#i didn't know if i was gunna get this done today ty el for looking at it

[iironwreath]

Liquid [Vierna]

[cw: vomiting, mild body horror, seizure/convulsions]

Nepenthe never looked small, even among hobgoblins twice her size. She held herself confidently, square-shouldered and straight-backed, her lips forever upturned at the corners like it was effortless. Even in the face of what could kill her, her expression and posture remained the same.

Vierna avoided picking at the skin around her nails—an old tick—and observed. It started the way it had with everybody else: a chamber, sepulchral with its high ceiling and ribbed vaulting, like they were inside someone’s chest cavity. There were a few high priestesses arranged in a wide circle, and hobgoblin and drow muscle beside them in case it went poorly. 

She tried not to think about that. It started the same way, only this time it was her wife.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t confident in her antidote. Multiple paladins survived it—it was that she cared for Nepenthe too much to want to risk failure. But that choice wasn’t hers. 

Head matron Vivurk Tonn was there to oversee it as well. She waved for Vierna to proceed. Vierna glided forward, offering Nepenthe a vial filled with a mercury-like liquid. She accepted with a lopsided-smile. Their exchange didn’t linger—they had said all they needed to. Vierna nodded, lips pursed, and retreated to where she’d been, at the south end of the circle.

Nepenthe uncorked the vial with her teeth and spat it to the floor, bringing the open top under her nose. She gave a quick, testing sniff, nostrils flaring. She blew out a quick prayer, lips moving in a familiar pattern, then tossed it back like a shot. The glass dropped from her fingers.

It must have been a private thing, originally, for drow to consume Lolth’s blood and turn into driders. Something they did in desperation, or from longing, but usually alone, hunched over a pool, cupping it to their mouths to drink straight from the earth. It wasn’t pretty. Sacred and painful, yes, but inelegant. 

Nothing happened immediately, physically—but Nepenthe lurched and slammed the heels of her palms into her eyes, screaming through clenched teeth. She shuddered, fullbody, gagging like she might throw it back up, but wrestled it down. On the little exposed skin above her armour, sweat formed unapologetically, her cheeks flushing with fever. Vierna’s jaw clenched reflexively, her heart drumming up against her throat.

Nepenthe crashed to her knees, arms crossed over her belly, alternating between laughing and sobbing and sometimes both at once. Vierna resisted flinching towards her, clutching her cane in a deathgrip.

Then it happened—a polymorph, but slower. The spider’s abdomen replaced her from the hips down. Eyes split open her forehead to her hairline, the same stinging yellow as her irises. Eight hooked legs curled out from her middle like bony fingers, sticking to the floor and raising Nepenthe up, befitting of her ascension. Her spider-body was a coal black, like it would leave marks behind. She snarled. 

Drinking Lolth’s blood was the easier part—it was the antidote that was riskier. It was a combination of will and physical fortitude. The drider had to want to change back.

The guards readied their weapons, and Vierna didn’t know which was worse—Nepenthe succumbing to indelible madness, the antidote, or getting skewered by their family. Would they corral and free her into the wild underdark, or would they slay her? But she saw awe and respect in the guards’ faces, observing something holy—at least Nepenthe would die revered, if she did.

Nepenthe heaved, the transformation ended. Her eyes were unfocused, and spittle mixed with blood oozed out of the corner of her mouth, the tips of fangs pointing past her bottom lip. As she gained awareness, she looked at her fingers, curling them one at a time like a wave, then turned her head over her shoulder, examining the spider-half. 

She looked beautiful—still deadly and fearsome, but with added grace and venom. If the slow degradation of sanity wasn’t the cost—there had to be driders out in the world who had their full wits, but Vierna hadn’t met them—there was no reason not to make it permanent. 

Vierna stepped forward again, steeling her spine.

“Nepenthe?” she asked. 

All eight eyes snapped to her. 

“Can you understand me? Can you hear me?”

Nepenthe nodded, once. The smile returned. Soft, confident, hers. Vierna offered up a second vial: this one, the liquid a thin, sickly green. Nepenthe’s new spider appendages widened their stance, lowering herself to take it. Even through her armour, her skin burned.

Nepenthe did the same as before—uncorked it with her teeth, sniffed experimentally, only this time she tipped it back gently, her hand trembling, eyes closing. 

The reverse transformation was no less painful—arguably moreso. Vierna could only make a single dose so concentrated before it crossed the line and killed them. Vierna had learned that death wasn’t a cure for madness, not where the Chained Oblivion was concerned, but it worked for driders.

Nepenthe’s spider-body tucked itself away, the extra eyes vanished. Nepenthe landed on two feet and toppled to her shoulder, convulsing, limbs locking up as she retched up blood and bile.

Vierna wasn’t supposed to show weakness in front of the others, but the situation was exceptional—she rushed forward and fell to her knees, her cane landing with a clatter beside her. Her hands flittered, undecided, before settling around Nepenthe’s shoulders to prop her into her lap, on her side. She could beat herself up all she liked later—at the moment, Nepenthe needed her.

Did she need her? No, but she wanted her. That was enough. 

“She’ll live?” Vivurk called.

“Yes,” Vierna announced. “She’s breathing. She should.”

The guards relaxed, as did the priestesses. A victorious, self-satisfied murmur rose up around her, congratulations passed through hands and by word. Vivurk nodded to her, smirking, and filed out with everyone else. Nepenthe’s convulsions slowed, then stopped. She panted at first, then that slowed, too.

Time crawled by. Her ankle and legs ached, both from hard cobblestone underneath and where Nepenthe’s armour dug into her skin on top. She untied Nepenthe’s ponytail, combed the hair through with her fingers, and laid it out to one side. Nepenthe had gone from solid to liquid—even though she breathed slower, more at rest, Vierna was terrified she would drip through her fingers. 

She hadn’t noticed from a distance, but the blood on Nepenthe’s chin wasn’t pure red—silver veined through it. There were faint, closed stitch lines on her forehead where the eyes had grown, small enough to heal with time. But how much time would there be in-between? Now that they knew Nepenthe could survive it, she was their newest weapon.

Finally, a single, involuntary cough jerked Nepenthe’s body and her eyes flew open. Her whites were wrong—off-white, like someone painted over them with a granite grey. It made the gold of her irises more stark. Relief surged up Vierna’s throat, hot and briney, cresting high enough to prick the corners of her eyes. Nepenthe rolled onto her back and reached up a limp hand, knuckling at a tear.

“You’ll smear your makeup,” she said.

“You’ve already smeared yours.”

Unthinkingly, Vierna bent to kiss her, but Nepenthe stopped her with two fingers on her lips. 

“Don’t,” she warned, voice rough. She gestured to the blood smeared all over her mouth and in her teeth. Vierna pursed her lips again.

Nepenthe’s tongue dabbed at the blood, and something like ecstasy rippled across her face, eyes temporarily squeezing before opening. In that brief moment, Vierna was almost jealous.

“What does it taste like?” Vierna whispered.

“Like blood, but—charged. Like drinking hot coals. It tastes like power, and love.” She gazed into the middle distance, past Vierna. “It serves a greater purpose.”