---“If it needs help, it’s probably your god, not mine,” Shadowheart replies.

“Who is your god, anyway?” Tavscarf asks curiously. Usually clerics won't shut up about their calling, but Shadowheart hasn't uttered a single praise-whoever thus far.

Shadowheart is immediately suspicious. Even Tavscarf in his current state can see her tense up, see the walls slamming down around her. “Why do you ask?” she retorts coldly.

“Excuse me!? I need some help!” That mysterious voice from above is getting increasingly peevish.

“Well, you said something about how I should be a cleric. So why not?” He beams. “Who’s your god? Can you put in a good word for me? We could be cleric buddies!”

“I don’t… you don’t just -decide- that, you have to– it’s– it’s a matter of–of faith! Besides,” she adds hastily. “You wouldn’t like Her. And She wouldn’t put up with you being so…” Shadowheart can’t exactly bring herself to say “nice”. “--Ugh! No! There are plenty of gods. And anyway you can’t just copy me. Get your own god.”

“Oh for fucks sake–!”

“Fine,” Tavscarf sighs, opening a small leaflet on local deities. He can’t read the writing, but there is at least a picture of holy symbols, which he studies thoughtfully.

Tuxedo Mask, Angry Mule, Tiki Mask, Hand Eye Coordination, Please Wash Hands, Twisty Road, Towel, Ugly Lamp, Anvil On Fire, Big C, Ravioli On String, Fruit Of The Loom, Spikey, Not A Swastika, Hail Hydra, Sword Lady, Death Star, High Voltage, Leprechaun Lady, or My Little Pony. Hmm.

Some part of him that is still and always will be a Waywalker, likes the twisty road one. It’s even a double lane highway! With interesting stops along the way, apparently. Nice.

He pulls off the symbol of Mystra like a sticker, and sticks it to the front of his shirt. “There! I’m a cleric!” He beams and presses his palms together and tries to look angelic, and does a surprisingly good job.

“That’s still not how it works,” Shadowheart sighs.

“....Please? Please come and help me?”

“Ooh, now I hear a lost soul crying out in need of holy guidance,” chortles Tavscarf. “Come, Sister Shadowheart, and let us be their succor. Or something like that.”

Clambering back up the cliffside, they spot the source of the increasingly peevish voice. An elven fellow, white hair, fancy clothes. He looks surprisingly clean and polished, with the wreckage of the burning nautiloid in the background.

“Finally,” growls the elf, “I’ve got one of those brain-things cornered. You can kill it, can’t you?”

“You’ve got one cornered? It hasn’t lunged at you and been all–” Tavscarf makes clawing gestures, and then gives a squeaky gasp of hope. “Worst Cat! I knew you were nice!”

He hastens forward, making soothing noises– but what leaps out of cover and runs away is not Worst Cat, but a large boar. His disappointment is overwritten with surprise as the elf tackles him and throws him down with a knife at his throat.

Shadowheart watches with interest. The pale elf seems a lot more interesting than her current companion, and she’s considering an upgrade.

“There’s really no need for this,” Tavscarf complains, but the mind-flayer worm quickly does most of the explaining for him. The elf turns him loose, and they warily size one another up.

Astarion has been having a very trying day. Well, day, for one thing. The touch of sunlight, after the long darkness, is dazzling. He’s somewhere, lost and alone, except for the lingering dread of Cazador in his mind, along with the ache of the worm.

Cazador’s command– “Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking beings” is being put to the test; there are literally piles of bloody bodies right and left. He’s not sure if the brain-things count as ‘thinking beings’, but of course they probably are, they’re brains, aren’t they? Besides, they’re… dead. All clotted and gross. Ew.

He’d been sizing the pig up as a hopeful meal before these two idiots had come along. He'd spied on them as they’d managed to kill a couple of the brain things– well, the woman had, and she’d helped the man, so maybe he’d make a good hostage. But now his simple plan of luring them in and capturing them for questioning and perhaps consumption was already falling apart under a weird sense of some madness he’d sipped from the fellow’s brain with the contact of the worm.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“--I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”

“Apology accepted, of course. Any sensible person would be,” Tavscarf says magnanimously, tossing a fold of net over his shoulder and adding some new knots.

Introductions are made, worms discussed with disgust, and now the duet has become a trio.

“Do you always introduce yourself with a blade, Astarion?” Shadowheart asks, as they move off. One thing’s for sure about him– he’s immeasurably hotter than Tavscarf, although she can’t exactly put her finger on why. Snowy and proud as a unicorn, yet somehow much less pure, although equally horny. He seems to be sizing her up as well; she thinks she might have seen him lick his lips, but the gesture was too subtle to be sure.

“Well, if you’d actually shown some punctuality, I might have responded more politely,” huffs Astarion.

“So you’re a magistrate back in the city? That must be fascinating!” Tavscarf says. “What sort of cases do you normally oversee? I hope your absence isn’t causing too much trouble with the dockets and scheduling–”

“It’s tedious, I said. I don’t want to discuss it,” Astarion snaps.

“Bit of an unexpected holiday, I imagine,” Tavscarf chuckles. “Warm beaches, faulty transport, exotic parasites.”

“And the wonderful friends we make along the way.” Astarion’s sarcasm is enough to curdle seawater, but only Shadowheart picks up on it, a smirk lifting the edges of her stern lips.

Tavscarf’s gentle trot comes to a skidding halt as they move through another part of the wreckage and find themselves looking at a rough cliff wall, with a great swirling purple black thing in the middle of it.

“Whoa whoa whoa–” Tavscarf says, and he actually sounds worried. “I don’t like that. No.”

“It doesn’t look exactly stable,” Astarion agrees.

“A waypoint. Some form of travel rune,” Shadowheart says, glancing at it. “Look, dead goblins. We should check them for supplies.”

“And ignore the big purple swirly thing? I think not!” snorts Tavscarf. “Travel rune, you say? Well, this won’t do. Not at all. Travel is -important-.” And so it is, to a Waywalker. “But dangerous looking portals, well… can’t be too careful.”

“What do you want to do, put up a sign?” Astarion folds his arms. “I will admit to some skill with locks and traps, but magic is best left to those who are tedious enough to deal with it.”

“The ancient way of scientific investigation,” says Tavscarf, rummaging in his pack for something to throw. He comes up with a skull. “Alas, poor Yorrick,” he sighs, and lobs it at the swirly thing.

They all duck, instinctively, but there is no reaction from the swirly portal. Shadowheart cranes her neck to see.

“It’s stuck in there,” she reports. “Just sort of sitting.”

“Hmm. Anyone got a stick? I need a stick.”

“What on Faerun for?”

“To poke at it with. A long stick. Ten-foot pole would be ideal– anyone have one in their inventory?”

“Quit messing about, Tavscarf!” Shadowheart snaps at him.

Warily, Tavscarf approaches the whirling portal, getting closer and closer, until Shadowheart loses patience entirely and shoves him mightily from behind, to a snort of amusement from Astarion.

Tavscarf bounces off the portal, which feels like rubbery rock, and flinches back as it zaps him– he gives it a stern glare, apparently blaming it, rather than Shadowheart. Then his eyes widen as a hand, and arm, emerge, along with a voice.

“A hand? Anyone?”

“Erm… no thank you?” Tavscarf replies cautiously. “I mean, it looks like a very nice hand, but I think we’re all set, hands-wise. Thanks awfully. Er… who are you?”

“Oh, just your average traveler stuck between realms–”

“Oh, I hate when that happens,” Tavscarf says sympathetically. “You should have said! I’m duty-bound to help travelers! Hold on–” He reaches to grab the hand.

The sticker on his chest starts to glow.

Shadowheart’s eyes widen as she sees this. “What… how…”

For your aid to my once-Chosen, I grant you this boon.

With a prayer and a tug and a tumble, the portal vomits forth a human– “Ooft! Hullo! I’m Gale, of Waterdeep. Apologies, I’m usually better at this.”

“Oh?” Tavscarf’s expression is one of baffled concern. “Not Stonedeep? No need to apologize, though–”

Another quick round of introductions and explanations, with a bit of embellishment on Tavscarf’s part.

“That vast burning wreckage seems to cast some doubt on your story,” Gale replies.

“He crashed it and walked away, anyway,” Astarion yawns. “Could have been worse.”

“We certainly all have a lot to talk about!” Tavscarf says happily, looking around at his new friends. “What say we find a place to camp, and chat a bit over a good meal? We’ve got fresh fish that needs eating up, before it tries walking out of my pack.”

“You want to camp, while we’re infected with brain-eating parasites?”

“Well, you all can wander around until you collapse with hunger and exhaustion, but I’m going to rest, and you’re welcome to join me,” Tavscarf says, looking around. “There’s some kind of old ruin over there– let’s get some walls around us to lean back against.”

They head for the entrance to the old ruined chapel.