Act IV

   The parchment shook in Sikah’s hands while she folded the letter with care. Stray tears stained the envelope as she sealed the wax with a flame from her fingertip. Camp was quiet, each member of the party presumably asleep. She had packed her bags the night before, leaving whatever unnecessary excess in the large chest by the campfire. Her pack was light, containing rations for a few weeks and a single change of clothes. Where she was going, she was sure she wouldn’t need much. She attempted to pull herself together before she exited her tent for the last time, latching the flap shut. Her eyes caught Astarion’s from across the campground; he gave her a knowing nod. Sikah offered him a somber half-smile and signed thank you before she snuck into Karlach’s tent. The woman looked peaceful in her slumber, her lashes fluttering slightly as she dreamed. The rogue kept her breathing quiet as she loomed over the tiefling. Many nights were shared in this tent, many kisses, laughs, and whispers. Memories of her warm embrace and gentle touches washed over Sikah like a monsoon. The chorus of their giggles as they snuck back to what had nearly become their shared tent after an evening in the river danced between her ears. She shook her head as if to erase the thoughts. Sikah couldn’t bear the truth, knowing that for the entirety of their companionship, she’d lied to Karlach. After her death and revival, the rogue was overcome with an overwhelming realization and unbearable guilt. She had come to love Karlach just as she loved the air in her lungs. But, that love had blossomed from an ill-rooted lie. Sikah was never meant to fall for her; no, she was meant to kill. What had started as a scheme for information quickly snowballed into a selfish love affair. She wanted to tell Karlach the truth; she knew she needed to, but it wasn’t safe for her to do so. After all Karlach had gone through with Gortash, she didn’t deserve another betrayal. Sikah decided it was best for her to leave. As soon as she was healed enough to stand on her own, she began packing her bags. To move into Karlach’s tent, she’d answer when asked. Another lie. All her life she’d kept herself safe with her shield of lies. She was tired of lying. 

   Sikah explained everything to Karlach in her letter, complete with the crumpled parchment that contained her orders of assassination from the client of Mammon’s Bane. She begged for Karlach to let her go. Following after her would only put them both in danger. Sikah wanted Karlach to live, and this, she’d convinced herself, was the only way she would. She knelt next to Karlach’s head and tucked the letter under her pillow, peeking out just enough so that she’d see it when she woke. Her hands hovered over her for a moment and she gave into her temptations, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face and kissing her forehead one last time. Sikah sadly smiled as Karlach’s nose wrinkled instinctively in response. She didn’t dare look behind her as she stood to leave, knowing that if she looked back, she would lose all willpower and stay. 

   Karlach roared with rage upon reading the letter the next morning. Her rage was not fuelled by anger, but loss and mourning. She was, albeit, a bit frustrated. Did Sikah truly think that she was allowed to be the only one to call the shots? That Karlach couldn’t make her own decisions? The rogue’s never-ending desire for complete control certainly proved to be her downfall. Above all, Karlach was devastatingly upset, saddened that she’d been left without a conversation, but in the cowardice way of a letter. She was hurt by the contents of said letter, a heavy feeling weighing upon her chest. Was what they shared even real? It felt real to her, but was it real enough for Sikah? Perhaps it wasn’t, and perhaps that was why it was so easy for her to leave. Was she yet again made to be no more than a pawn in someone else’s game? The barbarian’s thoughts swirled violently in her mind, her emotions setting her tent ablaze. 

   The months following Sikah’s departure were rough. In every crowd, Karlach was certain she’d seen her: a flash of white hair amidst a sea of black leather, but every wrist she grabbed belonged to countless confusedly disgruntled women, none of whom were the one she was longing for. Her nights were spent at the bottom of a pint in whichever tavern would keep her. Karlach figured she may as well enjoy as much beer as she could in the time she had left, seeing as her other joy had up and left her. It was hard for Karlach to focus on the party’s mission at hand. With all three Netherstones, the defeat of the Netherbrain was imminent. She absently listened as Gale, Wyll, and Shadowheart discussed strategy with their allies, only offering hums of agreement when asked. They needed her focused, her heavy axe blows crucial to the success of their mission. Karlach found herself lying as she promised them she’d be sharp for battle. 

   The Elderbrain fell and Karlach pondered allowing herself to fall with it. Before, she had considered fighting not only to defend her city, but to survive to tell the tale. Now, she felt content burning out. Burning. Burning hot, burning fast. Her engine singed her skin, her bones felt like they were splintering under the heat. She cried out in pain, she cried for Sikah, wishing, hoping, that maybe, just maybe, the woman she loved would come to her side in her final moments. But Sikah never came. She was gone, and soon Karlach would be too. 

   Miraculously, Wyll had convinced Karlach to return to Avernus. He couldn’t bear to see his best friend die, not after all she’d overcome. Wyll knew she was experiencing unbelievable heartbreak, but that didn’t have to equate to the end of her life. 

   “Live,” he’d begged, kneeling at Karlach’s side, “if not for her, then for me. Hells, for neither of us, live for you, Karlach. You deserve to live.” Wyll paused, his eyes frantically scanning the dock as it singed around them. “Karlach, please.” 

   Karlach’s words were labored and heavy, her voice strained with what little breath she had left. “Okay. Okay, Wyll. Let’s go.” 

   The goal at large was to locate Bel’s Forge and in turn, the fabled blueprints to Karlach’s engine. With the blueprints in their possession, a permanent fix to her infernal predicament was all the more possible. But the landscape of Avernus was ever-changing, causing maps to become inaccurate and outdated at an infuriatingly fast rate. There was no sun or moon in the hells, and the lacking perception of time could drive the fainthearted mad. Admittedly, the pair hadn’t gone in with much of a plan. Their return to the hells was desperate and impulsive, not calculated. They had spent what Wyll had presumed to be a year searching aimlessly for progress, fighting off imps and lemures under the fiery, red sky. Each day they’d pitch camp battered, bruised, and bloody, no richer in knowledge than the day prior. They’d sought respite in a small cave for the presumed night. 

   “Karlach, I think we may need to seek some assistance,” Wyll grunted as he bandaged his wounds. “Our progress is slowing.”

   The barbarian chuckled as she sat with her back against the cave’s stone wall, pulling a cigar from her pocket. “Sure, Wyll. We have plenty of friends down here chomping at the bit to help us out.”

   He gave her a knowing look, and Karlach swallowed thickly as she lit her cigar. 

   “Hells, what makes you think she’d be down here? She asked us, asked me, not to follow after her.” her solemn words were punctuated with swirls of smoke. 

   “And when have either of us ever obeyed orders, Karlach?” Wyll rebutted with a sly smirk. 

   “Fair point, Ravenguard. Fair point.”

   The air was silent as the two prepared for the night, Karlach offering to take first watch. She thought of Sikah, she always did, but that night she was truly lost in thought. Where did she run off to? Was she safe? Alive? If she was anywhere in Avernus, she’d be with Mammon’s Bane, and Karlach hadn’t the slightest clue where to find any of the slimy bastards. In their evenings of storytelling, Sikah was always vague in her details. She did, however, recall the rogue mentioning the Bleeding Citadel, that would have to be a start. Logically, it was sensible, a byproduct of the fall of Elturel, a sacred city pillared amidst the hellscape. A perfect place for an underground organization of criminals to lurk. That’s where they’d start. 

   Karlach and Wyll reached the entrance to the Citadel after a three-day walk. There was a bustling city behind the walls: all sorts of creatures walked the cobbled streets, the majority with horns, wings, or some other devilish lineage. There were tradesmen, peddlers, and the like, each with stalls of their own, exchanging gold and soul coins for their wares. 

   “So, where do we start? The Citadel’s huge, and I need to lay low. Plenty of Zariel’s goons will be lurking here.” Karlach stood alert as the pair pushed through the busy streets. 

   “Well, Sikah is in an organization, right?” Wyll was careful not to name Mammon’s Bane aloud, for he did not know the gravity the name might hold. “We should ask around.”

   The duo gravitated toward a tavern, only recognized as such by a few drunkards outside. As they stepped inside, Karlach’s eyes immediately caught sight of just the hellion they needed. “There, at the bar. That cambion has the same tattoos as Sikah. He’s one of them, the Bane. If anyone knows where she is, it’ll be him.”

   Wyll nodded in agreement, following behind Karlach as she confidently strode toward him. 

   “A covetor’s robe is ornamented in the gold by our shadows.” She recalled the passphrase Sikah had told her once. Just in case. She’d said. 

   The cambion looked pleasantly surprised at her words. “Not the greeting I was expecting this evening, but not unwelcome.” His eyes perused Karlach’s form and Wyll’s beside her. “Clientele I presume? Neither of you look to be recruits.”

   “Sure, clientele, let’s go with that.” Karlach waved the barkeep over, ordering a round of drinks. A gesture of truce. “We’re looking for someone, one of your colleagues. Anyone return back to base recently?”

   “Perhaps. Though the itineraries of my colleagues are not typically my upmost concern, I may be willing to share some… whispers for a price.” He smirked. 

   “Name it.” Wyll interjected, gesturing to his purse of gold. 

   “The purse should suffice, looks heavy.”

   Karlach slid the devil a pint with a stern look. “Half the purse, three rounds of drinks, and seven soul coins.”

   “Deal.” The cambion held out his hand. Wyll shook it before emptying half his gold into the Mammonite’s pocket. “The walls say one of our more… independent Executives returned from a job empty-handed a few years back. Selfishness and greyed morality only gets one so far these days, she was stripped of her title and thrown in The Pits.”

   “The Pits?” Wyll questioned. 

   “Prison.” Karlach and the cambion said synchronously. She rolled her eyes at his grin. 

   “It was a shame too. She took down one of the higher-seated Executives in her prime, got a badass scar out of it too. Thought she’d become a Duchess of The Bane at the rate she was going.”

   Wyll and Karlach shared a look. The woman the cambion was speaking of was Sikah without a doubt. He was strategically sharing details with them, he somehow knew that they were looking for her.

   Noticing their silence, the cambion let the pair marinate in their thoughts, clearing his throat moments later. “Anything else I can help you with?” 

   “No.” Karlach stood and placed a handful of gold on the bar, nodding at the barhand. “That gold is for the barhand, I trust that it’ll be in the right pockets by the end of the night.” 

   “You have my word.”

   The Blade and the hellion exited the tavern, walking some ways away before discussing their obtained intel. Sikah was in prison somewhere nearby, and if Karlach’s memory held true, The Pits were in the Citadel’s underground. 

   The nether-brick walls of The Pits were jet black, barely illuminated by dimly lit candelabras. Boots echoed loudly against the cobbled floor as Karlach and Wyll walked through the rows of cells. Several prisoners rattled the bars of their cages, begging for escape; while others cursed their names and their elusive freedom. Yet some were silent, watching, waiting to see what would become of their guests. The pair soon approached the cellblock at the end of the corridor, stopping in front of cell 1123. Karlach leaned against the wall outside the cell, not wishing to be seen quite yet. 

   Sikah’s ear twitched at the sound of footsteps. She sat cross-legged on the cell floor, her back to the bars. She didn’t bother turning to face her visitors; the rogue’s gaze remained locked on the wall in front of her. “Piss off, Reon. I’m not talking. Not to you, and certainly not to whatever fuckhead you brought with you.” 

   The sound of keys made her head turn. Her narrowed gaze dilated in shock at who stood before her, unlocking her cell. “Wyll?” Sikah’s voice suddenly went quiet as she swiftly rose to her feet, approaching the grate. “What in the hells are you doing here?”  

   “What does it look like?” Wyll smirked to himself as the lock opened with a click. “I’m helping an old friend get out of prison.” He pushed the door open, gesturing for Sikah to step into freedom. “We need your help.” 

   She looked in disbelief as Wyll opened the cell door with ease. This had to be a trick; there was no way this was real. She must be dreaming, or worse, hallucinating. Still, the prospect of being freed from her confines was tempting. Sikah cautiously stepped through the doorway of her cell. “We?” 

   “Hey, soldier.”

   Sikah’s throat went dry at the sound of Karlach’s voice. Of course, she was there with Wyll. Who else would be with him in Avernus? Certainly not Gale. Her muscles tensed, and her posture straightened. She suddenly felt small. She wrapped her scrap of a cloak around her shoulders and stepped back into her cell. “You two should go. It’s not safe here. I’m sure Reon and his shitty guard dog will be by soon. He’s going to notice the absence of his keys. You don’t want to be locked up here, trust me.”

   Karlach scoffed at the mention of trust. Sikah felt as if she had been punched in the gut by an owlbear. 

   “Please,” Wyll massaged his temples, “Sikah, you’ll have plenty of time to mull over your wrongdoings later, outside your cell.” 

   Sikah said nothing as she nodded in compliance, stepping back into the amber glow of the corridor as she lowered her hood. Her once long, platinum hair was chopped short, resting just below her earlobes. Her cheeks were sunken in, hollow from lack of care and nutrition, yet the muscles in her back and arms seemed fuller. A few new scars tagged her skin, paired with designer dark circles beneath her eyes. “Fine, lead the way then.”

   The trio walked in silence past the cellblocks, and Sikah tried her best to ignore the haggling from the inmates. 

   “Of course, the executive gets off scot-free. You think if I had my cellmate give me them tattoos, they’d let me go too?”

   “Nah. I bet she somehow paid her way out.”

   “You’re both wrong. Hele probably sold the traitor to whoever those two ruffians are. Hope the prison they’re taking her to is worse than this shithole.”

   As they approached the entryway, Sikah was quick to think about what excuse or witty remark she’d give to Reon. Maybe she’d dangle his keys in his face before pocketing them or toss them at his feet on her way out. It didn’t matter which she chose, however, because as soon as they turned the corner, Sikah’s eyes landed on Reon, slumped against the wall, sitting in a pool of his own blood. She looked over her shoulder to her old companions with a raised brow. 

   Karlach shrugged, “How else were we supposed to get the keys?”

   Sikah almost laughed. Wyll shook his head with an amused expression and motioned to follow. He and Karlach walked ahead of Sikah as they exited the Citadel’s underground. She watched their backs intensely to ensure that no enthusiastic Bandits of the Bane struck. Sikah breathed in the thick, smoke-filled air as the scorching heat of Avernus’s smog once again filled her lungs. It was no Neverwinter air, but it was better than the stuffy congestion of the underground prison. It had been three years since she had last seen Wyll and Karlach, three years since she had abandoned their party amidst their fight against the Netherbrain. She felt shame, remorse, and most of all guilt. She had selfishly left her companions to avoid confronting her past and compromising her future. She left them when they needed her most, and for that she felt utmost regret. Even still, they had found her, freed her from her prison, and seemingly gave her a second chance. 

   They walked for days, heading back to the base Wyll and Karlach had established. The party, now one more than a pair, took a day longer to reach their destination. Sikah had been mostly idle in her cell, and while she conditioned her upper body to defend herself against her fellow inmates, her lower limbs fell behind. There wasn’t much walking to do in The Pits and recent operations had made her stride slower. Karlach offered to carry her when she lagged behind, to which Sikah refused every time. She could stand on her own. 

   As they sat in awkward silence inside the quaint, magma-rock cave, Sikah couldn’t help but wonder. She sat with her knees to her chest, absentmindedly staring into the embers of the small campfire. Why had they sought her out after all she’d done?