Chapter Text
Caelifer takes another sip from their wine glass as Wyll speaks. It’s hard not to take interest in his tales, especially when he gets so excited he has to calm himself down. It’s endearing, like a puppy getting so enthusiastic about a stick that it can’t stop its tail from wagging.
“A brass dragon in Cormyr?” Caelifer muses, “A newborn, I assume. It’s rare for any dragons to mate in Cormyr, lest they have ill intent for their hatchlings.”
“Really? I’ve never heard that before,” Wyll says, writing something in his patchbook, his quill scratching against the paper. “You’ll have to tell me more about dragons, really! It’s so interesting hearing from you.”
Caelifer chuckles lowly, their tail behind them swaying just a little bit faster. “I’ll be sure to brush up on my knowledge for you.”
Wyll grins, lopsided and truly happy, before it falls to the sick smell of sulphur cursing the camp. His face falls, brown eye filled with more fear than Caelifer has ever seen in a person.
“Wyll?” they ask, voice soft, “Tell me what’s wrong, glenn.”
His answer is cut off by a high–pitched giggle, so sharp it makes Caelifers ears ring. Karlach curses, beside Wyll in a flash with the great–axe in hand.
“Careful, mate,” she warns Caelifer, “not gonna be a fight you’d enjoy.” She glares at the Hell–Sigil burning into the ground, the source of the sulphur and the fire.
Caelifer keeps an arm in front of Wyll, their rapier in their other to fend off the sure–to–be attacker. If this thing can inspire so much fear in Wyll’s heart, what else could they do?
“Oh–ho–ho, pup!” The figure rising from the sigil coos, “Have you gotten yourself a ward? My, they seem positively rabid!”
Wyll ducks his head, his hand finding its way to Caelifer’s forearm to lower their blade. “Caelifer,” he says lowly, “calm yourself, please.”
Caelifer obeys his words. Wyll – he could handle himself, right? He doesn’t need Caelifer to fight for him.
The figure – a woman, a cambion, Caelifer can see that now – laughs sharply, Caelifer and Karlach covering their ears and groaning in twinned pain. “Now, now, let the drow bare their teeth! I’m sure they’d enjoy the blood in their mouth, hm?”
Karlach spits on the ground – is that a tooth? – and digs the hilt of her great–axe into the dirt. “Smuz. Mizora.”
“Karlach. Wonderful to see you again.”
“Go f*ck yourself.”
Wyll almost puts a hand on her shoulder to hold her back, stopped by flame licking at his hand. He pulls back with a hiss, drawing Mizora’s attention back to him.
“Well, well, pup,” she giggles, “you’ve been quite naughty! You’ve gone against orders, you’ve left the devil alive!” She yanks an imaginary chain, choking Wyll as he stumbles forward.
Caelifer grabs Wylls arm, letting go when it burns their hand. Their tail wraps around his waist, holding him away from Mizora. Anything to keep him safe; it doesn’t matter if it hurts.
“You told me devils only!” Wyll chokes out, “She’s – a tiefling! Not a monster!” Mizora giggles, letting go of the leash, pushing Wyll back from his struggle. She speaks in that condescending tone, spouting off some nonsense of a contract, but Caelifer is too focused on trying to heal the burns around Wyll’s neck from this distance. A few feet – a paladin can heal from further, should be able to heal from further.
Caelifer is too deep into their shoddy heal spell when fire burns around Wyll, pushing Caelifer and Karlach back, screams of the damned echoing in camp. Wyll claws at his neck, the flame of ink covering his body, building him anew. The ink – lava? – drips off his body, falling to the ground and scorching the dirt, his new form basking in the moonlight. Curled horns, ridges and half–fledged gills, shards of bone peaking from back as if they were trying to form wings, a tail that has no clue what it’s doing – a hellspawn.
“What in the Hells have you done?!” Wyll growls, hands scratching at his skin, almost desperate to claw it off. His eye – oh, that sole eye – burns red and black, filled with the fury and flame of the Hells, the souls damned to torture.
Mizora co*cks her head, a coy smile twisting her lips. “A promise broken, a price paid. You know the terms,” she says, “Get used to the new form, pet – there’s no going back. Some magic, even I can’t undo.”
She says something more – Caelifer tunes her out, focusing back on trying to fix Wyll’s burns, trying to see if the small ridges of bone on his back will go back in.
Mizora is gone when Caelifer looks back up. Wyll is clawing at his neck, tears pricking his eyes, Karlach trying to calm him down. They take his hand in theirs, pale blue light pulsing through their veins to his.
“We will fix this, Wyll, I swear,” they say firmly, “I will not rest until we find a way.” Caelifer, even as they say it, even as they look into Wylls eyes and promise him, knows they can not fix this. A cambions magic is near impossible to undo, and a change of the body? They’d need a god – and Caelifer has a feeling that no divine beings care for those in this camp.
Wyll stares them in the eyes, determined and just a little hopeful, and nods. “The Sword Coast will not go on unprotected,” he says, “I am still their defender.”
Caelifer grins – the motion is so strange, it almost hurts – and lets go of him. “Atta boy –” oh, who are they? “– keep that attitude, alright?” Wyll smiles back, still lopsided, still his. Mizora won’t have his smile, not in a thousand years.
Karlach picks up her great–axe, coughing to inform the two that yes, she is right here. “Gods, Wyll, you’ve got me reeling. I mean, sacrificing yourself for me?” She laughs shakily, her hands trembling just a little. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“I only ask for your friendship, Karlach,” he chuckles, “I believe that is payment enough.” Karlach laughs again, stronger this time, and nods. “I can do that! But still, really, I’ll buy the best ale, promise!”
—
They’re still going when Gale rings a metaphysical bell, chiming that dinner – stew, he’s made – is ready. They’re still going when Caelifer walks off, spooning some into a wooden bowl and sitting down on a log. Chunks of meat, beef maybe, in a thick broth – Caelifer salivates just looking at it.
They spoon some into their mouth, humming quietly at the taste. How long has it been since they’ve eaten properly? They can feel their ribs when they press their hands to their shirt, and they’ve noticed Gale offering food between fights like a worried mother, but they aren’t entirely sure how horrible it might be.
Their thoughts cease when Astarion sits next to them, an apple in his hand and a dagger in the other. Is that his dinner, or just a snack? The man is certainly malnourished, anyone could see that, but he has to be eating more than just an apple, right?
“Tell me, darling,” he says, “I’ve never seen a drow with a tail – certainly not a dragon tail. Is that . . . ‘You’ specific, or is it common in the Underdark?”
Caelifer is sure there is an actual answer; they just don’t remember it. Draconian blood, perhaps? That would make more sense than every drow having a tail – though, Caelifer likes their tail. The scales are a beautiful shade of amethyst, just darker than their skin, just lighter than the stone decorating their dark metal armor.
“Perhaps it is the dragons in my blood,” Caelifer shrugs, “Truth be told, I have no memory of the reason; merely murky images that swim to the water’s edge and grasp for my hand.”
Astarion looks at them, glancing at their collar in a way he surely can’t think is sneaky, and shrugs back. “Perhaps so. I’ve heard of more... Animalistic traits among your kind, but I never realized it was so… obvious.”
“What did you think you would see?”
“More scales, tails, slit pupils, sharp teeth… They were mostly right, hm? Though,” Astarion smirks, “I’ve also heard of larger appendages. Were they still right, Caelifer?”
“Oh, lotha darthirii, you needn’t be coy. If you oh, so desperately wish to know, you only must ask.”
Astarion makes some noise at the nickname, cutting a piece of his apple and shoving it in his mouth. His ears twitch, brows furrowed.
“... Is it true, though?” he asks, voice quiet, “The – sharper teeth, I mean. Have you a bite to match your bark?”
Caelifer sets their bowl down next to the log, turning their upper body towards Astarion. “Look for yourself.” They grin – it’s still strange to them – and take a slight pleasure in the way Astarion stumbles back a little.
“Deos superos!” he exclaims, dropping his apple. “Those– Yes, those are quite sharp. How do those not cut your lip to shreds?” He asks nervously, brushing a hand through his hair – he isn’t used to being caught off guard, that’s clear.
“Oh, plenty of years of accidental cuts, I’m sure,” they say, “it is not hard to avoid injury when you are used to them.” Caelifer picks their stew back up, spooning more into their mouth, letting it warm them.
“Right, well… Thank you, for that, ah, delightful display,” Astarion says, “I have other business to attend to, you understand.” He stands, leaving his apple where it lay in the dirt, brushing his breeches. “Though... If you ever wish to show me what else they got right, you know where to find me.”
He saunters off, hips swaying like a cat with a mouse in his teeth.
Caelifer is left in their silence, tail curled up beside them. Animalistic traits, Astarion had said. Well, Caelifer has animal traits; a tail, sharp teeth, they even have pitiful patches of scales. The collar, though, that seems more for a dog than a dragon. Their pupils – are they slit, or crescents? Karlach has slit pupils, Wyll has a heart in the stone, even Lae’zel has a bladed rectangle... Maybe Caelifer looks just as interesting as their companions – friends? Friends, yes, that sounds right. What better word is there for a group of people trying not to become mindflayers together?
They’ll find a bard to ask – Volo, maybe? No, wait, Caelifer would rather die than ask him for any help.
Is this adventuring? Struggling to find words that don’t exist? Drowish doesn’t even have a word for this – not even for friend. Well, Caelifer could… Make one? Is that how that works? Does it really matter?
It doesn’t, not when Gale nudges Caelifers shoulders, pulling them from their thoughts. They look up, chewing a piece of meat in their mouth, brows furrowed.
“We have a visitor,” he says, gesturing towards the pale blue tiefling grinning and waving at Caelifer. They stand, bowl still in hand, swallowing their mouthful of stew.
What was her name again? Alryn, no. Alin, uh, no. Al…
“Alfira,” Caelifer says, tilting their head. “Why are you out here?”
“I, ah, was hoping I could… Stay?” Alfira says, picking at her nails, “I can be of use! I can cook, and I can even fight! I learned from Guex!”
Caelifer wants to say no – It isn’t safe, they would say, not for a bard with no experience – but she looks so excited, and Caelifer can’t really say no to her, can they?
“Ahh… I– I guess,” they say quietly, “but we– we lead danger back, Alfira, are you sure? It isn’t exactly… Easy.”
“Oh, please! I can fight, I can protect myself! Oh, please, please, please!”
“Okay, okay, I… believe you –” no, they don’t “– can protect yourself. Eat your fill.”
Alfira squeals and wraps her arms around Caelifer, her tail wagging furiously. Caelifer chuckles nervously, patting her back, careful not to spill stew on her dress.
Caelifer says something when she pulls away; they can’t hear themself over the worries and voices in their head telling them this is a horrible idea, that Alfira isn’t going to survive this adventure.
She will, Caelifer bites back, she’s strong. She’s proved herself to the gods, she’s just as worthy of her life. She can make her name when we reach Baldur’s Gate.
They sit back down, mind lost in the travels and road they’ll need to follow to the city. They lose themself eventually, moving like a puppet with no thoughts to be had.
—
When Caelifer comes back to themself, they’re in their tent, a dagger in their hand, blood on their thigh. They rear back, breath catching in their chest, unknown words falling from their mouth in forced whispers. Their dagger drops to the ground, their hands going to stop the bleeding with pressure and weak heal spells.
They manage to stop the bleeding, a thin sheen of sweat on their forehead from the exertion, but they wrap gauze around their thigh twice just in case.
They do not remember entering their tent, sitting in front of the mirror, and slicing – but there’s proof enough that they did. Were they just… Forcing themself not to remember doing so?
It comes to them, in their frantic thoughts, that maybe they just had a habit of blacking out. Maybe that was what landed them here. Yes, that has to be it. It’s the easiest thing to tell themself, at least.
Caelifer throws themself back against their bedroll, the thick blanket below them cushioning their body, the pillow behind their head soft and inviting. Figure it out in the morning, Caelifer. Their eyes droop shut, throwing them into a whirling dream of spiders and churches.
—
When Caelifer wakes up, there isn’t a dagger in their hand, but blood instead coats their palm. There is a body below them, carved and still bleeding.
