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dnd_drow

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Her gut twists. No, this is — Alfira shouldn’t be getting involved with this. The rest of the group is together through circumstance and tadpoles, and they’re all racing towards a cure. "Are you sure? We’re on a dangerous journey, Alfira. I don’t want you to get hurt." (Oh, yes, she does.)
"I’ve been running since Elturel — and when we finally arrived in the grove, we found danger there, too. Unless I hide away from the world, I can’t avoid it. So I’d rather face it head on— with you."
Withyouwithyouwithyouwithyou.
The words twist around her brain, wrapping around and around, slithering themselves into the holes, until they finally sink in. She smiles. "Okay. I’ll ask the others."
"Really? I — Thank you! I won’t let you down!"
"I don’t think you could. Come with me — I’ll introduce you."
Nethandre’s hand sticks out, momentarily hesitating, waiting. How she yearns to link her arm with Alfira’s to show her around, but instead she waves her over in a "come here’ gesture.
Alfira introduces herself to everyone, with reactions going from anywhere between "Of course, we’d love to have you," (Wyll) to "We have no time for weaklings," (Lae’zel). Toiling over the night’s dinner, Gale barely even gives her a second glance before he declares if it’s alright with her, it’s alright with him. His trust makes her feel a little ill.
Regardless of their reactions, Nethandre weaves words with her silver tongue effectively, and eventually gets everybody on board. As the de facto leader, they’ve all come to trust their judgement. For some reason.
If only they knew she fantasised about ripping their throats out every time she laid eyes on them.
Regardless, she was their leader, and now Alfira had joined the merry little flock who had chosen Nethandre as their mother hen, too. She followed her around, looking a little lost. When Nethandre sat on a log, she did, too. When she took out her lute, Alfira did the same.
"You should mingle. They don’t bite — well, besides Astarion, but he’ll ask first," she says with a little wink. (Alfira doesn’t know what that means.)
"I suppose I’ll have to, but I wanted to talk to you first. How have you been? Have you remembered anything else?"
"I’ve ... recalled quite a lot, since the last time we spoke. Not the memories themselves, but the songs, the performances. I researched bard colleges — as much as I could in this dump, but Gale helped — and I believe I followed the College of Swords."
"Swords? Oh, yes, I can see it! I wonder what you did. Perhaps you were part of a travelling circus! Do you know how to swallow swords?"
"Probably? I’ll test it later." (I wasn’t a fucking clown, I used those swords to turn pretty little fools like you into mincemeat—) "I hope I was a hero."(I’m deluding myself.) What a pretty delusion it was. It was nice to lose herself in the fantasy — a heroic Nethandre, swashbuckling her way across the Sword Coast, using those bloody urges for good.
"I can’t see anything else you’d be." Alfira's voice is sweet like honey, and the truth comes from her lips so naturally, Nethandre isn't even sure if she knows how to lie.
(Of course you can’t. You don’t know what I really am.)
"What about you? Are there any colleges that interest you yet?" Her head tilts, much like a cat, curious.
Alfira sat for a long moment, biting the inside of her cheek and absentmindedly tapping the wood of her lute with her long claws. "Lihala followed the College of Valor, and for a long time I thought I was going to follow it, too. I wanted to be the one to write the ballads of great heroes, recording their stories and keeping their legacies alive. I still do, but — you’ve inspired me. I want to fight, I want to be one of the great heroes they write about. I’ll have to think on it more, of course, but I may join the College of Swords." Her eyes flit up to meet Nethandre’s, oddly shy. "Like you."
Nethandre’s breath catches in her throat, looking down at Alfira with wide-eyed wonder. Or horror. Both? Definitely both.
The Urge sings, a chorus of foolfoolfoolfoolfoolfoolfool ringing throughout her ears as she tries to lurch past the confusion. This is — this is not right.
"Just because you look up to me doesn’t mean you have to abandon Lihala’s legacy. You’ve given me more than I’ve ever given you." She has to push back, she can’t just ... what in the hells? Why would anybody look up to her? It makes no sense.
"I’m not abandoning it. You’ve just ... given me a new inspiration. Lihala will always be with me, and I’ll always carry her lessons. She made me who I am."
A long silence falls. They both look at the moon that’s begun to rise high in the sky.
"I think she’d be proud of me for this. I’ve spent too much time in her shadow. I don’t want to just be Lihala’s second coming — I want to be Alfira, her student, her friend. Her legacy will still live on. With me." She pauses again for just too long, her eyes closing in a content smile. "With us."
nonononononono—
"Think on it more, at least," she finally whispers. "I am nobody you should look up to." I am a murderer, a monster, a fraud—
"That’s funny. I still do."
Nethandre is stunned once again into silence.
She wants to kiss her. She wants to rip her fucking throat out.
"Dinner’s ready!"
Gale calls for dinner, and whatever spell Alfira wove is broken.
The group is all interested in their new bard. Alfira has plenty of stories to tell, and she tells them well. They learn of her time in Elturel, and she weaves her stories together effortlessly. She talks about beforehand — a bustling city always in the light of day, "protected’ by The Companion, a second sun once believed to be a gift from the Gods. She gushes about the Hellriders, recollecting stories of them with glee.
"Zevlor was our hero, even if he doesn’t see himself as one anymore," she says. "There would be no "us’ if not for him. Our group of tieflings, I mean. As far as I’m concerned, he’ll always be a Helllrider."
She doesn’t speak of the Descent, but she does speak of afterwards. She speaks of a life running, hiding, a life of fear, but also recalls Lihala and the other tieflings fondly. "After Lihala died, Lakrissa helped me stay together. I can’t thank her enough. She sent me off with her blessings."
When Nethandre asks, hands shaking, "What was Avernus like?" Alfira shudders, and Nethandre looks away. "I — I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset, I just... I know so little. About this world. You don’t have to answer." It's hard to absorb the environment of Avernus when you're running for your life on a nautiloid, after all.
"It’s alright," she murmurs, but she’s clearly shaken.
Wyll jumps into action, weaving stories of his own. As the Blade of Frontiers, he was there chasing down Karlach before the nautiloid swept him up. He speaks of red, red, more red. The air is suffocating and acrid. The landscape is dark and desolate, surrounded by lava and fire, the River of Blood flowing straight through it.
"You would like it there, Astarion," he says with a cheeky grin.
"Shut up, hero-boy," he responds with a smile of his own.
(Seriously, Alfira has no idea what they’re talking about.)
"Speaking of Avernus, I went scouting up ahead past the broken bridge today. It looks like Karlach might be close by." Wyll pulls them all back to reality with a reminder of the promise Nethandre once made.
"Excuse me, but who is Karlach?" Alfira asks.
"A devil, now escaped from the Hells. Advocatus diaboli. I swore on my good eye to kill her, and I intend to make good on that promise. She’s still out there, spilling innocent blood — I have to take her down."
"We’re hunting devils?" Alfira covers it up with a smile, but she looks... nervous. (She’s hopelessly naive. Pathetic.) "I — it looks like the heroism is starting early!"
"It’s alright if you’re scared, Alfira." He holds a hand out, smile warm and inviting. "I know you aren’t very experienced. Nobody would begrudge you for staying behind."
She bites down on her lip, looking at him carefully, before her nervous expression melts into one of determination. "No. I’ll come. I said I wanted to help, and I will."
(That devil will eviscerate Alfira before she can even blink. What a glorious slaughter...)
"I can teach you some basic swordplay, if you’d like. Just some manoeuvres to defend yourself, for now — I know as a bard, you have plenty of magic to call your own."
"Oh, I... thank you. I’d like that!"
After dinner, Alfira and Wyll depart to train, and the rest of the group disperse. Shadowheart prays to her goddess she still hasn’t named. Astarion must have left to hunt. Lae’zel is tending to the group’s weapons, always hating to stay idle. Gale is ... reading.
As for Nethandre? Well, she tries to ignore the pulsing headache she gets when Wyll’s blade gets too close to Alfira’s ribs.
Nethandre’s lying on her bedroll next to the fire, close to dozing off, when Alfira approaches. The bard is worse for wear but in high spirits.
"Excuse me. Nethandre? I don’t have a tent."
Her eyes pop open. She blinks at her. "We can get you some canvas tomorrow, if you’re okay with sleeping by the fire tonight with me. The bedrolls lying next to it are spares."
"What kind of friend would I be if I made you sleep in the cold, Alfira? It’s alright." She laughs to herself, watching the tiefling settle into her bedroll. When she looks comfortable, her eyes close again.
"Goodnight, Nethandre."
"Goodnight, Alfira."
Nethandre drifts off to sleep like that, the fire crackling and popping beside them.
Nethandre is not in her bed.
The scent of blood overwhelms all other senses. Iron and rust, sweet and sticky, warm and inviting, coating her hands, her face, her hair, her chest. It’s everywhere. It’s all she is. It’s all she ever has been. This is what she wants. What she was made to do. It sings to her, calling, begging, ever so sweetly crying more, more, more, more, more—
Nethandre is not in her bed.
Lucidity manages to grasp her for just long enough to decide, no, no more. Her allies — her friends — they can't die, she won't let them. At her defiance, her head pulses and throbs, a beating war drum behind her eyes. The tiefling staggers back and forth, fighting against the sea of red and black, all that she is, all that she ever will be, trying to comprehend the sight before her.
Nethandre is not in her bed.
A body lies before her, guts torn out of its stomach, savaged and torn into overandoverandoverandover. She shudders in delight. What a beautiful sight — a lovely act of pure brutality, torn into and shredded so thoroughly it’s almost unrecognizable.
It’s Alfira. Alfira’s body.
The realization is a cold bucket of water, an icicle stabbing into her heart, forcing her to her knees with a sharp gasp. The haze clears, leaving her only with the horrible truth: She was the one responsible. What else could it be?
How could she do this? How could she do this to anyone? How could she do this to Alfira?
What the fuck is wrong with her?
She can’t tear her eyes away from the sight, lovely and horrible and beautiful and revolting and — and — and — gods. A choked whimper escapes her lips.
Her pretty skin is more red than blue at this point, and drained of color in the places the blood had not stained. Her eyes (once a beautiful orange, she recalls, surrounded by black just like hers,) have been ripped out of their sockets, a gaping red void all that remains of them. Alfira’s eyes were her favorite part of her smile. The crinkles at the corners when she was especially pleased was adorable.
Horns ripped off and then stabbed into her own chest, bloodied and broken. Fingers meticulously torn off, leaving bloody stumps in their absence. Alfira once used those fingers to strum a melody so strong it gave Nethandre new purpose. A melody that let Nethandre delude herself into believing she was a hero.
Unfortunately, heroes didn’t tear apart their friends.
Gods, there’s so much gore, but the beast that roars under her skin still wants more. Her bloodied fingers twitch. She wants to reach out and touch her. To squeeze her guts with her own two hands. To make new marks on the skin still unblemished.
She can’t, she can’t, she can’t—
Etched into her features is the memory of a last dying gasp, mouth stuck open in horror. How could you do this, she seems to say, still pleading with her even in death. I trusted you, she whispers.
"Come on, sing for me, songbird. You can do better than that."
Blood pours from her mouth in strangled gurgles. There’s nothing left she can say — her tongue’s already been torn out.
Without a second thought she slams her head on the ground, pain shooting through her skull with a shudder. She doesn't cry out at the sensation — she's practically numb to all forms of pain, although the answer to why lies forgotten. However, it served its purpose: The pain grounds her, tying her back to the miserable reality.
She wants to taste her — no, no she fucking doesn't. She whimpers at the idea, holding onto her own shoulders to keep them away from the body. No — No more. Please, please, please, just stop. Her arms ache with the phantom memory of her savagery, the dagger that tore into her until she was no more than a lifeless lump of meat, and then tore into her dozens of times more.
The blood is still heavy on her tongue.
The blood is still heavy on her tongue.
A dry sob rips its way through her body as she retches and heaves, falling to all fours, trying to erase the memory of blood (Alfira's blood, Alfira's fucking blood) from her mouth. It won't leave. It won't leave, she can't eject it from her body, it's there to stay. She can’t erase what she’s done.
She doesn't cry — she's not sure if her body even understands the concept, but there's nothing she wants more than to sob and throw up and stab herself over and over until she's even less recognizable than the body next to her.
All she knows anymore is that she doesn't deserve to live. This beast, the thing that killed Alfira, can't be unleashed on anyone else. When they wake, she will tell them what she’s done, and they will end her rotten excuse for a life.
Until then, Nethandre kneels at her side, completely numb.
How long has it been? Minutes, hours? Does it matter? Maybe the sun is rising, or maybe it’s already shining high in the sky. It doesn’t matter. She’s dead as soon as they discover her crime, anyways.
Shadowheart is the first to awaken. Faintly, she hears a gasp, and then a voice she’s only vaguely aware of. Everything is foggy. Muddled. She doesn’t feel particularly present at all. "Is that... Alfira?"
Nethandre says nothing. Her eyes are fixed on the ground, her tongue so heavy she cannot bring herself to speak.
"Gods, she was brutalized... Nethandre — was it you?" Breaking through the fog at last, the cleric’s voice comes through, sharp and true. She thinks there are boots in her peripheral vision.
"Kill me." The voice is cold, harsh, alien, but still hers. It's hers to own.
Her head snaps upwards to lock eyes with Shadowheart, baring her bloodied teeth. "I did it. Now kill me."
"I’m not just going to kill you—"
She stands up, rising to tower over Shadowheart, both desperation and raw malice in her voice. "Fucking kill me, you coward."
"Gods, it reeks of blood — eugh, it’s all over your mouth! Did you eat her?" Astarion peers at her from behind Shadowheart, and she crumbles, any hint of control or intimidation disappearing on his arrival. "Here I thought I was the only blood-drinking beast in this camp." He thinks he's so funny, doesn't he? He always has some sort of joke or jab to make. This is all a joke to him. Both Nethandre and Alfira's misery is funny. She wants to bash his fucking head on the rocks - if he thinks the state of Alfira's corpse is funny, she's about to be hilarious.
No. No! Focus. Pull yourself together. Nobody else can die today.
"There’s something— there’s something wrong with me," she chokes out. "You have to kill me."
"Well, yes, I think that’s obvious, but what’s wrong with you?"
The others have begun to gather. She feels like a cornered animal. There’s eyes everywhere she looks, boring into her, judgement-hate-fear-confusion. She doesn’t want to talk, she wants them to strike her down, stop asking questions just kill me just kill me just fucking kill me like I deserve—