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Black eyes, gleaming like tar, regard the chained man with an emotion that is difficult for an outsider to decipher. The facial structure is somewhat humanoid; enough to provide a common mortal some sense of familiarity, should they find themselves face to face with it... but the eyes are expressionless.
You find it serves you well on most occasions. Occasions such as these.
An unconscious brown-haired man is fastened with chains to a chair, his head hanging limply forward. He is of noble birth – finely-cut features, manicured fingernails, silver embroidery on luxury clothes. And it is obvious he has been tortured – the scars, bruises and crushed digits reveal a tale of pain. You glance over the injuries, some of them still seeping blood.
You look to the Emperor, who is floating a hand’s width above the floor. One of his brows arches in passive judgement at the sight of the battered man. ‘Ineffective work,’ he comments inside your mind.
You have to agree. The things done to the man speak of frustration, hurry, and most of all: desperation. This individual must know something very valuable indeed.
A palace servant had mere hours ago sought you out at the hidden headquarters in Elfsong Tavern. He had informed you of the situation – it is of utmost importance that lord Ancunin finds out a specific piece of information one of his guests is in possession of, and he needs this information now, so he humbly asks if you could possibly...
You imagined the messenger had altered the message slightly – the vampire lord was many things, but humble was not one of them.
Although entering an undead creature’s lair certainly posed certain risks, the Emperor had accepted the offer: the benefits of such an arrangement outweighed the downsides. It would likely not be the last time you would have dealings with your old vampire companion, and souring a possible budding partnership right from the start would be counterproductive.
You had traversed the underbelly of the city to reach the basement level of the vast palace. It had doubtlessly been a deliberate choice on Astarion’s part – he could just as easily have summoned a carriage to transport you discreetly to his home, but this way he got the chance to put on a small display of power: the beasts can crawl through the reeking sewers instead. ‘Let him puff up his chest,' the Emperor had said when he sensed your displeasure. ‘It will serve us better to play the part of the meek underling, for now.’
After arriving, the two of you had been escorted by the same servant to a small, dense room in the basement. It was silent, barren, and had a sloping floor with a drain fitted in the middle. It wasn’t difficult to surmise what the purpose of the room was.
And so, you find yourselves in front of a half-broken soul restrained to a chair - a half-broken soul, who is still blessedly unconscious.
The elven servant, ever attentive, seems to think along the same lines. “I’m afraid the last session left the fellow quite exhausted. There are healing potions in the cupboard to your right, if he doesn’t w--”
The Emperor flicks his hand lazily and the prisoner gives a soft gasp, his consciousness pulled forcibly up from the deep waters of oblivion. His head lolls weakly, mahogany hair hiding his face.
“Ah,” the servant says flatly. “Hm, well—you have it well in hand, I see.”
‘Leave us,’ the Emperor speaks inside the lackey’s head, who blinks at the unusual sensation.
“I-- Of course,” he utters after a beat, and starts to head for the door. “Anything you need, just let me know.”
Neither of you reply. Instead, you observe the imprisoned human. He is gradually regaining his senses, his eyes darting around, remembrance and realisation kicking in.
He goes rigid with fear when he realises what he is looking at, an instinctual scream erupting from his mouth. Voice ragged, he turns frantically to the only familiar being in the room, the servant by the door. “Don’t leave! Please! I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you everything, don’t leave me here--“
“I must insist you work with haste,” the elven lackey adds, talking over the prisoner’s pleas. “It is of utmost importance to my lord.” With a small bow he finally retreats from the room, closing the heavy steel door behind him. You sense him staying right outside, though, waiting - sand starting to run through an hourglass. That chafes at you, as does the fact that Astarion had not even deigned to come down to meet you personally.
Your grand companion glides silently forward to your side, looking sideways down at you. ‘I don’t disagree. He’s too prideful by far.’
Annoyance prickles inside your skull.
‘And that is his weakness.’
The Emperor sends a soothing, understanding thought to you, a request to set the matter aside for the moment. ‘Now, you may take the lead on the task at hand.’
As an illithid, you are masterful at controlling minds – both others’ as well as your own. That is one of the things you had been grateful for after your transformation - it had helped you immensely in processing the life-altering change, as had the support and guidance offered by your (--companion) (creator (mentor)protector--). Now that skill allows you to easily switch your attention to the assignment in front of you: information retrieval.
The man flinches when he sees you turn your full attention to him. He looks at you with all the air of a trapped hare in a hunter’s noose, the smallest movement and rustle of robes making him turn his head, hypervigilance straining his nerves close to the point of exhaustion.
He cannot hear audible words being exchanged between the two alien grotesques before him, but he is able to sense something. A certain heaviness in the room, almost like the air before a summer thunderstorm.
The Emperor’s glowing eyes follow you as you silently glide around the captive until you are facing his back. You rest one spindly hand lightly on top of his head, which causes a deep shudder to make its way through his body. The brown hair feels soft and well cared for – you see a flash of him in a brightly lit room, combing out the hair and applying lavender oil in it with practised fingers. You inhale slowly, tasting the scent of the oil. It’s an enjoyable smell, one that reminds you of... a memory, something from long ago...
Curiously, you reach out with two tentacles, threading them lightly through his locks – you want more. The taste of flowers becomes even stronger. The effect this has on the man is immediate, however - he recoils violently, jerking his head as far away from you as possible. “NO!” You manage to feel his wild panic before he rips free from your touch.
He breathes wildly like an animal awaiting slaughter, and you receive more quick images, like bright bursts of light that explode and fizzle out: erratic flashes of a dark-haired woman, cradling the back of her husband’s head in a room bathed in candlelight, bare bodies melding into each other, her hand twisting in his hair – and you know the memory is particularly fresh in the man’s mind, having only happened one night ago.
The shackled man lets out a wailing sound; a half-sob, half-cry. “No! Please!” The uncertainty and the terror are tearing at his willpower, and the image of his wife’s last touch is pushing him even further apart. You hear the Emperor’s familiar voice inside, gently nudging you:
‘Keep exploring.'
You lower your tentacles and glide around the chair to come face to face with the extravagantly clad human once more. He looks ready to faint again, teetering just on the border between blessed unconsciousness and sense-robbing terror.
A split second of preparation, then your consciousness surges forward through the prisoner’s mental barrier; a startled cry erupting from him at this violation.
It is immediately clear that your presence is not welcome – you feel the man use all his mental fortitude to try to eject you. His mind is a loud, pulsing, throbbing chorus with a simple message - ‘No! NO! Get out get out get OUT GET OUT GET O--’
You dampen his inner voice, the volume sinking to a less irksome level.
A familiar hunger rears its head in you as it senses an opportunity, urging you to taste the man’s sentience, and the expectation of an upcoming feast causes a thrilling shiver to dance through your nervous system. But - not yet, you think, firm as steel. You subdue the craving with some effort and feel your companion’s supporting touch in your mind:
‘Just so.’
And so, you continue deeper into the prisoner’s mind, brushing past his cries, now subdued by the mental dome you put in place. The noises still echo faintly around you as you probe a bit further, touching at the small section of the brain that’s burning bright with fear, skimming your consciousness against the concoction of chemicals bathing the man in numbing terror, and... you pause for a moment.
You observe... and admire.
The human’s mind is an almost celestial beauty - like a flaming night sky burning with prismatic colours. Breathtaking. You rarely have time to savour a prey’s mind like this, and you intend to take advantage of the opportunity. The signals traveling along the human’s nervous system flash like multi-coloured lightning; gone in the blink of an eye, replaced by new ones right after, brilliant lights flowing in a continuous stream of consciousness and thought. You still feel the man struggling against the intrusion in his mind; like flesh trying to dislodge a foreign object. It distracts you, and you swat away his efforts.
The Emperor joins you, appearing to your left. You stand side by side, mind by mind, gazing at the luxurious mental landscape surrounding you. ‘I sometimes forget to acknowledge the beauty in places like these. One can grow blind to it.’
You nod, without actually moving your head. He can (--see)(feel)(taste)(know--) your thoughts and intentions as plainly as a common mortal sees their own outstretched hand.
‘Before everything...’ you begin, and flashes of memories, sensations, events of the not-so-distant past flick through your mind, your partner experiencing them in tandem - ‘... I never could have imagined it looked like this...’ You look up at the blazing inner landscape. ‘And he is so plain.’ You turn your gaze to the prisoner’s physical form – sweaty, cowed, fragile, belying the richness in his mind.
A shimmer of warm amusement, of nostalgia, echoes in your mind. ‘Appearances are often deceiving.' The magenta eyes glitter, and you feel what he is referring to – him appearing to you as a gilded guardian, in the dreams you had in your other life.
‘And now I’m here.’ You don’t need to think the last words, ‘with you’, aloud; the Emperor can see and feel it all around you, and his thoughts turn gentle as velvet.
‘An outcome I had not dared hope for.’ There is an expression that resembles a smile in his eyes when he looks at you.
Satisfaction. Contentment. You let those two sensations radiate around you.
The two of you float in physical silence before the man on the chair. Not one sound or audible word breaks the heavy air between the two of you, save for the captive’s whimpers and sobs. His mind feels close to bursting from the foreign presence inside, the throbbing, migraine-like pressure almost more than he can bear. His groans are hoarse, agonised. Weak.
You decide to reach out with a tendril of consciousness once more, gauging the man’s mental fortitude. You find that the rigorous exertion he has gone through has caused exceptional stress on his anatomy, and his circulatory system is under considerable strain. You narrow your eyes. Applying further psionic pressure could very well cause one of the vessels in his brain to burst, which would be an unfortunate outcome.
‘It’s time we conclude our work,’ the Emperor addresses you, having followed your line of thought. ‘You are hungry.' The words sound fond. ‘And he will certainly taste richer than your previous meal.’
You need no further incentive. Enjoying someone’s immaterial mind is made all the better by consuming the organ housing it.
‘Come, then.’
He withdraws his presence from the prisoner’s mind, with you following closely behind. The human’s shoulders slump, and you can almost touch the dizzy, momentary relief rushing to his head.
The Emperor gives you a sideways glance, a gleam of some emotion in his eye. Without a word he glides to the side and out of the way, presenting you with your meal in all its glory.
Your craving, previously an insistent throb kept under tenuous control using the techniques your mentor had taught you, suddenly erupts inside. Your entire being flares up with need; your tentacles part instinctively, revealing circular rows of sharp teeth, even as you start moving forward. The man’s desperate survival instincts take over and he starts to scream, all sense leaving his mind (you tastefeelsee it) and his bladder empties itself as he thrashes wildly against his chains, all the while screaming, screaming, screaming.
You are upon the human in an instant. His cranium cracks like an eggshell and underneath is the indescribably delectable essence you have craved, needed. Soft white matter, stringy and deliciously sour-sweet bundles of nerves and blood and a mildly savoury cortex covering it, the consistency wonderful and subtly varied, the recent short-lived relief adding an airy, sugary coating. A rich, sophisticated mind. Your maw sucks it in greedily, messily (--the Emperor’s thoughts in concert with yours: ‘One section at a time. Structured. It will taste all the better,’--) and you will yourself to follow his advice, slowing down just enough to sense the different sections of the man’s brain. The cerebellum, the stem, the frontal lobe - tasting (feelingknowingseeing) each unique sensation they contain and absorbing the creature’s entire life, from earliest infant memory until this very moment, everything slotting into the vast expanse of your consciousness.
And there – the morsel of knowledge you were after: the location and password to a certain location, where like-minded individuals gather to plot against the new Lord of the Palace. You store it safely in the vault of your mind. The human noble and architect Heward Weston joins your collection; preserved in your mind for the rest of your days... and perhaps beyond.
Life leaves his body when half his brain matter is consumed, but his sentience had fled long before that.
Too soon the skull is empty, and your grip on the noble’s head loosens. He slumps against the chains, the top of his cranium an empty pit. You feel vibrant, born again, pure ecstasy permeating your every cell. You straighten your body and feel the organs in your body wake, eager to be fed again. Your outer layer rejoices, drying skin soon to give way to healthy moisture. Life. Nourishment.
A much-needed harvest.
You let out a slow, vibrating telepathic hum of contentment and turn your head towards your companion. His eyes are closed, and you know he as well is savouring the last remaining echoes of your feeding. You glide up to him as he slowly opens his eyes, and if he still had a humanoid mouth, it would be forming a smile. ‘Watching you feed is always a delight.’
Sending him the information you excavated from the scheming noble’s brain, you bridge the last, short distance between the two of you, floating up to match his height. You hold a small piece of brain in one of your blood-spattered tentacles and raise it up to him – a gift. The Emperor regards you with his own unique kind of affection and welcomes you in. You intertwine your shorter appendage with one of his, gifting the sensitive tentacle a taste of your meal. Sampling the still-warm brain matter, the tentacle winds its way around yours, the two appendages coiling around each other in union. One of his free tentacles rises to trace your face. The touch is soft as wind, but the gesture contains more meaning than any single thought.
It is home.
‘What did the scent remind you of?’ A shimmer of curiosity in his words. He cradles the side of your face with the tentacle, with a tenderness that reminds you of old connections long since past. You welcome the touch.
‘A memory. From... long ago.’ It’s easier to show him. You let the Emperor see a living image of your old self as a young child, sitting on a porch as a parental figure holds a small bouquet of purple flowers – lavender – and teaches you to count by handing them to you, one by one. The figures are hazy, as if seen through frosted glass, and as fleeting as joy.
The Emperor studies the memory in silence for a moment. ‘You have come far since.’
‘I have.’
He tilts his head, and you sense an inquisitiveness in the air around him. Another moment passes. Then, you feel him gently easing his way into your mind, gliding with ease through the well-trodden pathways that have already been open and bare for him, until he reaches the segment where your most treasured, private thoughts are stored. That section is locked, even to him. He pauses, hovering right outside. The tip of his tentacle softly strokes the ridge of your cheekbone, a request embedded in the gesture. May he?
You consider it for a moment, your tentacles undulating idly in the air. You hold no deep secrets and have no memories hidden away from your companion; none that would have any relevance, at least. By now you rather think of the pair of you as a colony of two, and a colony shares.
You let him in.
A wave of pleasure ripples through his thoughts and into yours like rings on water. You know he didn’t make this request out of mere curiosity – there is something specific he wishes to find out. You refrain from reading his intentions. There is something thrillingly refreshing about experiencing an unknown.
Tendrils of foreign consciousness slither their way in. They take in the new surroundings with boundless inquisitiveness; sampling and partaking in every new memory, feeling and piece of knowledge they come across. You feel him enjoying the sensory feast, and you are content to let him take his time. He spends a longer amount of time by the remnants of the githyanki prince; and he is enjoying it even more than you always do. That princeling, and its extraordinary ability, is your prized possession, and it holds a place of honour in the expanse of your mind. You doubt you will ever have a grander conquest.
After a moment of fresh exploration, the invisible tentacles pause once more. Your curiosity stirs again, and you hone in on the object of his interest. You are not surprised when you find they stopped at the place where you buried your thoughts regarding your new life.
‘I should have guessed,’ you think to him, the shadow of a smirk accompanying it.
You get back a susurration of amusement. ‘I have been curious about it ever since your rebirth. Would you deny me the knowledge now? ’ It is, of course, a rhetorical question. The knowledge is already available to him, but he knows you quite enjoy the subtle teasing he sometimes indulges in.
‘How could I.’ Your reply is a statement, the tone matching his.
With a soft hum, he reaches for the subject which had evidently piqued his interest so long ago, and by directly accessing the intricate neural patterns of your thoughts, he is able to retrieve the most comprehensive answer possible. Your thoughts on the matter of the childhood memory are detached, neutral - like experiencing a memory that has been implanted in your mind, one that does not belong, but one that does not feel unpleasant, either. It just is.
The more recent memories of yourself are accompanied with more sentiment. At times something - an object, a sound, a smell - stirs old recollections and you experience memories of your old self, living a comparatively carefree life in Baldur’s Gate: drinks at the Mermaid, pleasures of the flesh after a dull day’s work, going for swims in the Chionthar... The details of your previous life are fragmented, you do not actively think of them, and they seem to be slowly chipping away, one small bit at a time. Like an eroding rock.
You do not miss those times - that emotion is all but lost to you - but there is something in you that still stirs when confronted with certain stimuli.
And... there exists no regret. You sense that is what the Emperor was truly after. You had not lied back then, in the afterglow of defeating the brain, when you said you enjoyed what you had become. You truly are something much, much more now.
You feel his sense of approval, and a tickle of appreciation at hearing his own words repeated by you.
And his reply is simple. ‘I understand.’ He is the only one who does. He is the only one who can.
There is a sharp knock on the door.
It opens, the servant behind it not waiting for a response. “Pardon me, hm, saers, but is the task finished? The screams stopped a while ago.”
The two of you slowly turn to look at the elf, the Emperor being in no hurry to lower the tentacle that had been cupping your face. There is a sense of a precious moment interrupted, an outsider intruding on something forbidden. You feel the air around the Emperor growing thicker, more imposing, and you wonder if it is as palpable to the simpering servant as it is to you.
You get your answer as the elf’s level-headed demeanour falters for a moment, and you see a colour of fear flicker in his mind. “I-- I... apologise, but the master is here, and... ah, I...”
‘It’s done,’ the Emperor cuts him off, the tone of his voice matching the imperial aura around him.
The lackey does not reply, he only bows hurriedly and opens the door wide.
Astarion stands outside.
He looks much the same as he did when you last parted ways at the reunion. Clad in regal black, gold and ruby red, he looks every bit the vampire lord, demeanour included. He had already been haughty as a mere spawn, haughtier still at the evening gathering, and you have no reason to doubt his arrogance had halted its exponential growth since then.
You are unable to read his undead mind, but you don’t need to - arrogance seeps from him like pus from a wound.
“Ah, friends. I am so glad you accepted my invitation,” he says with a flourish of his hand, all elegance and nobility. “Once again it’s been too long.”
‘It has,’ you reply, your telepathic tone civil. ‘How have you been, Astarion? ’
“Hmm,” he hums, ignoring the question. “It’s still strange to hear your voice in here,” he taps a finger against his temple. “I got so used to hearing it yell orders at us, that I doubt I’ll ever get used to... all of this.” He rakes his gaze over your alien figure, the subtle curl of his upper lip not lost on you, even if his voice remains characteristically glib.
‘I understand the change still takes some adjusting to.’ Another civil reply.
“Quite the understatement,” he says.
“And here,” he then turns to look at the Emperor, giving an exaggerated, chivalrous bow. “Our silent guardian and saviour.” A syrupy smile. “What an honour it is to have you visit my abode. Really, I should have invited both of you sooner, but I’ve been rather busy.” He glances up, a shrewd look in his eye. “As have you, I imagine?”
A cheap bait.
The Emperor looks at him impassively. ‘Quite.’ The tone makes it clear no elaboration is forthcoming. ‘We thank you for your hospitality.’
“Of course. My doors are always open for you and your... consort both.” You feel the condescending, taunting undertone in the comment, and your annoyance stirs.
“But now,” Astarion continues, unmoved. “I believe you have something in your skulls that I’m quite eager to get my hands on.” He leans forward, not even bothering to hide the demanding tinge in his words. “So, if you would be so kind as to tell me.” You hear the unsaid ‘now’ at the end. Your tentacles twitch irritably, and you can sense the Emperor’s disapproval of the authoritative tone as well. He conceals it perfectly.
‘Naturally. That was our agreement.’
The information Astarion receives from the Emperor seems to greatly displease him. His lips are pursing, as if biting into something sour. You wish you could reach into his mind to savour that feeling.
“I... see.” Astarion finally says, slowly, softly, in a tone that often preceded acts of cruelty during your adventures together. His mind is clearly analysing the knowledge; a plan slowly starting to take shape in the putrid folds of his brain.
You eye his silver-white hair, tracing the approximate shape of the skull beneath. You wonder if you’ll get to view the interior of it some day. Would his cranium differ from living creatures? Would it be more brittle under your teeth? Would the bone structure react differently to the enzymes in your maw...? The thought of consuming an undead brain is not appealing to you, but that is not to say the preceding process wouldn’t be satisfying.
You notice the Emperor giving you a surreptitious glance, a glint of intrigue in his eye. Enjoyment.
“The servant will see to your reward. I have business to attend to.” Astarion finally says. He spits out the word with almost as much venom as he did when uttering the name of his former master, back during your time together. “See to it,” he snaps at his attendant, who had been standing mutely off to the side for duration of the exchange.
Your old companion stalks off without another word, coattails trailing in the air behind him.
The servant stands in uncomfortable silence with you, hands behind his back, but it takes only a moment before he falls back on his old training. Cazador, and now Astarion, trained him well.
“If you would follow me, please.”
You do so.
You glide next to the Emperor down the long, underground corridor. He sends you a single thought, warm with approval.
‘Patience.’