Chapter Text
There was a plan, finally. A time limit for how long Amarthiel must hold their mask, though the mask had already become pitifully thin. Yet, knowing there would be an end... a well of fortitude bubbled up from below. It was tainted and feeble, but just enough to make the rounds one last time.
The first stop would be the only thing on the top floor, besides rooms full of broken equipment and Amarthiel’s little hideaway… the infirmary. Their jaw clenched as they stepped through the ragged curtain that separated the room from the cramped hallway.
Amid the forms resting in the cots, only one was awake, if one could even call it awake. There he was, young Lilan Harpell. Jet black hair pasted to his face by a perpetually dewy layer of perspiration. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and sweat. Peppernell, a young halfling illusionist with a face like a beloved child's doll, held his hand, trying to find something in his gray eyes as they stared into nothingness with a permanent expression of bliss.
“Look at you,” she whispered with deep affection. “Still alive. Where there is breath, there is hope”
Amarthiel scowled. “It would be better if he had perished. This… hopeless in between does no one any favors”
Peppernell's big brown eyes welled up with tears, but she bit her lip and responded with unexpected fire. "Lots of people care for him, Ama! He's not just a burden to be tossed away. You used to understand that."
Amarthiel was not swayed “It would be better if no one had loved him at all. So much worse knowing that when we find someone to bring him back to Longsaddle, what hearts he will break. Better when there is no one to grieve”
Better when there is no one to grieve.
Peppernell’s eyes, now brimming with defiance, locked onto theirs. "Better when there is no one to grieve? How can you say that? We all grieve, and we all care."
With that, she stood up, tiny fists curled defiantly. "Maybe it's not Lilan who's stuck in the hopeless in-between. Maybe it's you." She stalked off, her diminutive form bristling with anger.
As she left, Ama felt no remorse for Peppernell, no guilt for threatening the little illusionist’s precious illusions. But a wave of it washed over them for Elzer, who would invariably have to absorb her venting about this exchange. Amarthiel sighed, weighed down by the burden their bitter fatigue placed on the rest of the troupe. Yet, they could not muster regret for rejecting the entire notion of morale—only pity for their friends who still clung to it.
What had hope ever gotten them? A fleeting respite traded for pain with compounded interest. Was there any scam more insidious in any thieves' guild than hope? It bought nothing but a hopeless in-between, a cruel jest of existence.
“Your bedside manner is atrocious,” a dry voice quipped from a corner. Gret, the cleric, had made herself so at home in the infirmary that she almost seemed a part of it, a camouflage of familiarity surrounding her movements. Though human, she had a thick goblin accent, having spent the first two decades of her life as a foundling of sorts. No one's path to The Exiles was ever boring.
“My bedside manner?”, Amarthiel asked, “There was a time when I thought I was just saying what everyone was thinking”
Gret scoffed out a laugh. “Well, you say things that go through my mind often enough. But I've been through it with death. She's just a kid. Let her be one.”
How had pure little Peppernell ended up there? Ah, right… foolish, idealistic Lilan had scooped her up a few stops ago, last season. “Are The Exiles really a place to be a kid?”
Gret paused to reflect, her calloused hands beating at various herbs in a mortar and pestle. “Sometimes I think it's a dark reflection of the childhoods we were denied. Or not. Beats the hells out of where I came up. Or Westgate.”
“Westgate beat the hells out of us,” Amarthiel scowled at the shape of Westgate out the window. “What is this meant to do for us? Grieve the childhoods we could never have by acting even more powerfully unhinged than we were allowed or able as weak children?”
Gret Laughed “Sure. Sometimes I think it's a reflection of the childhoods we weren't given. With a big shout back to breaking up what miserable shit we were given, with a side of making other people taste it through the art, see if it's familiar or not. There's a balance, yeh?”
“You clerics of Silvanus and your balance. Why do you stay in a chaotic place like this if you love balance so much?”
Her smile widened mischievously “I like to fight for it”
Amarthiel sighed. “A miserable childhood having to fight for everything. Why look for more scraps to get into?”
“Ah, the scrap foisted on you is one thing. But the scrap you choose? Tastes different.”
Still, she has battles to fight. Why can't I?
Amarthiel sighed. “Well, I did spend much of my childhood lurking in a hospice watching people die gruesomely. Am I revisiting this bitter scrap in some useful manner to you? Or just… getting in the way?”, they glared as if daring Gret to say anything other than the latter.
“Hand me that bowl and we can call it a draw… for now.”
Ama handed her the bowl, knowing Gret’s little subtle ways of drawing people in, getting them involved. “Your energy is wasted on me. Leave your scraps for the young ones, Gret.”
“You ain't as old as you think, if you think you can tell me what to do, little ‘un. Send me up a bushel of wolfsbane when you are done with the rounds. You owe me that much.”
“How do you know I'm doing the rounds? I haven't done so…”
“You’d not have come here otherwise. You always start here, then to the main stage, then the perimeter…”
Ama sighed at Gret’s perceptiveness and headed for the curtain door.
“Wolfsbane! Promise me!”
“I promise, I'll get you wolfsbane by tonight”, Amarthiel gritted their teeth, resenting that Gret knew they could break a mountain with their bare hands easier than a promise to a friend.
Just one last time. Wandering through the troupe, Amarthiel felt a weight lifted off of their shoulders. They floated through a camp which had only just before been bearing down with the weight of a thousand stones. As Amarthiel moved among their fellow troupe members, their heart felt oddly light. Each step was both a farewell and a silent blessing.
The Exiles had made their camp in the derelict hall, transforming it into a labyrinth of makeshift stages, hidden alcoves, and dimly lit spaces where performers could practice their dark and morbid arts. In the off hours, everything was rough and chaotic, a makeshift shanty town of stages and strange installations, nothing like the otherworldly landscapes they would become for showtime.
Ivy climbed the walls, and the once-grand entrance was partially collapsed, creating an eerie gateway into the troupe’s temporary haven. The interior was a maze of sloping rooms and forgotten corridors, each filled with the ghosts of past crafts. The landscape was littered with textiles, many of which had been hung back up in various states of destruction.
The atmosphere was one of eerie beauty, with enchanted lanterns casting flickering light and shadows that danced along the swaying makeshift fabric walls. The air was thick with the scent of old wood, mildew, pipeweed smoke and the ever present incense.
Golden incense cones had been distributed to mourn their losses, a troupe-specific tradition whose origin was not well known, but traced back to the curse of The Dogrose Ramblers, another troupe that had fallen to tragedy decades ago. Amarthiel’s mother, Rubani, had been one of the few survivors. Walking past the cones brought them back to the hospice in the bowels of Iriaebor, which had been under constant threat of shutdown. Their brother and them, two tiny mascots of death, smiles pasted on, taking lessons in gallows humor and sparring from veterans who would soon have nothing left to teach but the void they left behind. Rubani had survived the slow obliteration of her comrades, though not without scars for her and her children. But Amarthiel was not their mother. Rubani had never quite understood that.
Despite her damage, she could always rally. Why can’t I?
The Westgate performances lived up to everyone’s fears, and the air surrounding the camp was predictably weary and tense, in equal measure. The location itself had been as secluded and neglected as foreseen. Though Elzer’s divination, aided by their circle of seers, had protected them from whatever dangers even Westgate could throw at them from the outside, it had not been enough to save them from themselves.
In Westgate, their performance had revolved around the theme “Visions of the Abyss,” delving into despair and redemption while drawing parallels to the city’s own treacherous allure. Their shows were more akin to a private, mystical gathering than a public performance, and was a tightly controlled and contained affair. The intense, often dangerous nature of their art required it. The performers used powerful illusions and enchantments to create an immersive experience that brought the audience face-to-face with their deepest fears and desires. It was a delicate balance to maintain—thrilling, challenging the crowd without letting the dark themes spill into chaos.
But art had imitated life had imitated art; the lure of Westgate, with its dark alleys and whispered secrets, had proved too strong for some. The city, known for its shadowy dealings and forbidden pleasures, had whispered its siren song even this far into the rural areas outside of Westgate proper. Many in the troupe had felt the pull, never to return; the Shrouded Boys had fallen victim to a scam involving shadow magic, minds forever lost. Lilan Harpell, Fenny the Firebrand, and a few others had slipped into Westgate on rumors of a potent magical drug that promised a night of pure euphoria. Two had returned with extensive psychic damage; Fenny had not survived a single dose.
Ryl, the fiery-haired tiefling acrobat, sat mending her costume near a fire, her tail flicking absently as she worked. She looked up, her eyes meeting Amarthiel’s with an expectant glint. “Ama, have you seen the new routine I’m working on?” she asked, her voice filled with forced cheerfulness. Fenny had been her best friend. “Your work gets better every time I see it. You are no longer paying homage to your influences, you are lighting your own path.” Knowing Amarthiel was unable to pretend a review, Ryl’s eyes lit up with pride for a moment, and then loss. Fenny would not be there to see.
A skittering sound coming up to them could only mean Cheeky the kobold wanted to have words. “I see you had a word with the boss eh?”
Amarthiel sighed “We don't have a boss”
His beady little eyes regarded them quizzically, and in a voice that brooked no argument he said “Starpool exiles, Elzer Starpool, Elzer’s the boss”.
“No, Cheeky, we use the Starpool to stay safe; it is a divination rite, and a pen name…”
Even now, at the end of everything, I am trying to explain the universe to Cheeky. I always did like impossible tasks.
“No pen name! The boss! Tell me what secret mission you are on!” The kobold demanded.
Amarthiel sighed. “I’m going to Baldur’s Gate. To, ummm…”
“To kill people?” Cheeky asked hopefully.
“More or less, I suppose,” Amarthiel answered. Just one, in all likelihood.
“Lucky,” Cheeky whined.
Amarthiel then approached a group gathered around a small fire, listening to Niza, the vampire spawn bard, play a gentle tune on her lute, her signature claw style on display. Curled up next to her, a Shadow Mastiff lay with its head leaning into her lap, its dark form blending almost seamlessly with the shadows. The creature’s eyes glowed softly, reflecting the firelight. The melody was melancholic, matching the mood of the camp, and Amarthiel found peace in its familiarity.
They sat on the edge of the circle, letting the music wash over them, feeling as though they were already a ghost among the living. Then one of their favorites started, “Your thirst has drained me”, a song full of yearning. They had bonded over sharing that song with Nessa, who appreciated the additional double meaning for one of her kind. Ama found they were able to join in to the verses one last time. Niza caught their eye and smiled softly, her pale fingers never faltering on the strings. “We’ll miss your voice in the harmonies,” she said quietly. Few things got past Niza’s perception. Amarthiel nodded, unable to muster more than a faint, appreciative smile for her discretion.
Passing by a secluded corner of the hall, Amarthiel noticed a prodigious pile of trash and refuse near the wall, a mess of discarded fabrics, broken tools, and other detritus. It was here that Gilder, the troupe’s Otyugh, made his bed. At first, he was hard to see, his mottled, grotesque form blending seamlessly with the clutter. Only when Amarthiel moved closer did they see his tentacles shift and his beady eyes blink open.
Amarthiel stopped to pet the mottled hide of Gilder, whose three large tentacles waved lazily in the air. Despite his fearsome appearance, they recognized the gleam in his gruesome eyes as relaxed anticipation. He leaned into Amarthiel’s touch with a low, contented rumble, his massive maw opening in what could only be described as a friendly grin. “Take care of them for me, old friend,” Amarthiel whispered. Gilder only rumbled, “Friend!”, and continued to wave his tentacle towards them as they walked away. Gilder had been acquired in the sewers of Waterdeep, but had certainly grown in the years since, dining on the trash the exiles generated.
Nearby, a group of younger troupe members were practicing a new dance routine. Their movements were fluid, yet tinged with a raw, unrefined energy that spoke of their recent induction into the Exiles. Westgate had given them souls as it had taken souls away, it seemed. Among them were a drow illusionist and a dragonborn fire dancer, their magical abilities adding a mesmerizing flair to the performance. Amarthiel watched them for a moment, feeling a pang of nostalgia for the days when they and their twin brother, Revalin, would dance with such abandon. Followed by a wave of fatigue. So much work they had left unfinished.
The new members gushed with ideas and radiated enthusiasm. All Amarthiel could long for was destruction. All they could remember was how much potential in the world was thoughtlessly crushed. And how little civilization deserved or appreciated what potential did come out… how poorly the world treated what dream did manage to say its name into the open air, only to be twisted, unheard, exploited, or corrupted.
Amarthiel reached the halfway point of the perimeter. Still, so many people to see, a gruesome cadre of creatures to give one last treat or scritch. But something clicked inside, and they knew the well was dry. Their rounds were over. Just one more frayed thread never to be tied. They tersely barked at the two suddenly anxious newcomers to take wolfsbane to the infirmary immediately, breaking their idealistic reveries and avoiding Gret in one fell swoop, and trudged out of the main camp.
The trail finally wound around to the grassy hill where the seer's pavilion was tucked away. Amarthiel knew most of them would be with Elzer, in the lit area at the far left of the pavilion, reflections of the starpool casting shadows off of the canvas. They would be focusing through the night to protect their people as best they could.
They felt a tug of guilt for not being there. Amarthiel’s own talent was of little practical use next to the other more conventional seers, but a lifetime of puzzling out nursery rhymes and riddles from beyond had still given them a sense of the grim tangle of time. And before suffering the final stage of brokenness, they had been known for their ability to find patterns in the chaos, when their talents were linked in the star pool.
Perhaps it was partially that ability to see patterns that had eventually led to being unable to bend or adapt any longer to what seemed like an endless recurrence of senseless ugliness… being reminded again and again that you can see danger and loss coming from years away and still not find anything to trade it with but different flavors of loss. Knowledge was not power. It was pain.
Why did my brother leave? What did he see that I cannot? He had always been stronger with the sight, when sober. Not that he had ever wanted anyone to know he had talents that might lead to chores.
It didn't matter anymore. when Revalin had left, every which way they looked at fate, anyone following him had represented death in too many forms.
The seer's tent was predictably quiet on the opposite side to the starpool, most of them hard at work. Amid the comfortable clutter near their things, Amarthiel could make out Ouli’s form on the cot nearby. The rock gnome's mop of thick brown hair covered her face and shoulders, but she must have been exhausted. She seemed to have curled up with her work clothing on and fallen asleep half out of her bedsheets. An artificer who maintained the wards that their ill-fated troupe members had slipped out of, Ouli had been working day and night to improve them. She had been tireless, acting as though she had pushed them into their fates with her own hands.
Amarthiel looked at their small friend, who still had grease on her fingers, and her boots were barely kicked off of her feet.
Still, she gives. Why can't I?
There was a chill through the tent. Amarthiel moved to bring her blanket up to her shoulders, and the sound of a little bell rang in the air. Ouli's little hand grabbed theirs. It was stronger than it looked.
“A trap?” Amarthiel asked.
“That is kind of my thing,” Ouli reminded them. “I didn't want you to leave before—”
“I thought you hated goodbyes as much as I did,” Amarthiel said
“Not a goodbye, I have some things for you,” Ouli corrected
Amarthiel sighed. They didn't need things anymore, but it would be rude to admit as much. Ouli deserved more. So, they took a breath and stilled themself to attentiveness.
She started rifling in her toolbag, which she always kept near her pillow. “Some things I got from an aunt over in Thesk. I suspect they may behave similarly to your singing gems… I think you can use them with your music, give them a try”, she took out three rounded flat stones the size of their palm, that looked almost like river stones, all a dull peach color.
Dutifully, ama laid a hand on one, and it lit up. Ama focused their storm energy through one of the stones. It felt different from cat eye or chrysoberyl, but their soft humming easily echoed through the stones. It was the sort of revelation that would once have called for breaking out a bottle of apple brandy. Now Amarthiel struggled to make any comment at all. “Singing stone. this is remarkable, very interesting-”, they forced out
Ouli gave their friend a side eye. “I know you aren't in the mood. You don’t have to pretend. Just please promise you'll keep them in your sanctum, just in case.”
A simple promise. They are all letting me off easy, really.
Amarthiel nodded “I so pledge to keep them in my sanctum, in case I need them”.
Between seers in the troupe, stating one's intentions was not a casual affair—each of them knew that a set intention was grasping a specific thread in time. And though Ouli did not herself work with the energies, she set the stage for all of them, devising the mechanical ways they visualized what information they gathered, sorting through possibilities.
Amarthiel had hoped to avoid Ouli, who had always been their favorite friend to bunk near when the exiles camped in closer quarters, indulging in rambling conversations that stretched into the night, reveling in their different but overlapping love of searching for patterns in everything.
Ouli had been to so many places in her 200 years, witnessed and invented so many things. She was brilliant, but always seemed amused to get their opinion - even if it was about some mechanical wonder that Amarthiel barely understood. Ouli, ever patient, would tell a story about her latest project using metaphors and simple analogies and eventually laugh and congratulate them for “building something with her.”
After Revalin had left, it had been painful to be reminded every night that Amarthiel could no longer pretend to have curiosity anymore, that whatever imagination had once been engaged by Ouli’s colorful theories was gone.
There was a pause to the humming and chanting on the far end of the tent, and Ouli wrapped the singing stones into a worn calfskin bag, handing it to Amartheil. “He’s ready for you. Until we meet again”, Ouli smiled. “Now get a move on, I do hate goodbyes”
Amarthiel gratefully retreated, Ouli's words echoing in their head, ‘until we meet again’. I’m so sorry, Ouli. But they were tired enough of being sorry that their shame could no longer restrain them, either.
As they made their way back to Elzer, ready to embark on their solitary journey to the cave in Baldur's Gate, Amarthiel felt a strange sense of clarity. The weight of their decision had lifted, leaving behind a tranquil emptiness. They were ready to disappear, to slip away into the unknown, their final act of defiance against a life that had become unbearable.