Prototype's Gate

Glut approached the pool with far less hesitation than the others. Unlike them, he wasn’t plagued by the same sense of human dread. He was different. What could the Feywild possibly show him that would stir his heart? He leaned over, curious about the magic woven into the strange, brackish water.

As soon as his reflection touched the surface, the pool rippled, its depths shifting into a vision. His colony appeared before him—his home, his kin, the circle that had been his everything. The image was almost too real, the way the air felt thick with spores, the comfort of the network of minds linked together in perfect harmony. It was how things used to be.

But then, the vision darkened. The harmony shattered, replaced by chaos. Glut watched in horror as his colony was destroyed, overrun by duergar—gray-skinned invaders with twisted smiles. His kin, his circle, were crushed, their fungal forms reduced to dust. The once-strong myconid colony, with its vast expanse of tendrils connecting life to life, was now a wasteland of broken bodies and scattered spores.

His gaze shifted, and he saw himself—alone, powerless, reduced to a feeble sprout at the feet of a towering duergar. The invader’s boot hovered over him, threatening to squash him into oblivion. The sight of it sent a deep chill through Glut's fungal form, colder than any decay he had ever embraced. His entire circle was gone, reduced to nothing, and he... he was left with nothing but his cowardice.

That last part hit harder than the destruction. 'I had to run', he reminded himself, pulling back from the vision, but the excuse felt hollow. He remembered that moment with painful clarity—the terror, the way his roots had trembled as the last of his circle, the oldest and wisest of their kind, had sacrificed themselves so he could escape. They had thrown themselves at the invaders, knowing they would die, so he could live. He had let them die, let them be consumed by the invaders' brutality, all so he could survive.

Anger simmered beneath his calm exterior, the vision igniting a fury he hadn’t felt in a long time. It wasn’t just directed at the duergar or the Feywild’s twisted magic—it was directed at himself. Coward, the word echoed in his mind. He had run. He hadn’t stayed to fight, to die with dignity alongside his kin. He had escaped, leaving behind everything he had ever known, and now he was here, burdened with the knowledge that he had failed the very beings who had once given him life and purpose.

Glut stepped back from the pool, his usual eerie calm disrupted by the roiling emotions beneath the surface. His fungal form pulsed with quiet rage, the memory of his circle’s sacrifice playing over and over in his mind. Their faces—if they could be called faces—floated before him, and he saw their final moments as clear as day. He saw the trust in their eyes, the way they had looked to him for leadership, and the way he had let them down.

The vision had cut deeper than he’d expected, and though Glut was far from human, the pain of loss, of failure, and the weight of survival felt all too familiar. His thoughts twisted, gnawing at the shame of his cowardice, a wound that couldn't be healed.

______________________

Tav, approached a pool reluctantly. The reflection that greeted him was a villain. In this twisted version of the past, Tav had succumbed to Bhaal's influence.

In this vision, he had become the Slayer.

Tav’s stomach twisted as he watched himself lunge at his friends. No—his family. Gale was the first to fall, his body crumpling as Tav’s claws sliced clean through him, a spray of blood painting the ground. Karlach came next, her roar of defiance cut short as Tav tore into her, reducing her to nothing but shredded flesh and bone. He could hear her final, gurgled breath echo in his ears, the light fading from her eyes as she reached out in vain.

Astarion's usual grace was no match for the fury of the Slayer, as Tav slammed him into the ground with bone-shattering force, his pale form crumpling like a discarded doll. Shadowheart's desperate plea for mercy was silenced with a single, brutal slash across her throat. One by one, they fell, their bodies broken, discarded like meat.

In the vision, Tav stood over their lifeless forms, chest heaving, his lips pulled back in a savage grin, the dark joy of slaughter coursing through his veins. He was no longer a hero. He was a monster—Bhaal's monster. He could feel the blood of his companions dripping from his claws, hot and sticky, but it didn’t bother him. He reveled in it.

And then, in the most grotesque twist, the Slayer leaned down, ripping chunks of flesh from his fallen friends, feeding on their remains like a ravenous beast. The sickening sound of tearing flesh filled the air, and Tav felt bile rise in his throat. His stomach churned violently as he watched himself devour them, their faces still frozen in expressions of shock and pain.

He wanted to scream, to turn away, but the vision held him captive, forcing him to confront the darkest depths of what he could become. This wasn’t just a nightmare—it was a glimpse into a future where he had succumbed fully to the God of Murder’s influence. Where the line between hero and villain had been obliterated, leaving only the Slayer in its wake.

The weight of the horror pressed down on him, his knees trembling as he staggered back from the pool. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. He summoned ethereal flowers around him , soothing his distressed mind. But the fear gnawed at him, the image of his bloodied claws seared into his mind.

His breath came out in ragged gasps, his body shaking with the effort of keeping the rising panic at bay. He could feel the dark hunger inside him, the whisper of Bhaal that was ever present. The god’s influence still lurked within, waiting for a moment of weakness to take hold, to turn him into the very thing he feared most.

Bile stinging his throat as he fought to regain control. He wouldn’t let this happen—he couldn’t. He wasn’t the Slayer. He wouldn’t become the monster in the reflection. He had fought too hard, lost too much to allow himself to fall into the abyss.

With a shaky breath, Tav tore his gaze from the pool, his fists still clenched tight, his knuckles white. The twisted vision burned in his mind, but his resolve burned brighter.

He turned away. "Never," he whispered fiercely to himself. He would never become that.

_____________

Lilimila hesitated at first, but she approached one of the pools. The dark, shimmering surface seemed to beckon her, pulling at the deepest fears within her heart. Her mind whispered for her to look away, but she couldn't help herself. Slowly, reluctantly, she leaned forward, and the moment her eyes met the reflection, the Feywild’s cruel magic took hold.

The water shifted, revealing not the present but a twisted, horrifying future. She saw Valni—her beloved sister—but this Valni wasn’t the sister she knew. The vision showed her as a lifeless husk, a shell of a person, wandering aimlessly through the endless, shimmering expanse of the Feywild. Her eyes were vacant, her body gaunt and worn down by time and madness. The sight was unbearable—her once-vibrant sister, so full of life and mischief, now reduced to a creature of pure despair.

Lilimila’s heart clenched painfully. The pool shifted again, and this time it showed her own future—a version of herself lost to grief. In this twisted vision, she had never found her sister, never rescued her from whatever horrible fate had taken hold of her in the Feywild. She saw herself, hollow-eyed and ragged, searching endlessly but finding nothing. Her small, nimble hands were worn down from years of desperate struggle. She was no longer the fierce, determined gnome who had set out on this quest—she was a shadow of herself, a broken soul twisted by sorrow.

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. The weight of what she saw cut deep into her heart, the pain almost unbearable. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, as the vision seared into her mind. “No…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her whole body shook, and for a moment, she felt as if she was falling, spiraling into that future of darkness and hopelessness. 'No' , she thought again, louder this time, trying to fight the dread clawing at her insides.

She pulled back from the pool, stumbling slightly as she tore her gaze away. But even though she had turned from the vision, the fear lingered, gnawing at her resolve. The image of her sister, wandering, broken and lost, burned in her mind. Her heart ached, and her hands clenched into trembling fists. What if that vision came true? What if Valni was already lost beyond saving, wandering the Feywild as a mindless husk?

Lilimila wiped at her tears quickly, trying to regain her composure, but her breath came in shallow gasps. Her chest tightened as doubt began to seep in. She believed that if she searched hard enough, fought fiercely enough, she could save her sister. But what if it was too late? What if the Feywild had already taken Valni from her? What if all of this—every step, every fight—was for nothing?

She bit her lip, forcing herself to stand tall despite the fear gnawing at her heart. I won’t let that happen, she thought fiercely, though her hands still trembled. She couldn’t allow herself to fall into despair, not now. Not when she was so close. Valni needed her—the real Valni—and Lilimila wouldn’t stop until she found her, no matter what that vision tried to tell her.

_____________

Astarion, who had been watching the others with a bemused smirk, finally gave in to his curiosity. He sauntered over to one of the dark, shimmering pools, confident that whatever it had to show him would be nothing more than a cheap trick—after all, he had faced worse in his life.

But as his ruby eyes met the surface of the black water, the reflection that greeted him wasn’t what he expected.

He saw Cazador.

The vampire lord towered over him, his presence suffocating, his gaze cold and merciless. Astarion was on his knees, shackled in chains, his fangs bared in a snarl of defiance—but there was no escape. His body, skeletal and emaciated, bore the cruel marks of centuries of torture. Cazador’s voice rang out, cruel and mocking. “You thought you could escape me, my pet? You thought you had won?”

Astarion’s smirk vanished as the image twisted. In the next moment, he saw himself standing beside Cazador—not as his thrall, but as his heir. His eyes glowed with malevolent power, and behind him, the corpses of his friends lay strewn across a blood-soaked floor. Their lifeless faces stared up at him, accusing, their trust betrayed. Karlach, Gale, Shadowheart, Wyll , even Lae'zel —each of them had fallen by his hand. And yet, in this dark future, Astarion felt no remorse. Only hunger. A hunger for power. A hunger to rule. To dominate.

He stepped back from the pool, his breath caught in his throat. His usual confident demeanor faltered, his hands trembling at the sides. He could still hear Cazador’s voice, dripping with venom: “You and I are the same, Astarion. The darkness is in your blood. It always was.”

He clenched his jaw, his chest rising and falling as if he had just been sucker-punched. For the first time in a while, fear clawed at the edges of his mind. Not of Cazador—but of himself. Of the monster he could become. To become like Cazador.

"Fuck this place," Astarion spat, stepping away from the pool .

He tried to compose himself, smoothing back his hair and forcing a smirk back onto his face, but his usual carefree arrogance felt more fragile now, like a mask that had cracked just enough for the others to glimpse the fear underneath.

Karlach glanced at him, her expression still shaken but masked by a faint smile. “You alright there, fancy boy?”

Astarion shot her a sideways glance, the smirk creeping back. “Oh, please, darling. Just another cheap parlor trick. I’ve seen worse in my dreams.” But the quiver in his voice betrayed the truth.

But despite his words , he couldn’t shake the image. The horror of what he might become haunted him like a specter, and for the first time, Astarion wasn’t entirely sure who or what he was fighting—his past master, or the darkness that lurked inside him.

____________

Alex stood before the twisted, shimmering pool, the dark liquid reflecting a version of himself that felt both distant and hauntingly familiar. As the surface rippled, the vision began to solidify, pulling him into its depths like a cold, merciless tide.

His past.

In the first flicker of the vision, he saw his old world consumed by chaos, the sky dark with ash and smoke. He was standing atop a mountain of corpses, his hands dripping with blood. His face was emotionless, his eyes cold and calculating. His voice rang out across the battlefield as thousands of monstrous creatures kneeled before him—creatures born from his own hands, twisted abominations of flesh and bone. His army. His creations. They obeyed his every command without question, without hesitation, because they were his, molded from the shattered remnants of the lives he had taken.

Alex, the ruler of this desolate kingdom, felt nothing. No remorse. No guilt. Only the cold satisfaction of control.

And then, the vision shifted.

He saw himself, but not as he was now. He was darker, more alien—his skin pulsed with a sickly black-and-red energy. His body had taken on a monstrous form, like something out of a nightmare. He had become a tyrant of unimaginable power, ruling over a world he had razed to the ground. His laughter echoed in the hollow silence of his victory, but it was devoid of joy, devoid of humanity.

In this version of himself, Alex was alone. Utterly, devastatingly alone. Every connection, every bond he had once formed, severed. He had pushed them all away or consumed them in his quest for power. He had become Alex Mercer, the monster he had feared becoming since the day he woke up with those cursed abilities.

The vision shifted again.

The pool showed him a future where he was the last thing standing in a world devoid of life. A desolate king on a broken throne, with no one left to challenge him, no one left to share the burden of existence. The power he had craved had finally been achieved—but at the cost of everything that once made him human.

Alex’s jaw tightened as the vision flickered again, showing his friends falling before him, one by one. He saw Gale, struck down by his own spells, his eyes wide with betrayal. Karlach, reduced to a mindless beast, under Alex absolute control. Shadowheart, cleaved in two by his blade arm, crumpled at his feet, her hands grasping at nothing as the light in her eyes faded.

Shadow and Glut stood by his side their form monstrous , harbingers of the end just like their master. Him

He watched it all in silence, his expression never faltering, but inside, a storm raged. He had seen this before— in the darkest corners of his mind. This was the fate he had always feared, the monster he could become if he let the darkness take over. The cost of power. The cost of losing control.

With a sharp, controlled inhale, Alex ripped his gaze from the pool, refusing to let it pull him any deeper. He had been through worse. He was worse. But seeing it laid out so plainly in front of him stirred something deep within—a reminder of the fine line he walked every day. The line between savior and destroyer, protector and tyrant.

He had seen the darkness that could consume him, and he knew how close he always was to that edge—but he wasn’t going to fall. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

His gaze swept over the others. They were still shaken by their own visions, haunted by the dark possibilities the pools had shown them. He saw Karlach’s furrowed brow, her hands clenched into fists. Wyll’s pale face. Shadowheart’s eyes were dark, her jaw set tight, as if she were holding back the tears. Gale stared at the ground, lost in thought, Lae'zel her hand on the hilt of her blade looking at the twilight sky, while Lilimila gripped the hilt of the small dagger at her side.

They all looked to him for direction, for some sign that everything was going to be okay.

But Alex didn’t offer them words of comfort, only truth. His voice cut through the oppressive silence like a blade. “These visions—they’re not real. They show us what could have happened, not what will happen. We’re in control of our own fates.” His eyes hardened as he looked each of them in the eye, his tone unyielding. “We keep moving forward. Together.”

There was a finality in his words, a determination that left no room for argument.

He turned, leading the way deeper into the forest, his expression unreadable once more. But as he moved, the others followed, their steps a little steadier now, bolstered by Alex’s resolve. The darkness lingered in their minds, but for now, they pushed it aside. They had a mission. And Alex, as always, was their anchor.

Inside, though, Alex couldn't shake the lingering weight of what he had seen. The monster in the pool wasn’t just a possible future—it was a reflection of what he could become if he let go of the fragile control he held over his power. If he let the world break him again.

And that terrified him more than anything else in the Feywild.

__________

Alex suddenly whipped around, his eyes narrowing, the atmosphere around them shifted ominously. The once still, dark pools began to ripple, as if stirred by an unseen force. Each surface shimmered, distorting the reflections before them. And then, without warning, figures began to rise from the inky blackness—shadows given form, pulled from the deepest corners of their fears.

One by one, the nightmares took shape.

From Gale’s pool emerged , Gale—no, it was the twisted, mangled version of himself. His skin crackled with unstable energy, the Weave tearing apart at the seams. Mystra’s voice boomed around him, full of disdain. “You are nothing,” she hissed. Her spectral form floated behind his doppelgänger, her presence a cruel reminder of what he’d lost. Gale stumbled back, magic trembling at his fingertips, his heart hammering in his chest as he faced the ruin he feared he would become.

Karlach’s nightmare followed next. A monstrous form, a version of herself that was more engine than flesh, erupted from her pool. Her infernal heart roared louder than thunder, a monstrous furnace glowing in her chest, her eyes wild with rage and loss. Shackles bound her wrists, chains stretching back to the looming figure of Zariel, who grinned with wicked delight. “You belong to me,” Zariel sneered, the leash around Karlach’s neck tightening. The fake Karlach snarled, lashing out at her. But with a single tug of the chain she stopped.

A grotesque, hulking figure, drenched in blood, clawed its way from Tav’s pool. The Slayer—a twisted version of Tav, taken by Bhaal’s influence—stood tall, a thing of nightmares. His hands dripped with the gore of his friends, and a dark, twisted grin split his face. Tav’s stomach turned, bile rising in his throat. The image of his own monstrous reflection locked eyes with him, taunting him with what he could have become. His fists tightened until his knuckles turned white. "No," he whispered fiercely. "That's not me."

Lae’zel’s pool rippled violently, and from it, Vlaakith herself rose—towering, cold, and unrelenting. Behind her, a defeated version of Lae’zel, kneeling, gaunt and hollow-eyed, cowered before her queen’s feet. “You are weak. You are nothing but failure,” Vlaakith spat, her voice dripping with contempt. Lae’zel’s breath hitched, her hands trembling as she clutched her sword tighter, fury burning in her eyes . I will not bow, she seethed silently, taking a step forward, daring the nightmare to defy her strength.

Wyll’s nightmare crawled from his pool—a nightmarish vision of his father’s decapitated head held aloft by Mizora, her wicked laughter echoing in the air. She taunted him . “All for nothing,” Mizora’s voice sang with cruel delight. “You never mattered. You’re just a puppet.” The head of Wyll’s father stared blankly at him, lifeless and still. Wyll gripped his sword tighter, his jaw clenched, his usually steady resolve shaken to its core as he fought the overwhelming weight of guilt and failure.

Shadowheart’s vision was perhaps the cruelest of all. From her pool rose the cold, empty gaze of Shar herself, her dark presence suffocating as she towered above. Shadowheart, broken and wandering, drifted aimlessly at Shar’s feet, hollow, her eyes devoid of purpose. “You gave me everything,” Shar whispered mockingly, her voice cold as ice. “And in return, you are nothing.” Her friends stood behind her, their expressions cold and unfeeling, rejection like a dagger to her heart. Shadowheart’s breath caught in her throat, her hand trembling on her weapon as she stepped back, the pain of abandonment striking deeper than any blade.

From Glut’s pool came the duergar that had haunted his past .The sight sent a cold shiver through his fungal form, the crushing guilt of survival flooding his mind. 'I had to run,' he thought, his usual calm demeanor cracking as anger boiled beneath his surface. Anger at himself, at his failure to protect what mattered most.

And then came Lilimila’s nightmare—a twisted version of her sister, Valni, wandering aimlessly through the Feywild, her once lively eyes now hollow, her body gaunt and lifeless. Grief twisted Lilimila’s heart as her sister turned to her, her face vacant, lost to madness. “You didn’t save me,” the hollow voice of Valni whispered. Lilimila’s knees buckled, her heart pounding in her chest as the sight of her sister, lost and beyond saving, cut deeper than any blade. The weight of guilt and failure pressed down on her, threatening to break her resolve.

From Astarion's pool, the dark surface began to bubble and writhe, as if something terrible was clawing its way to the surface. The reflection shimmered for a moment, then split, revealing a twisted amalgamation of faces—his face, pale and haunted, glued together grotesquely with the cold, menacing visage of Cazador. Their features merged, half of Cazador's cruel, calculating smirk, and half of Astarion's face, gaunt with pain and torment. Their eyes—one red, one dull with lifelessness—burned into Astarion with a soul-piercing intensity.

The creature that rose from the pool wasn’t just a nightmare; it was a mockery of everything Astarion had fought so desperately to escape. It moved with unnatural grace, its gaze filled with the hunger of a predator, like Cazador’s had always been, but now tainted with Astarion’s fear. The two voices—Astarion’s elegant, but trembling, and Cazador’s low, venomous hiss—spoke as one, their tone dripping with mockery and cold amusement.

“You’ll never be free,” the voice snarled, echoing through the marsh like a death sentence. “You are me. I am you. Forever bound by hunger, by blood, by the darkness inside.”

Astarion took a sharp step back, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. He had seen horrors in his life—he had endured horrors—but this? This was a twisted reflection of the worst truth he had tried to deny for so long. The reflection of Cazador’s half-laugh twisted across the hybrid face, while Astarion’s side held a look of deep, helpless despair.

Alex stood amidst the swirling chaos, his expression cold and unreadable, but his clenched fists betrayed the storm brewing within him. The black ichor bubbled furiously and from its depths emerged the darkest specter of his soul—the tyrant he feared he might become.

There it stood, towering over him: a monstrous reflection of himself, its body sheathed in grotesque organic armor, pulsing with an eerie, unnatural life. Its left arm shifted seamlessly into a wickedly sharp blade, glistening with the same dark ichor that formed it. The face, cold and empty, bore no trace of warmth or humanity, only a hollow void where compassion had once resided. This was Alex Mercer—an incarnation of power unchecked, of a man who had lost everything, including himself.

The tyrant stared back at him, a silent, ruthless king of devastation. The memories of a world overrun by his creations flashed in Alex's mind—cities crumbling under the weight of his abominations, his friends slaughtered and twisted into soldiers for his endless army. He could feel the weight of his past mistakes, the fear of what he might still become pressing down on his chest like a vice.

But there was no fear in his eyes. His heart, though heavy, had already faced this nightmare. He had stood at the precipice before and chosen a different path. His jaw clenched, fists tightening until his knuckles were white. This vision, this creature, was not his fate. He had made sure of that.

Taking a deep breath, Alex looked at his companions—each of them facing their darkest fears made manifest. His voice, calm but firm, cut through the suffocating tension. “These are not real,” he said, his tone commanding. “They are nightmares, born from this place.” His eyes swept over each of them, his presence unwavering. “We face them, or we fall to them.”

The air grew thick with the collective weight of their fears, but Alex’s words were a lifeline—a reminder that the horrors before them were shadows of what could be, not what was. With clenched fists, they turned to face their nightmares.