Gale, shockingly, is no help whatso-fucking-ever.
"What do you mean, you have no idea?" Astarion demands. "Isn't magic supposed to be your area of expertise?"
"Well, believe it or not, I've had no use or reason for studying the nature and history of vampiric traditions, Astarion," Gale replies. "If you've questions in regard to the Weave, of-"
"Yes, yes," Astarion cuts him off. "I'll come find you should I seek information on Mystra's tits."
He's already walking away, when Gale calls after him.
"I mean to head to Sorcerer's Sundries when we enter the city gates - perhaps you could find your answers there!"
Astarion pauses.
"It's home to all manner of mysterious tomes," he continues. "This is in regard to the Ascension, I assume?"
"Yes," Astarion lies through his teeth. "Just hoping to find more information on the Ascension."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Aysla is washing up by the river, but no matter how she scrubs, her skin crawls. Like the dirt is underneath it, inside of it, a part of it. Killing the man at the bar did not wash the ghost of him from her skin - just seeing him brought on a feeling of unwashable filth that his death did little to assuage.
It's moments like these where she feels the familiar urge to reach for a drink, or two, or ten.
Despite it being the once bitter vice he allowed her in those dark times, Davidus had always hated her drinking - which did nothing but spur her on further. It served dual purpose, being the only crutch she had to lean on for escape, and a spite to the man that caged her.
But Astarion hasn't ever even asked her to stop. No one has for ages, for once - either out of politeness, or just the common courtesy of deciding to not tell her, as an equal, what to do.
And that has the opposite effect on Aysla. She can see the chest in the center of the camp from where she stands. Full of wine, whiskey, and various snacks and supplies. It would be so easy to reach for it. Everyone else in camp is getting ready; they wouldn't even notice.
But for some reason, the idea makes Aysla feel guilty. As if she would let her companions down somehow? A little voice in her head tells her they probably wouldn't even care.
But then she remembers how Astarion jumped back into her bedroll to cuddle with her, with all the eagerness of a golden retriever. And she remembers what a piece of shit she is when she drinks. And she can't do it.
So she tries something that, initially, makes her want to drink even more; she towels off, finds a soft spot of grass, and sits cross-legged. Then she closes her eyes, and breathes.
Meditating? Praying? She feels stupid, whatever she calls it. But she knows that there's only two ways to reach her deva, if you didn't count dying as a viable option, and that's either sleeping, or this embarrassing sort of quiet, solemn, reaching out of her mind.
It takes her several minutes to focus on the not-focusing. Then several more for her breathing to deepen. Then, when she is finally so deeply tranced that she forgets to keep track of time, she finds it.
She feels the presence in the darkness of her mind's eye.
Hello, old friend - old enemy? Asyla projects the thought from her consciousness.
Images flicker in her mind - she was a child, shaking in her bed after a nightmarish celestial vision she wasn't prepared for - a dream of her dog dying. She wept to her mother before being chastised and sent back to sleep. The dog died a week later in a gruesome carriage incident.
"I only ever helped you - showed you the plan."
Aysla doesn't know what to make of that. And what plan is that?
Images of Aysla, about a year after escaping Davidus - stumbling around in the dark, so drunk that she barely controls her limbs. The last thing she remembers is tripping over one of the corks of her emptied bottles, before losing time; she woke up hours later with a bump on her head, in a pool of her own vomit. It was one of the times she came the closest to achieving her mission of drinking herself to death.
"You're not ready - look how you overreact."
Aysla does her best to stay calm enough to remain in the trance-state she's in. Low blow, she thinks aloud.
Images of her recurring dream - a building burning, puddled blood.
"What would you like to know?"
Aysla has tried to put together that repetitive vision, but she can't fathom what it means, still. What are you trying to tell me? What am I supposed to do? What is going to happen? she asks.
The images stop playing altogether. Through the blackness cuts a bright, white light.
"It is already written."
Fucking what is written? I promise not to drink myself into oblivion - just give me a hint, Aysla requests.
It is quiet for a moment in her mind.
"Justice."
The light is blinding.
"That is all you need to know."
Then she's pushed from that plane of consciousness with a rush, landing back in her own skin.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The road of the crossing to the Gate hustles and bustles with all the likes of city folk, shoppers, travelers - just as it did yesterday, and just as it always has.
Aysla grits her teeth as she, Astarion, Gale and Lae'zel pass the Flophouse. She tries to ignore the thoughts of the dark-hired man, Rolf, and how he had touched her, long ago, just like so many others - trying to focus on more constructive ones.
Stabbing, stabbing, stabbing; pushing out to sea.
It does make her feel marginally better. Maybe it's what her celestial friend meant by 'justice.'
A little curly-haired dwarven woman stares at them from the opposite end of the street. "If it isn't Raphael's favorite little misadventurers!" she calls out.
"Always with this fucking guy - why doesn't he just camp with us at this point?" Aysla mutters to herself.
"I forget we've never met - I've had eyes and ears on you for so long, we feel like old friends," she continues. "He's rented a room upstairs, hoping you would drop by."
They eye the building - a whorehouse. Aysla glares at Korilla, wondering if that's meant as some cruel joke on her, or Astarion's, behalf. But the dwarf woman smiles innocently.
"Fine," Aysla grumbles.
She looks at Astarion to find him looking tenses as well. He grabs her hand, which is all that she had been hoping for.
As they enter, treading the thick, wine-colored carpet through the aberrant crowd of johns and courtesans, the two of them garner stares. Aysla wonders briefly what the gawkers think of them, as they ogle; which one of them do they assume is the paying customer, versus the merchandise?
They pass a drow couple. The man leers at Aysla, and the woman at Astarion. The girl, beautiful and scantily clad, opens her mouth to say something to them as they pass. Aysla simply grips his hand tighter, and with her unoccupied one, lifts her blade just slightly from its scabbard at her hip. She flashes the silver and curls her lip at the woman, who closes her mouth, smartly. They keep walking.
Astarion remains unreadable, but he sees her in his peripheral vision, tense and defensive. And he's glad for it. For all his talk of vengeance, he feels weak in a place like this - like a stupid piece of meat set out on a tray, at the whim and mercy of every goggling face they pass.
Deep down, he knows he's stronger now, theoretically. He's not compelled. He should not feel as afraid as he is; he should not feel this feebly, poignantly small.
But the little dagger of a woman beside him does not feel weak; she feels vengeful. And he squeezes back, like a good luck charm, hoping to imbue himself with some amount of her steel.
They finally round the stairs, hearing shouting as they approach.
Entering the room, they see Raphael in the room, in heated discussion with a Githyanki knight.
"You must hear me, devil," he pleads. I will do whatever it takes - give you anything you ask."
"You do not have what I want, and you never will, Voss - but they do," Raphael replies.
"Please," he begs, looking at Lae'zal, "this devil holds the key to freeing the gith people. Whatever you discuss - please come find me afterwards."
Lae'zel looks wide-eyed.
"I'm glad you're here," Raphael says, turning to the group as he waves the githyanki man off. "At the final reckoning."
He snaps his fingers. Aysla, Astarion, Lae'zel and Gale look between themselves. For once, they cannot hear the chatter of each other's consciousness - a constant white noise that had gone on so long that they all but stopped noticing it.
Raphael looks self-satisfied. "I'm true to my word. I can make all of this tadpole business go away. Let us speak plain - you've impressed me."
He turns to Lae'zel, now. "You want to free your prince, do you not?"
"I want nothing more," she agrees eagerly.
"I can give you the means. The Orphic Hammer - the only artifact that can break his chains, is held securely in my House of Hope," he offers.
"And what do you want in exchange, devil?" Astarion counters. Surely there must be some terrible price.
"I want the crown that dominates the elder brian. A crown for a hammer - a bargain of a lifetime."
Gale pipes up, turning towards his companions. "Handing that crown to this devil would be like feeding gunpowder to a lava worm - we will agree to nothing!"
Aysla ponders it for a moment.
"Better for me to have it than those gods and monsters that fight over this city's soul," he adds.
"It sounds like the consensus is a no," Aysla says plainly.
"Very well," Raphael sneers, looking offended. "I'll be here, in case you see reason - up until the moment the world ends. But you will turn on each other, before this is over. Mark my words."
Something in his words leaves an impression on Aysla, who is already sick to the gills with prophecies. But they exit his room, and the chatterings in their minds return.
The Guardian's voice speaks to them, sounding worried. "There you are - I was worried I'd lost you. I couldn't hear your thoughts."
"Good," Aysla replies. "It was nice to have some peace and quiet."
"I should have known the devil would come sniffing," the Guardian replies. "What did he want with you?"
"A deal. We told him no." Aysla's tone is curt.
"Good," he sighs with relief. "Though I doubt this will be the last time you are approached by him."
Astarion smiles a little to himself, as he recalls his machinations when they had first met. He had only hoped she'd be a useful ally, maybe protect him long enough until he could find Cazador.
But she overdelivers. He had wished for half-hearted loyalty at best - the ability to guilt her into protecting him, in exchange for his services. But he wasn't providing any services any longer. And yet ; inexplicably protective, devoted, and loyal.
They pass the drow pair wordlessly on their way out.
Aysla still has one hand on her hilt, the other in Astarion's, as they leave.