Restless

95%

A small part of Cyrus' mind afforded itself the leisure to wonder if cursing or laughing hysterically would be the reaction most appropriate to the reality that everything back there had only reduced the odds of Gorion dying by 5%. If he could bring himself to feel anything even remotely intense anyway, which he couldn't and didn't. Or was it that the certainty was so far above total that it didn't register even to his very specific perception? Or maybe the fire was the reason. The fire he was still running through. As he'd been for the past minute yet still he hadn't found any spots greater than half a foot across that weren't completely engulfed in it.

90%

Run.

87%

Run.

85%

Run some more.

80%

The all-encompassing light and heat suddenly broke and Cyrus Anwar finally had air to breathe that wasn't mixed with flame.

45%

The sharp drop in odds made him stumble and he nearly dropped his all-important burden, but the young dwarf managed to catch himself and take a deep breath.

47%

Panicked, outraged fury stalked hurriedly at the core of the forest fire he'd been rushing to escape, followed/hurting/aided by a second soul too un-dark and hopeful to ever fit with his, like a square peg in a round hole. The young dwarf's face curled in a scowl despite himself and he begun to hurry onwards again.

45%

Faster.

43%

Dodge the falling flaming tree, close both eyes against the burst of cackling embers that washed over everything as soon as the trunk smashed into the scorched ground. Run around, don't slip on the coarse woody debris, ignore the burning feeling on the skin from the wafting fire that still peppered the immediate area even all the way out here and keep going.

40%

That made two full minutes since he'd raced away from the centre of the explosion. A dreadful performance for what were a mere 500-some meters. Even with the excuse of having to watch his footing and dodge falling, dead nature, he should still have managed better at a full sprint even with a second body's weight pulling him down.

35%

And suddenly he was out of the treeline entirely, staggering out into the Lion's Way Road. The not-quite-paved but not-quite-dirt-either path they'd done their best to avoid since the Candlekeep Coastway. Cyrus looked from one side of the path to the other. It was surprisingly deserted, though he supposed they were far enough from Candlekeep that they'd left behind the many supplicants camping while waiting for access and that was not important right now. He looked past the massive obelisk as thick as 5 men and tall as 10 that marked the 25-mile waypoint, to the forest that picked up across the road and went on southwards for hours.

35%

Can't go back or they'll fry. Can't go east or they'll run into the other two as they made their own escape, can't go west because that would take them back to Candlekeep and the many vessels of Bhaaltaint – his blood rose and simmered in anticipation of me/mine/euphoria/retribution – that they'd stockpiled in various safes and alcoves over the past 10 plus years. Keep going south then-

67%

Cyrus snarled as he aborted the latest sprint he was about to charge off in – force down the taint-pull before you react like half-brother again – and reconsidered the situation. Higher odds of Father's death the further they went. Others of Sarevok's underlings prowling the other part of the forest in search of them. Thorough.

35%

The world burned ever closer in the wake of his flight. Cyrus Anwar grit his teeth, then his face smoothed and his eyes landed once more on the stone-hewn obelisk just as his Father found his voice.

"… S-son…?"

36%

The sprint was sudden and cut Gorion off mid-word with a startled yelp. Unavoidable when being unceremoniously tossed headfirst to hang over your son's shoulder without any by your leave, Cyrus supposed. Ten bounds were enough to cross the distance to his ultimate destination and by the eighth he'd summoned Jondalar's dagger from his boot again and gripped it tight in his right hand, tip pointed down with Greater Magic Weapon still active since being cast not that much earlier.

35%

Feet left the ground with a running leap, landed on the oblique face of the carven waypoint, made two vertical steps before footing started to slip – stab down into granite all the way to the hilt – then he hurled himself further upwards to restore his forward momentum and kept going even as the surface got more and more vertical.

30%

His muscles burned and ached from the strain but he'd shouldered through slashes, stabbing and being nearly burned alive not much earlier – skin blistered with every stretch and had peeled off in several places, fire eating through the cotton – so he pushed through this time too, shoving aside impending muscle failure each time he pulled the dagger out and used it as a climbing pick every third step.

25%

One, two, three – pull dagger out, stab down again – one, two, three – pull out, stab down – one, two, three – pull, stab – rinse and repeat until he was near the top.

10%

Then he was nearly there, so he left the dagger buried in rock to use as a foothold – prestidigitation to glue the other sole to the facet – reached back to Sightless and jerked his thumb against its guard suddenly to propel it out of the scabbard and outward. The weapon obligingly did as momentum dictated, then hovered languidly for a moment before gravity ensured the expected outcome and the greatsword fell hilt-first into his hand – Magic Weapon to give the existing enhancement just the right push – only to be driven tip-first into the pyramidal tip of the obelisk until it breached the other side at a slight upward angle.

11%

Murder/death/kill had escaped the inferno and was coming south with lover in tow. But they were heading vaguely south-southeast away from them, so they probably weren't why the odds went up. Sending spells, then, calling whoever was prowling the southern side of the forest to rendezvous with them.

12%

Not much time left then. Lift foot off Jondalar's dagger to hook the heel around the sword guard – banish the temporary glue on left sole – heave up in one bound and settle the other foot on the far side of the tip of the obelisk, right on the blade of Sightless. The posture was somewhat uneven, with his higher, left leg bent half-way as if still mid-climb, but that only meant he could make Father somewhat comfortable – transfer him back to both arms, settle him with your bent knee underneath both of his, upper body and head supported with both arms to keep him best shielded – while he took a slow breath and focused on Silent Image.

Illusory light melded into view all around them, wrapped over them and the obelisk below, then finally settled into an illusion of the large waypoint being two meters taller than it really was, effectively concealing Cyrus and Gorion from all types of normal sight.

0%

He could have relaxed. Should have relaxed, but instead he took a slow breath and craned his neck to look east where his would-be kinslayer would inevitably emerge, a seething mass of rage and conflicting emotions over losing his sword, losing his intended quarry and losing/ not losing Tamoko. Cyrus couldn't really feel any of that from that distance, but he always knew when someone wanted to kill him and the rest had come through bright and clear at one or several points during their short battle.

"…Son?"

"Quiet," he hissed, reflexively tucking Gorion's head closer to his collarbone even though he refused to look away from the point on the road ahead. Gorion's soul-light was a mess of resigned hopelessness and hopeful despair and whatever passed between them, as if those combinations were supposed to make any sort of sense. But still he didn't look away from the road ahead. Not throughout the minutes it took for Sarevok and Tamoko to emerge from the forest a couple hundred yards away. Not during the exchange between the two of them and the duo of human wizard and human warrior that appeared from the south across the road from them. And especially not during the few moments when Sarevok and the mage – too far away to read in any way available at the moment – looked around and peered up the road in their direction, though they never sought to look for them higher than ground-level. Even so, the odds seemed poised to rise at several points, and if they decided to divine or cast dispellings randomly Cyrus didn't know what he would do, but the mage seemed to talk Sarevok Anchev down from whatever course of action he was considering.

The four teleported away moments later, after another all-purpose glare sent to the road and the forest still on fire, and Cyrus just had to wonder why they hadn't just teleported away to the Friendly Arm Inn. The wards preventing that only reached a mile or so around the keep, not 25.

Leaving that aside for later, Cyrus allowed himself to breathe out and look down at his father's face.

The man should have looked comical, held like a newly-wed bride by a young dwarf while he stood on top of the world. Or however close one could get physically, based on narrative convention. Other than the top of a mountain, the very top of a huge obelisk of rock was a good second choice, especially on flatlands. The burning forest behind them and the smoke lifting up and covering the star-lit sky in a thick blanket of smog was the only problem with that whole picture, or so Imoen would have said.

Until she saw Gorion's face. The face of a man who had no idea what to think or even if he should risk a hope believing anything, so he only gazed at the most important thing in the world and tried and tried to decide if he should or shouldn't trust his own eyes.

He didn't. "I'm not sure I believe this…" The old man murmured, haltingly reaching for his son's face with his right arm, almost withdrawing before he nevertheless dared to touch it. Something cracked in his eyes. "I'm not sure I believe this… perhaps this is all a dream…" His hand slid down his face until it rested on his shoulder the man sunk his face in the crook of his neck. "The final fantasy of a dying man. Such sweet, beautiful dreams that they are…"

Alien disdain, mockery and rage rose up in Cyrus until he felt like he was going to rip the man in half and he only barely managed to bull through the feeling before he did more than hold Gorion tighter. But to speak he didn't trust himself, not after that. Especially not with the feeling refusing to abate, staying as it was on the verge of bursting out through his skin. What… Had he felt anger of his own at all? Had the cursed Vestige capitalized on the similarity between emotions, however minuscule, and used it as a means to impose a hold?

What was it that seemingly made him so much more appealing to that depraved consciousness that it would be so focused on him?

Cyrus decided not to think about it, instead looking up at the far southern sky and kept looking at it throughout the night. Gorion didn't speak to him again until morning. Perhaps he might have cried if he were anyone else but it had been long since he'd still had any tears left to shed. He didn't fall asleep either though. Just clung to his son throughout the night, trembling from too much emotion now and then but not saying anything.

The urge to murder/death/kill didn't diminish either, even after that barely averted episode of whatever it was.

It was near dawn that the young dwarf was willing to finally climb down. Though he might have taken even longer if the wind hadn't shifted and turned the smoke of the still ongoing and much worsened forest fire behind them. If not for the greenish haze still trying to supplant his blood and his mind, he might even have bothered hoping it wouldn't reach the Cloakwood because the druids would go absolutely mental if that happened. Then they would have words to say to everyone from "civilisation."

The climb down went somewhat more jerkily than the one up, mostly because the dwarf had to fight down a new set of patricidal impulses when he laid hands on the sword and dagger he'd used as footholds and handholds. Somehow, mostly by focusing on Gorion's much less hopeless soul-light, he was able to bull through them until they were both back on the ground.

Then the young man hastily withdrew several feet – after very carefully setting his father back on his feet of course – and started massaging his temples and breathing deeply and slowly in an attempt to tell the Bhaaltaint to go sit in a corner and be quiet.

He reached into his left pocket for two of the magic stones whose 24-hour duration hadn't expired and begun palm-spinning them, something he frequently did as a focusing exercise.

He kept control for around a minute and even so only managed to keep the simmer internal, rather than suppress it. And he didn't dare peak out or explain why he was holding his eyes shut and rubbing circles into his temple with the hand not occupied while facing as far away from his Father as possible. He didn't trust what would come out of his mouth. But he'd just have to keep his will focused until it passed. It would pass eventually. It had to-

"Son-"

Rip, tear, kill, do it now, do it because I said so-

UNACCEPTABLE.

With the second snarl of his life, however silent, he grabbed a mental hold of the Bhaaltaint, summoned the most vivid memories of every beautiful light that had ever shone from his Father in the past and stabbed Bhaal with the light of the memory, feeling and everything pleasant in life right in the eyes.

Or as well as he could imagine it happen given that he was working against some formless, ambiguously self-aware… thing. He called on the memory of the woman who fancied herself good at killing infants but really wasn't as reference.

The patricidal drive didn't disappear but it did jerk and simmer down somewhat. And it seemed to be dropping, slowly but surely, so if he just kept a focus on it for the next few minutes-

"Son, what's wrong?"

Father.

Worried. Distressed.

No more focus at all.

And suddenly the truth wanted out as well. "What the hell, old man!?" Cyrus roared as he whirled around, sending his approaching father stumbling backwards in utter surprise. "Did everything I said throughout the entirety of yesterday not matter at all?" Gorion's soul flickered as if blowing through by some storm but confusion seemed to rule most everything, even the lingering terror of the night prior. "Is dying the best you think you can do for me? You've spent the past 10 years doing all you could to convince me I deserve to live as much as everyone else only to turn around and say you're not worth the same consideration! Have you been a hypocrite all your life or have I finally driven you mad!?" The white-haired old man reared as if slapped but his soul seemed to read only more and more astonishment with every word out of his son's mouth. "Do you think that my handful of moments of assertiveness mean I'm actually ready to get by without you!?" Gorion stepped even further back from his advance. "Has it missed your notice that if not for you I would have long ago gone off the deep end!?" Because he'd apparently advanced on him. "The only reason I haven't is because of you! The only reason I ever bothered trying to puzzle out the idea of morality in the first place, let alone anything resembling a worthwhile one, was you! The only reason I get up in the morning and do anything worthwhile with this dead husk of a soul of mine is because you think I'm worth my best! That I'm worth your best!" His voice cracked like it only had once before and some unfamiliar feeling showed on his own face before it disappeared as soon as he thought about it, along with any uncertainty in his livid voice. "Did you somehow miss the fact that the only reason I have reason is because of you!?" Gorion was by now outright gaping at him but the rant wanted out. Entirely. "You, old man! Not mother, not Imoen, not Tethtoril, not Khelben Arunsun, not the Watchers, not anyone else!" The dwarf was close enough so he jabbed his father in the chest with a finger. "YOU!"

There was only deathly silence then in the middle of the Lion's Way road 25 miles from the Library Fortress of Candlekeep. Crackling fire from the burning forest not that far away notwithstanding.

Cyrus realized he was actually gasping from the diatribe that had just come spilling out, and that the Bhaaltaint seemed to be recovering from some shock or other that had sent it reeling for whatever cause at some point during that uncommon emotional outburst. Though he wasn't sure "uncommon' was a strong enough word for something that had only happened one other time in 20 years.

20 years that appeared to be culminating in the most unexpected and colourful display of brilliance suddenly pouring forth from his Father's spirit as if he'd just been witness to the most wondrous of events. "The first time in your life that you become truly angry, and it's on behalf of someone else." The old sage spoke with nothing but wonderment, and that lavender-white aura forming around the star behind his realm-self was of the sort that blew right past the bleak/dark/nothing and made Bhaal give up his tantrum and back off, even if he didn't outright flee. "On behalf of me..." Gorion reached up and claimed Cyrus's still outstretched hand in a warm, gentle hold. "And you still think you can't get by on your own." His smile turned wry, somewhat, but his soul shone stronger still. "I'm sorry son. But while I'm your father and I love you, following my example may not always be best. I have my own problems you see, chief among them being that I'll always consider you more important than I do myself." Cyrus was honestly baffled by how serenely he said that. Or how tenderly he could actually utter words. "My little prince." He reached out to cup his face as he murmured words most heartfelt. "My own little marvel."

It was at that precise moment that a certain wild mage nutcase suddenly teleported ten feet away from them.

Cyrus' face blanked.

"Finally! I've spent the past day looking for you!" The voice of the soon-to-be-corpse said. Soon-to-be-dead-corpse since the man already looked like something that had crawled out of a hole. Then failed proper application of beautifying prestidigitation. Only Imoen would ever look good with hair as pink as that. "Greetings, young one! No doubt you're honoured to meet Rhialto the Marvelous."

A hand gripped on two magic stones enchanted to the Abyss and back.

"Ah yes, you are perfect. Be honoured, young one, for your existence now has a purpose: Rhialto the Marvelous needs your spleen."

Gorion slowly turned his head to look at the Wild Mage nutcase with the sort of stare he simply had to have copied from Cyrus himself at some point in time.

"It will be the final component for the greatest spell that was worked since, well, since ever! Of course, it needs to be extracted while you're still alive, otherwise it would be worthless as an ingredient."

One of the magic stones crumbled from the sheer pressure of the grip in defiance of all possible logic. A faint, greenish-haze seemed to accompany the dust. A greenish haze much like the one encroaching on Cyrus' vision.

"But it won't be too painful... Well, at least it won't take too long. Rhialto the Marvelous is a very experienced surgeon, it will only take an hour or two..." The pink-haired human brandished a large athame or other and his left hand moved as if to cast a spell.

Cyrus looked up from the single remaining magic stone not in his pocket and looked at the thoroughly self-absorbed Wild Mage who'd sent those two imbeciles into Candlekeep the day before. The imbeciles that essentially convinced Tethtoril, Therabho and everyone else of relevance to go along with the urging of whoever had sent Gorion letters rather than try to convince the man to put departure off for one more day, if only to get Cyrus something better to wear and use on the road.

Cyrus gazed at the person ultimately responsible for Gorion leaving Candlekeep as soon as possible rather than as soon as prudently possible only to run into death the very same night and nearly not make it out alive at all.

Then he saw red.