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There are uninvited guests at the fundraising. Three, maybe more people, with calculation in their movements and silent messages in their glances. Without a doubt, they are not part of the crowd of nobles.
There is the tall lady in the pink dress that is laughing too loudly at the jokes her companion tells her. The half-orc with the strange turban. And finally, the handsome drow, that drifts over the floor in a way that strangely reminds him of floating.
They stand out from the well-dressed nobles with their tailored coats and flowing gowns, their jeweled clasps and embroidery, and the hushed words they exchange behind polite smiles.
The hall glows with warm light, its high ceilings draped in rich indigo and gold, while the crystal chandeliers shimmer across polished wooden floors. Soft music drifts over from a corner stage framed by vibrant blooms.
Bren observes them silently.
The drow makes eye contact with him, and he suppresses the shiver that threatens to go through him at that.
The problem, he muses, is not that an unknown group of mercenaries or spies has infiltrated the gala.
The problem is that they seem to be here for him.
The drow smiles at him, a thing somewhere between a knife and a lover’s tender touch and slowly steps towards him. Skilled at seduction?, Bren wonders. Maybe he can work with that.
He considers Sending for backup, to let someone know about the intruders and to have support, in case things get ugly. But the timing is as bad as it can get. Astrid has been sent on a different mission for the night, something she remained tight-lipped about at the time. Wulf is here, but has the duty of guarding Trent. And Ikithon? Busy with charming the prospect financial funders of his newest research project. If he disturbs his master, he will no doubt be most unpleased. None of the other volstruckers is here tonight.
So that leaves him to deal with the problem on his own. No matter. He can do that.
He raises his eyes to the drow who has now reached him. Oh, he really is pretty. Smooth, purplish skin, and eyes of the clearest violet. No wonder he has been picked to be the honey pot.
Bren can not imagine any of the others could cause the swoop that goes through his stomach when the drow smiles at him. It’s a shame he will probably have to kill him. As soon as he has found out why their little group has invaded the fundraising.
“What an awfully dull event,” the drow says, a condescending tilt to his head. He smiles at him again, all danger and daggers. “The only saving grace is being able to meet someone with such a handsome face.”
Bren does not sputter. He does feel the skin at the back of his head heating up though. The nerves on this man! His hands itch for the dagger he wears concealed under his formal robes.
“Solch Schmeichelei wird bei mir nicht funktionieren,” he informs the drow primly, and switches to common. „So kind of you. But I am merely here to be of service to our guests. Herr...?”
The drow ignores his attempt to get his name. “So you work at the Academy?”, he asks.
Bren presses his fingers together. “You could say that,” he agrees. “I am but one of the lowly researchers supporting our archmage.”
“Lowly?” The drow slides closer. Bren only barely resists the urge to inch away. “You do not look lowly to me. I believe you are selling yourself short.”
Breathing deeply, Bren thinks about the components he carries on his person. He is glad he always carries a healthy respect for the unexpected. It’s good to be prepared.
“Which project is it that you are interested in?” he asks. “Archmage Ikithon is working on quite a few of them. Each will aid the Empire in a new, unique way. Infrastructure, defense, education of the young – what holds your interest?”
The drow’s eyes darken for a moment. “I am sure they each have their value. It’s hard to pick.” A diplomatic answer. An evasion. Is he even familiar with any of them? Has he not prepared for this mission with some basic reconnaissance?
Bren is getting impatient. “If you do not know which project you wish to support, why have you come here?”
He glances up at that, some suppressed emotion flitting over his face. It’s too quickly for Bren to decipher before the drow schools his face back into neutrality. “I was hoping to meet someone here today. Someone... dear to me. But it appears he is not here.”
“Tell me his name and I’m sure I can help you,” Bren says smoothly. He is distracted by the spike of jealousy that goes through him at the drow’s words. They are most likely a lie, but the way he spoke tells him that there might be some morsel of truth in there.
The drow smiles and leans forward. Bren can feel his breath on his skin, and feels a shiver go down his spine. “His name is Caleb,” the drow murmurs. “Have you heard of him?”
Bren stumbles back. That name, that – he- he does not, he cannot –
There is white noise at the back of his head, like a rushing waterfall, too loud, and a stabbing pain, like a migraine before a storm hits.
“Wer zur Hölle bist du? What do you want from me?“ he grits out, half raising his hand before he remembers that he is at an official function, and cannot raise a fuss.
“Someone who wants to help you,” the drow replies. He, too, is raising a hand, but instead of preparing a spell, he gently brings it up to rest against Bren’s arm.
Bren shakes it off, something on his face that is not quite a snarl but close to it. He is losing control of the situation, fast. He needs to win it back.
“Oh?” He forces a smile on his face. It might be more of a grimace. “In which way? Enlighten me.” He drags his eyes up and down the drow’s body, slow enough to bring the message across. He really is pretty. Damn. Stay on task, Ermendrud. “A handsome man like you, reaching out to a humble researcher like me? What do you want to offer?”
The drow stills. Why is he not reacting? Is this not a seduction? Is it a distraction instead? What is his end goal? Bren feels unmoored, unbalanced. It’s a rare feeling, and he does not like it. Once more he considers reaching out to someone else for support, reaching out to – another stab of pain pings through his brain.
“For now, how about we continue this conversation somewhere else, somewhere quieter, ussta ssinssrigg?”
Bren gives an unbothered smile. Getting the drow alone means being able to interrogate him without the crowd. Excellent. “Of course, mein Lieber. I was thinking about getting some fresh air?”
“I’d love that.”
Standing already at the edge of the crowd, it’s easy to navigate out of the room. The drow is leading the way, a bit hasty, like he is worried that Bren will change his mind. Bren throws a look back over his shoulder, and sees Wulf in a conversation with a well-dressed noble.
Then they step out of the room and follow a long corridor that leads to the outside of the hall. But instead of going outside, the drow gives a secretive smile to him, and tilts his head to lead him to the right, down another corridor.
Bren decides that he has allowed the other one control for long enough. “I know a place,” he says pleasantly, and grabs the drow’s dark garments to drag him into the other direction.
Before they can take more than two steps, a hand falls on Bren’s left shoulder. He flinches. Who has gotten this close to him unnoticed?
He turns his head and sees the half-orc standing half behind, half beside him. He has taken off his weird turban, and is staring intently at him. The half-orc adjusts his grip on Bren’s shoulder and starts to push him down the right corridor.
“Are we acquainted?” Bren asks slowly, sensing control spiralling away from him. The half-orc is ignoring him now, his eyes set ahead. He looks at the drow instead whose eyes have not left his face. He looks tense.
A third pair of steps reaches his ear, and he looks behind him to see the tall lady in the pink dress join them.
“Come along now, dear,” the drow says calmly. “We just want to talk.”
“Als ob ich das glauben würde,” Bren can’t help but snipe back. “What if I said no?”
“We are not really asking,” the woman interrupts.
Three of them, and a location they have decided on in advance. He has faced worst odds. Bren gives them a haughty smile, pushes back his shoulders and moves ahead. They are foolish to underestimate him.
They follow two more corridors into the building, away from the other guests, and finally stop before a pair of heavy wooden doors. Bren collects himself and goes through the components he has on his person. If he’s lucky, he can get two of them down with the first strike.
The woman pushes the door open, positioning herself in such a way that he is forced to be the first to walk through.
Bren grits his teeth into a smile, loosens his muscles, and does just that.
It’s a big empty room that he walks into, with long curtains blocking it off from the outside. The doors close behind him with a loud thud. He spins around to face the three intruders, fire already licking up his hands, and that’s when he realizes the mistake he has made.
There are not three intruders. There are seven.
The four newcomers step from beside the doors, where they must have hidden themselves while Bren stepped into the trap. Bren takes in one after the other.
There is a blue tiefling dressed in a lavish dress, a tall woman with biceps that could rival Wulfs’, and a halfling woman that drops into a defensive position when his narrowed eyes lands on her. Finally, a firbolg with a shock of pink mohawk hair.
He huffs out a breath. “You didn’t mention there was a welcome committee waiting for us,” he says, and throws up a Wall Of Fire.
It races towards them, hot flames sizzling, looking for skin and bone to burn. The drow throws his hands up in front of them and a shimmering shield materializes right in front of them, as the flames harmlessly flare to the sides.
“We are not looking for a fight,” the firbolg says calmly. “If you would give us a moment to explain the...”
Bren throws a fire ball at him.
It leaves a charred print in the wall behind him, the firbolg having ducked just in time.
The blue tiefling girl gives it a try. “Now that was not very nice, but really, if you’d just...”
Bren summons two new fire balls to his hands.
“I don’t think he is listening to you,” the lady in pink interrupts her, and she breaks off to one side, the halfling and the half-orc darting off to the other. Bren takes steps back to keep them all in his line of sight.
The same moment, the tall woman – the one that looks like she could break Bren in two if she tried - rushes towards him. She is shockingly fast for a woman of her size. Swearing in his mind, Bren throws his arms forward and sends the fire balls flaring towards her.
She narrowly ducks under the first one, but the second one hits, and throws her back. She goes flying, her right shoulder hitting the floor hard, and the rest of her body following. Someone to the side yells at that.
Bren goes for the Sending stone in his pocket, Wulf, I need –
A giant pink lollipop materializes out of thin air above his head, and Bren rolls out of the way. The Sending stone slips out of his hand, and he doesn’t have time to pull it back to himself before a second swing comes at him.
He swears, jerks his hand, and the tiefling girl goes flying with a yelp, her lollipop dissolving into thin air.
From the corner of his eyes, he sees the drow’s hands rapidly forming the somatics for Hold Person. Bren counterspells it with a glare, and follows up with Disintegrate.
Before he can finish spitting out the incantation, he sees the rush of movement to the side, and whips his head around. The half-orc is flying towards him, his arms outstretched, a vicious-looking sword in his hand.
Bren? Bren, what is going on?
Bren stumbles back, dodging the strike by mere inches, and retreats further hastily.
Dimly, he is aware that he can’t win this. He is outnumbered, and the group seems prepared and well-adjusted to fighting together. Better to regroup with his own allies, and to even the odds.
Bren sketches invisible patterns with feverish speed into the air, concentrating on his anker that will safely teleport him to –
Running sounds from behind him –
Bren whirls around, and sees the lady in the pink dress sprinting up towards him, her hands raised, but she will not be fast enough. His incantation is nearly done.
“Got you,” a voice says beside him, and he barely has time to turn his head around before the cloud of shimmering green is hitting his face. He inhales a big portion, gasping in shock, and staggers back from the halfling – has she been invisible?
His world blurs, rights itself, and continues to tilt to the side. Bren feels dizzy, the effects of whatever he inhaled hitting him fast and strong.
Strong green hands are pulling at his arms from behind – Misty Step? – and a kick sends his knees buckling. Bren falls to his knees, hard, and suddenly the drow is hovering in front of him.
He grasps his hair, dragging his head up, and time stands still for a moment as Bren stares into bright violet eyes.
“Sleep,” the drow tells him, and Bren fights it, but he is still dizzy from the halfling’s powder. “Sleep, Caleb,” he repeats, this wave of magic stronger than the last, and Bren – involuntarily, panicked, dizzy, falls into darkness.
Bren wakes up slowly, in increments. The first he feels is his head throbbing, his thoughts dizzy and unfocused. He thinks about that for a moment. He has no recollection of drinking the night before, or of staying up overly long, no, he would have had no chance, because he’d been at the fundraising gala, and –
Abruptly, his memories of the previous evening return.
Scheiße.
Just as quickly, he becomes aware of his body, and the various unpleasant sensations that are assaulting him.
His hands are bound behind him, surrounded and smothered in cloth, leaving him unable to move his fingers freely enough for spell-casting. There’s a gag in his mouth, tied not too cruel, but still smarting around his mouth, that will effectively stop his words. He subtly tries to shift his legs, and the ropes that tie him to the chair provide no leeway.
He is, in all the way that a wizard can be, incapacitated.
He becomes aware that he is not alone in the room when someone shifts before him, clothes rustling. Faking unconsciousness is tempting, but ultimately useless. He needs information to work with, and he is not afraid of torture, at least not more than one should be.
Blinking his eyes open, he surveys the room. It’s dim, but not oppressively so, the walls a rough stone, but soft candles are lit near the drawn curtains, and someone’s tossed a blanket over a barrel to make a makeshift table. Scattered around are some scraps of paper, some kind of painting drawn on them, and a half-empty mug.
Then, Bren’s eyes are captured by the lean figure of the drow. Of course. Of all people, it would be him. A shiver runs through him.
The drow notices in the same moment that he is awake, as if feeling his eyes on him. He is hovering a few inches in the air, a long violet cloak draped around him, and holds a spellbook in his hands, which he was studying a few moments ago.
His hand drops, the spellbook disappearing from the air, as if forgotten, as he quickly moves towards him.
“Caleb,” he says breathlessly, and like before, the name brings forth sharp pain in his chest. “You’re awake.”
Curse words try to spill from Bren’s lips, but the gag jumbles them into incomprehensiveness. He grunts instead, and tugs at the constraints holding his arms tied behind the chair. There is no give, and he succeeds in nothing but giving himself rope-burn along his wrists, and lancing pain down his shoulders and upper arms.
Verdammt seist du, he thinks bitterly.
The drow’s face twists, something like guilt flashing across it. Bren glares at him, hatred curdling in his stomach. Not all of it is directed at the drow. He is furious at himself as well, for allowing himself to be lured into a trap this easily, for underestimating the group before him. They clearly knew of him, knew at least some of his capabilities, and Bren had followed them like a lamb to the slaughter.
No matter. He will tell them nothing. If it is information they are after. There is still the possibility that it’s another reason, like revenge. The gods knew Bren has done enough deeds to never run out of enemies.
“What do you want from me?” he tries to say through the gag, garbled as it is.
“I’m sorry,” the drow replies, hovering anxiously in front of him, his hands fluttering in front of Bren’s face, like he can’t decide whether to touch it or not. “Don’t worry, we won’t hurt you. You’re safe.”
Bren wants to laugh at him, and maybe to spit in his beautiful face. He manages to raise an eyebrow at the drow, conveying precisely what he thinks of his dumb lies. He is trying to make him feel safe? Why?
“We will explain everything,” the drow continues, unaware that Bren is calculating in his mind which spells could snuff out his pathetic life the easiest way. “Or rather, you will understand yourself, very soon.”
Ominous. So it is revenge after all?
Bren unsuccessfully continues to twist his constraints behind his back. If he can make them give just a little bit, he can...
He is distracted by the drow’s next words, clearly not directed at him.
“Jester, he is awake. Do you have the diamond dust prepared? Are you ready?”
Just a few moments later, there is noise, clamouring and movement behind the door. It is thrown open, and the seven figures that fought and subdued him file in.
Bren flinches back, just a little bit, and feels the soft touch of the drow against his shoulder. He is looking at him with concern on his face. “It will be alright,” he whispers, words clearly meant for Bren. Why reassure him?
The blue tiefling girl jumps towards the front, a leather container dangling in her outstretched hands. “I have it.” She chuckles. “It’s all prepared. Caleb will be all right in no time.” She stretches the “no” like it’s a song.
And then she drops fine diamond dust into her palm, and prepares to cast on him.
Bren panics. They are not even going to give him time to speak? He was prepared to bargain, to distract, to lie.
The feeling of his bound arms starts to overlay with another, older sensation, of leather straps binding him to the chair at the Soltryce Academy. His scars start to itch, and he can feel the residuum buried beneath his skin.
He feels himself jerking on the chair, resistance despite knowing that it is futile. The drow’s hand clenches around his shoulder.
“It will all be over soon, Caleb,” he says softly, and Bren want to scream.
“Do it now, Jester,” he tells the tiefling girl.
Bitte, Bren thinks, bitte nicht.
The gods don’t hear his plea, and neither do his captors.
The tiefling, Jester, holds out her arms and casts. “Traveler, with your divine fabulousness, restore Caleb, we really want him back as his not-so-evil self!” She draws a shimmering pink shape in front of his face, something between a heart and a dick, and finishes off by sprinkling diamond dust over his head like glitter.
He only has time to think, was zur Hölle, before the foreign magic settles over his mind, and tears away at it, no, at something on top of it, woven through his thoughts, hiding others, something –
Bren, Caleb screams.
When he comes back to himself, the room seems dimmer. Essek is leaning over him, holding his face in his hands while Caleb’s eyes struggle to focus on him. The open concern makes something clench in his stomach.
When he had been captured by Trent, he had thought that he would never see Essek again. Would never see any of them again.
“Did it work?” Veth asks worriedly. “Is he back?”
Caleb grunts, not sure himself what he is trying to say, and still unable to do so through the gag.
“Of course it did,” Jester replies, but she sounds relieved, like she hasn’t been quite as confident as her words make it seem.
“Let’s get those bonds off of you,” Beau tells him, sinks down behind him and busies herself with the constraints holding his arms back.
Essek leans forward and carefully moves to ease the gag away from his mouth.
At the gentle treatment, tears are suddenly stinging at Caleb’s eyes. When his left arm is freed, he rubs it roughly across his face, uncaring of whether the others see.
“I’m sorry,” he gets out, when the gag finally drops away from his face. His voice is rough. “I didn’t...”
“None of that, chev,” Essek chides him softly.
“Exactly!” Jester confirms loudly. “It was not your fault.”
“You should be blaming Trent for this, not yourself,” Yasha agrees. “You were not yourself.”
“But I hurt you.” He looks at Yasha, and finally his voice breaks. “I’m sorry.”
Yasha looks at him with too much understanding in her eyes, and this, too, hurts.
“It’s alright,” Veth says, and suddenly she is in front of him, moving Essek to the side. She hugs him, her embrace warm and soft, and after a moment of hesitation he hugs her back. The tears he has been suppressing shoot back into his eyes, and spill over. He lets them fall, and soak into Veth’s warm vest.
“You are back with us, and that’s all that counts,” she tells him firmly. “And we won’t let him take you again.”
“If he tries, we’ll kick his ass, too,” Beau says with a smirk that is just a little too bloodthirsty.
Caleb chuckles wetly. It’s not alright, he knows. But it will be.
Zemnian translations:
-Was du liebst, das lass nicht gehen: Don’t let go of what you love (bit of a rough translation, this can refer to both a person or an object)
-Solch Schmeichelei wird bei mir nicht funktionieren: Such flattery won’t work on me.
-Herr: Mister
-Wer zur Hölle bist du? Who the hell are you?
-Mein Lieber: My dear
-Als ob ich das glauben würde: As if I’d believe that.
-Scheiße: Shit.
-Verdammt seist du: Damn you (but like, a bit fancy)
-Bitte. Bitte nicht: Please. Please don’t.
Undercommon translations:
-ussta ssinssrigg: My love
-chev: Beloved