“The more lies she spins, the more I’m forced to swallow them,” Wyll said, his tone calm but barely concealing the simmering anger beneath. “Mizora sends me after fiends, far from the Hells, but she’s never ordered a rescue. She twists everything the Blade stands for into a cruel joke. Such a damn arsehole.”
“She’ll be out of our lives soon enough. And as much as I’d love to see her become a thrall, we need to focus on this mission. It’s the only way she’ll free you from that cursed pact,” Karlach chimed in, her voice steady.
“Why stop at just breaking the pact? You could use her desperation to your advantage. Extort her—she's vulnerable right now,” Minthara suggested, her eyes gleaming with calculated intent.
“I like the way she thinks,” Astarion added with a smirk.
“Extort a devil? Wyll’s too kind-hearted for that. It’s not in his nature,” Shadowheart countered.
Wyll shook his head, trying to untangle the storm of thoughts raging within him. “The Sword Coast means everything to me. I’ve always known what my future held, and I know I made the right choice,” he said, his voice faltering slightly as he met Zeus’s gaze. “Thank you—for having my back. But I won’t celebrate until I’m truly free. Mizora’s scheming, plotting. She won’t let me go without a fight. Trust me on that.”
"We will be free . " Zeus said as a matter of fact as he started to walk to the building they were headed before Mizora appeared .
_____
“The Waning Moon Distillery,” Zeus read aloud, his voice echoing off the decaying walls as he squinted at the faded sign hanging precariously from the building.
“Hope they’ve got some booze left,” Karlach muttered, her eyes scanning the desolate surroundings.
To their left, a set of wooden stairs run along the side of the building, leading to an upper level that was barely visible in the dim light. To their right, a cluster of wooden tables and chairs, long since claimed by rot and decay, stood as silent witnesses to the passage of time.
The wooden floor groaned under their weight as they stepped inside, each creak a reminder of the fragile state of the distillery. As they crossed the threshold, they felt the oppressive weight of the curse ease slightly, though it still clung to them like a dark shroud, ready to consume them the moment any source of light disappeared.
Surprisingly, the brewery itself remained relatively intact, at least structurally, though the creeping tendrils of corrupted vegetation had begun their slow takeover. Chairs were still arranged neatly around the round tables, though they were covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs clung to the walls like old memories. Placed on a counter to their left bar, which was draped in a heavy coat of webs and dust, sat old beer mugs and wine bottles, relics of a time long gone.
“This place must’ve been beautiful before it fell to ruin,” Karlach said softly, her voice tinged with sadness as she imagined the life that once filled these walls.
They took a few tentative steps forward, their movements slow and cautious, until they reached a wooden ramp that descended into darkness. A rusted rail ran alongside it, likely used to transport barrels and casks in better days.
As they paused at the top of the ramp, the faint sound of a shanty drifted through the air, eerie and out of place in the desolation. But it wasn’t the singing that made them stop, nor the coherent murmuring of zombies shuffling aimlessly below them. No, it was the sight of the grotesque creature seated at the bar on the lower floor , a few meters ahead ,that rooted them in place.
The abomination was a horrifying sight. Its bloated body was a sickly, pallid color, the skin stretched tight over layers of fat and decaying muscle. Veins, thick and dark, pulsed weakly beneath the surface, a macabre reminder of the life that once flowed through them. A gaping wound ran along its swollen belly, more a festering scar than a true injury, oozing a black, putrid substance that dripped slowly to the floor.
From the bottom of its distended abdomen, two grotesque tubes—like parasitic worms—emerged, coiling around its body in a suffocating embrace. These bloated, decayed tubes hung loosely, as if barely held together by the creature’s own rotting flesh, adding to the overall grotesque nature of its form.
The creature’s face was obscured by a filthy, dark green rag, its features hidden beneath the grime and fabric. The tubes that encircled its body connected to something beneath the rag—perhaps a mouth, if the creature still possessed one. Its head was small, grotesquely out of proportion with its immense body, and from the rag peeked two sunken, milky-green eyes, glowing faintly with an unnatural, otherworldly light. Pointed ears jutted out from the sides of its head, poking through the rag through small, crudely torn holes. Atop its head, a crown of bones—looking like the tiny ribs of a long-dead creature—was embedded in the decaying flesh, a macabre mockery of royalty.
Strapped to its back by a set of rusted chains was a massive, weathered wooden barrel, the metal bands holding it together corroded and cracked with age. The barrel sloshed ominously with every labored breath the creature took, the liquid inside churning as though it held something foul and corrupted. From beneath the barrel sprouted a small, pig-like tail, twitching and curling in a grotesque parody of life.
The creature’s legs were short and stout, almost buried beneath the folds of its grotesque body . Its hands were thick, and the fingers stubby ,
The abomination sat slouched on the floor , its milky, eyes lazily tracking the shuffling zombies as they staggered through the room. A low, gurgling hum escaped its twisted lips, mingling with the coherent murmurs of the undead as they went about their mindless routines.
“Hide somewhere and stay put,” Zeus commanded, his voice low and firm, as he began to descend the creaking ramp.
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The zombies barely acknowledged him, their hollow eyes flicking toward him briefly before returning to their aimless shuffling. They pawed at the barrels and crates strewn about, remnants of an era when this distillery was alive with purpose. To his right, Zeus noticed a massive tangle of brass tanks and pipes forming a , mechanical beast—likely once the heart of the distillery’s brewing operations, now silent .
Zeus’s gaze settled on the grotesque creature at the bar, a sickening amalgamation of man and pig. It waved one bloated hand in a slow, deliberate gesture, beckoning Zeus closer .
Zeus obeyed, approaching the creature and lowering himself into a wooden chair that groaned under his weight. Before him, the abomination placed two mismatched mugs, each filled with a thick, noxious liquid that exuded swirling green and bluish vapors. The fumes burned his nostrils, with their acrid scent.
“Drink, gulp it down, wet your whistles. Tell your story,” the creature slurred, its voice booming with a strange, drunken authority, reverberating around the room like a ghostly echo.
“Five gold says he drinks it,” Astarion whispered from the balcony above, his tone laced with a dark humor.
“How does he even drink it?” Karlach murmured back, her eyes narrowing in curiosity. “Does he use those tendrils, or... does he even have a mouth?”
The distillery’s main room was overlooked by a balcony that wrapped around the walls, the same level as the entrance. From this vantage point, Zeus’s companions watched the exchange, their hands on their weapons, ready to intervene if necessary.
Zeus leaned forward, his gaze locked on the abomination. “What are you?” he asked, his voice steady despite the revulsion churning in his gut.
“Son of Thorm. Son of the Sword Coast. Thisobald Thorm,” the creature proclaimed, its voice swelling with pride, the sound of its name like a curse upon the air.
“That... thing is Ketheric Thorm’s son? Holy shit,” Karlach muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible from the balcony.
"He's bloated like a corpse , and smells worse. Did the curse do this ...?" Shadowheart murmured from where she was peaking with the rest.
“Go on. Cheers, bottoms up, down the hatch,” Thisobald urged, lifting the larger mug to his rag-covered face, tipping it back as the liquid disappeared into the cloth.
Zeus dipped a cautious finger into the toxic brew, feeling its poisonous sting even through his thick skin. “Toxic... but I can tolerate it,” he thought, his mind quickly analyzing the substance. He knew that a normal human would be knocked unconscious for days by just a sip.
“This guy looks ready to burst,” Shadowheart whispered from her hiding spot, her eyes narrowing as she studied Thisobald’s swollen belly. “He’ll probably drown in his own juices if that happens.”
With a sudden, grating sound, Zeus’s lower faceplate cracked open, revealing a set of vicious, razor-sharp teeth, glistening with an unnatural sheen.
“I forgot he could do that,” Astarion whispered, recalling how Zeus’s true mouth was hidden beneath his exterior.
Zeus raised the mug to his mouth, the fumes burning his throat even before he drank.
“Go on, drink! Make it drunk, be drunk. You and I both, to our good health,” Thisobald bellowed, raising his mug in a toast.
Zeus clinked his mug against Thisobald’s and downed the contents. The liquid burned as it slid down his throat, the taste vile and bitter, like a cocktail of bug spray and poison.
“Nasty,” Karlach muttered, her voice tinged with disbelief. “I can’t believe he actually drank that.”
“Told you,” Astarion replied smugly.
Zeus watched in disgust as Thisobald slurped the vile liquid, the substance seeping through the rag covering his face and trickling down his bloated belly in foul rivulets.
“Ah, elixir! But such a small sip you take... Fear not. You will soon quaff as I do,” Thisobald crooned, elbowing the massive barrel strapped to his back. A rusty faucet turned, and more of the toxic liquid gushed forth, refilling both Zeus’s and Thisobald’s mugs.
“Now, tell me a story, a fable, a saga. Delight me,” Thisobald pleaded, his voice tinged with an unsettling eagerness.
Zeus began recounting his exploration of the Grymforge, describing the treacherous descent into the Underdark’s bowels.
“Treasure in the dark, like the dusty anniversary bottle forgotten in the widow’s cellar. Delightful. Delicious. You ask, you drink. Then you amaze, enthuse, astound me. Again,” Thisobald said, his voice slurring as he leaned in closer.
“How did you become what you are now?” Zeus asked, probing for information.
“Father Ketheric’s laughter. Not joy, not ever-never. Only laughter. Now drink it deep,” Thisobald replied, raising his mug once more .
Zeus mirrored the creature’s action, drinking deeply despite the toxic burn that seared his insides.
“More stories!” Thisobald demanded, snatching Zeus’s mug and refilling it with another round of the foul brew before slamming it back on the counter.
“Tell me of foes felled, villains vanquished, beasts bested.”
Zeus obliged, recounting his epic battle with a towering creature that rose from molten lava, nearly overwhelming him with its fiery might.
From above, Wyll murmured, “That’s why Glut told us Zeus is the only one who could operate the forge.”
“Karlach, you should challenge him to see who has the bigger flames,” Astarion whispered with a grin.
“I too am amazed by his strength, but keep your head down,” Minthara warned quietly, her gaze never leaving the scene below.
“Huh. Molten. Hot. Heavy. I saw such a beast in my latrine. A fiery foe,” Thisobald proclaimed proudly, his grotesque laughter echoing through the distillery.
The companions above stifled their laughter, struggling to maintain their composure, even Minthara and Lae’zel fighting back smirks at the undead’s crude joke. Alex mimicking the latter .
“Ask, question, make query. And drink once more,” the undead urged, his voice growing more insistent.
“What can you tell me about Ketheric?” Zeus asked, leaning in slightly. He knew Thisobald might hold a secret, something he could use to his advantage.
“Father... Father is father. Eternal, invincible, forever, except... not,” Thisobald replied, his voice faltering as he grabbed his mug again. “Another drink.”
Zeus tightened his grip around his mug. “What do you mean, ‘except not’?”
“No... must not, cannot, will not mention her... The customer is always right but also wrong,” Thisobald stammered, a note of fear creeping into his voice.
“Let’s not push our luck,” Zeus thought, noting the distress etched into the creature’s voice.
“How do the Thorms sustain these shadows?” Zeus asked, his tone softer, probing.
“The spirit of the land. No... talk. Drink,” Thisobald burped, his bloated body swaying slightly as the fumes from his scarred belly grew more intense.
“Halsin was right,” Zeus thought, recalling his conversation with the druid. “Thaniel is the key to breaking the curse.”
Zeus lifted his mug and drank, his gaze never leaving Thisobald. The undead followed suit, chugging his own toxic brew. But as Thisobald set his mug down, he began to wobble, his thick, stubby hand slamming onto the counter for support.
“I-I know you. I knew. I am knowing,” Thisobald slurred, his speech growing more erratic. “You want father’s personal mysterious-secret. No, not, never! Father said, ordered, commanded. Don’t say it, don’t say it! The cage. Her cage. Talk and... perish, die, buried. Buried in Thorm tomb. Father told me.”
Thisobald drained his mug again, but this time, a deep groan of pain rumbled through his bloated frame as he leaned over the counter. His swollen belly throbbed ominously, greenish-blue fumes seeping from the vertical scar that split it.
Zeus phase to the balcony above as Thisobald’s body began to convulse violently. The abomination’s swollen flesh stretched to its breaking point before, with a sickening explosion, it burst apart, splattering the distillery with rotten entrails and thick, black blood.
The grotesque scene unfolded in mere moments, leaving the room drenched in gore, the stench of death and decay overwhelming.