Enough of the end is seen for Gortash to realize that the Dark Urge, in his time since losing his memory, has gathered a veritable army of his own. There are signs of them all over the city as it descends into chaos, attacked from all sides, even the skies, as the Netherbrain's forces emerge with the added force of every Absolutist as their transformations are triggered.
It is a ghastly mirror of what the Plot had been intended to be, and racing through the Lower City, the once-archduke, once-human, once-Baneite understands the weight of seeing what he had helped to bring about and now had very little power to even help undo. But flanked by two of the Dark Urge's companions, he finds himself providing what support is possible. If only because staying put was just waiting to die at this point.
And before he technically "died," he had made an oath to protect this city. He had taken it with his Baneite perspective on what those promises meant at the time. But even then, this was not what he had bargained for.
Armed with his heavy crossbow (that had suspiciously wound up in the camp's spoils), he was not likely to be recognized -- a different race and bereft of his familiar finery. Save of course until they reached a part of the lower city near the remains of a shop he had avoided. There were two mindflayers that very well might have taken any prey that crossed them, but something sparked as recognition to him.
He felt very little about putting his parents down, save that it took a little long -- long enough to attract more enemies -- and the efforts of his two sitters helped significantly.
Through it all they kept a weather eye where they could on the brain, where they were certain their companions were doing battle, trying to make their way around to where it was, but never quite near enough to make the climb themselves. More called to them on the ground to take care of.
Including the odd Baneite. The first of whom did not recognize him until the instant before an arrow caught him in the eye. And the rest from then on were easily identified.
They were not the best at moving in shadows. Not while the shadows themselves had teeth and tentacles right now.
Somewhere in all of this, while he could chalk the boost in stamina up to adrenaline, what he took in almost immediately was that moving around felt easier. He ran with greater ease. The odd cut or scrape that he suffered, while hardly instant, had begun to close normally by the time potions were administered.
As it was, by the time the nautiloids fell from the sky, and the brain with them, Enver Gortash was not dead, nor even black and blue. The brain was defeated, and gods -- if they were up there he had no idea if they had the means to safely come down. But they made haste for the docks.
The Harper's voice behind him. "That was Astarion -- the others must be close!"
He does not even take notice of who ran past, but with a swallow he picks up speed, coming to a skidding stop when there are people, and prickles of recognition strike him.
The sunrise casts light upon the water, deepened the shadows of smoke and rubble in the remains of the city that form a crescent around the bay. He can hear nothing but his own heartbeat for a moment, his eyes tracing a familiar black shape against the coming light.
Clear, perfect. Alive. And at last their eyes meet.
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It is a ghastly mirror of what the Plot had been intended to be, and racing through the Lower City, the once-archduke, once-human, once-Baneite understands the weight of seeing what he had helped to bring about and now had very little power to even help undo. But flanked by two of the Dark Urge's companions, he finds himself providing what support is possible. If only because staying put was just waiting to die at this point.
And before he technically "died," he had made an oath to protect this city. He had taken it with his Baneite perspective on what those promises meant at the time. But even then, this was not what he had bargained for.
Armed with his heavy crossbow (that had suspiciously wound up in the camp's spoils), he was not likely to be recognized -- a different race and bereft of his familiar finery. Save of course until they reached a part of the lower city near the remains of a shop he had avoided. There were two mindflayers that very well might have taken any prey that crossed them, but something sparked as recognition to him.
He felt very little about putting his parents down, save that it took a little long -- long enough to attract more enemies -- and the efforts of his two sitters helped significantly.
Through it all they kept a weather eye where they could on the brain, where they were certain their companions were doing battle, trying to make their way around to where it was, but never quite near enough to make the climb themselves. More called to them on the ground to take care of.
Including the odd Baneite. The first of whom did not recognize him until the instant before an arrow caught him in the eye. And the rest from then on were easily identified.
They were not the best at moving in shadows. Not while the shadows themselves had teeth and tentacles right now.
Somewhere in all of this, while he could chalk the boost in stamina up to adrenaline, what he took in almost immediately was that moving around felt easier. He ran with greater ease. The odd cut or scrape that he suffered, while hardly instant, had begun to close normally by the time potions were administered.
As it was, by the time the nautiloids fell from the sky, and the brain with them, Enver Gortash was not dead, nor even black and blue. The brain was defeated, and gods -- if they were up there he had no idea if they had the means to safely come down. But they made haste for the docks.
The Harper's voice behind him. "That was Astarion -- the others must be close!"
He does not even take notice of who ran past, but with a swallow he picks up speed, coming to a skidding stop when there are people, and prickles of recognition strike him.
The sunrise casts light upon the water, deepened the shadows of smoke and rubble in the remains of the city that form a crescent around the bay. He can hear nothing but his own heartbeat for a moment, his eyes tracing a familiar black shape against the coming light.
Clear, perfect. Alive. And at last their eyes meet.
It was over. They are here. Finally.