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blackjackkent · 3 months

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Pressing onward through the illithid colony...

Rakha shoves her shoulder through another of the terrible flesh-sphincter doors and finds herself in some kind of barracks area, just as slimy as the rest.

Small alcoves branch off of a central room. Amid the slime and flesh are beds, desks, chests of belongings.

"Some who worked here were not thralls or undead," Minthara points out grimly. "They were loyal to Ketheric - and his grim cause."

And indeed, some of those people are still here. A group of some five Absolutists are standing at the far end of the barracks. One of them, a tall woman with heavy facial tattoos and dramatic headgear, seems to be leading them in some sort of rousing speech.

"Bring death! Embrace death! Become death!" she cries. "You are the sacred hand that reaches from the grave. You are the lasher of skulls, the carver of crypts, the dancer of bones. Walk in dusk and shadow; walk the path of bones in our Lord's name! This is his blessing, his consecration, and you are his scythe. Go forth and reap! Gather yourselves! Soon we march to victory!"

Rakha grabs Wyll's arm, shoves him before her towards one of the room's alcoves, trying to push out of sight - but it's too late. The group is moving into the main atrium, and the woman spots her at once.

"Ugh," she groans, irritated. "Lashers, Balthazar let one of his walking carcasses lapse from his control. Let's ferry them back--"

She breaks off abruptly and does a visible double-take. Her eyes widen and her jaw drops.

"Wait," she says softly. "By the Bone Lord... it's you!"

Rakha goes very still. Her heart begins to thump painfully in her chest, in her temple, behind her eye. She realizes, suddenly, that she knows that voice - that it resonates with a memory just beyond reach, a memory saturated with visceral terror. Every muscle in her body seems to lock up and she stands there, dumb and staring, unable to move, unable to speak.

The woman moves closer, peering at her; astonishingly, incongruously, her expression is one of... joyful recognition. Her lips struggle for a smile that seems ill-suited to the tight-drawn muscles of her face.

"I thought I'd never see you again," she says eagerly. "I wanted to keep you for myself, but they shipped you away!"

Rakha is dimly aware of Wyll moving up next to her. His rapier is out in one hand - he is waiting for her cue to strike. But she is frozen, her fists clenched at her side. For the first time, rather than fight, she wants to flee this place, and she does not know why.

This is the second person who has recognized her with pleasure. The first was that presence, the Absolute itself. And now this woman...

I wanted to keep you for myself.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she manages to rasp out. "But you're going to tell me *everything.*"

The woman's head snaps back and her eyes widen even further. "You talk? How is this possible? Something must have gone wrong..."

Then her gaze softens and the smile takes over again, spreading from ear to ear, giving her face a sharply skeletal look. "But oh... what an arresting voice you have."

She lifts a hand and dusts it with a tender gentleness along Rakha's cheekbone, over the scar on her eye. Rakha's breath quickens - not with pleasure but with panic. Often she is not even comfortable with Wyll touching her, much as she loves him; this woman's fingers make her feel like a rat caught in a trap. She wants to lash out, to jerk away... but she can't move. (*)

"You're not supposed to be here, special one," the woman croons. She sounds as if she's talking to a lost child, or a disobedient pet. "That's not right. But I don't want to damage you." She laughs softly. "You were my very first, after all. I learnt everything about the parasites from you."

She tips her head to the side with an air of reverent nostalgia, her smile softening and her eyes drifting a little out of focus. "I remember finding you close to death," she murmurs. "Beaten black and blue on the floor of this sanctum. It must have been a few hours after the tadpole was placed in your skull. How you got here was a total mystery, but I stitched you up just enough to keep you alive, then placed you within your crib..."

Her hand shifts, now cupping Rakha's cheek. She looks up into Rakha's eyes with great affection; Rakha has nearly six inches on her and yet she seems utterly unafraid, merely fascinated that she has returned.

That her pet has returned.

"I kept you as mine until you were needed by our superiors," she says gently. "We had such a close bond... I opened you up endlessly with my scalpels and got lost in your insides..."

Flashes of sudden memory, brutal as lightning strikes. A horrible parallel of the noblestalk memories, and of Malus Thorm's profane experiments in Reithwin, but this time it is Rakha on the table. This woman stands over her and lifts a knife and stabs downward and cuts--

Pain. Blood. Rakha looks down and sees her own liver, glistening, pulsing, and she screams and thrashes against the bonds holding her down--

She staggers, swallows a noise of panic that she has never made before. Focus. She has to focus, to think-- these are the answers she has looked for all this time. She can't let them slip out of her grasp.

"This is... where I was left?" she asks. Her voice sounds foreign to her own ears, strained. "After someone infected me?"

The woman shrugs. "I was not behind it. I do not know." She shakes away the moment of uncertainty and smiles beatifically. "But whoever did it, I'm so glad they left you here for me."

She draws her fingers slowly down Rakha's cheek, over her neck. "Truthfully," she says, "I'm not surprised to see you found your way back here all by yourself. I always knew you were clever." She drops her hand, spreads her arms wide with a woebegone sort of expression. "It has never been the same with another! All the other victims who come here just meekly obey. You thrashed! You fought! You were indomitable!"

Yes. She remembers fighting. She remembers terror, wanting to run, wanting to hide, find safety, strike back, kill. Nothing of her, only the beast, furious and in pain. Did she still remember anything then? Or were her memories already gone?

She lets out a long, reverential sigh, then clicks her tongue, suddenly all business. "But... as special as you are, you shouldn't be swanning around here, acting as if free will is yours again," she says brightly. "We're going to kill you, sweet one. But I promise... I will stay with you afterwards."

Her voice lifts in a sudden, commanding shout. "Lashers! Bring this one back to my table!" Her eyes narrow and her affectionate smile takes on a brittle sharpness. "And prepare my knives for a long night of experiments!"

-----

It is not Rakha but Wyll who strikes first. Almost before the Absolutist is finished speaking, his fist - heavy with the hilt of his rapier - crashes into her jaw, knocking her almost off her feet.

"Like hells you will!" he snarls.

Rakha doesn't remember the battle that follows. She's dimly aware that Wyll's attack galvanizes all of them into action, herself included - that she manages to break free of the strange rigor-mortis panic that seems to have overtaken her.

But her first clear perception is of sitting on the floor next to the woman's body, watching the blood slowly drip out of a hole in her gut, left by Lae'zel's greatsword amidst flesh charred by Rakha's spells.

Narrator: She is but the hack doctor who half-pieced you together, after whatever caused your head to get in this mess. Someone else must have attacked you, in the midst of whatever you were doing down here. This necromancer was a grunt in the scheme of the horrors enacted against you. That attacker is the source.

Try to remember the attack.

Narrator: In the heart of all these membranes, there was a dagger awaiting you all along. But from who?

The panic is fading, her conscious thought reasserting itself. This is still not answers, not really... but more images, small puzzle-piece fragments that fit into a distant sense of understanding.

Yes - she was here, once. Ketheric did not like her - but she had power nevertheless. She walked the halls freely, both above and here in this flesh-pit. And she was betrayed. Someone attacked her. Tadpoled her. Left her here to die. Except she did not die; instead she was taken by this worm of a woman, cut apart and put back together over and over and over and over--

Calm. She swallows the rising bile in her throat.

She can see Wyll watching her. He looks as ill and frightened as she feels. Lae'zel is vibrating with rage that has no outlet now that all around them are dead. Even Minthara, usually unflappable, seems disquieted, her eyebrows knitted together firmly as she looks over Rakha and the dead body next to her.

"They treat us like animals," the Nightwarden says coldly. "Beasts of burden. Pets. Laboratory rats. Our vengeance will be swift and we shall leave none standing."

Rakha doesn't answer. Yes. Vengeance. It is all she has sought - but before, her only target was Ketheric. Now there are others. The one who attacked her, who betrayed her.

Did that person put the beast in her head? Or - this thought gnaws at the back of her skull, inescapable - was it there before, and were they right to try to put her down like a dog?

-----

(*) Artistic license. Kressa doesn't touch her in-game but it seemed apropos for the way she was talking about Rakha.

#bjk plays bg3 durge #rakha the dark urge #WELLP #WELLP WELLP WELLP #Rakha's day is getting SO much worse #cw torture #i guess #well implied torture at least #i always feel like i should tag the particularly dark elements of this story but never sure how

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blackjackkent · 1 month

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Prompt fill for @astreamofstars from this ask for this prompt meme. Karlach - "It is my fault, I think, that you have forgotten to fear me."

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“Oy, who’s the glowy bitch by the door, then?”

Karlach knows better than to bother looking up when the fresh-meat greataxe grunt starts talking, down the barracks a ways. This shit isn’t new. They always like to talk, the new arrivals to Zariel's army. And as soon as they see Karlach, no other topic will do.

Fair play enough, after all; she does kinda stick out. There's nobody else like her in the platoon, or in the whole army. In the eight years she’s been here, nobody else has ever gotten the tin can stuck into them and survived. She’s special, as Zariel likes to assure her, though special has never bought her anything but more blood and death - and the attention of every ignot who want to pick a fight.

Today’s mouthy prick is a draegloth, which explains why he’s talking a big game. A dogskull’s almost as unique as Karlach is around here; makes sense he’d pick out a target fast before anyone can pick him out for an asskicking.

“Oh, that? That's Cliffgate,” says another voice. This one Karlach recognizes - Namtar, a cambion, one of the platoon sergeants. He and Karlach have butted heads before, because Namtar is a rotten pissant. “Zariel's little kiss-ass. No heart, just an infernal engine in her chest.”

"No way," the draegloth says. "That's the Demonsbane? A ruttin' tief? Not even hellsborn?" He laughs sharply. "Lettin' in all sorts these days, uh?"

Karlach ignores the mocking words, focusing on choking down the tasteless morsels that pass for rations around here. The bunk across from her creaks unhappily as weight hits it.

“They're talkin’ about you, Dart,” Flo says with a nasty grin, settling onto the bed and lounging back against the wall. “Gonna sit here and take it?”

Karlach sighs. She picked up the nickname around her second week in the Hells, and it's never once been meant with kindness. Even Flo says it with a nasty edge, and Flo is the closest thing she has to a friend.

Good reminder, I guess, that no one here really gives a fuck about me, no matter how much I might like to pretend. Even after eight years, she can sometimes, if she squints, convince herself that there's camaraderie here, like there was in Gortash's old crew before he sold her out. But it's vain hope, a desperate attempt to pretend this place isn't rotting her fro the inside out; the illusion never lasts long and always just leaves her feeling lonelier.

"If it's not them, it'll be somebody else," she says noncommittally. "Lemme eat my dinner in peace."

"Nawww..." Flo says, comfortably dismissive. "C'mon, Dart, give us a show. Been too long since we had a proper scrap in here besides the piece in your chest."

Karlach laughs softly in spite of herself. It's a pretty weak pun, but the jokes in Avernus are as bad as the food. "I'm wore out, Flo," she says, shaking her head. "Leave off."

She looks up to find Flo's smile has turned a shade more brittle. "C'mon, now, Dart," she says, and there's a warning note in it now. "Y'know I can't be seen bein' friends with a softy. Give us a show, I said."

The message is loud and clear, as it always is. My friendship is conditional. And you'll do as I say, 'cos you *don't* want to be my enemy. Now dance.

Karlach huffs out a weary, flame-hot breath and tosses aside the last bit of her ration pack uneaten. With a groan, she pushes herself to her feet and strides down the barracks corridor towards Namtar and the draegloth.

"Hey, there she is." Namtar looks up with a lazy grin as she approaches. He's flopped on his bunk with his boots off, his wings furled neatly under him and feet up on a stack of equipment piled at the foot of the bed. "How's tricks, Dart?" Before Karlach can respond, he shoots a conspiratorial glance at the young dogskull. "Y'know why we call her Dart, Markos?"

The draegloth -- Markos -- looks puzzled. "Why?" he asks.

"Dumb-Ass Rusty Toaster." Namtar brays with laughter so hard it shakes the bed a little. "Fits, too, cos all she's good for is throwing at things t' poke holes in them."

Markos snickers loudly. Several more of the platoon have picked up on the conversation; smelling blood in the water, they've started to circle up, leaned casually against the walls or peering over the edge of their bunks. Some of them are grinning, enjoying watching the Demonsbane get a dunking. Others - the smart ones - are eyeing Karlach warily. She hasn't said anything yet, but her eyes are smoldering. In spite of herself, the rage is building.

She doesn't want to fight them. She never has. She's always been loyal, and even in this bitch of a place, even under Zariel's thumb, she'd have fought hard for anyone here who wanted to fight for her in return. But that's never made the slightest bit of difference, because everyone here is a fucking tosser.

Hells. Maybe, when you come right down to it, so am I.

And that, really, is what enrages her, far more than these empty little insults.

"Y'know," she says slowly, looking the draegloth up and down. "I expect this sort of crap from the fresh meat. A mouth spewing shit 'cos you haven't learned to shut the fuck up yet. But you--" She turns her gaze slowly and deliberately to the sergeant. "Eight years it's been, Namtar, and neither of us dead yet, so you'd think you'd have figured out not to mess with me." She lets a slow, feral grin curl across her lips, and there's a ripple of anticipatory mumbling from the gathering crowd around them. "My fault, I guess, that you've forgotten to be scared of me. But I can fix that."

She moves suddenly, with no windup, her fists and feet all shifting at once. Her left fist crashes into Markos's jaw, knocking him back into the steel frame of the bed behind him; his skull ricochets off it with a metallic whingggg as his skull ricochets off the metal. With her left foot, she kicks behind his knee while he's unbalanced and fully flips him sideways. As he bounces back from the bedframe, he goes careening onto his front, his nose crunching into the stone floor.

Meanwhile, her other hand grabs Namtar by the collar and drags him out of his bunk. He has almost two inches on her, but she lifts him with ease one-armed, the engine roaring in her chest and sending energy coursing through her bicep. Spinning out of the kick at Markos, she slams Namtar into the wall, then releases her grip for a split second, only to refix it tightly around his throat before he can fall.

All of the cambion's bravado has vanished. His eyes are wide and brilliant white in the dark red of his face and he squirms ineffectually against Karlach's implacable grip. His wings, crunched between his back and the wall, struggle feebly. "Oy! Let me go!" he bleats, gripping her hand with both of his and trying to pull it away.

She glares at him. "Maybe. If you want to grovel a bit. Otherwise I'll finally just kill you. Maybe everyone else would finally get it through their thick skulls that you don't mess with me."

He sneers in an attempt at disdain, though it's considerably weakened by the fact that he's now struggling to breathe. "You wouldn't dare."

She laughs humorlessly and leans forward until her nose is nearly touching his, so he can feel the heat radiating off her body and see nothing but the exhausted fury in her eyes. "That really a chance you wanna take, sergeant?"

He hesitates, balanced between his anger and his fear. But something he sees in her eyes must convince him, because the fear wins. "Sorry," he mutters.

"What was that?" she asks coolly. "Didn't hear you."

"I'm sorry," he snaps. "Now let me go."

She could drag it out further, but the whole situation feels sticky as hot tar on her skin, burning down into her bones. Gods, I hate this. I hate all of it. I don’t want to be this thing they’ve made me, but I don’t know how to stop.

She releases his throat with a jerk, letting him slide down the wall to the floor, where he sits clutching at his neck and wheezing. Markos, nearby, is out cold where he hit the floor.

"Good," she mutters. "Just... stay there and shut the fuck up." She doesn't wait to hear what the other gathered soldiers might have to say, but turns and stalks away back down the row of beds towards the other end of the barracks.

Flo gives her a slow clap as she returns to her bunk, grinning unpleasantly from ear to ear. "Nice one. Damn good show, Dart, just as I asked."

"Shut up," Karlach answers, tossing herself facedown onto her mattress. The engine is still running hot, surging pain through her chest and her head and her arms with the slow letdown of adrenaline; she can smell it searing a scorched mark into the bedsheets. "You too - just... just shut up and leave me alone.”

#astreamofstars #ask meme #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #karlach #karlach cliffgate #karlach demonsbane #bg3 fic #baldur's gate 3 fic #bg3 fanfiction #karlach fanfic #bg3 avernus #wellp i made myself sad writing this one :(#this is vague ponderings that will probably end up in a long young-karlach-in-hell fic #when i ever get around to writing it #some things that may get a callback in hellraisers too #but for now weh :( i just want to give her a hug #ty for the prompt! <3 #hope you enjoy the feelz

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