Chapter Text
To put it lightly, Jaheira did not trust these adventurers.
The vines were normal procedure against strangers, as rare as they were. They had no reason to trust anybody who would willingly wander into the shadowlands, and her instincts hadn't failed her yet, not when each one was either a True Soul or a cultist with a similar inclination. She had no reason to think they'd be different. This time, there were four, but their apparent leader was who spiked Jaheira's interest. They all followed a tiefling clad in red that towered over the rest, large golden eyes always staring, oddly knowing. The woman tugged against her restraints, looking at the High Harper with such raw vitriol she briefly worried she would break free. Her vines were strong, but not invulnerable, and this large titan of a woman looked as if she had both the rage and the willpower to break out.
Instead of anything she expected, something odd happened: She went stiff, before willing herself to relax completely, now wearing an easy smile. “How uncouth! Legends lead me to expect better from the noble Jaheira.”
Oh. That was worse: She was obnoxious. Honestly, did she think she was trying to be funny? Another bard who thought she could charm her way out with humor? Jaheira had grown to hate most of the legends, and hated them being used against her even more. "It seems tales of my clemency have been greatly exaggerated,” she responded, only a hint of a joke in her voice.
Her Harpers surrounded the True Soul, a few taking aim with their crossbows, and the tiefling started to struggle again. The vitriol returned, and this time, it remained.
“I will make you regret this, High Harper. " The title was spat with vitriol, with hatred, with mockery. “You can't contain me for long.” Her voice was almost a low, heavy growl, some strange guttural noise from deep in her throat, another rapid switch from that brief peek at a carefree demeanor. Her hand moved to her blade, twitching with anticipation. It was … unsettling, and Jaheira wasn’t disturbed by much anymore.
“You are brave to try, but bravery is not enough. It's four against every Harper here: You will not win this fight.” From her pack, Jaheira retrieved it: A mind flayer tadpole, stolen from one of those True Souls before it could scutter away to find a new host last time one of them tried to infiltrate the inn.
Her eyes widened at the sight, and she began to struggle harder, whispering to herself, “nonononono…”
Hah. So she knew. That was rare for the cultists. The ones they had met did not know what really controlled them. “This is why we’re here, you see. It’s a curious creature that hides all manner of secrets. But, if there’s one thing we know…” She raised it closer to the True Soul, watching the worm caged in the jar squirm, the tiefling’s eyes squeezing shut in pain when a psionic wave connected them.
“It’s that it knows its own kind.”
“Stop — stop this,” she choked out, desperation finally taking hold. “Please, I—”
She looked pitiful, begging for her life like this, as if the game wasn't long up. All of these cultists were the same — it was beginning to bore her. “You should never have come here, True Soul.” Jaheira prepared a firebolt in her hand, readying an attack.
Her yellow eyes flit around rapidly, searching for somebody to give her mercy, but there were no allies for her in this place. “Please, I — I’m not a True Soul, you have to believe me, I — “ Jaheira waited for the resignation to fall. Instead, something else flickered in her eyes: hope.
“Stop!” She heard a cry from behind her, a child’s voice.
"Mol! Mol, you're okay," she cried out in relief, her own predicament completely forgotten. "Thank the Gods!"
When Jaheira turned to look where the True Soul’s gaze landed, one of the tiefling children was approaching quickly, and she was angry. "What's you doing? She's the one who saved us!"
The tieflings have told the broad stroke of this story before, but linking a face to the tale has made her feel a little … foolish. Mol is a crafty sort, a brilliant kid who demanded respect. and so she already understood getting her trust was no small feat. “ She’s the one who protected the Emerald Grove?”
Jaheira saw it, now. They had described an amnesiac bard, a massive woman with an almost otherworldly (and somewhat unsettling, the wizard had added,) presence, but a kind heart. Mol seemed to agree, looking at the large woman in front of them with pride.
“Yup! Didn’t leave a goblin standing. Not so bad to hang around with either. Saved two of my friends — one from a harpy, and one from a mad druid with a snake. Didn’t make a fuss of our thieving, either. I’d pretty much trust her with my life.”
The strange tiefling, the Emerald Grove's apparent savior, looked at the girl with nothing but fondness. “I didn’t know you thought so highly of me, Mol! It’s an honor, really.”
It didn’t make sense, though. The parasite dominated all, leaving only mindless servants. As much as she wanted to believe this, it left more questions than answers. “A True Soul with a mind of her own? How is this possible?”
After some hesitation (and a threat,) she explained her story. A gith artefact, a creche, a mysterious visitor — it’s all odd to her, but she’s so earnest she has to believe it. She introduced herself as Nethandre, a traveling bard with amnesia hoping the cure to her group’s parasites could be found in Moonrise.
Her voice bled with desperation and hope with every word. "Fighting, running, searching. Killing and killing and killing and —" Her voice wavered, and she forced a deep breath in before continuing. "My memory is gone. I'm unsure if it's the parasite or ... something deeper, but it means this mad search is all I know. I just want to be free of this wild chase, so I can rest. Moonrise is our last hope."
When the True Soul — no, Nethandre left, promising she will visit her soon to speak more, she wants to hope against hope that this woman could be her savior. But, she can’t help but think of the violent glint in her eyes, the growl in her voice, the hand wavering dangerously close to her blade with a twitch when she does.
There’s no name to this familiarity, not yet, but it digs at her all the same.