Trigger Warning: Murder, Graphic Descriptions of Dismemberment, Ritualistic Sacrifice, Talking to Bone Daddy.

As we approach the camp we see Gale, his feet kicked up, and his nose in a book. He catches my eye and snaps it shut, jogging over to me.

"We have a visitor." He nods toward the river.

I see a boat turned over on the bank and a wraith seems to be haunting the shore. "What is it? Have you spoken to it yet?"

His eyes linger on the undead intruder. "Yes, and he's come with quite a generous offer." He leans into me and his voice lowers to an ominous whisper. "Resurrection—though I don't know how much I would trust a resurrection offered by a man who looks like a thrall straight from the pits of Thay."

Thay. A city steeped in a cult of red wizards obsessed with necromancy. Led by a lich named Szass Tam, they are infamous in Faerûn. Very dangerous.

"He didn't divulge much else to me; he seemed particularly anxious to speak to you."

"Me?" I glance over at the skeleton once more. Despite what he is, he seems innocuous. He's thumbing through a rather large tomb and muttering quietly to himself.

Gale catches my concern. "Be careful, but please let us know what you find out."

I give Gales shoulder a reassuring squeeze and walk toward the specter.

It is dressed in tattered purple robes that drape from his wasted body. His bones are encased in withered, greying skin. His skull adorned with bands of gold, aged and tarnished. I hear a voice that feels oddly comforting as I draw closer. "How much doth a soul weigh?"

I dip my head respectfully to the man. "I hear you have come to our camp to help?"

He turns to me, stoic and measured, "In a sense, yes."

I feel an air of ancient magic, something strongly familiar. As if he were kin. Tendrils of death probe at me subtly, but they feel like death as a simple inevitability. There is no malice.

"I hath come as an arbiter of thine destiny, and offer terms of resurrection, if thou needest such services."

A glimmer of hope, it seems, but I need more than that. "You are here to bring us back to ourselves if the tadpole takes us?"

"No." He closes the book in his hand and holds up a finger. "I will not interfere with what is predestined. Instead, I offer intervention in matters of an unforeseen demise."

I give a curt shake of my head, not certain if I understand, "Unforeseen? So, you're an arbiter of our destiny who can bring us back if we die before our time, so to speak?"

"Correct."

"Can't you simply tell us our destiny so we can follow the right path, instead of fumbling around in the dark like we have?"

"No."

Rules. Entities with such fantastic powers leashed by Ao, God of Gods. The gods aren't cruel, they're selfish, bored, with far too much time on their hands.

I lean into him, watching his face, trying to take in the feeling of his power. His kindred resonance feels closer to my own than anything I've felt so far. "So, who are you? Why do you feel so familiar?"

"I am merely a scribe offering my humble services. That is all you need to know."

I take a breath and my eyes soften. As much as I would love to argue, I am exhausted from the day. "Your assistance is welcome, friend. What should I call you?"

A slight smile plays at the corner of his ancient mouth. "Withers."

"Thank you, Withers." I turn, wanting nothing more than dinner and my bedroll. Further probing can be held off for another time.

I make my way to the campfire, laying out my bedroll, taking off my cloak, and sitting down.

Gale has begun preparing the meal for us. Cabbage, carrots, and potatoes, pulled from our rations. He's boiling water, and the soft bubbling sound fills the air with the comforting promise of a meal.

My stomach aches. I only started feeling hungry after seeing him toss the vegetables into the pot. "You're cooking again tonight. Don't you think we should take turns?"

Gale looks offended. "Do you not like my cooking?"

"No, no, it's not that. I just don't want to burden you with a task you didn't ask for."

He waves his hand dismissively. "If it's all the same to you, I enjoy cooking. It helps me relax. Speaking of which—” He stirs the pot before tapping the spoon against the edge of the pan. "What did the wraith say?"

I watch the water turn before meeting Gale's gaze. He looks concerned. More than he needs to be. "His name is Withers. A delightful man. He is offering exactly what you said. Resurrection. Though the qualifier seems to be that the death must not be predestined. I'm not sure how we are supposed to determine whether a death is predestined, so it's best we step carefully despite his promises."

"Mm." Gale nods thoughtfully, before giving the soup another stir.

He seems slightly more settled, which I count as a blessing. The last thing we need in camp is a jumpy wizard. "Thank you for cooking for us."

He smiles as he tosses a fistful of herbs into the soup. He then warms another pan on the flame, cooking a few links of our rationed sausages.

Lae'zel sits across from me. She has already changed into her leisure wear, looking a little more relaxed despite the day's events.

I look pointedly at her. "So, what do you know of the prism?"

She's surprised by my question, quickly posturing with dignity. "I know it is an ancient relic of my people. Whatever power it holds comes from the might of the Githyanki. No doubt a tool to fight against the ghaik invaders. This is why it protects us. We must take it to a creche. Once we are purified by the Zaith'isk, we will have no use for it anymore. I will return it to my people, in the name of Queen Vlaakith."

She seems certain in her opinions, but she doesn't seem to truly know what it is.

Shadowheart comes up to the fire and sits next to me. "What are you two talking about?"

"It's time to discuss that prism of yours."

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "Ah. I see." Before glancing over at Lae'zel. "And? Do you have any information that can enlighten us on the thing?"

Lae'zel scowls. "I know it must be important to my people. Such relics are powerful tools, and with the prism's ability to shield our minds, I must return it to Queen Vlaakith."

Shadowheart laughs. "And risk having us all turn? I knew you were foolish, but I didn't think you were that dense."

Lae'zel bristles and I quickly intervene. "As Lae'zel was pointing out, if this Zaith'isk can purify us, we won't need the prism anymore. What harm would it be to just let her take it at that point?"

Shadowheart breathes in through her nose, stifling frustration. "I have my own obligations involving the prism. Important obligations that I must carry out in the name of Shar." She stares at Lae'zel. "Obligations I will not be relinquishing." The static between them is palpable.

Gale looks at her, stunned. "Shar? You're Sharran? She's not exactly in good standing with my goddess, Mystra."

Mystra, the goddess of the Weave. She answers the call of every spellcaster, granting each their abilities to wield magic.

As I muse on the nature of Mystra, I suddenly realize how sickly Gale looks. Paler than I remember, with dark circles under his eyes. Did he always look like this? I've been fighting a headache as well, so maybe it's just the tadpole.

He finally starts ladling the soup into bowls and handing them out.

As Shadowheart takes her bowl she nods to him. "Well, I hope my worship doesn't cause strife between us. We should be able to find mutual peace given our shared condition."

Gale rolls his eyes; a gentle yet inadvertent snort escapes him. "Whatever troubles Mystra might have with one goddess, or another, are less than my concern." He sounds disdainful, almost like he's talking about an old housemate.

Astarion finally joins us, dressed in a pompous ruffled shirt and casual slacks. "Forget about your goddesses, I want to address this prism business. We've found ourselves at the mercy of a dark cleric. What are we supposed to do if we can't find a cure and it's time for you to return it to your cloister? Just... become thralls? I'm sorry, darling, but that's not going to happen."

Between Shadowheart and Lae'zel laying claim to the prism, killing certainly is not off the table if it means not falling to the voice of the Absolute. I will not become a thrall. "Astarion makes a good point. Besides, we don't even know what it is." I glance at Shadowheart, though I try to keep my voice soft. "I'm not going to let it go if it means dooming the rest of us."

Shadowheart's face twists into concern.

My mouth straightens. "Fetch it for us, maybe if we put our heads together, we can learn something new."

She quickly stands and strides off to get it, returning from her tent with the prism.

I hold out my hand. "May I?"

Her eyes are wary as she places it in my palm. "You can try. It doesn't like everybody."

There is a noticeable heat emanating from it. "What do you mean?"

"It seems to be conscious. Like it chooses who can touch it. Why it lets me handle it is a mystery, but I'm grateful it picked me."

I catch a hint of sulfur as I turn it in my hand. "Is this infernal?"

She watches me, like she's waiting for it to jump out of my hands. "What makes you say that?"

I hold it up to her. "The smell of it, the weight of it. The iron plates were likely forged in one of the Nine Hells."

She takes it back from me, scanning it. "Benefits of being a Tiefling, no doubt."

I give her a proud smile. "Our instincts are sharp when it comes to the Hells."

We suddenly hear footsteps approaching our camp. I quickly stand and turn to see Alfira.

A sigh of relief washes over her face. "Thank the gods, I've found you!"

"Alfira! Is everything okay?" She followed us through a goblin infested wilderness to be here; I didn't imagine she'd be this desperate to join us. Perhaps the cauldron of pressure between the tieflings and druids finally boiled over.

My mind dances with beautiful images of a slaughtered Hollow. The refugees have no means to stand against the druids. Life can be so wretched, sometimes—hiding behind the protective walls of a redoubt only to be massacred from within.

I stifle a wistful shudder.

"I thought about your offer and realized that if I cared at all about the people in the Hollow, I should try to help in any way I can. I was hoping your offer still stands."

This pulls me out of my internal musings. "O-Of course." I collect myself. "Please! Take my seat by the fire. Gale has prepared a hearty soup. There's a spot by the riverbank where you can wash up if you need. Pitch your tent anywhere you see fit."

Alfira doesn't hide her giddy smile. "Please, I'd rather sleep under the stars tonight! Thank you so much!" She gives me a quick, gracious peck on the cheek.

Shadowheart shows her the camp chest where she can place her things before they sit down. Alfira quickly gets acquainted with the others.

In an instant, the headache that had been plaguing me grows into a splitting heat that feels almost unbearable. I place my cool palm on my face before dragging my fingers through my hair. I step forward and begin to collect my bedroll. "I'll be turning in early." Shadowheart stands, relinquishing her seat. I glance at her gratefully and turn to the others. "Enjoy your evening."

Alfira looks a little crestfallen. "You can't stay up? Just for a little bit?"

My feeble smile doesn't hide my discomfort. "We can catch up tomorrow. I'm actually not feeling well tonight."

Shadowheart places a hand on my arm. "You're sick? Do you need anything from me?"

My hand grips hers gently in gratitude. "Thank you, Shadowheart, but some rest should be more than enough. I'll speak to you all tomorrow."

I find a more secluded spot to sleep, hearing them chatting with Alfira, content with the little crew I've collected.

Blood.

We aren't a perfect team yet, but a bard will be an asset.

Blood.

The thought fills me with satisfaction as I am lulled to sleep.

Blood.

My soul falls into a darkened realm, surrounded by an ocean of bodies.

Blood.

The fragrance of gore fills my senses. Once again, a single word pervades.

Blood.

I wake with a start. Standing. The night air brushes past me.

My hands are cold. They're tight and aching. I hold them up, turning them over, trying to make sense of what I am seeing.

They are covered in blood.

I focus on the image behind them. A body on the ground.

Alfira.

I grow cold.

I see neck contusions, likely caused by strangulation, and chaotic lacerations smattering her body. There is no rhyme or reason for them. And there are. So. Many. Her eyes are ruptured, likely gouged out and—what the hells am I doing?

What the hells did I do?!

My chest begins to heave and a shudder runs through me. I look around camp. Everything is frighteningly quiet. Did I kill them all?

No.

I can hear them breathing through the merciless silence.

My teeth hurt from my clenched jaw.

The weight of my body battering my knees as they hit the ground rattles me.

The grip on my scalp is too tight.

Stop it. My palm strikes my temple to chastise myself.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe in. It's not enough air. I'm fighting my obstinate diaphragm as it tries to seize.

It's killing me.

I begin to wretch, trying to organize my thoughts.

Just breathe.

I don't know why my body is reacting this way. I do not fear death. Whatever damage has been done to my brain, I need to find a way to pacify it...

...I'm losing myself before I've had the chance to be found.

What now?

...

Withers.

I stumble over to him, gibbering under my breath, trying not to rouse the others. "You have to bring her back! Bring her back for me, Withers. Please!"

Withers stares at me, unmoved by my desperation. "Vash... I know of thine urges. Thine desires for her hath become her undoing."

I am staggered by his words, and I lower my voice further as I lean into him. "You know of my bloodlust? And you just stood around and watched me kill her? Why the hells didn't you stop me?"

He has the audacity to continue existing in my presence, calm, and stalwart. "In matters such as this, I cannot intervene."

My frustration rises with the skeleton. There is a fix to this. He needs to fix this. "Fuck your rules! Bring her back! You said that's why you are here, so do it! Otherwise, what good are you!?"

Withers patiently clarifies. "I am here to intervene in any unforeseen demise. In her death, she has found a haven of safety where you can do her no further harm."

My frown deepens. "So, what you're saying is this was some sick destiny? Why?"

Withers watches me but does not speak.

I am trying to be quiet but the obstinance of this talking carcass is wearing me down. "Why!?"

He remains silent and gestures back toward Alfira's body.

Skeptical, I approach her once more.

I see it almost immediately. Crude, but very clear to me.

Alfira. The symbol of six daggers encircles her, pointing at her from every angle.

A ritual offering to Bhaal, the Lord of Murder.

My dagger lies next to her, covered in dirt and blood. I slowly pick it up. It's cold.

I am a Paladin of Bhaal.

A strange levity overtakes me. The whispers, the hunger, the sadistic joy. I was not losing myself but finding the truth of what I am. Something far darker than I could have imagined.

This was always my purpose. My duty. To serve Lord Bhaal.

This must be contained, despite my exhilaration. I need to get rid of the body.

I begin:

• Scoop the blood and flecks of flesh into a camp bucket, toss detritus into the river.
• Collect a fishnet and several meters of rope.
• Gather her body, tucking the tail under my arm so it doesn't drag. Be mindful not to tip her gore onto the ground.
• Dust away symbol with my foot, leave no trace.
• Carry the body down the riverbank to find a proper disposal site.

My legs burn, and my shoulders ache as I carry her down the shore of the Chionthar. I carry her for a while, though how long, I'm not sure.

The silent walk has my mind racing. This was not random; it was inextricably tied to Lord Bhaal. If there was purpose, then there are mechanics behind the killing. By Bhaal's black blood, I wish I could remember! I need to remember before I kill every damned person in camp.

The shore bends outward into a flat pad of sand, disrupting the shoreline. An adequate place to stop.

I lay her out on the sand and carefully cut off her clothes before beginning to dismember her. I am roused by the feeling of her stiff skin beneath my fingers, but with effort, I brush the feeling aside.

I cut the skin around her joints and break her limbs into manageable pieces. Neatly piling everything onto the fishnet. Once finished, I sit cross-legged with Alfira's head in my lap. I look at her face, broken and torn, and I gently stroke her blood-matted hair.

Why would Lord Bhaal demand her as a sacrifice? I don't understand.

Maybe it's not for me to understand, but I feel a wrenching in my chest all the same. I wanted her. If I had known, I would have gladly chosen someone else. Arka would have been perfect. More than perfect, wanting. Deserving. Danis is equally useless, sickeningly naïve. Innocent. Hopeful. His only value is tending to a wife with a half-decent head on her shoulders.

That's more than I can say for Alfira.

I break out into laughter, clutching her tightly. A terrible joke.

With a heavy sigh, I begin to shave her head and place her hair in a pile on top of her clothes. Once done, I smash her skull between two rocks. Fresh bones are far more flexible, so it takes a greater effort to pulverize than if they were dry and brittle.

Her horns remain and I place them on the pile of body parts, along with a large stone. Lashing the profane parcel together with the rope, I drag it into the river and drop her at a satisfactory depth.

I remove the bard's bells from her tunic before starting a fire and throwing her clothes into the flames. I then toss her hair, which ignites in a flourish. Crackling and curling, floating high into the air before landing in the sand. Nothing but ash and the pungent smell of burnt keratin remain.

I toss the bells one by one into the depths of the river. As I make the motion to toss the last one, I hesitate, then look at it. I think about her sad song, her hope, her unrequited love, her desire to help, her excitement. I've taken it from her; it will always belong to me.

I pull out my dagger and wedge it between the slits of the bell, prying it open to shake out the pellet so it no longer rings. I bend it back into place as best as I can and place the silent bell in my pocket.

My eyes track the flowing river. The air is cool; I can hear the tittering of frogs, the snapping twigs of some wild creatures off in the distance.

I close my eyes. My shoulders relax and my headache is gone. I'm tempered, but exhausted. Still, I'm grateful for the moment of peace before the voices flood me once again.

Lord Bhaal. My God. My master. I am his sword to be wielded in his name. His tool to be used.

Something in me recoils, and a pain grips my heart.

I turn and quietly return to camp. It is done—but this changes everything.