The air was thick with tension as Alex and his companions arrived at the burial site, guided by Nestor. A small crowd of Flaming Fist soldiers stood around a shallow grave, their shovels poised to cover the lifeless body of the murdered mother. Nestor broke into a sprint, his voice urgent.
"Stop! Don’t bury her yet!"
The soldiers froze, glancing between one another before stepping back as Alex approached. His presence commanded silence, the air around him shimmering faintly with power. He knelt at the edge of the grave, extending a hand over the body. A soft, purple glow enveloped the corpse, its energy pulsing gently. Slowly, the body rose from the dirt, levitating with an eerie grace before settling on the ground beside him.
Alex lifted the body with care, his expression unreadable. "Follow me," he said to Whity and Anchev, his voice calm but firm. The duo exchanged uncertain glances but obeyed, trailing behind Alex and his companions as they made their way into the nearby forest.
The group wove through thick underbrush until they reached a secluded cave, hidden by vines and moss. Inside, the dim light cast long shadows on the walls, the atmosphere heavy with an unnatural stillness. Alex knelt, spreading the bloodied fabric to reveal the mother’s body.
Her chest bore multiple stab wounds, the dried blood stark against her pale skin. Yet despite the violence inflicted upon her, her body was otherwise intact—a small mercy in this cruel moment.
"Do not disturb me," Alex instructed, his voice firm as he raised his hands. The others stood back, watching in silence as dark tendrils of magic swirled around him. The air crackled with energy as Alex began to cast Raise Dead, his voice low and resonant, intoning the spell with precision.
Minutes passed, the wounds on the body knitting themselves together as the magic worked. Hope flickered in Whity’s heart, but it was short-lived. Just as the spell neared completion, the magic snapped, shattering like glass. Alex staggered back slightly, his breath coming in sharp gasps.
"What happened?" Gale asked, his voice laced with confusion. "The casting was flawless. It should have worked."
Alex stared at the lifeless body, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Her soul is trapped," he said finally, his tone grim. "Not in the afterlife, but bound by some means. The spell cannot complete if her soul cannot return."
Whity’s shoulders slumped, his arms tightening protectively around the baby. "Does that mean she can’t be revived?" he asked, his voice tinged with despair.
"Not until her soul is freed," Alex replied, rising to his feet. His gaze was piercing. "Her husband must know more. He’s the one who killed her. We need to find him."
With a wave of his hand, Alex summoned a soft, purple blanket from his psionic vault. He carefully wrapped the mother’s body and, with another gesture, the body vanished into the vault’s ethereal storage.
Back at the camp, they searched the couple’s tent, rummaging through the sparse belongings until they found an item of the husband: a worn leather glove. Holding it tightly, Alex activated his psionic compass, its energy swirling and pointing them toward the man’s location.
The trail led them deep into the forest, to a gnarled tree where a lifeless form hung limply from a branch. The husband’s body swayed gently in the breeze, a crude noose tight around his neck.
With a wave of Alex’s hand, the rope snapped, and the body fell into his arms. He laid it on the ground, his expression calm as ever. Raising his hands, he began the Raise Dead spell once more, but just like before, the magic faltered and broke.
"His soul is trapped too," Alex muttered, his voice low. His sharp mind worked quickly. "I know of a spell that can uncover more about this situation, but I need time to prepare it." He lied with ease, his tone betraying no hint of deception. He wanted the others gone, to perform a far darker act to uncover the truth.
Before Whity could respond, Alex reached into his coat and produced a peculiar bottle. It was filled with milk and ended in a small, pliable udder-like attachment. He handed it to Whity, who blinked in confusion.
"What is this?" Whity asked.
"A feeding bottle," Alex explained. "Without her mother to nurse her, the baby will need to drink from this. It’s designed for infant tieflings—press the top gently, and she’ll know what to do."
Whity nodded, his grip firm on the bottle. "Thank you," he said, his voice quiet but sincere.
Alex’s gaze lingered on the baby for a moment, her tiny horns and dusky red skin a reminder of her innocence amidst all this tragedy. He straightened, his eyes hardening as he turned back to the body of the husband.
"Go. I’ll handle this." His tone left no room for argument.
Whity and Anchev exchanged uncertain glances but ultimately obeyed, walking away with the baby as Alex prepared to delve into the husband’s corpse—his own methods as grim as the secrets he sought to uncover.
Alex placed his hand on the man’s corpse. In no more than a heartbeat, it was gone—consumed entirely. A rush of fragmented memories surged through his mind, jumbled pieces of another’s life stitching themselves to his own. He tsked in frustration, the weight of realization settling over him like a leaden cloak. Things were far more complicated than they had first seemed.
With a wave of his hand, Alex conjured a barrier of swirling darkness, encasing himself and his companions in a protective sphere. Shadows danced along its surface like restless spirits.
He rose, meeting their expectant gazes. His voice was calm but heavy, each word laced with the gravity of his discovery.
“The good news,” Alex began, pausing deliberately, “is that I know where the mother’s and the husband’s souls are.”
Hope flickered in their eyes, but Alex’s next words snuffed it out.
“The bad news… I have no way to bring them back.”
“Why?” Karlach’s voice cut through the somber atmosphere, confusion and frustration etched across her face.
Alex extended his hand again, and an illusory projection shimmered to life before them. It showed the now-deceased husband, standing with a hooded figure cloaked in shadow. The air seemed to grow colder as they watched the scene unfold.
The hooded figure produced a parchment and a dagger, its blade adorned with ominous symbols etched deep into the metal. The husband hesitated but ultimately pointed at the contract with trembling resolve, sealing the deal in blood.
Wyll stiffened as recognition dawned on him. His voice, low and simmering with anger, broke the silence.
“Son of a…” He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. “He signed a deal with a devil !”
Alex’s expression was unreadable, but he didn’t need to speak. Wyll’s thoughts churned, his outrage intensifying.
“I bet he did it because he knew you could have revived his wife!” Wyll spat on the ground, his disgust palpable. “What a cowardly piece of filth—to sell not just his own soul, but his wife’s too!”
The group exchanged grim looks, their collective anger rising. Even Lae’zel, usually stoic, had a hand resting on the hilt of her greatsword, her jaw tight with restrained fury. Perhaps she was imagining the anguish she’d feel if someone she cared about had met such a fate.
Shadowheart’s voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried a profound sadness.
“That poor baby girl… to lose both her parents like this. What kind of life awaits her now?”
Astarion, ever the provocateur, chuckled darkly. “A tiefling orphaned by a devil’s bargain—now that’s a tragic little tale, isn’t it?”
Karlach’s elbow struck him square in the ribs. He winced but smirked, unrepentant.
Alex waved his hand, dissipating the barrier. “Let’s go,” he said curtly, his tone brooking no argument.
Back at the refugee encampment, they found Anchev and Whity . Whity was holding the baby bottle as the baby sucked hungrily from the nipple . Alex explained the grim situation with an even voice, though the weight of it was not lost on his companions.
Shadowheart studied the two men intently, her gaze sharp and probing. “What do you plan to do with the baby?” she asked, her words as much an accusation as a question.
Whity looked at Anchev, who met Shadowheart’s unrelenting stare with quiet resolve.
“Anchev knows how to take care of her,” Whity said simply, though his voice carried conviction.
Shadowheart’s eyes narrowed, but before she could speak, Anchev stepped forward. He placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head slightly.
“I swear on my soul,” he said, his voice unwavering, “that I will raise her with all the love and care I can give. She will not want for anything.”
For a long moment, Shadowheart held his gaze, her piercing scrutiny softening ever so slightly. Finally, she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Alex stepped forward, placing a small, jingling pouch into Anchev’s hands.
“Use this to give her a good start,” he said. Without waiting for a response, he turned and began walking away, his cloak billowing behind him.
The others lingered for a moment, glancing between Anchev and Shadowheart before following Alex.
As they walked, Gale fell into step beside him. “Are you sure they’re the right people to take care of her?” he asked, his voice laced with concern.
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Alex didn’t hesitate. “They’re capable, more than you think." he replied simply. "Keeping her with us would only put her in grave danger.”
Gale was convinced by Alex's words and he didn’t press the matter further.
The group walked in silence, the weight of their choices and the tragedy they’d uncovered pressing heavily upon them.
Behind them, in the safety of the encampment, Anchev held the baby close, his expression a mixture of determination and sadness. Her tiny hand clutched at his finger, oblivious to the storm of sorrow that had brought her to him.
----------------------------------------
Alex stepped inside the Open Hand Temple, immediately struck by the heavy, humid air that seemed to cling to his skin. The entrance split into a T-shaped corridor, the walls on either side adorned with creeping vines, their delicate flowers a stark contrast to the somber mood permeating the place. It was a space of beauty and sorrow intertwined—a sanctuary in mourning.
To his left, a halfling woman sat slumped against the wall, her shoulders shaking as she wept quietly. Her sobs echoed faintly in the grand chamber, adding a haunting melody to the temple's quiet ambiance. Alex approached her slowly, his footsteps soft against the stone floor.
“What happened here?” he asked gently, his voice low and steady.
The woman lifted her tear-streaked face, her red-rimmed eyes meeting his. “The Crying One weeps…” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Our Father Lorgan is dead. Murdered!”
Alex studied her for a moment, his expression calm yet oddly reassuring. He offered a small, enigmatic smile. “Not for long,” he said.
The halfling blinked in confusion, her lips parting as if to ask what he meant, but the words never came. She simply stared after him as he moved on into the right corridor.
Ahead, Alex spotted two figures locked in a heated argument. A stout dwarf, his face weathered but kind, stood across from a tall high elf with sharp, angular features. Their voices carried through the hallway, thick with tension. Both bore the robes of Ilmater’s faithful, though their unity in faith seemed to falter under the strain of grief.
“We let more outsiders in, and more Baldurians die!” the elf spat, his voice dripping with venom. “Duke Stelmane, Father Lorgan—it’s no coincidence!”
The dwarf shook his head, a deep sadness in his eyes. “We have faith here, Bill. Faith in people—no matter where they’re from.”
The elf’s expression twisted further, his outrage mounting. “And who had more faith than Father Lorgan? How did that work out for him?”
Alex stepped forward, his presence commanding enough to halt their bickering. He spoke with quiet authority. “To offer alms to those in need is a sign of a noble soul.”
From behind, Alex heard a soft, derisive tsk—Astarion, clearly unimpressed with the sentiment. But at his side, Shadowheart’s hand brushed against his, her fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. She offered him a small, approving smile, her gaze soft despite the sharpness of her usual demeanor.
The dwarf’s face brightened at Alex’s words, a flicker of gratitude passing over him. “Thank you, stranger. I take some solace in knowing he died in Ilmater’s service.”
But the elf wasn’t done. His voice rose again, sharp as a blade. “Does Ilmater’s service involve protecting heretic Absolutists? Perhaps I missed that sermon—”
The dwarf cut him off with a growl. “Enough, Brother Bill!”
Bill’s mouth snapped shut, though his lips thinned into a disapproving line.
Turning to Alex, the dwarf took a calming breath. “You seem a kind soul. Our temple is open to you. Walk well.”
“Has Father Lorgan been buried?” Alex asked.
The dwarf shook his head, sorrow etched into his features. “No… he’s in the infirmary. His killer was…” His voice faltered, trailing into silence.
The elf opened his mouth to interject, but one withering glare from the smaller monk silenced him once more.
Alex offered a curt nod, his expression unreadable, and continued deeper into the temple.
To the left and right of the path, the architecture of the temple unfolded before him. A majestic pool of clear water lay in the center of the chamber, illuminated by soft, warm light streaming through stained-glass windows. The vibrant patterns of red and green cast colorful shadows on the walls and floor, dancing gently with the flicker of nearby candles. Vines hung down from the upper levels, some bearing delicate purple and white flowers that swayed faintly in the humid air.
The pool was surrounded by ornate wooden railings, their craftsmanship intricate and precise, hinting at the reverence held for this sacred space. Statues stood solemnly in the corners, their expressions serene yet sorrowful, reflecting the grief shared by all who sought solace here. The faint sound of water trickling added a soothing backdrop to the otherwise quiet hall, a reminder of Ilmater’s unending compassion in the face of suffering.
Alex paused briefly, his gaze lingering on the tranquil pool. The contrast was almost cruel—such a serene place marred by violence and loss. But there was no time for reflection.
Alex's gaze flickered briefly to the right, where a simple wooden table sat in quiet solemnity. The stone floor beneath it bore grim evidence of recent violence—dark stains of blood, splattered and dried, marking the site of Father Lorgan’s murder. He paused for a moment, letting the weight of the tragedy settle on him, the air seeming heavier around the area. Shadowheart’s fingers brushed his arm again, grounding him, before they continued forward.
Ahead, a heated conversation drew their attention. An older halfling woman, her voice tinged with desperation, was locked in an argument with an unusual creature. It was a hollyphant—a miniature golden elephant with four elegant, feathered wings that extended gracefully from the back of her head. Despite her diminutive size and whimsical appearance, there was a stern authority to her. A small fabric cap perched on her head, and a single monocle rested over her right eye, giving her the air of an eccentric scholar. A pipe jutted out from her mouth, nestled against her right tusk, its faint tendrils of smoke curling upward.
The halfling woman, her voice cracking, spoke with urgency. “Look, Investigator, Brilgor might have been a criminal, but he was no murderer! You’re missing something—you have to be!”
The hollyphant—Valeria, as Alex would soon learn—interrupted her with a tone of condescending finality. “Yannis, listen to yourself. You’re defending a man who ritualistically slaughtered your high priest. The evidence speaks for itself. Brilgor killed Father Lorgan. Then, be it out of shame or some twisted sense of duty, he turned the blade on himself. Case closed, Sister Yannis.”
With that, the hollyphant puffed out a final plume of smoke and slowly flapped her wings, hovering away with an air of smug satisfaction.
Karlach’s gaze followed Valeria as she disappeared down the hall, her fiery temperament simmering just below the surface. “I don’t like that thing,” she muttered, her voice low and seething.
Sister Yannis closed her eyes and shook her head slowly, her grief and frustration palpable.
Alex stepped closer to the halfling, catching the soft muttering that escaped her lips. “Shitty little elephant…” Her eyes widened when she realized she had been overheard. “Oh! I apologize, stranger. Language like that hardly befits a rector of Ilmater,” she stammered, visibly flustered.
Alex’s expression softened, and he replied with a touch of humor, “Given the circumstances, I think Ilmater would forgive you.”
Yannis gave a weak smile, though her sadness lingered. “I suppose you’re right. The Crying One certainly has more pressing concerns than curse words, given what’s just happened here.” She sighed heavily, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her burden. “Two people—dead. Father Lorgan, our high priest, and Brilgor, one of the new refugees. Valeria insists it’s murder and is all too eager to blame Brilgor—a politically convenient target, of course.”
Alex’s gaze held hers, steady and unflinching, as he reached into his pack. “Father Lorgan wasn’t killed by refugees. He was killed by the followers of Bhaal.” He drew forth the dagger, its wicked blade gleaming faintly even in the dim light.
Yannis’s eyes snapped to the weapon, her breath catching in her throat. Her gaze darted back to Alex, her expression shifting from confusion to realization, and then to anger. Her hands balled into fists, her knuckles whitening as she trembled with restrained fury.
“Valeria…” Alex continued, his tone laced with disdain, “even if she reports this incident, it’ll achieve nothing. It’ll only fall on deaf ears.”
Sister Yannis’s fists tightened further, her anger burning as tears welled in her eyes.
Alex gave her a moment to collect herself before speaking again, his voice calm but resolute. “Gather the clergy. Father Lorgan will not be dead for long.”
Her brows knitted together in confusion, but Alex offered no further explanation. He simply turned and walked toward the infirmary.
Inside, the room was silent save for the soft, irregular sound of a pacing woman’s footsteps. Father Lorgan’s body lay still on a simple bed, his face pale, his left hand severed at the wrist. The wound, though cleaned, was a stark reminder of the violence that had befallen him.
The woman pacing at the foot of the bed turned sharply to face Alex and his companions, her expression impatient and her tone brusque. “What ails you? Marsh fever? Featherlung? Be quick—I’ve not got all day.”
Alex met her gaze evenly, his voice cutting through her irritation like a blade. “Step aside. I’m here to bring Father Lorgan back from the dead.”
The woman’s eyes widened in shock, and she blurted, “What?”
He didn’t bother to respond. Instead, Alex reached into his psionic vault, his companions watching in quiet awe. From the air, he produced a severed hand—the hand of Father Lorgan. With deliberate precision, he placed it beside the high priest’s stump, aligning it carefully.
The room seemed to hold its breath as Alex raised his hand, his fingers beginning to weave intricate motions. A faint glow emanated from his fingertips, tendrils of light spiraling outward as he began to channel the resurrection spell. The light grew brighter, illuminating the dim infirmary with a golden hue. It was warm, almost tangible, as if hope itself had taken form.
The woman at the foot of the bed froze, her earlier impatience replaced by awe and disbelief.
Figures rushed into the infirmary, their hurried footsteps echoing against the stone walls. Monks of Ilmater, clad in simple robes, filled the room. As they stepped inside and laid eyes on the miracle taking place before them, many froze mid-stride.
A radiant, golden light emanated from Alex, bathing the room in an almost holy glow. It wasn’t the harsh light of a flame, but something gentler—warmer—like the first rays of dawn breaking over a weary land. It filled the space, pressing gently against their senses, unmistakably divine.
Some of the monks fell to their knees, clasping their hands together in reverent prayer, their voices trembling as they called upon Ilmater’s name. Tears glistened in their eyes, streaking their faces as they bore witness to a power that felt like a direct answer from the Crying God himself.
Others, overcome with fear or misunderstanding, surged forward, their cries panicked. "What is this sorcery? Stop it! Stop it before it's too late!" they shouted, desperate to halt what they assumed to be a reckless act.
But Alex’s companions moved swiftly. Karlach’s towering form blocked the path of the first monk who tried to approach, her stance firm and unyielding. “Not a step closer,” she growled, her voice low and dangerous.
Shadowheart extended an arm, her eyes flashing with authority as she spoke. “Stay back,” she warned, her voice calm but commanding.
Even Astarion, typically uninterested in divine matters, positioned himself near Alex, his daggers at the ready, his smirk laced with menace. “Let’s not interrupt the show, shall we?”
The monks hesitated, their protests faltering as the overwhelming light intensified. The air itself seemed alive with energy, thick with a presence that made the hairs on the back of their necks stand on end.
Alex stood at the center of it all, calm and resolute, his hands weaving delicate arcs of magic through the air. Each movement was precise, every thread of magic carefully placed, as though he were stitching the fabric of life itself.
The golden light enveloping Father Lorgan’s body grew brighter and brighter, spilling into every corner of the infirmary. The monks shielded their eyes, some whispering prayers, others simply staring in awe.
And then, as the spell reached its crescendo, there was a moment of absolute stillness. The golden light flared one final time before fading into the faintest shimmer, leaving the room bathed in an ethereal afterglow. The air felt charged, as if holding its breath.
All eyes turned to Father Lorgan’s lifeless form on the bed.
A sharp, sudden gasp shattered the silence. His chest rose as he sucked in a deep breath, his back arching slightly before settling again. His eyes fluttered open, their pale blue irises vibrant with the spark of life. His restored hand twitched slightly before clenching into a fist, as though testing its strength.
The room erupted into gasps and murmurs, monks scrambling to process what they had just witnessed. Some fell to their knees again, this time in utter awe, while others simply stared, mouths agape.
Alex, his expression unreadable, remained still. His hand rested lightly on the restored hand of Father Lorgan, the warmth of the high priest’s pulse steady beneath his fingers.
“Welcome back, Father,” Alex said softly, his voice steady, resonating through the stunned silence of the infirmary.