Chapter 1
When Sarevok and his Bhaalists descended upon Baldur’s Gate, Tav lived in the South Span of Wyrm’s Crossing.
Baldur’s Gate held little appeal to her in those days. She continued the herbalist pedaling business left by her grandmother, but with little joy. Her wicked aunt was intent on claiming the apothecary, and while long were the days she came knocking on the door at all hours, an occasional rude letter would arrive, threatening notice to the local magistrate.
The apothecary didn’t bring in nearly as much as her aunt believed; not since that wrinkled wizard set up shop atop the armory. Tav cursed him every day, as he sat up on high, stealing her customers; but she was the first to admit he was a smart man with good remedies - real remedies, even. Tav hadn’t a drop of magic in her bloodline, and whatever potions she wrought were known by even the most unstudied elf.
With her relentless aunt nipping at her heels, rising rent, and a surge of murders across the city, Tav was impatiently waiting for any convenient reason to untether from the city. A small town had been booming lately, Reithwein, established by Selúnites and druids, and news from passerby only sweetened by the day.
In the mean time, Tav whittled away time with her weekly encounters with Gwyneth, the elven baker. At the beginning of each week, Tav would find herself outside the door of Bewitching Bakery, wrapped up in the mouth-watering aroma of fresh bread, and each time wondered if the pumpkin bread was truly ensorcelled.
Gwyneth stood a good head taller than Tav, and like all elves, devastatingly beautiful. She moved with a grace that belied her race and fey ancestry, willowy-limbed and dignified. A sun-elf, her skin was radiant deep tone and tinged a delicate green, freckles smattering across her broad nose. She wore her dark hair in two long braids, and always looked at Tav with inscrutable hazel eyes. With those long ears, Tav wondered if the elf could hear her rabbit-paced heart.
Gwyneth’s store had originally opened as a stand at the mouth of Wyrm’s Rock, just like Tav’s apothecary, but success had ensured it a modest apartment. Whenever Tav came, Gwyneth had saved her the largest, most plush loaf of pumpkin-walnut bread. A tentative friendship a bloomed back when they both ran stands, when Gwyneth, a newcomer to Baldur’s Gate, appeared wrong-footed and surprised by the foot traffic, odors, and haggling customers of Wyrm’s South Span. Tav had approached her during the eve of night, when most vendors began to pack up. Gwyneth had meager sales in the face of aggressive bartering, and had begun the solemn stacking of crates laden with untouched goods.
“Excuse me, could I purchase a loaf of your pumpkin bread?” Gwyneth stiffened at Tav’s question, and eyed her suspiciously, seeking malice or mockery in her face. Tav knew elves to be prideful and stubborn, and did her best to soften that blow to ego. “Your goods smelled heavenly, and I had to endure the delectable scent all day. You would do me a great deed.” Terrified of sounding insincere, Tav hastily added, “And I swear to you, I nearly chipped a tooth on Miss Cracket’s scones.” That earned a small smile from Gwyneth, who after careful consideration of her stock, acquiesced and produced a substantial loaf of pumpkin-hued bread from the topmost bin.
“Thank you for your kind words.” Gwyneth murmured. “I hope you find the flavor to hold up to its scent.” Tav quickly produced ten coin, and gingerly traded with Gwyneth. She looked over Tav then, drinking in her appearance, before glancing back aways at the apothecary stand. Her nostrils flared, and Tav blushed, momentarily wondering if the sharp smell of ointments and herbs clung to her skin. Instead, Gwyneth asked, “Have you been peddling your wares here long?”
Tav, being human, was visibly the same age as Gwyneth, yet it was likely the elf lived many decades, perhaps centuries, longer than her. “A few years, yes.” Tav told her with a gentle smile. “How are you liking the marketplace so far?” That question seemed to crack Gwyneth’s stern exterior open, like a nut in an owlbear cub’s beak. Her brows furrowed and nose scrunched with distaste, full lips pulled into a grimace. “It is a wonder to me that an economy flourishes in this city.” Her accent was posh, and tone disdained. Tav chuckled in spite of the jab. “You know, a tiefling attempted to trade two ropes for a scone?” This time, she laughed from her belly. “In all of Faerún, one would be hard-pressed to accept rope as currency, let alone in its largest city!” Gwyneth shook her head, aggrieved. “Hardly the worst encounter of the day, however.” Her gaze softened as she looked at Tav. “Thank you, though. For asking.” A small smirk pulled at her smile. “My dearest customer.” Tav felt her entire face pink at that. “I- of course. Thank you for the bread.” She said haltingly, tone awkward. Gwyneth’s eyes danced with amusement at her bashful turn. Half-turning back towards her stall, attempting to mask her flee with a casual air, “until tomorrow.” Gwyneth smiled, echoing back, “Until tomorrow*.”* Tav managed a wave before shuffling to her own stall, heart racing. She tore the browned crust edge off and popped it into her mouth. Full-heartedly pumpkin in its flavor, earthy and balanced sweet, with the nutty crunch of walnuts. Absolute delight.
And thus began her long-suffering fondness.
Since then, Tav and Gwyneth had settled into an easier friendship, where Gwyneth would occasionally tease, if she wished to see her human friend flush bright red. Oftentimes they would commiserate over rowdy and unreasonable customers, or the Guild’s steep tariffs on imports. Tav learned that Gwyneth was a little over a century old, hailing from a devout and strict druidic order. She offered small corrections and solutions to Tav’s potions, allowing the human to build a wider stock than even the wizard upstairs.
As the days became shorter and nights longer, Tav became more reluctant to leave the cozy bakery at the end of her visits, always warm from wood-fired ovens, at times hot from the distance that disappeared between her and Gwyneth each meeting. When minding her stand, she would wistfully observe couples young and old, and an old yearning would pull at her heartstrings. She had been alone for too many years after her grandmother's passing. She missed the quiet companionship in toil, mundanity, in strife. Minding the apothecary seemed to have eaten away any youthful stirrings. Gwyneth unearthed that hideous longing ache, without so much as dusting her hands before seizing Tav's heart.
That Monday, Tav stuffed her dried herbs into their chests, shoving them under the stall table. It was early eve, and the moon hung round and low in the sky: an autumnal orange that appeared more sanguine. She made her way down South Span, past meandering citizens, gossiping over the latest and bloodiest Bhaalist slaughter. A silver dagger sat heavy in her skirt pocket, a gift from Gwyneth (an elvish courting, perhaps?). She felt no fear, however; two and half decades in this city had left her hardened and scraped, but ultimately unscathed. And perhaps self-deprecatingly, Tav knew herself to be an unlikely target. The Bhaalists sought to please their god through lavish displays of cruelty and injustice; and she was no hero, or warm-hearted duke. Her death would ripple no community, anger no god; the world would turn all the same, to no-one’s dismay.
Tav no longer needed to knock at the Bewitched Bakery; Gwyneth always left the door unlocked for her last customer of the evening. A burgeoning confession sat in the back of her throat, trembling her fingers as she twisted the doorknob. Gods willing, she wouldn't leave this night a downtrodden fool.
As she pushed her way in, the acrid scent of burnt bread hit her nose, a direct opposition of the delightful aromas that usually greeted her. Standing at attention was Gwyneth, those molten hazel eyes glued to the door, and now pinned on Tav with a strange alertness.
Under her full attention, Tav’s treacherous heart picked up pace, but practice kept her blush schooled. For now.
“Tav,” Gwyneth breathed, delight and anticipation peaking her tone. “I’ve been waiting for you, dearest.” A playful smile crinkled those lovely eyes, and that damned blush colored Tav fully.
“Oh?” Her traitorous voiced pitched up. Since the first day they met, Tav fervently imagined a day where Gwyneth called her dearest - not in like her usual tease, their usual push-and-pull of jest - but instead, where Tav was pulled in close, and Gwyneth leaned in ‘til their lips were but a hair apart…
“Come here, won’t you? There’s something I’d like to show you.” Gwyneth disappeared into the kitchen, and Tav helplessly followed.
Before she could fully round the corner, Gwyneth swept her up in those long graceful arms, one hand placed delicately on her lower back, the other cupping her face. Tav swooned into her chest, instinctively wrapping her arms around Gwyneth’s shoulder, like she had in so many dreams. “Gwyn…?” She whispered, voice tight with anticipation, and desire.
“My dearest Tav,” With their foreheads pressed together, it was oh*-so* easy for a dagger, gripped in lithe fingers, to grace its tip against Tav’s back, directly behind her heart. “I’ve been waiting for this.” Gwyneth’s eyes flashed like a wild animal - and her smile, crazed but beautiful, began to stretch into a ghoulish, snaggle-toothed grin.
A scream caught in her throat, and as she desperately shoved at the doppelganger’s chest, he suddenly released her. Tav stumbled back and tripped, crashing to the floor in a dark, wet pool on the ground. Lying cold beside her was Gwyneth, face still twisted in agony, lips blue. She had been spit from chest to navel.
The scream tore itself from her throat, and Gwyn wildly scrabbled back from the eviscerated corpse. “Oh gods!” She cried, tears and nose burning from grief and the odor of viscera. Her chest heaved, caught between vomiting and the sheer panic that overtook her.
“Poor little thing,” Cooed the doppelganger, advancing in slow, measured steps towards Tav. His appearance alone was horrifying; pale, bloodless skin clung to his nude figure, hulking with muscle. Each hand seemed too long, every finger tipped in dagger-like claws. His feet were three-toed like an hook horror, with thick talons to match. He stooped over Tav at last, yellow eyes bulging as he took her into its hands.
“Did you like my performance?” He crooned, a claw gesturing towards himself in a show of grandeur. “I did enjoy scraping through her mind…elves can be fantastically egotistical, but she had a little more substance.” He craned his neck to view admire the corpse behind him. “I think you’d be inclined to agree. I’ve inhabited her appearance for sometime, and you didn’t notice once.” Tav choked at the idea, and the doppelganger’s face twisted in glee. “Oho! Dearest, guess how long.” Tav trembled, and when apparent she wouldn’t answer, the creature dropped its dagger and stooped to cradle her face in its hands. “Don’t spoil my fun! Dear customer.” He purred, and she sobbed brokenly. Its face cracked and contorted, and now it wore Gwyn’s skin again, humming and laughing breathlessly. “Guess! For her! How long, now? Tell me, tell me!” Not-Gwyn pressed her forehead up to Tav’s, gripping her jaw with such force that her mouth hinger open. She shook the human’s face violently, as if trying to knock the words loose manually.
“A week,” she croaked, stomach curling in pain and despair. She hoped it was less time. That Gwyn had been captured, tortured, and gutted within an hour - no, in moments. Her teary gaze trailed towards her fallen friend - passing over the forgotten dagger. The doppelganger appeared thrilled by her change in attention, and he twisted her whole face so they could look upon Gwyn, together. How abominable they must have looked - the slain elf on the floor, with her mirror image and human friend looking upon her, soaked in her blood.
“I’m sure you would have liked that. A week, for your sweetling to suffer. But perhaps it was longer, hm?” He pressed his cheek up against hers - smooth and soft, identical to her friends’, but rancid breath fanned across her face, belying a sickening meal that Tav suspected was picked over before them. The dagger gleamed, winking at her from the pooled blood. Was it the same blade that rent Gwyn? Or did he use his claws?
“Such affection you two held for each other. I’m sure the murder lord will be thrilled at this heartfelt display. She cried thinking about you, you know. Thinking about what I would do to you.” His disguise wavered, as his mind wandered, and the tips of talons stroked Tav’s brow before melding back into manicured nails. They both shuddered, one in delight, the other in fear. Tav’s fingers twitched toward the beckoning dagger.
“Do you want to know her thoughts, in her final moments? They were delicious. I showed her something especially good, right at the end.” He pushed his face so it was directly in front of her view, right hand unrelenting in its grip on her chin, while the left drifted up to caress her cheek. Gwyn’s face rippled before her, and with mounting nausea, she looked upon herself. The way he held her features was unrecognizable - Tav had never seen her expression so gleefully manic, smile all teeth like a snarl, eyes so wide they bulged. “Oh my, maybe you already know! She looked at me just like that. So scared, horrified, even.” His face twisted into one of fear - undoubtedly mirroring her own. “Gwyn,” Tav’s voice whispered, rough from screams and cries. But it wasn’t from her - it was his. Her fingers curled around the hilt, and she tried to focus solely on the monster before her. He could scrape inside her mind at any time. “So funny, that one. She was grateful to look upon you as she died. A delight, I thought.”
Her hand shook terribly as she raised the knife.
“But now its your turn, my dear. I enjoyed our time together, but I’m afraid I’m awful busy these days.”
She struck.
In the chest, but not with enough force - the sternum cut her short, and the doppelganger coughed, eyes wild from the blow. Tav shoved him - herself - onto his back, gripped the hilt with both hands, and drove the blade all the way in. The creature’s coughs became wet, and she recognized - were laughs. He laughed, and blood coated her lips. Wet , halting, gasping - from deep within the chest, cleaved by the knife. Her own face, her own body, dying.
The Doppel’s skin rippled, and she knew he was attempting to morph back to his true, much more powerful form. Leaning into her haunches, she renewed her grip on the dagger and began to saw down his middle - just like how he slaughtered Gwyn.
The more he bled, the slower he transformed, laughing all the while; although the lower she hewed, the more his chuckles morphed into low, pained groans. As sickening as it was, he sounded not unlike a man with his with his lover. Tav screamed to drown out her twin’s death rattles. It was agony, as much as the creature delighted in its own death. Tav’s grip would slip and her muscles burned from exerting such sustained force. When she reached the navel - her own pale stomach, ripped open before her - she abandoned the knife. Gwyn’s lifeless form burned in her eyes, a jagged overlay on the doppelganger before her. Unbidden, but with intention, she thrust both hands into the gaping belly, and truly, deeply, did the creature scream in her voice.
She screamed with him, gripped upon some slimly organ, and pulled.
Tav’s stall was located by a butcher. By the time they reached market stalls, the rothe meat was cleaned and precisely cut; just one hot pan away from a delectable meal. He was not a wasteful man, and sold the offal, too. She always had a hard time looking the organs head on, her eyes skirting around it when in the periphery of her gaze. For the first time, she wanted to see the offal. Taste the blood in her mouth. Cup it in her hands, like a precious bauble, and gulp it down like the first drink of water after a drought.
And so, she did.
The first procured cut was unrecognizable, to the layman’s eye. But ravenous fingers ripped it free and to her gaping maw. She sought the doppelganger’s eyes - fluttering in perverse satisfaction, or perhaps pain - and began to chew. She wanted him to see. He would die how Gwyn did, equal and abhorrent.
She swallowed, gagging and shuddering, on the mimic of her own flesh. It curled vilely in her stomach. Tav’s hands snuck back into the red, pulsating cavern, to pull more free.
The pale stomach was already stretching, though; rippling back into the doppelganger’s original form, lean and bestial. Those yellow eyes were unfocused, cloudy.
“No,” Tav said, voice hoarse. She gripped its arms and crawled, aching, up its body. “No, you don’t get to go! You don’t get to die peacefully, you bastard!”
She shook its shoulders, manic, screaming. His lips curled at the corner, but it was too late to drag any more feeling from the body. He was dead, leaving her behind to suffer.
Tav sat, and stared. Her ragged panting filled the silence. It seemed to ring in her ears. Blood coated her lips, tongue, and teeth. An errant scrap of meat clung to the back of her throat, and in a violent gasp, she heaved.
In desperate gurgles, the contents of her stomach burned up her throat and out her mouth, a bloody slurry that gagged her with its acrid taste and fetid smell. Her eyes teared and ears flushed from the effort. When all was done, drool and bile clung to the corners of her mouth, and dripped, bloody, down her chin.
The view was nightmarish and unreal. On shaking limbs, she hauled to her feet and stumbled towards the door. Tav did not descend the steps to the street, but pitched herself down. A few passerby glanced - drunks not uncommon this time of night, nor this close to Sharress’ Caress.
The hard fall to her hands and knees broke the spell, and in a rush the silence broke. The ruckus of the street - albeit dampened as citizens avoided the night - filled her ears with the sounds of horses nickering, the cobblestones beneath her palms, the cool air on her skin. And she screamed, louder than before. The clatter of boots from those passing strangers pivoted and came thundering towards her.
“Help!” She wailed, copper and offal heady in her nose. “Murderer!”