Blood Magic

Chapter 9

236 days after turning.

Another dreamless night passes without trouble, which only troubles me. Astarion has not visited me in my dreams since my stint at the House of Healing, and while a part of me misses reliving memories through dreams, such longing wears off the moment those memories turn wicked. And it's stupid of me to feel this way, but I miss him.

Still, there is another way I can reminisce about my grand adventures without the fear of nightmarish manipulation.

I scavenge my bag for my old travel journal while Geraldus sleeps soundly beside me. In the need for some validation, I flip through the journal to find the entry on our strenuous but triumphant visit to Sorcerer's Sundries and dive in like no time has passed.

—

Day 39 of the journey to Baldur's Gate defeat the Elder Brain

Upon arriving at Baldur's Gate's Lower City, our first task was to find information about the Crown of Karsus in the Sorcerer's Sundries. We found plenty more. First, we learned of the shop's owner, Lorroakan, and his interest in retrieving the Nightsong. Our party warned Dame Aylin of an impending fight and went about our shopping until it was time to face Lorroakan. We also ran into an old friend of ours, Rolan, who was much dismayed to see us again, having failed to save his family. Their deaths, along with the other tieflings who were held captive at Moonrise Towers, will forever be the biggest regret of mine; we should have saved them sooner, but I became so foolishly swept up by Astarion's quest for freedom that it was too late to attend to theirs by the time we returned to Moonrise to defeat Ketheric. Rolan must feel regret too, having put his life in danger back in the shadow-cursed lands to save them and again in the fight with Lorroakan, killed long before he could cast his signature Thunderwave.

It must be difficult to be a wizard raised in humble conditions, especially when you have to drag adopted siblings around. He never stood a chance, really, but I do feel disappointed that a fellow tiefling wizard proved worthless when I have demonstrated what marvellous things we can do. I suppose if I am the only one, then I should feel proud of my unparalleled greatness, but it feels lonely. Defeating my inferiors has grown tedious, so I see clearly why so many mercenary and guardianship divisions kill out of necessity rather than fun. The only worthy deadly prospects now are Cazador and the Elder Brain, and with the Sundries' most mystical loot, my favourite being the Markoheshkir Legendary Staff, such prospects seem more vincible by the day. The staff is an absolute beast, strengthening my lightning spells' power while simultaneously lessening the draining cost to cast them.

The mission to retrieve the staff, among other treasures, would be no easy feat for most, but all wizards leave clues for themselves scattered about their sanctuaries, so I effortlessly puzzled together the necessary potions and spells needed to find every secret in Sundries' many floors.

It was truly refreshing to have proven myself so capable in my domain, and my efforts did not go unnoticed. Astarion clearly admired how natural I was in solving such complicated works of magic, and I expressed my admiration for his part in lockpicking hidden chests with ease. We work as a great team when it matters most, so I look forward to what comes next for us, after we're through with all this—

—

The thirty-ninth entry suddenly ends there. At first, I forget why, wondering if I am already losing the old life's memories the more I rip myself from that time, but then it comes to me.

Astarion had interrupted my writing to take me aside that night. I had asked him earlier in the day to steal me away for the nightly feeding, but mainly because I had something to tell him. I never wrote down these quiet moments because I knew in my heart that I never had to; they were imprinted into my very soul. But with no soul to flourish within this body, holding onto those pleasant moments, the best of my monstrous love, proves more precarious as the older times decay. On a blank page toward the end of the journal, I seal that night in magical ink like forging an indestructible weapon with Damascus steel: