I see,” he simply answered, producing a scalpel from his medical kit. In one swift motion, Mur’sser slit his palm open, causing blood to ooze from it, then smearing it onto Morgana’s lips.

“What the—'' The tiefling shot up from his seat, but Mur’sser was quicker; with a flick of a wrist, the worn-down chair projected barbed tendrils that latched and dug into his limbs and mouth. Mur’sser tutted, wagging his free hand’s finger. A muffled scream rumbled from the man’s throat as thorns pierced his skin, decorating the air with more notes of iron—of fresh blood.

The deranged drow chuckled at the tiefling’s aggressive wriggling, “I will never tire of seeing a worm that embraces its true form.” The restrained man grumbled again, this time like a captured animal insisting that it is still the predator. Mur’sser’s smile dropped, looking down at him, “I’d suggest you stop squirming. You’ll only make things more painful for you. Besides,” then his bloodied hand caressed Morgana’s cheek before turning her to face him, “There is nothing wrong with her. Those low lives know nothing of her potential—of who she really is.”

The father shuddered under the sight of his daughter: her faint pink eyes turned darker than ever, and her small frame shivered… as if she was drugged. His precious little Morg’s lack of reaction to his state hurt him more than the spikes digging into his skin. What did he do to her?

“I assume you have questions,” Mur’sser quirked, “and answers you shall have."

Keeping her blank expression, Morgana shakingly faced the delicious-looking flesh in the form of a hand that was offered to her. Like a lost puppy, she tilted her head towards Mur’sser, just waiting. Mur’sser nodded, “No biting. Just your tongue, little one.”

To the father’s horror, he witnessed his little girl lap the blood on the drow’s palm, like she never had a drink in her entire life. Her tiny, once innocent hands even pulled her treat closer through the fingers, lips suckling on the open skin with the intent of draining the blood out of it. To further mock the puny mortal watching this spectacle, the drow stroked the girl’s hair over and over again.

Tears streamed down the tiefling’s face, salt mixing with the blood seeping from his forehead, changing the scent of the air once again. He is violated by how this grown stranger disgustingly touched his daughter like she is his pet. Oh, how he wanted to lunge at this lunatic, if not for his helpless state.

As soon as Morgana started frantically rubbing her cheeks on the gaping wound, Mur’sser retracted his hand, careful to not accidentally hurt the girl. “No more,” he said, setting his foot down before she completely gets lost into this guilty pleasure. She breathes rapidly, mouth clumsily stained with crimson as drool dripped from her lips.

The drow unsheathed a unique dagger from his side: a knife with a crooked, red blade held by a ring furnished with teeth-like projections in its center, then a handle with serrated grooves, akin to the anatomy of a tiefling’s skin.

“Do you want more, little one?”

Morgana nodded, more excited than ever.

“As you rightfully deserve,” then he opened her palms to place down the dagger that’s as long as her arm. The girl discovered a strange familiarity with the blade, taking a moment to scan it with pure, youthful curiosity. Without fazing, a voice only she could hear cordially welcomed her back to its embrace, introducing itself once again through the way Morgana easily adjusted to the weight of her family’s heirloom. Bloodthirst, it whispered.

“Blood… thirst…” Morgana repeated.

Mur’sser knew that Bhaal had reunited with his child, almost dropping to his knees to worship the demigod that now stood beside him. He digressed, noting that there will be a proper time and place for that, unraveling the vines around the shocked tiefling while leaving only one firm tendril on his mouth. The mortal had long ceased from writhing like a pathetic wimp, traumatized by what he had witnessed. His lacerated body remained frozen, even when the little girl he once carried in his arms as a quiet babe raised the dagger at him.

“You need not do anything for me. In fact, you will be the cure, if you want to call it that. You should consider this an honor: to be the one to shepherd the lost back to her true father’s arms.”

“I… thirst…” Morgana muttered.

As the tiefling shed his last peaceful tear before his vision completely blackened, the last words he heard from Murr’ser were, “After all, it’s only natural for a father to wish what is best for his child,” then the cold blade ultimately plunged his abdomen.

Morgana stabbed the man she called ‘papa’…

Over, and over again until blood sprayed her lavender face with splotches of red and eventually puddled the floor.

And over, and over again until shreds of darkened, blue skin cluttered around them like autumn leaves on a park’s ground.

And over, and over again until the glistening walls of his guts gradually brimmed the wide opening.

And over, and over again until the engorged length of what remained of his intestines uncoiled onto the open surface.

And over, and over again until it matched the artistic vision her father expects of her—of Mortis, Bhaal’s beloved little artist.