Chapter Text
"...and the devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape." — Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act II
The first time you meet the Devil isn’t near the druids’ grove. It’s in a rundown tavern in a forgettable town on the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate. Calling it a tavern is probably generous. In truth, it’s little more than a hovel that happens to serve food and ale.
The air is thick with the smell of wet wool and smoke. Despite the fire roaring in the hearth, everything feels damp. Still, it’s better than being stuck in the storm that’s raging outside. Your lute would never survive such abuse—and where would that leave you?
You try not to shiver as you study your surroundings. Limewashed walls do little to hide the aging plaster. The low, thatched roof makes the space feel crowded and small. Long, low-lying tables and benches dominate the center of the room. A small bar, lined with stools, sits on the far left. You spot a smattering of cafe-style tables lining the back wall, just far enough from the fire to be cast in dappled shadow.
Most of the tavern-goers are farmers. Or tradesfolk. People who are used to backbreaking work for very little pay. You will not earn any coin here. That much is certain. What little money the locals have is being spent at the bar.
So when the innkeeper offers you a meal and a bed in exchange for a fistful of songs, you agree—because you’re too hungry not to. Beggars can’t be choosers.
Lute in hand, you stride towards the makeshift performance space: a bare patch of floor in front of the hearth, sitting between two ale barrels. You’re scarcely more than a silhouette, backlit by the glow of the fire. Spectral. Barely visible. Which suits you just fine. You strum through the standard, jaunty pub songs. Roll Me Over. Chandler’s Shop. Shallow, bawdy tunes the locals can sing along to. And they do. Like they always do, no matter where you go. The same stale songs. The same drunken warbling. Over and over again.
And you realize, halfway through your set, that you can’t do it anymore. You don’t have it in you to crank out yet another obnoxious bar song. You know crowds like this don’t go for songs that are soft. Or sad. But you feel one building in the hollow of your chest and, tonight, you’re tired of pretending.
You whisper the spell under your breath. Voco vestras animas. Let them feel what you feel, just this once. Something jagged. Something real.
A hush falls over the tavern as the spell takes hold. Mugs pause in mid-air. Conversations die. Your voice rises, clear and fragile as glass, cutting through the silence.
Come all you fair and tender girls
That flourish in your prime
Beware, beware, keep your garden fair
Let no man steal your thyme
Let no man steal your thyme
The pub-goers stare at you. Transfixed. Spellbound. Your gaze glides from face to face as the words spill from your tongue.
For when your thyme has come and gone
He’ll care no more for you
And every place your thyme lay waste
Shall be o’ergrown with rue
Shall be o’ergrown with rue
You don’t notice him. Not at first. A flicker of movement catches your eye, back where the shadows are thickest. You could’ve sworn that table was empty just a few moments ago, but now there’s a man lounging in the corner. Wine glass in hand.
At first, you think it’s your husband—the one you’re running from. Panic burns in the back of your throat as you struggle to keep your voice steady. But then, as if he can hear your thoughts, he leans towards the light. And, as his features are illuminated, you realize how wrong you are.
Your husband is ice, cold and aloof. This man is embers and invitation, focused entirely on you.
For woman is a branching tree
But man a clinging vine
And from your branches carelessly
He’ll take what he can find
He’ll take what he can find
He looks to be in his late forties, give or take a few years, with cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood and a strong, well-defined jaw. His brown curls are swept back from his face—a sharp contrast to your ex’s long, auburn locks. There’s something regal in his bearing. Polished. Refined. A quiet confidence your parvenu of a husband could never hope to possess.
He doesn’t watch you the way most men watch bards. He doesn’t leer. Or undress you with his eyes. No, he stares at you like a jeweler appraising a diamond. Studying your every flaw and facet. Measuring your brilliance.
So heed me well, you tender girls
You who are in your prime
Beware, beware, if you’re good and fair,
Let no man steal your time
Let no man steal your time
As your final note fades, so does the spell. Sound slinks back into the room. Conversation. Scattered applause. A man at the bar calls for another round. Business goes on, as usual. All except for him. His eyes remain locked on you with an uncanny intensity, like a bored house cat eyeing a mouse. Goosebumps crawl across your skin.
He raises his glass in a slow, deliberate motion—something that looks like a cross between a greeting and a challenge. Then he gestures, lazily, to the empty chair beside him, arching a single eyebrow as if to say, “Your move.”
A subtle warmth, soft and insidious, blooms between your thighs.
Nope. Nuh-uh. No fucking way.
The reason you’re playing in hellholes like this is to keep a low profile, to avoid attracting too much attention, so your husband can’t find you. You are not here to sip wine in the dark with handsome, unsettling strangers. You do not need yet another walking red flag in your life.
You offer him a polite nod, then head towards the bar—deliberately ignoring the weight of his eyes on your back. You’re tired. And hungry. And in no mood for shenanigans. All you want is to enjoy your meal in the quiet of your room.
You hover near the edge of the bar, waiting for the innkeeper to notice you. Drumming your nails against the worn wood. Humming softly. She spots you as finishes pouring a draught and takes a moment to wipe her hands before heading your way. As she draws closer, you notice her expression is pinched. Tight.
“Your meal’s already been delivered to your table,” she says, pointing towards the back of the tavern. Her voice is pitched low, as if she’s afraid someone else could be listening.
You stare at her, confused. You don’t have a table. Or want one. Your eyes follow the path of her hand. No, surely not... But, of course, there’s your meal—sitting on his table—along with a second glass of wine. You chew on your lip and sigh.
This one’s gonna be trouble.
You amble across the room, projecting indifference, careful to keep your expression neutral and your chin held high. You’ve dealt with men like this before. They’re basically bulettes. Running only makes you prey. You have to stand your ground. So, instead of sitting, you stop just shy of the empty chair, tilting your head to the side as you look down at him. You tuck your fingers into your pockets, leaving your thumbs exposed.
Confidence, you tell yourself. Be confident. Even though your fluttering pulse tells a different story.
Apparently, he sees through your bravado, because he chuckles and leans back in his chair. Casually swirling his wine. He looks you over from head to toe, silently assessing. When he finally speaks, his words are soft and unnervingly precise:
“That song wasn’t for them.” A statement, not a question.
Tension coils through your body as you fight the urge to flee. This isn’t the shallow, flirtatious line of a bachelor looking for company. It’s the quiet observation of a seasoned inquisitor, one that demands honesty.
You exhale, long and slow. “No,” you admit. “It wasn’t.”
It was for me, goes unspoken, hanging in the air between you.
He picks up the other glass of wine and holds it out to you. Waiting. You hesitate for a moment before taking it and sliding into your seat. You meet his gaze as you take a sip. It burns more than the wine.
“You don’t belong here. You know that, don’t you? Talent like yours is utterly wasted in such …provincial environs.”
His voice is rich, not unlike the wine you’re both drinking. It’s warm, indulgent, and crafted to loosen you. But you've done this dance before. Many times, in fact, so you decide to keep your answer light and evasive.
“I’m quite content with the country. It’s simple. Quiet.”
His laughter rolls like the thunder outside, deep and menacing.
“You’re a bard, dear. Quiet isn’t in your nature. You enthralled every soul in this room—made them tremble at the sound of your voice. You broke them. And you liked it.”
He leans forward, smile sharp. “That’s not contentment. That’s hunger.”
A thousand warning bells clang inside your head. How? Sweet, suffering Ilmater, how could he possibly know? Your spell should have been foolproof. Completely undetectable.
Unless… You’re dizzy at the thought. Unless he’s more than what he seems.
He pries the glass from your trembling hand, patient and unyielding. His thumb traces slow circles in the flesh of your palm.
“I can help you sate that hunger,” he murmurs. “If you let me.”
And that’s when you catch it—so subtle you almost miss it—the faint scent of cherries clinging to his skin. Cherries...and sulfur. Adrenaline thrums through your veins. You have to get out of here. Now.
But before you can even move, the tavern begins to shake. Bottles fall from their racks and shatter. Plates tumble to the floor. The tavern walls creak and groan, threatening to buckle. The patrons closest to the windows look outside. And scream.
“Illithids!” someone shouts. “Gods preserve us! It’s a Nautiloid!”
You leap up, ripping your hand from the stranger’s grasp. The floor lurches beneath your feet. You stumble and fall, watching in horror as the tavern roof is peeled back like an onion. Rain pours in through the opening, drenching everything in seconds, but you don’t have time to worry about the storm. Something far worse is coming.
An impossible mass of writhing limbs blocks out the sky. Tentacles, you realize distantly. Slick and gleaming. They slither down the tavern walls, searching for prey. One of them lunges towards you. You won't get away in time.
You lock eyes with the man who likely isn’t a man at all. His eyes seem to glow as he looks back at you, frustration etched into his features.
Then the tentacle touches you, and you dissolve in a cloud of black motes.