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On their way to meet Branthos - the wood elf Harper - and his associates to ambush the cultists, they came across the tieflings they had met at the Grove. They had reunited with Alfira, Rolan, and the kids back at Last Light Inn and knew what had happened with Zevlor and the cultists. It was another thing seeing it. For Nikaia it was like getting punched in the gut. She had hoped more had been taken to Moonrise Towers. If that had happened it meant there was a possibility of saving them. Finding so many strewn across the ground like they were litter at a carnival was heartbreaking. It reminded her too much of the day she, her mother, and their friends were attacked when she was a girl.
As they waited for the cultists to come to them she looked at her friends, her eyes watering from the scene that had just left not too long ago. They were no longer just traveling companions and while they still had a common goal they were quickly becoming people she cared about.
Gods, when she got her hands on Mystra she was going to start problems. Nikaia was likely to cause yet another death of Mystra. (Would it be the fourth or fifth time the goddess died?) It was why she kept such thoughts to herself, though she knew that Gale knew she was not pleased with Mystra (and to a lesser extent, Elimnster).
And whoever sent Karlach to Avernus would have, well, hell to pay once she got her hands on them. She’d find one way or another to get Wyll out of his pact. Lae’zel, well, add another list of gods or god-like beings she’d like to have unfriendly words with. The more Nikaia learned what it meant for Shadowheart to become a Dark Justiciar, and what exactly that meant, the more she hoped her friend wouldn’t go through with it.
She looked at Astarion, crouching right next to her. His red eyes were fixated on the road their quarry was to travel from, his white hair perfectly sculpted even in this dark place, the lines of his body screaming predator as he waited to attack.
Nikaia didn’t care what the infernal carved on Astarion’s back, as long as it didn’t promise him harm, because she had already decided one way or another she was going to make sure that Cazador met his end. Never had she felt such animosity toward a being. She wanted all traces of the creature wiped off the face of Faerûn. She cared for Astarion too much now to see him fall back under Cazador’s control.
That was assuming they all made it through this, seeing the dead tieflings reminded her that they all might not. At that moment, with a fight imminent, she started to cry, silently. Whatever may come, between this moment and the end, she didn’t want unspoken words to go between her Astarion.
“Astarion,” she called to him silent. He turned to look at her, a question in his eyes.
“Now is not the ti-”
She didn’t give him a chance to finish his words. She kissed him. Likely one of the most caste kisses they had shared until now, but maybe for one of the most important. For it was a kiss that had a promise attached to it: they’d make it out of this dark place one way or another - alive.
“I should have asked, sorry, I just didn’t want-”
It was his turn to cut her off as he kissed her in return. “I like the way you think, love.” He wiped a tear from under her eye. “We can talk about why you were - gods, what is that thing?”
Just then a man sitting upon a giant spider appeared. No, he wasn’t on the spider. He was part of the spider - half man, half spider, like some demented centaur.
“Whatever he is,” hissed Gale from behind him, “may be some grotesque aberration, but that lantern he carries. I can sense something from it. My guess is that is what is protecting them from the curse. We need to get it.”
Nikaia turned her attention back to the task at hand. She’d make sure she and Astarion would have a chance to talk about things after they killed that ugly bastard.