Chapter Text
Asher hated magic. Specifically, he hated his own magic. Instead of being blessed by the gods, or drawing power from nature, or knowledge from endless study, Asher’s magic was born from chaos. Raw magic, he heard people call it. A pain in the ass, he called it. His magic was a wild, uncontrollable storm he had weathered all his life, and suffered the random bouts of destruction it left in its wake.
He had done everything in his power to run from it, with varying levels of success.
He could never go home again, and he didn’t stay anywhere else long enough to call home. He could hide his burn scars with enchantments. He could change his name; he could change as many times as he needed to, with a new story for every town. But when the storm inevitably caught up to him and fucked everything up… well, there was always the next town.
However, this time he was well and truly stuck. Being injected with a psionic tadpole that threatened to turn him, and the other sorry bastards he’d been trapped with, into mindflayers at any moment would do that. There was no running away from this storm.
And so, this had become the new reality for Asher. Camping, goblins, gnolls, giant spiders, camping, vampires, hags, druids, drow, and yet more camping. Asher never thought he could miss second-rate inn beds so much. He would gladly trade bed bug bites for the constant bruising he got from rocks under his back, or the dirt that seemed to cling to him no matter how many times he bathed.
As for his new camping companions...
Asher had learned the hard way to travel alone. Frequently moving due to the ever-present risk of his ‘condition’ acting up in public, as well as the various occasions it did so, did not lend itself to helping him to form long-term relationships. And, as he had so painfully learned, seeking out a bedfellow for the night was especially disastrous. The walls and foundation of the Brumblebee’s inn spontaneously turning into goose feathers wasthe least excruciating intimate experience he had been involved in.
Now though, he was expected to spend every waking moment surrounded by other people while somehow not blowing everyone up. Miraculously, for the last tenday, he had managed to do so. His charm, or perhaps his extensive practice of pretending to be normal, endeared him to his companions. They had even made him their de-facto leader. In combat, he relied on his daggers, as casting any magic would heighten the chances of a wild magic surge, from which anything could happen. The result of this was that, as far as his companions knew, Asher was just an ordinary rogue. No magic, cataclysmic or otherwise, whatsoever. Which was how he liked it.
Of course, as was the story of his life, he had to fuck it up sooner or later.
Lae’zel’s long-awaited reunion with the githyanki patrol unit ended in a spectacularly bad fashion, with their leader siccing four pissed githyanki warriors on the party. Astarion didn’t have a moment to run or hide before he was downed by a single blow of a githyanki’s silver sword. Lae’zel was barely holding her own against two of her brethren. The final githyanki had taken one look at Gale and, deciding he was the next biggest threat, peppered him with crossbow bolts. Gale managed to shield himself from most of them, but caught one in the thigh, forcing him down onto his knee. Seeing their chance to finish Gale off, the githyanki strode forward, drawing her greatsword from its sheath.
Before Asher even had time to think, he stepped between the two of them. His whole body churned with barely held back energy. He dropped his dagger and raised his arm. It was shaking from the force of the magic writhing under his skin, begging to be unleashed. This time he allowed it, letting go of his carefully cultivated control, and releasing the magic within.
A Thunderwave exploded from his tingling fingers, splitting the air with a mighty crack, blasting the githyanki off their feet. The githyanki flew backwards, losing her grip on her weapon, and landed hard on her side, stunned. She wasn’t the only one. Everyone turned to gawp at what had just happened.
He felt the brief sense of relief he got from emptying himself of some of his magic. That feeling quickly evaporated as his stores of magic instantly refilled itself, and then began to overflow.
Asher clutched his sides in a useless attempt to hold back the tides of unspent power that threatened to burst from his bones.
“No, no,” he begged. “Not again. Not here. Please.”
Lae’zel cocked her head, as if sensing the imminent threat, or at least wondering why their fearless leader was bent in half shamelessly pleading with the air.
Gale, still down on one knee, stared at him with naked surprise. Of course he would. Asher had never shown a hint of magic. Gale had never given him a second thought after their introduction that established Asher as just an unremarkable rogue, unworthy of his attention. But now here he was, blasting githyanki left and right, doubled over with the magical equivalent of the runs.
Even the githyanki halted their attack to regard him warily, as one would a freshly tossed bomb. Which was rather apt as a second later Asher exploded with wild magic. The surge sent a wave of chaotic energy out in every direction. The air fizzled with electricity, and everyone winced as a cloud of dust briefly obscured the battlefield.
When the dust finally cleared, there, stood in Asher’s place was…
A sheep.
Everyone, githyanki included, stared at the unexpected ungulate.
Gale was the first to speak. “A-Asher?”
Asher couldn’t bear to look at him. At anyone. He wished he still had hands so he could cover his face. But it was no use, they had all seen. They all knew. Gale knew.
The githyanki that had first attacked Gale snapped out of her shock, jumping to her feet, and retrieved her greatsword in one, slick move. She advanced on Gale, raising her blade high. Asher, again acting on stupid instinct (where had his sense of self-preservation gone?!) urged his sheep body into a charge. Asher rammed the warrior in the stomach, as hard as he could. The githyanki was evidently unprepared for this and the two toppled to the ground. Asher’s sheepy bulk managed to wind her, as he landed heavily on top of her.
By now, the others had also recovered from their initial surprise and continued the fight. The strangeness of what just happened seemed to have offput the githyanki enough that they actually stood a chance of beating them.
Lae’zel took one githyanki and rose to meet the two that took their place with vicious confidence.
Gale was on his feet, favouring one leg, and firing off magic missiles at a rapid-fire rate.
Asher was a sheep.
After his uncharacteristically heroic ramming, there was little he could do but watch and wait. Change back, change back, changebackchangebackchangeFUCKINGback! He stomped his hooves in impotent frustration. Mortification burned within him. He would never recover from this. Any standing he had with the others just went down in spectacular flames. They’d never respect him again and, once they learned what he was really capable of, never trust him again. He would have to leave again, only this time, there would be nowhere to run to. Sooner or later, he would either die from ceremorphosis, or turn into a mindflayer. And a mindflayer with his abilities was too horrifying to even think about.
While he was having his pity party, the fight continued, ending unceremoniously with a final swing of Lae’zel’s sword. When the last enemy fell, she spat on the ground and cursed her fellow githyanki. Astarion pried his face from the ground and looked around in a daze. Gale was the first to approach Asher, hands on his hips with a bemused look on his face, as if he still couldn’t believe what he was looking at.
“Asher?” Gale said, half-smiling. Asher thought it looked like he could barely hold back his laughter.
Well, Asher had had enough of being laughed at, at being shouted at. He was sick of the tears, and the insults, and the accusations. He might actually die of embarrassment if Gale looked at him for one second more.
So, he did the mature thing, and fled. As fast as his silly little sheep legs could carry him.
It took hours for the spell to wear off, and hours more before Asher could bring himself to return to camp. By then, the moon shone high in the sky, and the campfire burned low in its logs. Half the team had retired for the night. Though notably, those from the battle that day remained awake. Which was just perfect, really.
Given there was no option for stealth with so many people standing around clearly waiting for him, he slinked into camp with all the dignity he could muster. Which was not a lot.
Astarion, with his tent customarily set up far from the others was the first to encounter him.
“Well, darling,” he smirked, and he really was holding back his laughter. “I heard you put on quite the show. Who knew we had an entertainer in our midst? Such a shame I missed it. You’ll have to give me an encore sometime.”
Asher smiled thinly. He reminded himself that Astarion, unlike himself, was a talented rogue, incredibly good at killing things and thus keeping them all alive. So, he refrained from telling the vampire to go fuck himself, and instead decided to politely ignore him and continue his walk of shame.
Lae’zel was cleaning what looked to be the last of her former comrades off her gleaming silver armour. She eyed Asher with uncertainty, but blessedly refrained from mocking him further. She gave him a tight nod, which was the best Asher could have hoped for.
Inevitably, there was Gale, crouched over the camp cauldron, stirring the dregs of a long-past dinner. Asher’s tent was on the other side of the campfire, which meant there was no way to avoid him without skittering away from him like a coward. Considering he had already run from Gale in sheep form today, Asher was not keen to have him think even less of him now.
With a sigh, Asher dragged himself towards the fire. At his approach, Gale scooped the remnants of the stew into a bowl and handed the still steaming bowl to Asher.
“Thought you might be hungry,” he said, with a softness in his eyes that made Asher want to cry. “I tried to get them to leave you more, but Karlach wanted thirds."
In lieu of saying anything, Asher shovelled stew into his mouth, suddenly realising that he was utterly starving. He finished eating in under a minute, and Gale let him clear the bowl without comment.
Asher wiped the grease from his mouth. “So.”
“I have just about a million questions for you,” Gale said all in a rush.
Asher cringed at his enthusiasm. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Y—” Gale frowned, temporarily thrown by the comment. “Well, we have to talk about it! You can do magic!”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Gale continued to gush as if he hadn’t spoken. “You never said you could do magic. Why? You clearly have quite a talent for it.”
Talent for it? He’d turned into a sheep.
“Where does your magic come from? You’re obviously not a wizard, given how you appear to struggle with control.”
Asher felt like he’d been kicked.
“Originally, I considered druidism. However, you’ve never shown any affinity for nature before.” Gale was practically giddy now he’d gotten himself all worked up. “Or are you some form of sorcerer? That thunderwave led me to theorise storm magic as a potential source, but the sheep!—”
“Gale.” Asher barked.
The harshness of his tone gave Gale pause. He tried once more: “Regardless, this is truly wonderful.”
“Wonderful?” Asher echoed numbly, unable to believe what he was hearing.
“Why, yes,” Gale confirmed, a warm grin spread on his face. “We have so much to talk about. And I would be happy to teach you how to better control your—”
Asher had heard enough. “What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’, don’t you understand? There is nothing to discuss. Just forget you ever saw it.”
Please, he prayed. Please, please forget.
However, the gods had never listened to Asher’s prayers, and they certainly were not about to start now.
“But Asher, your magic—”
“—has nothing to do with you!” Asher was distantly aware he was now shouting. “I don’t want to talk about it, and I certainly don’t want your help so – just – leave –it!”
At this, he threw his bowl to the ground and pushed past the gaping wizard, ignoring the rustling of several tent flaps being pulled open to see what all the yelling was about. He stormed into his tent, magic simmering beneath his skin. He fought to calm his roiling emotions. He couldn’t afford to trigger another spectacular demonstration of his failure as a would-be sorcerer.
Gale had said Asher couldn’t control his magic. He had taken one look at him and concluded that Asher was an incompetent fool that couldn’t even pull off a cantrip without it blowing up in his face.
And he’s right, Asher realised, miserably. I’m a walking disaster, and now everyone knows it.
A surge of wild magic pulsed. Asher, and all his belongings, began to float towards the tent’s ceiling. Which, really, only proved his point.