Chapter Text
Shadowheart watched as her beloved Isabelle plodded forward, zig-zagging past tombstones and half-buried remnants of Selunite and Sharran warriors, all levity having been drained from her body. Chewing at her lip, the half-elf hung her head, staring at the horned helm in her hands. Guilt, sadness, and fear clawed at her heart. Glancing about her companions brought her no comfort, all seeming to mirror the grief and trepidation that cloaked their dear leader in despair. Making eye contact with Lae’zel, the Sharran wilted under the githyanki’s withering gaze, disapproval rolling off the woman in waves as the warrior stared back. Gale, spying the object of his paramour’s ire, sighed, his gentle disappointment somehow even more potent than Lae’zel’s anger.
This was wrong, all of it, wrong!
Lady Shar had chosen her to ascend, to become Her Lady’s champion!
This was supposed to be Shadowheart’s finest hour!
So why did it hurt so much?
Astarion attempted to banter with Isabelle, much to Shadowheart’s disdain, but was, thankfully, rebuffed, the Outlander seeming to be in no mood to engage in any of the rogue’s usual inane self-absorption. Isabelle already had enough on her plate, what with saving the people of Last Light and defeating Ketheric. The bard was overextending herself as it was, what with her new mission to defeat the war-fiend, Yurgir! And yet, despite her exhaustion and clear reluctance to proceed and investigate the mausoleum and the hidden temple of Shar, Isabelle doggedly trudged onward, standing tall through sheer determination and force of will. It was admirable, in a horrible way. Shadowheart sighed, quickening her pace to match her love’s.
The cleric, now stepping in time with her darling, cleared her throat, attempting to draw her beloved’s gaze up from her shoes. A brief flick of the tail and a twitch of an ear was all she received. Frowning, Shadowheart tugged at her beloved’s robe sleeve. Isabelle, startling, leveled her beautiful blue eyes – red-rimmed and glassy – upon the half-elf. The healer gasped, rushing forward to comfort her darling bard, the tiefling issuing a shuddering sigh as Shadowheart pressed a hand to the Outlander’s heart. The cleric trailed her hand up to cup Isabelle’s cheek, swallowing thickly against the emotions that threatened to choke her when her love pressed a sweet kiss to the weeping wound upon her wrist, the injury still raw from where she had given offering to her Wicked Lady. Blood marred the shine of Isabelle’s full lips, but before she could wipe away the stain, the bard trudged on, leaving Shadowheart to drown in her distress, vanishing into the cracked entrance of the decrepit mausoleum.
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Gale shuffled about the inner chambers of the mausoleum, covering his nose with part of his robe tunic, coughing against the foul stench of death that permeated the dank air within the inner chambers of the mausoleum. Lae’zel, trodding close beside the wizard, hissed in displeasure, cursing as broken bits of bone skittered and tumbled about her sandaled feet. Karlach squeaked, groaning when she accidentally toppled a small bowl filled with red, viscous blood, the liquid pooling about her feet as she dragged Wyll away from the accident. Astarion glanced curiously about, curling a lip at the large bone chandeliers that hung from the ceilings. Halsin growled, the large man hanging back toward the entrance, clearly disgusted by the depravity that polluted the once opulent place of rest.
Shadowheart turned away from the horrific scene, her stomach turning inside her, nearly overwhelmed by the carnage about her. Casting about, the half-elf sought out Isabelle, needy for comfort amidst such a hopeless place. Spying the bard leaning over a stone sarcophagus upon a raised platform in the center of the main hall, the cleric approached her love, steps tentative and hesitant seeing the deep furrow that dug into her beloved’s brow. Still, the half-elf continued on, smiling demurely when Isabelle lifted her head to meet the healer’s gaze. The tiefling, seeming to have rallied her spirits – at least somewhat – gently wrapped her arms about the holy woman, the Outlander pressing a kiss to Shadowheart’s bangs, curling her tail about the cleric’s ankles. Peeking at the lid of the sarcophagus, the half-elf felt a pang of hurt.
Melodia Thorm – loving mother to a newly resurrected Isobel and deceased wife to the now disgraced General Ketheric Thorm.
Melodia – that was also the name of Isabelle’s birth-mother, wasn’t it?
Pressing her cheek to her paramour’s chest, Shadowheart clenched her eyes shut, listening to her beloved’s heartbeat thumping steadily in her chest. What must her love – her darling Isabelle be thinking, seeing her mother’s name upon another woman’s grave? How must she feel, having been resurrected herself – not once, but multiple times – just like their friend, Isobel? The half-elf shuddered, shaking her head as if to banish the thought from her mind. Squeezing her heart close, Shadowheart froze when something rigid, small, and circular pressed into her forehead. Rings – there were rings in her beloved, sweet Isabelle’s breast-pocket! Biting her lip, it was all that the half-elf could do to keep from bolting from the mausoleum, her heart breaking for the woman in her arms.
Isabelle – gods above!
The bard deserved better, deserved so much more than a cleric of Shar incapable of returning the love and support the Outlander so graciously bestowed her. There was no way that Shadowheart could accept a proposal, especially not now that she drew ever closer to becoming a Dark Justiciar. Surreptitiously peering up at her love beneath raven lashes, the half-elf suspected that her beloved – her dearest heart, Isabelle - had surmised as much, if her despondent behavior and poorly disguised grieving was any indication to the tiefling’s turmoil. Swallowing thickly, the cleric of Shar attempted to don a confident smile, ducking her head beneath her love’s sorrowful stare as she parted from the bard’s side.
Shaky and desperate for a distraction, Shadowheart delved deeper into the mausoleum, stopping short at the foot of yet another sarcophagus, this one partially demolished, the stone top reduced to nothing but rubble amidst the golden glow of candlelight. Startling, the Sharran gasped, hissing with displeasure as she read the stone plaque engraved at the foot of the casket.
Isobel’s supposed final resting place.
Hyperventilating, Shadowheart spun in place, glancing about the empty grave. Everywhere she turned, the half-elf saw the violent expression of Ketheric Thorm’s all-consuming grief and rage, depicted in giant paintings all about Isobel’s death chambers. What must Isobel have thought, waking in the arms of a once dear father-figure, only to be met by a twisted carcass of a man, poisoned by years of longing and pain – spiteful of the gods and ready to tear the world asunder? It was unimaginable, incomprehensible the disgust, rage, and grief the Selunite – Shadowheart’s friend and fellow half-elf – must have experienced. A pained yelp echoed off the marble columns and stone walls of the mausoleum as Shadowheart clutched her hand to her chest, gritting her teeth against her clenching, quivering muscles, purple light shining bright from the scourge mark upon her hand.
Gentle gauntleted hands stroked away mussed bangs, pressing the cleric of Shar into Isabelle’s chest. Shadowheart shook, struggling to keep herself from breaking down in the Outlander’s arms. Even now, knowing that the half-elf was about to commit the ultimate betrayal and forsake the future that the two women had – foolishly – dreamt up together, Isabelle – dearest Isabelle – refused to leave her in her self-inflicted misery, insisting upon comforting her despite the inevitable tragedy that loomed over them both. Tears stung at the cleric’s eyes, blinding her as her body trembled beneath her beloved bard’s touch.
Gale, clutching Lae’zel’s hand, grimaced as Isabelle assisted the writhing Shadowheart to her feet. The githyanki hissed, snarling as the bard and cleric passed into the entrance to the Gauntlet of Shar, growling her discontent as Astarion, Wyll, and Karlach followed after the women into the temple.
“Enough! I will participate in this no longer, Shadowheart! Do what you must – I will not bear witness to such desecration of the soul! Come, zhak vo'n'ash duj, let us not waste our time here any longer!”, Lae’zel spat, tugging at Gale’s hand.
Sadly, the mage complied, allowing the furious woman to pull him to her side, the two walking back to meet Halsin at the entrance of the mausoleum.
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Shadowheart gasped, hissing as a large shade raked its claws into her side, yelping when she felt herself dissipate into light before plopping back where she started at the beginning of the Soft-Step Trial. Isabelle groaned, stalking away when the half-elf made yet another blood-offering to her Dark Mother. Shakily, the cleric sighed, grimacing as the heavy disapproval of her goddess pressed down upon her shoulders. She had been trying to complete this trial for at least an hour, each time being discovered by the shades amidst the shifting walls of the maze. The wounds upon her wrist stung as if in mockery of her failures.
Once again, Shadowheart endeavored to traverse the maze.
Left – Right – Left – Wait – Run!
A key is found and a gate is unlocked.
The first of three umbral gems is claimed for the first time in centuries.
Shadowheart returns to join the rest of her companions, feeling simultaneously triumphant and full of trepidation. Isabelle approached, healing magic sparking about her fingers.
“No, I can’t! It would be an insult to Lady Shar for these oath-marks to be healed. Please, understand!”, the cleric exhorted, clutching her prize to her chest, pleading with the Outlander.
A shuddering breath wracks the bard’s form and Isabelle releases her magic, pressing her gauntleted hands to her temples, distress twisting the tiefling’s beautiful features in a tight grimace.
Nodding, the Outlander relented, relaxing as she sighed, surreptitiously pressing a hand to her breast-pocket as she acquiesced, “I – very well, love.”
Shadowheart smiled tightly up at the bard, cupping her love’s cheek, softening when Isabelle pressed her forehead to the half-elf’s own. Closing her eyes, the half-elf allowed herself a brief foray into fantasy. As the coolness of the chambers licked at her skin, the cleric dreamed she was in the Underdark, standing in the arms of her dearest heart, victorious after another mission well done. A sudden wetness upon her cheeks caused her to startle, fluttering her eyes open. Isabelle was weeping, the Outlander clenching her bottom lip between her teeth so as not to alert the half-elf of her distress, her beautiful, warm blue eyes squeezed shut in a futile effort to keep the tears streaming down her face from falling.
Pulling away, Shadowheart grit her teeth, grimacing as her own tears began to fall against her will.
What was she doing?!
Ashamed, the Sharran turned away, unable to meet her companions’ gaze as she sprinted for the door.
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“Easy – easy, Soldier! It’s dead, it’s gone, Isabelle! It can’t hurt you! Belles!”, Karlach cried, pleading with the raging, scorched bard, the barbarian bewildered and disturbed as she watched the normally gentle woman curse in Infernal as she continued striking at a stone pillar with her sword.
Astarion quirked a brow, the pale elf pursing his lips in contemplation as he watched Isabelle flame out, taking out her wrath upon the crumbling rubble of the broken column.
Shadowheart frowned – she didn’t like how quiet the vamp was, didn’t like the way his eyes seemed to rest a little too long upon her bard’s form. What was he plotting? What could he possibly want with her darling Isabelle?
Wyll, too weary to be perturbed by their leader’s volatile temper, sighed in relief as the half-elf healed his wounds, remarking, “I have come across many a strange apparition before this, many with uncanny abilities and strange powers. Shapeshifters and changelings too; but never before have I ever been set upon by an apparition blessed with the powers that I possess, let alone one that wore my own face!”
Turning back to the task at hand, the cleric grimaced, replying, “The Self-Same Trial is meant to symbolize the death of one’s ego, forcing an acolyte to face themselves in battle forces them to confront both their strengths and weaknesses so that they might know themselves entirely so to better serve Our Lady.”
“You defeated yours rather quickly. You’re quite the formidable warrior!”, the warlock smiled, attempting to lighten the dour mood that seemed to poison the air about them.
Shadowheart did not reply, merely finishing her work before rising to her feet once more. The first to defeat her shade, she didn’t know whether or not she should feel elated or ashamed. All her life she had been told how weak, how useless she was in comparison to her brothers and sisters in the cloister. She should feel satisfied, knowing she had accomplished this task. Instead, all the half-elf felt was a deep-seated embarrassment. Her shade had become distracted by Isabelle’s own, the apparition wearing a parody of her own adoration for the bard upon its face, leaving an opening for Shadowheart to drive her mace through the shade’s torso. Her sentimentality was always her greatest weakness, one the Mother Superior railed against every time she failed to complete some task or other.
It stung to prove the elder right.
Stopping short of Isabelle, the cleric watched as the Outlander huffed and puffed from exertion. Having finally ceased her destruction of the stone pillar, the column had been reduced to dust in the face of her lover’s ire. Sighing, Shadowheart approached the bard, tugging the sniffling tiefling away from the chamber, entwining her fingers through Isabelle’s as she led the teary-eyed woman back out into the temple halls, second umbral gem in hand.
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Dark Justiciars, or rather, the shades of Dark Justiciars past crowded about the temple’s central most atrium, summoned by the Wicked One to cleanse her hallowed halls of the undead that polluted the space. Silent and ominous, armored in the same plate and chainmail that Shadowheart wore, the wraiths marched forth from the swirling umber portals about the half-elf and her companions, shadows licking and lapping at their forms as they heeded the siren song of battle. They were beautiful! Or Shadowheart would have thought them to be beautiful were it not for the fact that the shades of her kin seemed to be hell-bent on killing her and her compatriots.
“Stop! I am one of you!”, the healer cried, barely dodging a sweeping blow of a curved blade, the sword whistling from the force with which the weapon was swung.
Karlach screamed in rage, decapitating yet another Dark Justiciar with her great-axe, sweating from exertion as she sundered her foe. Isabelle and Wyll, standing back-to-back, swept through a crowd of the apparitions, both slinging spells and striking down their foes in a hail of sparks and arcane energy. Astarion, stymied by his inability to sate his thirst for blood, fired volley after volley of arrows into whatever spirit lumbered close before disappearing in a cloud of smoke, flitting about the room before lashing out at another unsuspecting victim.
Isabelle, rushing to Shadowheart’s aid, plunged her sword into an enemy fighter’s neck, dissipating the menace before it could cleave the Sharran in two. Aiding the half-elf to her feet, the bard summoned flames to her hand, blasting another off the steps from which they fought.
“A bit too late to make friends, don’t you think?”, the Outlander roared, shouting to the cleric over the chaos and conflict that threatened to silence them both for good.
Shadowheart shook her head, eyes rolling about wildly as she cried, “I don’t understand! I am a child of Shar! I am her most faithful acolyte to roam these halls in centuries! Why do they attack?”
Dodging crossbow bolts, the tiefling rolled her eyes, muttering, “I wonder.”
Irritated, the half-elf turned to confront her wayward paramour, only to gasp in fright as a giant beast of a paladin loomed over them both. Isabelle, spying the source of her shock, bared her fangs and brandished her sword at the massive knight, tail lashing angrily. As the monstrous foe swung its sword to sunder the two women, the Outlander summoned forth her magic, blasting the creature off its feet with a powerful sonic wave. Grabbing Shadowheart’s hand, Isabelle yanked the half-elf down a long flight of stairs, rallying the rest of their comrades into a hasty retreat. Flames, bolts, and red crackling energy tore through the air around them all as they ran to seek shelter from the ghouls that pursued them. Crowding into a small antechamber off to the side of the stairwell’s lower landing, Shadowheart panted, grimacing as the pain from their battling and her earlier oath-marks stung and ached from exhaustion.
Satisfied that they had escaped detection, at least for the moment, Isabelle slumped with her back against the wall, chest heaving as the bard tried to recover her breath. Tottering on her feet, the tiefling dug through her pack, retrieving gauze and several healing potions in an effort to conserve what little magical healing remained in her amulet. One by one, the Outlander distributed the supplies before finally turning to Shadowheart. Reluctantly, the half-elf allowed her love to tend to her wounds, wincing as the bard gently cleaned the many lacerations that littered her forearms before wrapping them with gauze.
Unable to meet her beloved’s gaze, Shadowheart stared down at her feet, cowed by her experience in the Gauntlet thus far. She was an embarrassment to Lady Shar’s name, that was why those Dark Justiciars attacked, wasn’t it? It was stupid to think that she – renowned disappointment of the House of Grief – could ever ascend and become someone worthy of honor, someone worthy of her Lady’s love. Wallowing in her self-deprecation, the cleric startled when soft, full lips slowly, gently trailed kisses over the stiff fabric wrapped about her lithe limbs. Softening, the Sharran smiled gratefully, allowing her darling heart to press a chaste kiss to her lips.
Despite her earlier irritation with the bard, Shadowheart was relieved to know that Isabelle stood by her side, even now that they were surrounded and out-matched.
It was nice to be wanted, needed, even.
It was nice to be loved.
Isabelle stood, squaring her shoulders with a determined glint in her blue eyes. Peering around the corner, the bard watched as the giant, lumbering form of Lady Shar’s paladin stalked the halls, the last remaining spellcasters flitting about like sentries as the Dark Justiciars of old wandered the abandoned temple. Shadowheart watched, horrified as the Outlander scurried after the lot, tailing the group as she rummaged about for something inside her pack. Astarion groaned, giving chase after the scheming tiefling, the vamp sliding between shadows just as easily as the shades did in pursuit of her beloved Isabelle. The healer hissed, struggling back to her feet so as to follow after the rogue. Injured or not, there was no way she was going to let the scheming pale elf anywhere close to their sweet, kindhearted leader. Who knew what the man had in mind for dearest Isabelle? Nothing good, surely.
Karlach and Wyll, stunned by the rest of their companions’ charge after the paladin and shadowy entourage, scrambled to their feet, giving chase as quickly as they could despite their exhaustion.
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“Gods! What were you thinking?! Don’t you ever do something so stupid as that again, do you hear me?! Are we not in enough danger already?!”, Asterion yelled, voice shrill as he shouted at Isabelle, scolding the Outlander as Shadowheart pressed wine-soaked gauze into the woman’s side, earning a huff and an adorable pout from the tiefling.
Shadowheart snipped at the rogue, cupping Isabelle’s cheek with a gentle hand, “Yes, thank you, Astarion, for stating the obvious! Now, would you cease your shouting lest you alert every single creature that lurks within the shadows!”
“Oh? You’re worried about her safety now? I’m shocked, seeing as we are only down here because of YOUR ambition! Or am I mistaken? Just whose goddess’ symbol were these Dark Justiciars wearing so proudly on their chest? Hmm?”, the vamp snarled, the man baring his fangs at the Sharran, disdain curling his lip as he glowered down at her.
Shadowheart barked a laugh, rolling her eyes at the pale elf as she sneered, exclaiming, “Oh, now that’s rich! Are you not the same one who insisted we make a deal with a literal devil to face down an Orthon, one of the most powerful war-fiends in all the Nine Hells, in a fight? For what? So you might translate some pretty little runes scratched into your back? Spare me! You don’t give a rat’s ass about Isabelle, so stop pretending that you are more righteous than the rest, Astarion! No one is fooled!”
Astarion huffed, leering as he puffed out his chest, red eyes glaring down at the healer predatorially as he growled back, “Is that a challenge, little halfling? Do go on, then, dear! Let’s see what you’re really made of!”
“Why you -!”, Shadowheart snarled, incensed.
Blind with rage, the half-elf reached for her mace whilst summoning sacred flames to her aid, the radiant magic sparking and popping about her fingers as she prepared herself for a fight with the flamboyant man looming over her. Isabelle staggered forward, tackling Shadowheart to the ground, crying out in pain and frustration as Karlach wrapped her strong arms about Astarion’s waist, the barbarian plucking the man off his feet as he flailed about, attempting to escape.
“Just one bite! I’ll shut that pretty little mouth of yours for good, putrid little harlot!”, the vamp roared, fangs gnashing in fury, his red eyes cold and filled with bloodlust.
Isabelle cradled Shadowheart’s head to her chest, holding the cleric close as she growled and bared her fangs at the vengeful pale elf, tail lashing in agitation as Wyll grabbed Astarion by the back of his shirt. Plucking the rogue from Karlach’s grip and dragging the man further down the hall and away from the scene so as to cool the vampire-spawn’s temper, the gentle chiding of the noble warlock echoed off the stone walls. Thoroughly embarrassed and deeply ashamed, Shadowheart shoved away the Outlander, wincing when she heard her beloved yelp in pain, but refusing to turn back and make amends.
Angry tears pricked at the cleric’s eyes as she stalked away deeper into the temple halls, Astarion’s words echoing inside her head and tearing apart her fragile heart. Disgust threatened to make Shadowheart sick and, once out of view, the half-elf halted in her tracks. Crouching down to curl into herself, the half-elf clasped her hands to her pointed ears, as if to ward away the echoes of hissing laughter that made her slick with sweat and the hair upon the back of her neck stand on end.
Submit.
What had she done?
Destroy.
Why had she said all those terrible things?
Ascend.
How could she ever look her Isabelle in the eyes ever again?
Gasping for air, Shadowheart scrubbed at her eyes roughly, sniffling piteously as she tried to pull herself together. Foolish, stupid, stupid, stupid silly little girl! If she had any sense left in her, she would run! Run far away, never to return. Perhaps then, she could at least be of some use, her body host to the creeping and crawling things of the earth upon her inevitable demise amongst the swirling, howling shadows of the dead woods of Reithwin. Instead, here she was, too afraid to admit the truth of her fear and reluctance to move even a single inch further down this twisting, winding path of fate.
Drowning in despair, the half-elf startled when she felt a sudden sense of reassurance and warmth wrap around her shoulders, distracting her from her misery as she spun about, seeking the source of the gentle touch. Curious – Shadowheart could have sworn she had felt a pair of arms wrap around her, pulling her into what felt like a gentle hug. Rising to her feet, the cleric did her best to wipe away the streaks of kohl that were sure to trail down her cheeks.
Shaking her head, the half-elf sighed. It was no use dithering about in the halls like a sad, scared child. She had to move on, she had no choice! Shoving aside her doubt, Shadowheart slowly made her way back to join the rest of her party, unwrapping the gauze about her forearms in order to display the oath-marks sliced into her ivory skin. Lady Shar had seen her through in her mission to retrieve the relic, had seen fit to guide her steps despite her distracted dalliances with her belo- with the bard, saw fit to protect her against the wrathful shades that lurked within the shadow cursed lands. The very least that she could do was offer her loyalty, her devotion, her very body and soul in return for the Wicked One’s mercy and patience as her most ardent, faithful servant – the first true Dark Justiciar to be birthed into Never-ending Night in three centuries.
After all, that’s what it meant to be loved by the Mother of Darkness, right?
No failure – no weakness! She would be strong. For Lady Shar!
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She did it!
She actually did it!
Shadowheart had retrieved the third and final umbral gem!
Isabelle breathed a heavy sigh of relief, the Outlander slowly uncoiling her tail from around her ankle as she watched her love slowly reform before her, hale and hearty, a triumphant grin splitting the half-elf’s face. Watching her beloved traverse the inky void had, by far, been the most nerve-wracking experience of her time within the Gauntlet of Shar. If Shadowheart had failed and fallen off the hidden platforms obscured by pitch-black shadows, there was nothing Isabelle could do to save her paramour and there was no guarantee that Shar would intercede and save the cleric from death. Shaky and giddy with relief, Isabelle rushed forward to embrace her beloved, the half-elf smiling softly as the tiefling gently tugged her into the Outlander’s chest.
Suddenly, Shadowheart cried out in pain, the wound upon her hand flaring brightly, forcing the healer to relinquish her hold upon the bard. Isabelle sighed, frowning sadly as she bent to ease the cleric back to her feet. The half-elf, unable to look the bard in the eyes, turned away from the Outlander, clutching both the umbral gem and her hand tightly to her chest. Isabelle relented, merely opting to keep a wary eye out for the cleric as the Sharran rose to her feet, trembling with pain.
What was the point of all this? Why were they here? They needed to find the Nightsong and defeat Ketheric Thorm, why did Shadowheart insist on bending over backwards for Shar? Could she not see how bad the wicked goddess was for the half-elf, for everyone? Did she not see how the Mistress of Murder insisted the cleric kill off that which Isabelle loved most?
Entering the library where the Wicked Lady’s holy spear was said to reside, Isabelle groused as more Dark Justiciars apparated into the room, umbral portals swirling in a mass of purple and black as the shades strode forth to confront the adventurers once more. Drawing her sword, the Outlander clutched at the beaded necklace of the Selunite pendant strung about her neck, sighing when a comforting warmth seemed to wrap around her shoulders.
Come what may, Isabelle would follow after her beloved cleric – her beloved Shadowheart. All she had to do was just put one foot in front of the other and keep going. Just keep following the Light! Maybe, one day, the two would finally be at peace, able to camp under the full moon and stars once more.
Moonmaiden willing!
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“Did that count? That had better count!”, Astarion inquired, the rogue turning to the triumphantly smirking tiefling beside him.
Karlach whistled in wonder, kicking at the dead Orthon’s body as Wyll hesitantly approached the war fiend beside her, the warlock grimacing at the stench of sulfur still wafting from the corpse at the couple’s feet. The two startled when the body disintegrated, ash exploding into nothing.
Shadowheart shook her head, chuckling despite the grim scene that had unfolded before them, quipping, “Your silver tongue is deadly, my love! Well done!”
Isabelle lifted her chin, smiling cheekily as she replied, “Thank you, sweet! Not bad for a day’s work, eh? Perhaps, even good enough for a kiss?”
The half-elf smiled, snorting as she rolled her eyes, remarking, “Perhaps – if I feel so inclined.”
“Well, should the inclination strike, I’m sure you know where I’ll be.”, the bard nodded, tittering at the blush that bloomed across Shadowheart’s pale skin.
The cleric smirked, allowing the Outlander to pull her close enough for a quick peck, the healer gently poking her beloved on the nose as Isabelle parted, quipping, “Here – a small morsel of what I may offer, should our endeavors prove successful this day.”
“Mmmm. I will savor such sweetness until the appointed time.”, the bard hummed, a dopey smile adorning her face as she slowly sidled away, leading the group deeper into the temple.
Astarion, sidling up to the half-elf’s side, glared at the cleric, hard eyes peering into her own. Shadowheart squinted at the pale elf, the two staring the other down as they walked. The man sneered, jutting his chin at the bard, waiting for the half-elf to glance in the Outlander’s direction. The cleric warily obeyed, peering at her beloved Isabelle. The tiefling, unaware of the healer’s spying, rubbed a gauntleted hand over her breast-pocket, beguiling features pulled tight in a pained expression as the Outlander palmed the two engagement rings hidden in her robes. Shadowheart wilted, grunting in pain when the unhealing wound upon her hand stung the healer, causing her arm to twinge against her will. Astarion huffed, rolling his eyes as he reached into his pack, pulling out a leather-bound book the rogue had stolen from her Lady’s library. Before the cleric could chide the man, the vamp shoved the tome into her chest, clicking his tongue when the half-elf paled upon seeing the title of the manuscript engraved upon the cover.
Teachings of Loss: The Nightsinger.
Lady Shar’s most important commandment – Loss. Whipping her head up to look at the rogue beside her, Shadowheart whimpered, silently beseeching the pale elf to hold his tongue. Astarion growled, rolling his eyes as he crossed his arms, glaring at the cleric disapprovingly.
“Please!”, Shadowheart hissed, clutching the book in her arms to her chest.
Astarion bared his fangs at the Sharran, softening when the half-elf bit into her lip as the wound upon her hand flared even brighter than before, a small droplet of blood dribbling down her chin as Shadowheart bit her lip, struggling to keep herself from crying out and alerting Isabelle to her distress. Scrubbing a thumb over the iron-red speck, the vamp popped the bloody digit into his mouth and sucked away the small morsel, eyes distant and contemplative as he watched the healer bend over double in an attempt to calm her breathing. Waiting for the woman to recover, Astarion glanced aside when Shadowheart squinted up at the rogue, obviously uncomfortable with the oppressive weight of the half-elf’s request.
Finally relenting, the vamp nodded, stating, “Very well. I do hope you know what you are doing, darling. For her sake, and yours.”
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Shadowheart clutched her new spear – the Spear of Night – in her hands, trembling as she stared at the shimmering, swirling pool of water that comprised the entrance to Her Lady’s domain. Gulping, the half-elf could barely breathe as she watched as – one by one – her companions were swallowed whole, their bodies disappearing beneath the waves that lapped and licked at her feet until only she and Isabelle were left. Anxious and frozen on her feet, it was all that the Sharran could do to not cry out when the Outlander began to slowly wade her way into the frozen waters. The bard turned, holding out her hand, waiting patiently for Shadowheart to gather her courage to grasp the proffered limb. Clinging to Isabelle, the half-elf screwed her eyes shut, hyperventilating as she felt the icy liquid begin to lap at her gambeson robes, making the fabric heavy and wet. Suddenly, the Outlander cried out, causing the healer to open her eyes just as the two women were sucked beneath the swirling whirlpool of the entrance to the Shadowfell.
Panic was all Shadowheart could feel as her lungs burned and screamed for air and choking water poured into her throat and rushed into her nostrils, threatening to snuff out her life as she felt herself transport between planes. Just as the edges of her vision began to fade and turn to black, Shadowheart and Isabelle both tumbled out of the watery portal and onto a large rocky platform. Debris and barbed wire rattled and flew about their heads, the wind wailing with almost tornadic force as it whipped small stones and shards of material around the half-elf and her companions. The half-elf began to hack and cough, tears streaming down her cheeks as she whimpered and shook from the terrifying experience. Gentle gauntleted hands began to pat her back, rubbing circles against the base of Shadowheart’s neck, easing the tension that resided there as the healer recovered from her fright.
Shakily, the cleric turned to her helper, sighing in relief at finding Isabelle, alive and well, beside her. The Outlander pressed a sweet kiss to Shadowheart’s ruffled raven bangs, the tiefling nuzzling her cheek as a means of comfort. Allowing the bard to help her to her feet, the Sharran heaved a heavy sigh, eyes rolling about wildly in her head as the healer took in her new surroundings. Rubble, bones, and dirt littered the ground and swirled through the air, making the desolation of the Shadowfell even more loathsome than the horrors of the mausoleum they had experienced only moments before.
Lady Shar’s domain – she had only heard tales of the mysterious realm, but never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined ever visiting the place herself. This was it, wasn’t it? The final precipice before her ascension into the role of Dark Justiciar where she would kill the Nightsong – whatever that was – and be welcomed into her Wicked Mother’s embrace.
“Ah! True Souls! I thank you for clearing the way to the Shadowfell, into Wicked Shar’s domain. What useful little lumps of flesh you are!”, a voice sounded from behind, gravelly and soft, thrumming with power.
Startled, the party turned to find its source, watching, bewildered, as the bloated blue corpse of the necromancer Balthazar floated forth, motioning for them to follow his lead.
“Come! As a reward for your efforts, I shall allow you to witness my master work!”, the ghoulish man rasped, floating away into the depths of the Shadowfell.
Shadowheart grit her teeth, growling indignantly as she clutched her spear, “Blast him! He doesn’t belong here! We need to get rid of him, immediately!”
Isabelle’s tail flicked in acknowledgement of her words, and the Outlander sneered at the necromancer’s retreating form.
“We’ll follow him to the Nightsong, kill him, then do what we came here to do and head back to Jaheira and Isobel at Last Light.”, the bard replied, drawing her sword.
“Fine! But leave the Nightsong to me!”, Shadowheart grumbled, following after the Outlander as the tiefling began to follow after the strange undead mage.
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“Balduran’s Bones! Shadowheart! Don’t do this!”, Wyll cried, a horrified expression marring his handsome features as the warlock watched the half-elf menace the aasimar trapped in the soul cage before her.
Shadowheart snarled, bright eyes rolling about wildly in her head as sweat trickled down her face, chest heaving in anxiety, “Stay back! Her fate is mine to seal! Let me handle this!”
Karlach turned to Isabelle, pleading with the pensive woman to intervene, “Soldier! C’mon, mate! Snap out of it! This ain’t right, you know it ain’t!”
Isabelle grimaced but remained silent, the bard clenching her eyes in a futile effort to block out the horrifying sight before her.
The Nightsong – Aylin – sneered down at the cleric of Shar, growling, “Little Sharran, the fate you seal is your own! To be a Dark Justiciar is to turn your heart from everything but Loss!”
Stung, Shadowheart blanched, hissing as the aasimar’s words pierced her heart.
As if sensing her turmoil, the aasimar’s tone softened into gentle chiding, as if concerned for the desperate woman before her.
“Should you follow this path, you will know no love, no joy, only endless days and nights of servitude until your mistress inevitably discards you. And there is much she does not tell you – a terrible blood price that may extend even beyond my own death!”, Aylin proclaimed, face pained and pitying as she captured the young half-elf in her moonlit gaze.
Shadowheart gritted her teeth, clapping her empty hand over a pointed ear as she shook her head as if to banish the aasimar’s words from her mind.
“No! No – shut up! Just – just shut up! I have to do this! Lady Shar commands it!”, the cleric cried, voice shrill and taut with emotion as she desperately tried to refute the glaring truth before her.
Aylin huffed, rolling her starry eyes as she prodded at the Sharran once more, interrogating, “And, should you carry out your Wicked Mother’s schemes, what then? What more will she ask you – nay command you! - to sacrifice should your efforts bear fruit for your Lady? Shar will never be satisfied until she has stripped away everything from you! Every last piece of you that you hide away and hold dear will be taken, murdered upon some blood-stained altar until nothing – NOTHING! – is left. For what, little warrior? Think!”
“I – I – Isabelle! Isabelle – help me! What must I do?”, Shadowheart begged, turning to her beloved bard for rescue.
Startling, the Outlander heaved a shaky breath, tears streaming down her dear heart-shaped face.
“Is this truly what you want?”, Isabelle inquired, the tiefling squinting her blue eyes with displeasure at her words.
Shaking, Shadowheart felt an immense weight pressing down upon her, filling her mind and soul with self-disgust at her weakness. Bile threatened to choke her as she felt the lie upon her tongue, sharp and poisonous as she whispered back her reply.
“I – I think so. This is what my whole life has been leading to!”, the cleric stammered, wincing in pain at the despair and immense grief that threatened to sunder the woman before her.
Isabelle clutched her heart, turning her head away as she wept, seemingly unable to look upon the half-elf any longer. Shadowheart stumbled away, shock, shame, and a deep, deep hurt mingling in her chest to form a tight ball of rage and sadness. Gripping her spear tighter in her hand, the healer growled at Aylin, approaching the caged aasimar once more.
Snorting derisively, the large woman stared the tiny cleric down, taunting, “Oh? What is that I sense – a spear intended for my heart?! Aye – a spear – empowered by your loathsome goddess, intended to kill the child of a god!”
Shadowheart hesitated. The pale skin, golden ichor, moonlit eyes – could it be?
“Do you know what I am, little assassin?! For I know you – a lost child, frightened by wolves in the dark.”, Aylin roared, clenching her jaw as she peered into the half-elf’s soul.
“What did you say?”, Shadowheart gasped, trembling.
Sighing, the flaxen-haired giant gazed down upon the woman pityingly, shaking her head.
“Much has been promised to you, has it not? But what has been taken from you? What do you know of your own heart – your own life? I sense more in you than you know.”, the aasimar exhorted.
Isabelle, similarly in shock at the imprisoned woman’s words, took a few tentative steps forward, gaping in wonder at Aylin as she approached.
Snarling, Shadowheart spat, “Whatever you sense won’t matter once I have become who I am meant to be!”
Brandishing the Spear of Night aloft, the raven-haired beauty waited for her darling to intervene, to strike her down and put her out of her misery – like a rabid dog. Instead, Isabelle merely waited, turning her warm cobalt-blue gaze upon her own forest-green, a yearning silent plea pinching the tiefling’s expression into an agonized grimace. Steeling herself, Shadowheart prepared to plunge her blade into the stone-faced aasimar entrapped in glowing runes and spectral claws. Perspiration and tears pricked her eyes and a dark, thunderous voice echoed painfully in her head, repeating the same three horrifying commandments that had been hounding her every waking moment since she and her companions had entered the ruined lands of Reithwin.
Submit!
An ache began to form within the cleric’s arms as the wound upon her hand flared with a bright purple light.
Destroy!
Water streamed down Shadowheart’s cheeks as she watched Isabelle clutch the rings hidden in her breastpocket. There had to be another way – they couldn’t end like this. Not like this! It wasn’t fair! Hadn’t she already given enough?!
Ascend!
A sudden warmth lit the small spark of defiance that had been kindled in her heart, turning it into a raging inferno. Baring her teeth, Shadowheart thought of her friends. Gale’s gentle, delighted smile as he gifted her his beloved storybook. Lae’zel’s devotion towards Xan and her defiant courage in the face of impossible odds. Astarion’s blood-red eyes and reluctant displays of affection and concern. The smell of Halsin’s pipe and the sound of his rumbling baritone voice. Jaheira’s piercing gaze and motherly guidance. Isobel’s sparkling eyes and wicked humor. Wyll’s rakish smile and hearty laugh. Karlach’s tenderness and steadfast companionship.
Isabelle – dearest Isabelle.
Shadowheart let loose a wild, pained howling scream as she turned and flung away the Spear of Night into the swirling winds and spinning debris that perpetually spun within the depth of the Shadowfell. The weapon tumbled end over end into darkness, taking with it all her childhood dreams and naïve ambition. The cleric stared as the chanting in her head abruptly ceased, leaving only silence and that strange damnable warmth in its place.
“Love?”, Isabelle called, the tiefling’s cheeks streaked with dirt and kohl, mouth agape as the Outlander hesitantly stepped toward the half-elf.
Shadowheart, still in shock, shook her head, mumbling, “I – I can’t believe I just did that. Lady Shar will disown me! What will happen to me?”
Aylin chuckled, pride, joy, and relief brightening her scarred face as tears slid freely down her cheeks as she warmly addressed the trembling cleric – now apostate - of Shar.
“Not what will happen to you - what will you do? Your past is not yet lost, your future is not yet fixed!”, the aasimar exclaimed jubilantly, beaming down upon the still disoriented half-elf.
Shadowheart dumbly gazed up at the giant, taking no heed as her friends – her family rushed to her side.
Kneeling, Aylin motioned for the healer to approach, crying, “Lay a hand of friendship upon me, Not-So-Sharran! And I will fight the battle that has awaited me this last century. And then – oh then! – we will have much to discuss.”
Silently, the healer complied, resting a hand upon the weeping aasimar’s large shoulder. The raging winds that whipped and wailed around them stilled as powerful, white radiant magic lit the silvery pupils of Aylin’s eyes, the energy accumulating within the woman’s form as a strange melodic harmony began to sound about them all. As the aasimar began to intone her sacred prayer, Shadowheart felt Isabelle join her side, the tiefling grasping her hand tightly as they watched Aylin – Daughter of Selune – receive the Moonmaiden’s blessing, regaining her wings and armor, a mighty sword manifesting within the aasimar’s large, strong hands.
“I am resplendent!”, the immortal exclaimed, alighting before the couple and their party.
Isabelle wrapped an arm about Shadowheart’s shoulders, drawing the half-elf closer to the bard as the tiefling scrubbed a comforting hand up and down the cleric’s arm, steadying the overwhelmed ex-cultist.
Turning to the raven-haired beauty, Aylin rested a gauntleted hand upon the numb cleric’s shoulder, smiling warmly as she rumbled, “You have given me a great gift this day, little warrior. So too, must your weapon be great!”
The winged paladin’s eyes glowed bright with power as she summoned forth the Spear of Night that Shadowheart had thrown aside, the weapon now glowing with a bright white radiant energy that sung out to the cleric with a frighteningly familiar tone and warmth. Hesitantly, the half-elf accepted the aasimar’s gift, the hair on her arms pricking from the electricity that seemed to spark along the weapon’s shaft.
“Come! We must make haste!”, the immortal commanded, face growing grim with determination.
Shadowheart, still reeling, blinked, asking, “Why?”
“To kill Ketheric Thorm!”, Aylin roared, flapping her wings once, twice, launching herself into the air as the aasimar summoned a portal for the adventuring party’s escape.
Sighing shakily, the healer turned to Isabelle, ducking her head in shame as forest-green met cobalt blue.
“Come on. We had better get going – I don’t want to be in the Shadowfell when Lady Shar discovers what we – what I have done. She must be angry, but there is only silence!”, the half-elf moaned, miserable and guilty, as she began to shake with adrenaline.
“Love? Will you be all right?”, the Outlander murmured, reaching out to cup the hyperventilating healer’s cheek.
Shadowheart clung to the bard’s forearm like a lifeline, shaking her head as she replied, “I – I don’t know. But I do know this; we can’t be here anymore. We need to leave!”
Isabelle nodded, motioning with her sword for the rest of their companions to exit through the portal. Turning back to the cleric, the bard grasped Shadowheart’s hand tightly in her own, gently tugging the half-elf behind her as she too crossed through the portal out of the Shadowfell. Just as Shadowheart entered the doorway, the half-elf felt cold iron chains and shackles wrap about her torso and limbs, ripping her away from her darling love. The Outlander cried out, but was unable to follow after the cleric, the portal shutting closed as the Mother of Murder sought her revenge upon her wayward daughter.
Shadowheart tried to scream but no sound was forthcoming as liquid fire poured into her mouth, burning her lungs whilst her raven hair was set alight with holy flames. Shades clawed at the half-elf’s eyes, plucking them from her head repeatedly whilst wraiths ripped her neatly manicured fingernails from their beds. The healer writhed in agony as the Wicked Shar forced the cleric’s form to heal itself only to extend the torture she visited upon the beauty’s head. Time seemed to lose all meaning as the vile goddess stretched and tore tendons and ligaments from Shadowheart’s sockets, tearing the woman apart before rebuilding her anew like a vindictive child’s plaything.
WORTHLESS!
What had she done?
NOTHING!
There was no way for her to escape, no hope left in sight!
NOTHING!
How could she do this? How could she abandon her Mother, Lady Shar?
NOTHING!
Tears streamed down her scarred cheeks and mangled flesh, black ichor weeping from rotted flesh mingling with blood and bile. Shadowheart wailed in agony, clenching her eyes shut as she began to howl in pain, her screaming buried beneath cackling and the hissing of the wraiths that sought to eat and tear away her pale, shredded skin.
It hurts!
NOTHING!
It Hurts!
NOTHING!
IT HURTS! GODS, IT HURTS!
Suddenly, a powerful current of magic, cool and soothing to the touch wrapped around Shadowheart’s body to ease the half-elf’s suffering as some unseen force yanked the screaming woman from the Wicked One’s clutches. Visions of some moonlit night flashed within the cleric’s mind. Forest trees, panting breaths, the rushing wind – running, running, running! A howl ripping through the darkness, sprinting through shadows chasing after moonbeams.
“Shadowheart!”
The half-elf tumbled to the ground, the sandy earth rushing to meet the cleric as she was finally freed from her torment, rattled, but intact. She was alive! How was she alive? As the healer wretched and heaved black bile and clotted blood onto the dirt, gentle hands hovered about her sweating face. Blinking away her tears, Shadowheart mustered the courage to peer up into frightened watchful eyes, squinting as stars seemed to halo a familiar, beautiful red-scarred face.
“Isabelle?”, she croaked, her voice raspy and hoarse from screaming.
A watery, anxious laugh sounded like chimes in her ears, sweeter than any music Shadowheart had ever heard before.
“I’m here! I’m here, love. I’ve got you!”, Isabelle sniffled, gently cradling the trembling half-elf’s head in gauntleted hands.
Fingers carded through raven locks and Shadowheart sighed, resting her forehead against the bard’s shoulder as she recovered from her attack in the portal.
“She – Lady Shar – she wouldn’t let me through! She kept me there, in the portal, tortured me, set my hair on fire! I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, it hurt so much.”, the cleric confessed, sobbing nearly uncontrollably as she clung to her beloved, heaving for breath.
The Outlander gently rocked her back and forth, the tiefling’s tears mingling with Shadowheart’s own as the woman sniffled, voice raw with emotion as the tiefling wept, “I’m sorry – I am so sorry, sweet! I tried to go back, I couldn’t keep a hold on you – I’m sorry!”
Shadowheart shook her head, pulling her love – her heart’s greatest desire – closer, whimpering, “Don’t! It was my fault – don’t leave me! Please, stay! I want to be with you – I’ve wasted far too much time already. I never want anything to come between us. Never again. Not ever!”
Isabelle’s voice turned gruff and husky, the tiefling’s breath warming the cleric’s pointed ear as the bard whispered comfortingly, “I have waited so long to hear those words, my dearest love. I swear, you will have me for as long as you like.”
“And if I were to say I wish for you to stay by my side forever?”, the healer inquired, mumbling shyly into the fabric of her paramour’s robe.
“Then forever it shall be – you and I, one heart, one flesh for all eternity.”, the Outlander replied, voice fierce and low as the bard pulled Shadowheart closer to her chest.
“Truly?”, Shadowheart smiled, pulling away just slightly to stare into her beloved’s darling face once more, taking in her love’s rakish smile and handsome features.
Isabelle beamed, pulling away to fish the two rings the tiefling had hidden away in her robes, bending one knee as the Outlander cleared her throat.
“My love, my dearest heart’s desire – will you grant me the greatest honor of being my bride?”, the tiefling inquired, tears making the cobalt blue of the bard’s eyes sparkle and shimmer alluringly within the torchlight that wreathed the Thorm mausoleum’s entrance.
Shadowheart nodded, smiling as she wept, sniffling, “Yes! Yes, please!”
“Come here!”, Isabelle ordered, practically radiant with joy as the tiefling hurriedly slid one of the matching rings onto the half-elf’s finger, the Outlander squeaking when Shadowheart slammed her lips against the bard’s own in a searing, passionate kiss.
Pulling away, breathless and dizzy, Shadowheart exclaimed gleefully, “It seems, now, that I have all that life requires! More joy than I had ever thought possible! Thank you!”
Isabelle nodded, aiding the raven-haired beauty to her feet, red-scarred face soft and adoring as she replied, “You have me, forever and always. I swear it, my love! My dearest bride-to-be! Shadowheart Tavril!”
“What a sweet noise that makes! My love, my sweet Isabelle!”, the half-elf sighed, smiling softly.
Karlach cooed, startling the two lovers from their revery, large clawed hands balled into fists and pressed to her cheeks, her golden eyes round and sparkling as the barbarian gazed at the two women. Wyll beamed at the two, wrapping an arm about his love’s waist as Astarion smirked knowingly. Not far from the entrance, the glow of the campfire where the rest of their companions resided sparked and leapt, brightening the fading shadows that still clung to the land. Gale waved to their party, huffing and puffing as he jogged towards their group, the wizard wild-eyed and worried as he approached.
“By Mystra, are you all right? Some bright white comet just flew out of the top of the mausoleum and rained holy fire upon the lands!”, the man cried, sweating and frantic.
Shadowheart chuckled, smiling wryly as she allowed Gale to take her by the hand.
“Good heavens, Shadowheart! Come here and let me heal your wounds!”, the mage fussed, tugging the half-elf away so that he could tend to her injuries.
Lae’zel, sword drawn, fell in step with the two, a rare soft smile tugging the warrior’s lips up as her bright eyes landed upon the sparkling engagement ring the healer now wore upon her finger.
“I am glad to see you have chosen to free yourself, ghustil. I hope that you find your joy now that you are no longer tethered to this darkness.”, the githyanki chuffed.
Shadowheart smiled ruefully, shame, joy, relief, and guilt swirling like a tempest in her breast as she nodded her acknowledgement of the gith’s words. Seemingly satisfied, the warrior woman stalked off, racing ahead to help Halsin break camp so that they might travel back to Last Light, then on to Moonrise. The half-elf sat, waiting as patiently as she could for Gale to finish his ministrations, peering at her hands in contemplation.
She had openly defied her goddess, had chosen Isabelle above her Lady and had been tortured in recompense. If she were truly free, as Lae’zel claimed, would she be able to aid her companions or her love in battle? Yes, she had the Spear of Night, empowered by – by Her – but would she be able to utilize the skill sets she had been so painstakingly trained to use, now that she no longer had her Dark Mother’s blessing? What good was she if she could not call upon her sacred flames and radiant magic? What if her friends needed healing and all they had to rely upon was Shadowheart? Would she be able to save them?
Would she be enough?
A soothing warmth seemed to wrap itself about her shoulders, causing the half-elf to start slightly, earning her a light admonishment from Gale as the wizard continued wrapping her lacerated arms in clean bandaging. Breathing a shaky sigh, Shadowheart attempted to focus on that warmth and the comfort it seemed to bring her. Unwilling to name whose unseen hands now guided her steps, the cleric scrubbed at her nose roughly with the back of her wounded hand. It was too much – all of it was too much.
“My Heart, if it is not too gauche, may I inquire as to how you are faring, love?”, Isabelle wondered, the tiefling’s voice cutting through her self-deprecation and doubt.
Shadowheart chuffed, allowing the Outlander to kneel and gather her into the bard’s arms, the half-elf taking solace in her fiancé’s warm embrace. Another burst of inexplicable warmth and joy bloomed within her chest, buoying the despondent healer just enough to reply.
“Not well, My Heart. Not well at all. Forgive me, my sweet. Everything is happening far too quickly and far too much all at once, and I feel as if I am drowning.”, the cleric sniffed, burying her nose in her beloved bard’s neck.
Loving arms surreptitiously tightened their hold about her thin frame as Isabelle pressed a gentle kiss to Shadowheart’s temple, murmuring, “You have me – always. We will figure this out, together. Promise.”
The half-elf smiled warmly, perking up slightly as she cuddled closer into her darling’s embrace, sighing, “I do, don’t I? My love – my family!”
Pulling apart after a moment or two more, Shadowheart wiped away the kohl streaks upon her cheeks, chuckling when Gale passed her his handkerchief to aid her in her task. Wetting the tip of the fabric with a bit of water from her flask, the healer washed away the dirt from her Isabelle’s sweet face, huffing a laugh when the tiefling grimaced exaggeratedly at her ministrations. Returning Gale’s handkerchief back to the wizard, Shadowheart pressed a chaste kiss to her darling bard’s lips, the Outlander humming approvingly at the gentle touch. Together, the women stood waiting as the rest of their comrades finally formed up, ready to march to Last Light. Hand in hand, Isabelle and Shadowheart led their party forth, using the sparking sacred flames crackling upon the ground to light their path as they traversed the quickly abating shadow curse.
As they arrived at the gated bridge leading to Last Light, Isobel met the adventuring party, waving them away as they approached.
“I appreciate the consideration, but the party has moved on that way – to Moonrise! Jaheira and Florick will be very cross with you if you are late, you know. By the by, what in Selune’s name was that thing in the sky? It looked like a shooting star, but it was headed straight towards the tower!”, the white-haired maiden cried, glancing questioningly between Shadowheart and Isabelle.
Shadowheart arched a brow as a near manic grin split the Outlander’s face, mischief sparkling in the bard’s bright blue eyes as Isabelle nodded.
“I see! Well, whatever it is, I’m sure that we are all in store for quite the surprise when we get to Moonrise. Will we meet you there?”, the impish tiefling inquired innocently, tail flicking in agitated excitement.
Isobel, too distracted by her own contemplation to notice the bard’s strange mannerisms, nodded, replying, “It will take me a bit to muster my courage, as you well know. But yes, I suppose I shall.”
“Excellent! Take your time, we’ll see you soon, Isobel. Cheers!”, Isabelle chuckled, the bard gently tugging Shadowheart away and into the shadows once more.
As they ran, Karlach called out to the Outlander, crying, “Oi! Soldier! How come you’se didn’ tell li’l Izzy ‘bout Aylin? Seems a bit important don’t you think?”
Shadowheart huffed, rolling her eyes as she tried and failed to hide the bright smile that threatened to split her face, having caught onto her pesky paramour’s true intentions.
“Why spoil the fun? Let her find out on her own. After all, it’s not everyday we get to see lost lovers reunite! Let it be a surprise!”, the bard called back, grinning rakishly as she waggled her eyebrows at the half-elf.
The healer rolled her eyes, shaking her head with a smile as she grumbled, “You’re incorrigible!”
“You like it.”, Isabelle smirked, entwining her fingers with the half-elf’s own.
Shadowheart hummed, softening as she gazed at her love, replying, “Perhaps.”
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“You are late! We’ve already started the battle without you, my cubs!”. Jaheira scolded both Shadowheart and Isabelle, a soft knowing smile tugging at the High Harper’s lips as the sharp-eyed woman spied the two rings the women now wore on their fingers.
Isabelle beamed at the druid, the tiefling smiling brightly as she replied, “Apologies! Important business to settle and all that!”
The druid chuffed, the crow’s feet at the corner of the elder’s eyes crinkling as she chuckled, “I can see that, my cub. Come, then. Let us not waste anymore of our time here. Our Angel of Death has been wreaking havoc upon Ketheric’s forces and my blades hunger for blood! We shall claim victory this day, I know it.”
Shadowheart sighed shakily, steeling herself for the battle to come. This was it, now or never. Sensing her unease, Jaheira strode forth, grasping the healer’s shoulders in strong, gentle hands to pull the young woman into a brief, but warm hug. Startled, the raven-haired beauty stiffened before slowly wrapping her arms about the elder half-elf.
Jaheira pressed her lips to the healer’s pointed ear, murmuring, “Little one – do not fret. You shall not fail nor shall you fall this day. You have proven yourself far stronger than you know. Be at peace, my cub.”
Sniffling, Shadowheart desperately tried to maintain her composure at the gruff druid’s soft words, nodding.
Pulling away, the High Harper motioned for Isabelle to take the lead, falling in step after the bard as the Outlander stalked deeper into the shadows to begin the siege on Moonrise Tower.
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Shadowheart groaned, wearily stumbling on her feet as she pushed herself to give aid to the wounded about her, passing drink and healing potions about to any and all that had need of it. Spying her Isabelle stretched out upon her back, the cleric fell to her knees beside her beloved, grunting as she laid down beside the groaning Outlander, resting her head on the tiefling’s shoulder. A heavy sigh escaped the woman and the healer tiredly took solace in the knowledge that her beloved had survived the first wave of the assault upon Moonrise. It had been a long and hard fight, sure to become even longer and harder the second they delved into the depths below to pursue Ketheric Thorm.
The half-elf growled in discontent. That bastard! Outnumbered and out of ammunition, the son of Myrkul had absconded away into the slimy pits of flesh, taking Aylin with him. It had been a cheap blow to throw Isobel’s name at the immortal, the barb obviously wounding the soft-hearted aasimar, distracting her just long enough for a giant tentacle to club her unconscious and drag her after the wicked Thorm man. A shudder traveled up Shadowheart’s spine at the memory.
“Love, are you well? Do you need medical attention?”, Isabelle groggily inquired, the bard’s voice rough and hoarse from shouting orders and incantations alike.
Shadowheart smiled, shaking her head as she replied, “No, love. Aside from the usual aches and pains, I am well.”
A satisfied hum sounded from the bard and Shadowheart tittered tiredly when she felt the noise reverberate into her own chest. A familiar weight curled about her ankle and the half-elf smiled softly, cuddling closer to her beloved wife-to-be. A short rest; then, they would follow Ketheric and – hopefully – rescue Aylin once more.
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“Zevlor! Lead Mol and the rest of the prisoners out of this hell-pit! Go!”, Isabelle cried, the blue-haired tiefling grunting from exertion as the bard fended off the mind-flayers that threatened to overwhelm them all.
Shadowheart growled, plunging her spear into yet another tentacled brain-creature, nearly retching from the smell of rotten flesh that seemed to permeate the air wherever she and her companions travelled.
A mind-flayer colony – the Cult of the Absolute was hiding a mind-flayer colony – kidnapping recruits and infecting them with tadpoles, bending the weak-minded to their will! And, as if that wasn’t enough, they had found Mizora, Wyll’s patron, amidst the muck and filth. Huffing, the half-elf smirked, recalling how Isabelle had extracted the cambion’s vow to break the warlock’s pact, the she-devil now indebted to the bard and their company for her rescue. A small speck of hope in a desolate place, but Shadowheart would take whatever levity she could get.
Nodding, the old Hellrider shouted his thanks, “I shall – then, I shall stand by your side when we meet once more at Baldur’s Gate. You won’t regret it!”
Isabelle merely nodded; the bard too distracted to respond further. Shadowheart pushed a first-aid pack into one of the rescued Flaming Fists’ chest’s, rushing to the Outlander’s side as their party began to delve deeper into the rancid tunnels. Turn after turn, the deeper they travelled, the more unsettling things they discovered, until finally – finally! – they found the inner-most sanctum where Ketheric and Aylin resided.
As Shadowheart crept beside her love, the half-elf felt a strange tingling tickle at the palms of her hands, the sensation not unpleasant but still very disconcerting. She had avoided utilizing her newfound power, still not ready to accept the source from which her radiant magic stemmed. But the closer and closer they came to facing Ketheric, the more and more obvious it became that, whether the half-elf liked it or not, the cleric would be forced to call upon Her.
Joy.
Isabelle paused in front of the double doors, turning to check on the party before proceeding. Satisfied all were well – or as well as they could be – the bard turned to the half-elf, grasping Shadowheart’s ringed hand to press a kiss to the healer’s knuckles, full lips moving deftly as the tiefling whispered a strange incantation over the jade jewel, the stone glowing brightly as a golden magical aura washed over both the cleric and the Outlander. Quirking a questioning brow at her dear one, the half-elf was met only by a kind smile and a chaste kiss pressed to her lips.
Shadowheart sighed, resigning herself to the whims of her pesky lover.
Whatever Isabelle had planned, she was sure to find out sooner or later.
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“Gods, no! Father!”, Wyll cried, whimpering piteously as Karlach held the distraught noble man in her burly arms, the warlock struggling against his beloved’s prodigious strength to reach Ulder Ravengard, now enthralled by the Dead Three, Lord Gortash, Lady Orin, and General Ketheric Thorm.
Lae’zel shook Gale roughly, growling admonishments and reassurances to the wizard as the two argued, hissing at one another as the mage’s tattoo glowed a bright purple, humming with the power of the Weave as the githyanki attempted to talk her lover down from detonating the orb in his chest.
“Kainyank! Do not listen to your craven goddess, this Mystra! You are brilliant beyond your kin, zhak vo'n'ash duj – source of my bruises. This is merely a puzzle – one that only your genius may solve! Superior amongst your fellows, do not allow yourself to be bested by a challenge as inferior as this! Think, Gale, think! You are more than capable of escaping such a dishonorable fate!”, the warrior growled.
“I could stop this – stop the Netherbrain! I could save Xan! Save Baldur’s Gate! All I would have to do is let go!”, Gale murmured, wincing when Lae’zel tightened her grip around his ribs, the githyanki woman’s arms practically crushing his lungs as she wrapped her arms around his torso.
“Enough, sh’kaketh! You will not make our child an orphan – not if there is something that we might do to save ourselves! Gale, we need you! Xan needs you – I need you!”, the gith snarled, voice taut and thick with emotion as the soldier pleaded with the man in her clutches.
Shadowheart clung to Isabelle’s robe, the two sneaking closer to Dame Aylin’s soul-cage to free the aasimar from Ketheric’s clutches.
Just as they neared the paladin, General Thorm summoned several undead servants to accost the adventurers, sneering when Gale yelped and tackled Lae’zel to the ground, shielding the githyanki with his body as a necromantic bolt soared overhead. Karlach quickly released Wyll, the warlock bolting forward to return fire as the barbarian drew her poleaxe. Astarion fired arrow after arrow at the mind-flayer that floated into the inner sanctum, roaring out in pain as the beast attempted to psionically control the vamp. Halsin and Jaheira transformed into their respective bestial forms, chasing after the undead that poured forth from the various platforms about the sanctum.
Throwing caution to the wind, Isabelle barreled forward, tapping Aylin’s shoulder before turning to aid their companions. Blow after blow was traded, energy arcing through the air along with blood and bone as the adventurers endeavored to gain the upper-hand. As Aylin dove to deliver her finishing blow, Ketheric called upon his ferocious undead patron, falling back into the molten acidic pit in offering to Myrkul. Shadowheart cursed as the sanctum began to rumble and shake about them, the monstrous giant form of the Lord of Death’s avatar burst forth from the pit, giant scythe in hand as it loomed over the half-elf.
“Fall back! Fall back!”, Isabelle cried, shouting as loudly as the bard could for the party to retreat.
“Bloody Hells!”, Astarion cried, the vamp wild-eyed and frightened as he quickly dodged behind a large spur of bone.
“Hot foot! Hot foot! Move it, Shads!”, Karlach bellowed, yanking the healer away from where the cleric had frozen before the giant horror in front of her.
Stones, flesh, and gore rained down about their heads as the Avatar swung its scythe, the massive blade carving away chunks of debris from the force of the blow. Aylin cried out, straining against the beast with her mighty sword, screaming in pain when the undead slashed a massive wound into her torso, bringing the aasimar crashing to her knees before the creature. Shadowheart watched in horror as Isabelle rushed forth, baring her fangs at the Death Lord’s monster, slashing at one of the thinner bones along the undead’s arms, shielding the wounded Celestial beneath her with her body.
A loud wounded screeching rang throughout the sanctum, the Avatar of Myrkul hissing in pain from the Outlander’s lucky blow. It was hurt – it could be hurt! Almost as one, the party rushed forward, coming back to the bard’s aid, each slinging spells and ammunition in a mad effort to overwhelm the giant. Shadowheart cursed loudly, watching helplessly as Astarion flew through the air, tumbling head over heels before sliding to a stop, unconscious. Hyperventilating, the half-elf focused as hard as she could, reaching for that strange warmth that empowered her spear, but failing to connect, too terrified to concentrate on anything but her own fear. Jaheira roared in pain, the elder half-elf falling from the platform, landing heavily to the ground. Halsin, Wyll, and Karlach soon followed after.
Shadowheart screamed out, barely dodging the scythe as the tip glanced off her shoulder, tearing through the chainmail and thick gambeson robes that comprised her armor. Isabelle cried out soon after, though the bard had not been struck, confusing the healer as the half-elf ran to give aid. Aylin clobbered at the monstrosity, attempting to distract the creature as the cleric inspected her love. A flash of light caught the corner of her eye, drawing the ex-Sharran’s attention away from her paramour and back to the Avatar, the beast’s scythe gleaming with golden ichor as the blade began to fall upon her head.
“No!”
A scream, a push, and a splatter of red across pale skin.
Shadowheart gaped at her lover’s seizing form, the half-elf choking upon the blood that pooled in her mouth, pain lancing through phantom wounds across her torso. Crawling toward the struggling bard, the healer sobbed with despair, hovering her hands over the terrible lacerations that marred the beautiful red skin she so loved. Desperately, the cleric wept, attempting to call forth any healing magic she might possess so that she might heal her love.
Immediately, white strands of light, thin like gossamer sprung forth, taking the form of butterflies as they landed upon her darling Isabelle’s torso, the gaping bloody wounds sealing shut in a flash. Shock and relief followed by an overwhelming sense of warmth infused the half-elf with courage, and the healer growled up at the giant beast towering over she and her beloved. Summoning radiant flames, Shadowheart snarled, blasting the Avatar with a blinding inferno of light, the cleric screaming with rage as she delivered the blow, shattering the illusion that encompassed Ketheric’s true form.
