Prototype's Gate

Astarion tossed the golden horn to Alex, not without throwing one last exasperated glare at the group. Alex caught it effortlessly, stashing it away in his psionic vault with a subtle glance towards Lilimila—he’d examine it later, away from her eyes.

Guided by Alex, the group ventured further. His gaze darted sharply across the landscape, searching for hidden traps or lurking enemies. Every muscle in his body tensed, tuned to the faintest hint of danger.

Suddenly, he raised his hand, halting the party mid-step.

"Up ahead, reality seems to warp and twist," Alex said, pointing toward an area that looked deceptively like the rest of the forest.

The others stared ahead, puzzled. To them, it was just more of the same: a lush, vibrant forest filled with the oddities they had grown used to.

Gale's brow furrowed as he attuned himself to the subtle shifts in the air. "The flow of magic is… strange. Twisting. I can't determine much more," he said, nodding at Alex.

“I’ll go first,” Alex said, stepping forward. In a few steps, he simply vanished, as if the forest had swallowed him whole.

They waited, tension thick, until Alex reappeared from thin air, his face calm .

“Can we move ahead?” Lilimila asked, her voice laced with anxiety, the thought of her sister heavy in her mind.

"Yes, but the forest beyond is much gloomier than it seems. Be careful where you step," Alex warned before disappearing once more .

Lilimila shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. "Is he always like that?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Like what?" Astarion replied with a smirk, leaning in conspiratorially.

"In control," Lilimila continued, her gaze darting ahead nervously. "I’m scared out of my wits, and he just strolls around like it’s just a walk."

Astarion’s smirk widened as he leaned closer, whispering in a low, sinister tone. "He’s a Fey creature himself, you know. We’re all under his spell. He brought you here to make you his next meal."

Lilimila paled, her face draining of color.

Before Astarion could enjoy his little prank further, Karlach’s fist slammed into his shoulder. "Astarion! Don’t frighten her! She’s gone whiter than your hair," Karlach said, scowling.

Astarion rubbed his shoulder, still grinning mischievously. “I was only having fun.”

Ignoring him, Wyll spoke up in a calm tone. "Alex is… unique. His senses are unnervingly sharp."

Lilimila gulped, anxiety gnawing at her again. She was about to speak when she felt something soft land gently on her head. Her hand reached up, brushing against an ethereal purple flower. Her eyes flicked to Tav, who had been uncharacteristically silent since the news of Hela’s death. The albino half-dragon offered her a weak, comforting smile.

“Thank you… I needed that,” Lilimila whispered, her voice steadier now. The storm in her mind calming under the flower effect.

With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and began to stride forward, the rest of the party falling in behind her.

As they pressed on, the forest seemed to transform around them. The vibrant colors of the Feywild bleed away into an eerie gloom. The trees here were twisted and gnarled, their trunks contorted into grotesque, nightmarish faces with mouths agape in silent screams. The air chilled to a biting cold, so frigid they could see their breath in the misty air. A thin veil of fog curled around their feet, creeping along the ground like ghostly tendrils.

The atmosphere reeked of decay. Every surface was slick with an oily, iridescent substance that shimmered in the dim light. In some places, the substance had congealed into viscous, black puddles of ichor, swirling ominously like tar.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the squelching of their boots and the distant, disquieting rustle of unseen creatures in the shadows. Lilimila’s heart pounded in her chest, the dread nearly suffocating as her eyes darted from one twisted tree to the next, half-expecting something horrific to spring forth from the darkness but the flower she still clutched seem to anchor her to the present.

Alex stood ahead, as silent as a shadow, his expression unreadable as his eyes swept over the unsettling landscape. "Stay close," he said.

As the fog thickened and the grotesque faces of the trees seemed to watch their every move, the weight of the unknown pressed down on them, and the sense of foreboding grew unbearable.

Ahead, scattered across the oily ground, several small, shimmering pools of dark ichor began to reveal themselves. The strange liquid within them swirled like black mirrors, catching the eye in an unnerving way.

Alex was the first to approach, his instincts tingling, though he couldn’t quite put a name to the magic that lingered here. The stillness around the pools seemed to beckon the party closer. One by one, they found themselves drawn to the pools , despite the growing unease gnawing at them.

________________

Lae'zel leaned forward, her sharp eyes narrowing as they fixed on the pool before her. The oily, shifting liquid mirrored her intense gaze for only a second before it warped, twisting into a vision so vile, so contrary to her very being, that it sent a chill through her hardened exterior.

In the swirling black depths, she saw herself—but not the proud, fierce warrior she had always known. This reflection was broken, gaunt, her once-muscular frame frail and weakened. Her armor, once shining and proud, hung from her like a burden. Her eyes—hollow, devoid of the fire that had carried her through so many battles—stared back at her in defeat. And then, she saw her: Vlaakith, the revered lich-queen of the githyanki, her presence looming large and terrible, a beacon of power and cruelty.

Lae'zel knelt before Vlaakith in the vision, but not in triumph or reverence. She was forced to kneel, her body broken, her spirit shattered. She could feel the weight of it—of her failure, her disgrace—as Vlaakith’s voice rang out in her mind, sharp and scornful.

"You are weak," Vlaakith hissed, her voice a venomous whisper. "Unworthy of our people, unworthy of the githyanki. You are a disgrace to your kin."

The words hit Lae'zel harder than any sword ever could. Weak. Unworthy. The very accusations she had spent her entire life fighting to avoid. Every breath, every drop of blood spilled had been in service of her strength, of proving her worth as a true githyanki warrior. And yet, there she was, broken and discarded.

Her hand instinctively clenched around her sword, knuckles turning white as Vlaakith's gaze bored into her, her disappointment a physical force pressing down on Lae'zel’s chest. She wanted to scream, to strike out, but her body remained frozen, locked in a pose of submission she could not escape.

The scene shifted, and the horror deepened. Her comrades—those she had fought beside, shared victories and losses with—stood around her. But instead of solidarity or respect, their faces were twisted in disgust. One by one, they turned their backs on her, their expressions filled with disdain. Karlach, her fiery spirit dimmed, shook her head in disappointment. Wyll’s eyes were cold and distant, as if she had become beneath his notice. Even Alex, with his quiet stoicism, had turned away, his blue eyes filled with quiet judgment.

Betrayed. Cast aside. Alone.

Lae'zel’s heart raced in her chest, each breath growing more shallow, more strained. This wasn’t just a vision—it was a nightmare. The fear that had gnawed at the edges of her mind ever since they had started this journey now stood before her, fully realized. The fear that, no matter how strong she was, no matter how fiercely she fought, she would never be enough. Never enough for her people. Never enough to stand beside those she had come to begrudgingly respect.

"Lies," Lae'zel growled, her voice low and dangerous, yet tinged with something she rarely allowed herself to feel—fear. She ripped her gaze from the pool, her chest heaving as fury sparked in her eyes.

She took a step back, the image of her failure still etched in her mind. Her body shook with a rage that threatened to consume her, but deeper still was the dread. The creeping thought that maybe, just maybe, this vision had a seed of truth. Could she fail? Was she already failing?

Her hand remained tight on the hilt of her sword, the one thing that anchored her to the present, to reality. She would not let this vision claim her. She would not let these false futures break her. Not here. Not ever.

With a deep breath, Lae'zel steeled herself, fury burning in her veins like a wildfire. "Lies," she spat again, louder this time, as if speaking the word would chase the vision away. She was a warrior, a conqueror. Her comrades would never turn from her. She would prove herself worthy—no matter what it took.

And if the pools dared show her otherwise again, she would tear the very ground from beneath them.

_____________________________

Gale, couldn't help himself as he knelt beside the shimmering pool. The strange, oily surface rippled gently, reflecting his own curious face back at him. There was always something to learn in places like this—a deeper truth hidden beneath the surface. He leaned closer, intrigued by the strange, otherworldly pull of the vision taking form in the water.

But the scene that unfolded sent a chill deep into his bones.

At first, it was just the familiar skyline of Waterdeep, the bustling city he had once called home. But then, the world seemed to twist, the image distorting into a grotesque nightmare. The grand towers and spires crumbled as though made of sand, collapsing into ruin. The streets, once alive with people, were now ablaze, the air thick with the acrid scent of smoke and ash. Fires raged uncontrollably, casting an eerie, hellish glow over the devastation.

And at the heart of it all, standing amidst the wreckage, was Gale himself.

He watched in horror as the reflection of himself stood in the center of Waterdeep's collapse. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow, as though the very essence of life had been drained from him. Around him, the Weave itself was unraveling—threads of magic spiraling out of control, disintegrating into nothingness. It was as if the very foundation of magic, the force that had defined his life, had turned on him, ripping apart the world in its wake.

In the vision, the destruction was all his fault. He could feel it in his bones.

And then she appeared—Mystra, the goddess of magic herself, standing before him like a towering specter of judgment. Her ethereal form shimmered, her beauty as cold and distant as the stars, but her expression… it was pure contempt. Her silver eyes glared down at him, filled with nothing but disdain.

"You are a failure," she spat, the words laced with venom.

Gale felt the weight of her scorn like a physical blow, his heart lurching in his chest. He had spent his life worshipping her, dedicating everything to the pursuit of magic under her guidance, and now… now she looked at him as if he were nothing. As if he had never meant anything.

"A disgrace to magic," she sneered, her voice a blade cutting through the very air around him. "I trusted you with the Weave, and look what you’ve done." Her hand gestured to the ruins around them, her disappointment palpable, and it made his insides twist with shame.

Gale’s throat tightened as the weight of her judgment bore down on him, crushing his spirit. The very magic he loved had turned against him. The power he had sought, the knowledge he had craved, had led to nothing but destruction. He could feel the devastation ripple through his soul—his greatest fear realized. He had failed his city. He had failed Mystra. He had failed himself.

He stumbled backward from the pool, his legs almost giving out beneath him. His heart pounded in his chest, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real… but it felt so true, so tangible. The way Mystra had looked at him, the disdain in her voice—it cut deeper than any blade.

The Gale who usually wore a mask of confidence, the man who always had an answer for everything, was gone. In its place stood someone shattered, his calm exterior broken by the haunting vision of his worst failure. His hands trembled as he wiped the cold sweat from his brow, trying to push the image from his mind, but it clung to him, a shadow he couldn’t shake.

For the first time in a long while, Gale felt the creeping edge of doubt gnawing at him. Would his hunger for more , one day, lead to the ruin he had just seen?

With Mystra’s words still ringing in his ears, Gale turned away from the pool, his mind spinning. The question lingered, heavy and unresolved: What if this wasn’t just a vision? What if, deep down, this was his fate?

___________________________

Karlach, hesitated as her gaze fell on one of the pools. She flexed her hands at her sides.

The Feywild had a way of messing with your head, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that looking into the water would dredge up something ugly.

But despite her instincts screaming to turn away, she leaned over the pool, letting her eyes meet the swirling black surface.

At first, it was just her reflection—wild hair, strong arms, the faint glow of her dragon heart flickering beneath her skin. But then, the image shifted, darkened. The familiar sound of clanking chains filled the air, and the heat around her rose, suffocatingly hot. She was back in Avernus, the infernal wasteland where she had spent years as a slave. The air was thick with sulfur, the sky choked with ash and fire.

She looked down, and the chains were back, heavy and burning against her skin. The weight of them crushed her, pulling her to her knees. Panic rose in her throat, a scream she couldn’t release as her breath came in ragged gasps. She twisted, trying to free herself, but it was no use. The shackles were too tight, too strong.

And worse—she was alone. The party—her friends, her family—they were gone. Abandoned. No Karlach to save, no rescue mission, no last-minute escape. They had left her behind, and the loneliness hit her like a hammer blow to the chest. Had they forgotten her? Had they given up on her?

“No…” she whispered, her voice cracking, eyes wide and heart thundering in her chest. She tried to call out for help, but no words came. Just silence. The silence of the damned.

Then, from the thick smoke, she saw movement—her breath hitched in her throat as she appeared. Zariel, the Archduchess of Avernus, Karlach’s former master, strode toward her with a slow, measured grace. Her armor glinted in the firelight, and her wings unfurled behind her, casting an ominous shadow over Karlach’s broken form. A playful smile curled on Zariel’s lips, her golden eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.

“Well, well,” Zariel purred, her voice like molten steel. “Look at you, Karlach. All alone. Left to rot like the discarded tool you are.” She stepped closer, her hand reaching out, and with a flick of her fingers, the chain around Karlach’s neck tightened, choking off her breath. “Did you really think they would save you? That they cared?”

Karlach’s jaw clenched, her teeth grinding together as she fought against the leash. No. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. But the weight of the chains, the heat of the flames, the suffocating pressure of Zariel’s presence—it all felt so vivid, so cruelly tangible. Her chest heaved, her vision blurred by the sting of tears she refused to let fall. She’d survived this once. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—go through it again.

The Archduchess leaned down, her voice a mocking whisper in Karlach’s ear. “You were never free. You’ve always been mine.”

Karlach’s breath hitched, a growl rising in her throat as her heart pounded, desperation gnawing at her insides. “No…” she whispered again, this time more forcefully, her fists clenched so tight her knuckles turned white. She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t that slave anymore. She had her friends, her freedom, her own path—they hadn’t abandoned her.

With a final tug, Karlach yanked herself back from the pool, the nightmarish vision dissolving as quickly as it had appeared. She stumbled backward, her chest heaving, trying to shake the terror that had clawed its way into her heart. Her skin was clammy, sweat beading at her brow as she blinked, trying to focus on the here and now. Her hand moved instinctively to her chest, to the dragon heart , feeling its steady, rhythmic pulse. She was still here. She was still free.

But the weight of the vision lingered, a dark cloud that clung to the edges of her mind. Her breath came out shaky, but she managed a small, tight smile.

“Not today,” she muttered under her breath, steeling herself . But the fear—the fear of being left behind, of being forgotten—that was a wound that wouldn’t heal so easily.

___________________

Wyll hovered near one of the pools, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his rapier. He had faced horrors before—demons, undead, and betrayals that would have broken lesser men—but something about these pools unsettled him. He’d always prided himself on being strong, on making the hard choices to protect those he loved, to be the hero people needed. But as he stared down into the dark water, his reflection rippled, and in its place, a nightmare unfolded.

The first thing he noticed was the silence—a deep, oppressive stillness that stretched across the scene like a death shroud. No cheering crowds, no victory horns. Just the heavy, suffocating quiet. His heart sank as he saw bodies scattered on the ground before him, their faces twisted in agony. They were the people he had sworn to protect, the innocents of Baldur's Gate—his people. But instead of standing tall as the Blade of Frontiers, their savior, he stood over them as their failure, his hands stained with their blood. His sword was still drawn, but it was useless—he had come too late.

His breath caught in his throat as his gaze moved across the twisted scene, and then he saw her. Mizora, the devil who had bound him to her infernal pact, stood amidst the carnage, playing with something in her hands—a human head. Wyll’s heart twisted in horror as he recognized the familiar features.

His father.

The Duke's lifeless eyes stared into nothingness, his face pale and bloodied, held like a grotesque trophy in Mizora’s hands. Her laughter rang through the air, sharp and cruel. “All for nothing,” she sneered, her voice like poison in his veins. She tilted her head mockingly, holding the Duke’s head up for Wyll to see. “You never mattered. You, the Blade of Frontiers? A hero? Look at what you've become. You couldn’t save anyone.”

Wyll's fists clenched, the tendons in his arm flexing as he gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, his knuckles white. His pulse hammered in his ears as Mizora’s words echoed through his mind, each one twisting deeper, driving into the doubts he kept buried. Had his sacrifice been worth it? Had he made the right choices?

The devil’s laughter grew louder, her sneer widening as she stepped closer, waving the head like a puppet. “You see, Wyll, you’re just a pawn—my pawn. Everything you’ve done, every choice you’ve made, it’s all been for nothing. A hero? No. You’re just another soul for me to break.”

Wyll shook his head violently, trying to force the vision away, but the words—her words—clung to him like chains. His father, the people of Baldur’s Gate, their blood was on his hands in this twisted reflection of his life, a life where he had failed them all. His stomach turned, a knot of shame and anger boiling up in his chest. He had always been so sure of himself, so sure that he could balance the weight of the pact with his sense of duty, with his honor. But here, in this awful vision, he saw only ruin, only death.

“No...” Wyll muttered, his voice low, trembling with a mix of rage and grief. His teeth clenched as he forced himself to look away from the pool, his hand tightening into a fist, nails biting into his palm. He wouldn’t let Mizora break him, not like this. He couldn't.

The contract would soon be terminated and he would never see her again.

He took a step back, turning away from the pool, his jaw set. But the confidence that usually radiated from Wyll—the easy, charismatic bravado he wore like armor—seemed shaken. The vision had struck deep, feeding on his deepest fears, the ones he hid behind his smile and his promises of protection. He stood straighter, determined, but the haunted look in his eyes betrayed the storm of doubt swirling beneath his calm exterior.

He wouldn’t let Mizora win . He wouldn't let the Absolute win . He will prove himself that he is a hero and then his father will welcome him back. He wouldn’t become the failure she wanted him to be. But the weight of the vision—of what could have been, or might still be—clung to him like a shadow, gnawing at the edges of his resolve.

___________________

Shadowheart stood on the edge of the pool, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she could shield her heart from whatever dark magic the Feywild would throw at her. She knew better than to look into the black, shimmering water. But despite her better judgment, the pool’s pull was undeniable. It was as though it whispered to her, calling her deeper, coaxing her to confront what lay hidden.

Hesitantly, she leaned over the pool, her dark eyes locking onto the liquid’s surface. The reflection that greeted her wasn’t herself as she was now, standing strong with her companions—it was something far worse. In the vision, she wandered alone, her feet dragging through a barren landscape, her armor battered and bloodied, her face a pale mask of confusion. She moved like a ghost, her steps aimless, her gaze vacant. There was no direction, no purpose. And why? Why did she even walk? She couldn’t remember.

The scene shifted and warped. Her hand reached for the symbol of Shar on her chest, her only anchor. That was all that mattered now. Shar—her goddess. The only thing that had ever given her purpose, her life, her devotion. And yet, even in her faith, there was an emptiness. She had given everything to Shar. Everything. Her memories, her loyalty, her soul, but it was never enough. It would never be enough.

A cold emptiness spread through her as the vision darkened further. Before her, she saw her friends—the people who had fought by her side, the ones she had come to care for, even if she struggled to admit it. But in this twisted version of her future, they were not allies. They stood against her, their faces cold and unfeeling, as if she was a stranger—a threat. Astarion, Gale, Lae’zel, Karlach,Wyll and Alex , all of them stood in opposition, their weapons drawn, their eyes filled with something worse than hatred—indifference.

Shadowheart’s breath hitched as their rejection sliced through her, deeper than any blade. She had endured pain before—countless battles, endless sacrifices for her goddess—but this was different. This was the pain of isolation, of being cast aside by those who had once stood with her. The sting of their betrayal was unbearable, and she felt her knees weaken as if the ground itself wanted to pull her into the void.

She staggered back from the pool, her heart pounding in her chest. The vision had shown her what she feared most—she would still be left alone. Forsaken. The bonds she had begun to form with her friends would crumble to dust. Was this her fate? Was she destined to be a pawn in god's game, left with nothing but an empty heart and broken memories?

Her throat tightened, but she remained silent, swallowing the rising tide of emotion. She had always been able to control her feelings but , now it felt like that control was slipping. Her hands trembled, her fingers brushing against where the holy symbol of Shar at her neck had been as if seeking comfort, but finding none.

Pale and shaken, Shadowheart took a step back, her usual stoic mask cracking for just a moment. The pain of that rejection, the cold indifference of her friends, it echoed in her mind. She could hear Lae'zel's dismissive tone, Astarion's sneer, Gale's cold eyes. They didn’t care. Not about her. Not about what she had sacrificed. They had turned their backs on her, and the world was as empty as the darkness Shar promised her.

Lies, she told herself, her voice shaky in her mind. It’s all just lies.. Yet, as she turned away from the pool, the weight of that vision clung to her like a shadow, cold and heavy, gnawing at the edges of her resolve.

She walked away from the pool, silent but pale, her steps slower, heavier.