Work Text:
The sun barely penetrated the dense, preternatural shadows that draped across the land like gossamer and lace. Everything the dark touched found itself remade in odd angles, bones jutting or branches twisting until an unrecognizable echo remained. The very earth itself recoiled from the shades that crept across the land. The melancholy was insufferably intoxicating, filling minds with dark thoughts like a thief’s pocket with stolen odds and ends. It was here that The Blade of Frontiers and a drow once known as The Dark Urge, now known merely as Charon, found themselves, huddled close in sickly sweet torchlight in front of a decrepit, crumbling house. The street led through it, with no obvious pathway around it. Not one that kept the pair from venturing into curse-twisted brush and foliage, at least, and so the duo stood headstrong before the imposing beast of a building.
The shadows shifted around them, a disorienting mass of darkness that obscured almost everything within fifteen meters. Sound died with sight, all signs of life quenched by the curse. Where the torch’s embers turned to inky ashes in the dirt, dark thoughts sizzled hungrily. It was all the light could do to hold back memories of life’s crueler moments. If Wyll’s eyes lingered a moment too long at the light’s edge, he could almost hear the seductive whisper of loss, some odd beckoning sensation. They say misery loves company, he thought to himself, and this curse is certainly no different.
Wyll stepped towards the structure, gesturing for Charon to follow him. The building was, at one time, quite magnificent. A lifetime and some days prior, great care went into its construction and maintenance, a demonstration of wealth and power as much as artistry. How it must have gleamed with pride in those days, when the sun still shone over Reithwin! Even now, as it stood in disarray, it was well and truly impressive. Cold, sickly stone archways with elegant yet utilitarian columns towered over the cobblestone entryway, now-defaced statues lining the way. Gold-dusted carvings decorated the main facade; little angels, little devils, some creatures so strange one couldn’t tell if they’d always looked so tormented, or if it were the effect of the curse, all staring down at approaching visitors in silent eternal judgment. Broken windows and a crooked door almost gave the impression of eyes and grin fixed in their direction.
Charon trailed behind Wyll, eyes fixed on the torch in the man’s hand. A drow child of Bhaal, the dark was far from unfamiliar to them, and yet this dark was colder, less inviting, less like home. The flames flickered, light dancing over Wyll’s neck, illuminating the soft curve of each muscle, drawing uneasy eyes towards each pulsing vein. The urge tingled along Charon’s spine like ice, coiled itself in their palms like a weapon, whispered in their ear like a lover. Charon stood still for a moment, eyes closed against the impulse crashing like waves over their nervous system. The dark seemed to growl then, bloodhunger piquing as the torchlight grew step by step more distant.
The desolate silence of what remained of Reithwin’s streets was broken then by some odd metallic clanging in the distance. It echoed lightly, that sharp discordant sound, from somewhere deep within the grand house’s cracking walls. Charon’s eyes snapped open, head shaking away thoughts of blades and bloodied dark stone streets. They leapt forward towards the torch’s chilled light, ever closer to the dark, grand entryway. The faceless statues almost seemed to regard the pair as they strode slowly in search of the bouncing discordant sound.
Wyll felt gooseflesh prickle at the back of his neck. The door hung from its hinges like a loose, rotten tooth, the splintering wood sickly gray and overcome with mold. Again, that distant noise rang out, carried to their anxious ears by the brick walls. A sign of life, or something more sinister? What in the nine hells could even survive out here? He cast a worried look over his shoulder, catching his companion’s eyes with his own. Charon always kept their cards close to their chest, though the slight panic in their eye did not escape Wyll’s notice. They offered a curt nod and nothing more. Wyll returned his attention to the building’s gaping maw; anticipation thrummed in his bones, nervous energy now propelling The Blade forward, his hand finding the broken door as if driven by outside forces, his legs moving independently from his mind.
Inside was much like the outside world, gnawed on by hungry darkness like a bone by a dog. The torch threw light this way and that, yet the room remained washed with supernatural night, such that all color seemed to vacate every room. What bits of wooden furniture remained were warped and ruined, what foodstuffs could be found were rotten and fetid, even the walls and floors seemed corrupted by the curse. On the wall, an ancient tapestry, now moth-eaten, depicting a powerful half-elf family; below it, a plaque describing the Thorm family. The tapestry was ornate, intricately detailed, and in it, a young Ketheric Thorm stood front and center, hand clasped on his daughter’s shoulder, face beaming with pride. A proud hound sat at the man’s feet, gazing upwards. A hundred years of solitude hung thickly in the air, nearly choking the duo as they crept further and further into the entryway. Above them, floorboards shifted, an aching sound that turned Wyll’s blood to ice in his veins. It was punctuated once again with metallic tink, tink, tink, closer now, from somewhere over their heads.
The torch hissed in Wyll’s left hand as he examined what remained in the foyer. His heart felt sickly in his chest as his eyes and fingers traced the wallhangings, searching for answers that were not so easily found. Charon’s silent step kept pace with his, one hand resting on the hilt of their morningstar and the other tapping nervously against their armor. Their pale yellow eyes scanned the room, almost begging for some sort of threat, longing for a reason to lose themself in violence. Nothing came, nothing but empty, stagnant air and that occasional mysterious metallic noise.
The irregularity of the noise was enough to make one at least quite anxious, at worst quite mad. The air was thick and sluggish with apprehension, an emotion heightened by the visible decay etched upon the very foundation of each room the two explored. The pair shuffled now from the foyer deeper into the belly of the building; the rooms almost seemed to sigh around them as they advanced. Dark turn after dark turn, musty hallways and aged rooms blurring together in the shadows, all uncomfortably still in the limited light of the torch. Simple things seemed grand and imposing in the sickly gleam. A cracked vase, a defaced idol of Selune, and a dirt-covered rug almost seemed to cast wicked thoughts into the minds of those beholding them. It was here that Wyll and Charon began, separately yet simultaneously, to hear whispers of older unpleasantries.
A chill prickled like claws up Wyll’s spine, hooking itself into his mind. As his one good eye traced the perimeter of the room, he thought back to similarly grand dwellings in similarly ill-fated cities. The memory of sulfur rose in his throat, flashes of blood-red hellfire clouding his mind. He thought he could hear that wretched devil Mizora’s foul infernal tongue in the whispers just beyond the light, heart racing, sweat beading at his temple at the thought. She kept him on a shorter and shorter leash these days, and the last thing he needed now was for her to give it a sharp yank.
Across the room, staring into a long-forgotten dollhouse, Charon again felt the urge prickle beneath their skin. Their skin paled, all color draining from their face as their blood sang in their veins, thoughts of their childhood now surfacing; had they been sweet once? Was there ever a chance for gentleness, for kindness? The Underdark molded them in its image, spat them out on the surface without a care when they proved too weak-minded for such a regime, and then their Father called and they found they could not afford to ignore it. Their pale yellow eyes flashed bitterly as they stared at the dollhouse, a hunger for violence now hot in their core. Why had the Thorm children been granted such reprieve from pain, they wondered. Why couldn’t I have such grace? Such freedom? Jealousy ground their hands to fists and they found themselves longing to lash out towards someone or something to relieve the heavy sorrow now inching across their heart.
Wyll’s hand shook, the torch clattering to the rug-covered wooden floor. Shadows swirled hungrily around the pair. Embers fell fruitlessly to the floor, light shrinking with every passing second. As the light fell away, the swirling shadows slunk closer and ever closer to Wyll and Charon both, their eyes far too glassy to notice. Already in the dying of the light, the two looked more like spirits risen from the grave than like adventurers in their prime. The dark seemed to smile, savoring the moment before the strike.
Tink. Tink. Tink.
The sound cut through the room. Wyll shook his head, banishing all thoughts of his own banishment some half a decade prior. His warm brown eye settled on the dying torch, another jolt running through him at the sight. His body reacted before his mind then, hands grasping the club, hot breath stoking the flame. Shadows withdrew and the room brightened, a disappointed sigh hanging in the darkness. Wyll turned, wide-eyed, towards his companion and found them just as rattled; Charon’s jaw was tense, brow furrowed, skin even paler than usual. He offered them a hand, which they wordlessly declined, panic still etched on their features. They pushed past, staring into the swirling dark with a shiver.
“The call of the void,” they whispered. “I hear it, Wyll, and I imagine you do, too. Wits about us, this dark plays games and I fear it plays unfairly.”
Wyll nodded. “Onward, then, and quickly.”
The pair inched through the building, guards raised ever higher as they did so, heads swiveling this way and that at the slightest movement. The staircase had collapsed in places. The stairs groaned beneath the adventurers’ weights as they ascended, threatening to cave in. At the top of the stairs, a curse-marred family portrait hung haphazardly on the wall. Mold-eaten books adorned one room, all records long illegible. Blood thrummed in Wyll’s ears, and above it, that wretched tink, tink, tink that beckoned the pair further and further into the gullet of the structure.
The sound led to a sight which was at first unfathomable, incomprehensible. A gilded creature, once human no doubt, stooped beneath its own weight, stood at the far end of the room surrounded by its greed. The curse felt thicker here, the torchlight dwindling in its presence. It’s … almost pitiable, really, Wyll thought with a start. As its attention turned towards them, Wyll saw in its face the woman it once was -- a countenance not unlike one of the many in the decaying portraits throughout the manor. Gods, no. She’s a Thorm? Not even they could escape the curse…how are we meant to?
Gold pieces fell from her hands, a metallic clattering which chimed so similarly to the tintinnabulation of bells. Her eyes were dull, perhaps unseeing, one couldn’t be sure. Her lips moved, babbling incoherently. The floorboards screamed with each movement, threatening to give way beneath her at any moment. The very foundation of the house seemed to groan with it, as though it wanted to swallow them all whole. Charon threw sideways glances this way and that, begging Wyll with their eyes for permission to bolt. Not even a child of Bhaal could kill solid gold, of this they were certain.
For a moment, a shadow curled and swirled about her, and it seemed as though she saw them. A scream tore from her lips as she straightened, her full height imposing, threatening. The building groaned again. Charon made to bolt, every muscle screaming to run, and Wyll went with them, first from the room, then to the stairs which protested every step, then at last out that cursed, gaping doorway. Their legs pounded until they were outside on the stone path, the house of the golden Gerringothe Thorm towering behind them. Their torch hissed, embers popping. The flame grew taller, the curse less oppressive here. The stone below the house cracked all at once, a thunderous sound, wood splintering within as stone shattered without. The great walls fell inward as they turned their attention towards it one last time; one House of Thorm collapsed beneath the weight of its own sin.