Versus

+++

Lae’zel POV

+++

The air here hung thick and cloying, heavy with the scent of damp earth, decaying leaves, and the offensively sweet perfume of wildflowers – a repulsive miasma compared to the clean, sharp void of the Astral Plane or the disciplined sterility of the crèche. It coated the back of my throat, a taste of rot and mundane, fragile life.

I stood apart from the others, my boots sinking slightly into the soft muck near the edge of the ridiculously lavish camp Harald—the Kwe'vhar—had conjured forth with contemptuous ease. The very ground here yielded beneath me, a sensation of weakness, of undisciplined reality, that grated against my Githyanki core.

Pathetic.

My fingers flexed, an involuntary spasm tracing the phantom shape of my sword hilt against my thigh. Disarmed. Stripped of my blade here, in this alien wilderness, surrounded by strangers whose competence was questionable at best and whose loyalties were entirely unknown.

The indignity of it all burned, a cold, sharp fire deep within my chest, a counterpoint to the incessant, chilling awareness of the ghaik parasite still nestled behind my eye. A constant, low-level thrum of alien consciousness, a parasitic clock counting down the moments until ceremorphosis – that ultimate degradation – will have stripped away my honor, my memories, my very Gith essence, leaving behind only a mindless thrall, an aberration.

Urgency, sharp and visceral, clawed at my thoughts.

We needed the zaith'isk.

We needed my kin, the only ones capable of purging this infestation without destroying the host.

Every moment wasted here, indulging the inexplicable whims of the Kwe'vhar or the contemptible emotional frailties of these… istik… was a betrayal of that singular, vital imperative. Yet Harald, the being whose power defied all known frameworks, the one who held the key to our collective survival, now sequestered himself within his opulent tent – a structure seemingly pulled from the dreams of some decadent Elven lord – with that… Sharran cleric.

For hours!

Hours that felt like centuries measured against the parasite's insidious progress.

I paced, the soft ground muffling my steps, denying me even the satisfying, rhythmic ring of boot against stone that usually accompanied my meditations. My gaze swept over the others, cataloging their inadequacies.

Alfira had left sometime before, mentioning something about exploring the Grove.

Karlach, the tiefling brute, bellowed with laughter as she engaged in some pointless, chaotic game with the fey creature, Sylvie – her power uncontrolled, her joy offensively loud, utterly primitive in its lack of discipline.

Gale, the wizard, the purported scholar, hunched over a tome, his brow furrowed, lost in useless theory while the concrete reality of our shared doom decayed around us. What use were scrolls and theorems against the Illithid menace? Did the fool not comprehend the situation we were in?

Astarion, the pale one, lounged with practiced indolence, polishing his newly gifted armor sets with meticulous care, his cynical smirk a flimsy mask for gods only knew what depths of treachery and self-interest.

Weaklings.

Distractions.

Liabilities, all.

And Shadowheart… the cleric of the Lady of Loss. Her earlier breakdown, the raw display of weeping, the utter collapse of composure – it had all been disgusting to witness. Weakness was a contagion, a flaw to be excised, purged, not indulged with misplaced sympathy.

And yet, Harald had… comforted her. Had spent time with her -- precious time, while the parasites pulsed within our very skulls! And now, they remained closeted together, hidden from our view, while the path to salvation remained obscured, while my own potential transformation loomed ever closer.

A sharp, unfamiliar irritation tightened my chest again, coiling like a serpent in my gut. Could it be… jealousy?

Tchk.

The thought was absurd, illogical.

My concerns were purely tactical.

Strategic!

The cleric's inherent instability, her divided loyalties sworn to a goddess of secrets and oblivion, her very presence – these were all a liability to the group's cohesion and survival. Harald’s focus should be on the ghaik, on leveraging his power to locate my kin – or upon removing the parasites himself, assuming he was capable of such a thing. He should not be wasting time tending to the imagined emotional wounds of some Sharran wench.

Yes indeed, these were the justification for my irritation. The way Harald looked at Shadowheart; the way he comforted her, held her tenderly against his chest… these actions had nothing to do with my concerns.

Nothing at all.

+++

Finally, the tent’s flaps parted, the heavy, enchanted canvas swinging open. Harald emerged, his expression as unreadable as ever, that infuriating, almost preternatural calm settled around him like an invisible shroud.

And behind him… was Shadowheart.

My eyes narrowed instantly, every Githyanki combat instinct, every analytical faculty, cataloging the changes I saw with cold precision.

Her hair… it was no longer the shimmering black I saw just a few hours ago. It now cascaded around her shoulders in waves of stark, luminous white, glowing faintly but undeniably with an internal light, like spun moonlight captured and solidified. It seemed almost weightless, stirring slightly in the still air of the camp.

Her eyes, those forest-green pools I’d glimpsed during her earlier outburst, now held a similar unsettling luminescence: they were brighter, sharper, making her gaze feel piercing, almost invasive when it flickered briefly towards me.

Her skin, too, seemed paler, smoother than before, radiating a faint glow that lent her an otherworldly, almost fey-like appearance.

And then I saw them – subtle, yet unmistakable to my trained eyes: fine, pearlescent white scales, like powdered diamond dust or crushed pearls, dusting the skin near her temples, along the sharp line of her jaw, tracing the delicate curve of her half-elven ears where they peeked through the white cascade of hair. They shimmered faintly, catching the light, shifting subtly as she moved.

Draconic bloodline.

The pattern was unmistakably draconic. This was a profound alteration, a sign of some fundamental transformation undergone within that tent, under Harald’s influence.

Just what did Harald do, to unlock the hidden powers of this whelp’s ancestry in such a dramatic, visible way? The very question made my insides burn with an inexplicable rage.

Astarion, recovering from any surprise with his usual theatrical flair, let his silken voice drip with carefully measured sarcasm.

"My, my, Shadowheart. Quite the transformation! Did our mysterious benefactor redecorate your soul? Or is that simply the afterglow from a… particularly intense prayer session?" He offered a theatrical wink, his red eyes gleaming with equal parts amusement and calculation.

I ignored him utterly. My focus locked onto Shadowheart like a dragon mount onto prey. I strode forward, my movements precise, economical, radiating a hostility I made no effort to conceal.

"Tsk'va! The Sharran emerges at last," my voice cut through the relative quiet of the camp, sharp as honed steel, each syllable clipped.

"Your period of weakness and seclusion is concluded, then?" I gestured sharply towards her glowing form, my lip curling involuntarily in distaste.

"While the rest of us grapple with the urgency of the ghaik infestation, you indulge in… this? Wasting the Kwe'vhar's invaluable attention with your pathetic emotional displays, delaying our critical purpose? Are your private, profane rituals finally complete? Or does your Lady of Loss now encourage such… grotesque alterations in her supplicants?"

Shadowheart met my gaze, and I braced for the expected crumbling, the averted eyes, the stammered defense.

Instead, I saw something new. A stillness. An unnerving calm centered within the residual storm of her earlier turmoil, now overlaid with… something else.

Confidence?

Power?

Her glowing eyes held mine without flinching.

"My 'weakness' seems to concern you greatly, Lae'zel," she replied, her voice quiet, yet carrying an unexpected, melodious edge that seemed amplified by her altered state. "Perhaps you fear comparison?"

The audacity!

The sheer, unmitigated impudence!

This istik, this sniveling cleric, dared…!

Fury, cold and clean as the Astral void, surged through me. "Comparison? To you? A trembling acolyte who collapses at the first sign of adversity? Do not flatter yourself with such delusions!"

"And yet," she countered, a faint, dangerous smile touching her lips, the glow in her eyes seeming to intensify fractionally, "It was me Harald caught when I collapsed. Not you."

The subtle implication ignited my rage.

"You dare—!"

Harald stepped between us then, his presence a tangible force, a wall of calm authority that immediately quelled the rising tide of my fury. Much to my own disgust, my Githyanki discipline reasserted itself almost automatically in his presence. He was, indeed, the leader, and I – the follower. It was a truth as absolute and fundamental as the Material Plane’s sun rising in the East.

"Enough," he said, his voice quiet but absolute, carrying the undeniable weight of authority. "This achieves nothing. Your animosity is palpable. It disrupts the camp. You will settle it – right now. Words fail us, so let your fists speak instead. You shall spar."

Spar?

With her?

The very notion was ludicrous, insulting.

I stared at him, then at Shadowheart – smaller, slighter by far, her frame possessing none of the hardened, whipcord musculature of a Githyanki warrior honed by decades of planar combat.

A mere priestess.

A Sharran cleric, whose magic was geared towards shadows and deception, not direct confrontation.

It was, frankly, an insult to my skills, to my station!

Gale began to protest loudly ("Harald, this is hardly equitable!"), his face etched with concern. Karlach looked torn, clearly worried for Shadowheart. Astarion leaned forward, practically vibrating with undisguised anticipation.

Shadowheart looked at Harald in incredulity.

Then, I saw Harald meet Shadowheart's eyes. A silent exchange, a flicker of understanding that passed between them, too subtle for me to decipher, yet I felt it through the parasite – a distinct pulse, a wave of calm certainty flowing from him to her across a psychic link.

Shadowheart's entire bearing shifted in that instant. The lingering vulnerability, the slight tremor I thought I’d detected, vanished completely, replaced by a focus so intense, it was almost palpable. The trust she placed in him was unnerving. Absolute.

Fanatical.

She turned back to me, the glow in her eyes intensifying further, that unnerving smile returning, sharper now. "A spar it is, then!" Her strangely resonant voice was deceptively soft, almost gentle. "Do try to keep up, Lae'zel. It would be… inconvenient if you tired too quickly."

The sheer nerve! The arrogance!

I would break her, I decided then.

I would shatter this newfound confidence of hers and grind it into the pathetic muck beneath my boots. I would demonstrate, swiftly and decisively, the unbridgeable gulf between a true Githyanki warrior and a trembling acolyte lost in her own shadows. It would be a necessary lesson in hierarchy and discipline.

Harald raised a hand, palm outward. The earth nearby seemed to sigh, then flowed like water, rising, compacting, solidifying into a perfect circle – an elevated platform perhaps fifteen paces across. Its surface was an unnatural, matte black, seeming to absorb the very light around it, yet feeling strangely resilient, almost springy, beneath my experimental step. He had done it without a word, without an incantation, without a gesture beyond the initial raising of his hand. The casual, effortless display of Alteration mastery.

Would I ever be able to do that with Magicka, I wondered?

Without hesitation, I began removing my armor – the impossibly crafted Glass set Harald had made for me before. Its enchantments hummed against my skin, a complex symphony of protection against nearly every conceivable type of harm. To have a proper spar while wearing this would be meaningless, it would only be an endless stalemate, prolonged indefinitely by the built-in stamina enchantments.

True combat is skill against skill, flesh against flesh, I affirmed internally, the ancient Githyanki creed echoing in my mind.

Shadowheart mirrored my actions, shedding her own enchanted leather set with a fluid grace that surprised me slightly. I gave a curt nod. At least she possessed that much honor – or, perhaps, it was merely foolish pride?

One after the other, we climbed onto the platform and took our positions. Harald signaled the start with a slight inclination of his head.

I attacked instantly, exploding across the black platform in a blur of pure aggression, launching a feint designed to draw her guard high – a flick of the wrist, a shift of the shoulder – followed by a swift, driving side-kick aimed precisely at her left knee joint. A standard Githyanki disabling opener: fast, precise, brutal, designed to end the fight before it truly began.

And then the world tilted on its axis.

She wasn't there.

Or rather, she was there, standing almost placidly, but her defense met not my feint, but my intended kick. Her leg was already lifting, not in a clumsy block, but in a perfect intercepting arc, positioned exactly where my foot would be fractions of a second later.

I recoiled instinctively, flowing into a rapid sequence of jabs and crosses, testing her defenses, probing for weaknesses, searching for an opening in this impossible guard. But it was like fighting smoke, like sparring with my own reflection in a disturbed pool of water. Every strike I initiated, every subtle shift of weight, every tensing of muscle telegraphing my intent – she was already moving to counter, not reacting to my physical movement, but seemingly to the intent behind it.

I feinted left, preparing a powerful right cross – but her block was already in place, perfectly angled to deflect the cross, ignoring the feint entirely. I dropped low, initiating a leg sweep meant to take her off her feet – and she hopped back lightly, effortlessly, fractions of a second before my sweeping leg even began its arc.

It was utterly maddening!

Unnatural!

It violated the fundamental rhythm of combat – the sacred interplay of action, reaction, prediction, and deception. She was seeing through my attacks before they even occurred, reacting to intentions before I could execute upon them!

Yet, her technique remained abysmal.

Objectively, clinically abysmal.

Her blocks were clumsy, relying solely on perfect positioning rather than proper techniques for deflection or absorption of force.

Her footwork seemed hesitant, often unbalanced.

Her movements lacked the coiled power, the explosive speed, the fluid grace of a warrior trained almost from birth.

I saw a dozen openings, a hundred ways to break through her guard, to shatter her stance, to exploit her flawed technique… but the timing, the fundamental timing of combat, was rendered impossible. Every time I committed to an attack, exploiting a visible flaw, she was already elsewhere, her defense perfectly placed, guided by this… impossible foresight.

Tchk!

Cheap tricks!

Frustration burned cold and sharp within me, a dangerous counterpoint to my disciplined focus. Fine. If finesse and technique failed against this… prescience, then brute force and overwhelming speed would prevail instead!

I abandoned intricate combinations, discarding decades of training in favor of raw, untamed power. I unleashed a torrent of pure speed, a whirlwind of strikes – punches, kicks, elbows – aimed not at specific targets but at overwhelming her predictive defense through sheer volume and relentless pressure. I pushed forward, a blur of motion, forcing her back across the black platform.

And I broke through!

Amidst the flurry, a fast, straight right hand, thrown with all my Githyanki strength and speed, slipped past her uncanny guard. It connected solidly with her shoulder. I felt the impact jar up my arm, saw her eyes widen in momentary shock as her foresight finally failed against raw velocity. She stumbled, dropping heavily onto her back.

Victory!

A grim satisfaction settled within me. I stood over her, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, masking the unsettling exertion, the lingering unease caused by her unnatural defense.

"Tricks are the refuge of the weak, cleric," I stated, my voice cold and sharp, each word precise. "They cannot withstand focused Githyanki discipline. Learn this lesson wel..."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dn0T3s8SMQ8&list=RDdn0T3s8SMQ8&start_radio=1

But the lesson, it seemed, was far from over.

She didn't struggle to rise. She didn't push herself up with trembling arms. She simply… floated back up to a standing position.

Effortlessly.

Smoothly.

Rising as if lifted by unseen hands.

A new kind of glow erupted from her, no longer faint or subtle, but blazing. Her white hair seemed to burn like a miniature sun, radiating palpable heat. Her eyes were twin emerald-gold stars, searingly bright. Her skin radiated a light so intense it was difficult to look at directly, and the draconic scales along her face and ears shimmered with blinding, multifaceted intensity. The very air around her crackled, thick with an energy I couldn’t quite describe.

Before my mind could fully process what happened, she moved.

Not ran, not charged – rather, she simply wasn't where she had been a heartbeat before, reappearing directly in front of me in an explosion of white-gold light and displaced air.

The speed was blinding, inconceivable, faster than almost anything I had ever witnessed – as fast, perhaps, as Harald's movements on the Nautiloid had been.

Only decades of relentless Githyanki training, reflexes honed to a razor's edge in countless life-or-death battles across the hostile planes, saved me from instant oblivion. I didn't think; pure, ingrained instinct took over. Throwing myself violently sideways, I felt the air tear beside me, felt the shockwave as her fist punched through the space my head had occupied a microsecond before. The near-miss sent ice flooding through my veins, primal fear momentarily overriding even my Githyanki discipline.

There was no time for shock, no time for analysis. She was on me instantly, a relentless storm of blinding speed. Blows rained down from every angle – fists, elbows, knees, a whirlwind of attacks delivered with terrifying force and guided by that damnable precognition. I was forced back, purely on the defensive now, blocking desperately, parrying frantically, dodging by the barest margins, my movements feeling sluggish, clumsy in comparison to hers.

Hits landed like a hailstorm – sharp, bruising impacts that rattled my bones, stole my breath, sent stars exploding behind my eyes. Pain bloomed along my ribs, my jaw, my arms – sharp, insistent reminders of my vulnerability.

This was no longer a spar.

This was pure annihilation.

My mind raced, desperately seeking a tactical solution amidst the onslaught. Striking was futile now; she was too fast, her defense, guided by foresight, were too perfect.

That still left grappling!

I could pin her down, negate the speed advantage, use leverage, superior Githyanki technique…

I saw a fleeting opening as she recovered from a strike, lunged forward, locking my arms around her torso in a crushing embrace, intending to drive her down to the platform—

And met immovable strength.

Her smaller, slighter frame held a power that defied all common sense, dwarfing my own considerable Githyanki might as if I were a mere hatchling. My grip, capable of bending an iron bar, felt entirely insufficient now. With a contemptuous grunt, a sound devoid of effort, she broke my hold, seized my arm in a grip of impossible power, and simply… hurled me away!

I flew across the platform, tumbling end over end, landing hard on the springy black surface several paces away. Stars exploded behind my eyes again. The air rushed from my lungs in a painful gasp. Humiliation, hot and acidic, burned hotter than the forming bruises. To be thrown, tossed aside like a discarded training dummy… by someone like her!

As I lay there, dazed, struggling for breath, fighting the encroaching darkness at the edge of my vision, Harald stepped back onto the platform.

"Impressive, Shadowheart. Perhaps… too impressive. Let us adjust the parameters."

He gestured with a finger towards the floor, and a circle of pure white light blazed into existence around Shadowheart, roughly five feet in diameter.

“Lae'zel," Harald continued, his voice betraying no emotion, no judgment. "Victory is now simple for you. All you have to do… is force her to move from this circle.”

Then, he produced a simple strip of black cloth. He tossed it to Shadowheart.

"A blindfold. Put it on."

The final, unbearable insult!

Rage, pure and incandescent, flooded my senses, burning away the pain, the shock, the confusion, the humiliation. I scrambled back to my feet, trembling not with fear, but with unrestrained Githyanki fury.

This mockery would not stand!

"You mock me?!" I screamed, my voice raw, tearing from my throat.

“You think I require such aid against this… this cleric?! I need no handicaps! Istik!”

“Do not underestimate me!”

Ignoring the circle, ignoring Harald's calm gaze, ignoring everything but the blindfolded figure standing serenely within the glowing ring, I launched myself forward in a berserk charge, channeling all my remaining strength, all my skill, all my wounded pride into a final, overwhelming assault.

It was utterly futile.

Even blindfolded, she moved like a phantom in the night, an impossible dance of prescience and evasion. My furious strikes met only empty air. She flowed around me, sidestepping, ducking, weaving with an uncanny grace, her movements now fluid, precise, utterly predictive.

She didn't need eyes, I realized.

She seemed to sense my intentions even before I formed them, reacting to the shift of my muscles, the tension in my stance, the very air I displaced before launching an attack.

Through my newly attuned senses, I now felt the unmistakable resonance of Magicka swirling around her, that strange, potent energy Harald commanded, the energy he had offered to teach us all how to harness.

But how? She refused his lesson in the Feywild! How could she now wield it so perfectly? And blindfolded? Is this the Clairvoyance spell he showed us earlier? Applied directly to combat? How can she be so good at it?

The sheer competence my opponent was displaying with this new skill was infuriating!

I gathered my focus, desperation lending a final surge of clarity. The Flames spell Harald had demonstrated – perhaps that could even the odds! A flicker of orange sparked in my fist, Magicka gathering—

But, before the spell could fully form, she moved.

Not with a true attack, but a simple, almost gentle push delivered with an open palm to my chest.

Perfectly timed.

Perfectly placed.

A subtle exploitation of my own momentum, of my own unbalanced fury.

I stumbled backward, fighting for balance, my feet scrambling on the black surface… and slipping over the edge of the platform.

Defeated.

Utterly, humiliatingly defeated.

Silence descended again, thick and heavy.

Shadowheart calmly removed the blindfold. The intense glow faded rapidly from her hair, eyes, and skin, leaving her looking pale, perhaps tired, but unnervingly composed. She stepped off the edge of the platform, stopping directly before me.

She extended a hand.

I stared at it, then up at her face.

Her expression was neutral, those luminous green eyes holding mine, revealing nothing. The fury within me warred violently with the shock, the profound humiliation, the grudging, undeniable fact of her victory.

I still disliked her intensely. I despised her Sharran faith, her earlier weakness, her very existence, in fact.

But.

But… she had won.

Decisively.

Against impossible odds, blindfolded even!

A Githyanki warrior respects strength, respects ability, respects a clear outcome, regardless of the methods employed.

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. The eyes of the others – Karlach's concern, Gale's academic fascination, Astarion's predatory amusement, Harald's calm neutrality – burned into my back.

Slowly, reluctantly, feeling as though every muscle fiber screamed in protest, I reached out and took her hand.

Her grip was steady, surprisingly firm as she pulled me up.

We stood facing each other for a long moment, the space between us charged with a new, complex tension. The animosity remained, a bedrock of ideological opposition and personal dislike. But it was now overlaid with something else. Something fragile. Something unspoken.

Something disturbingly akin to respect.