The Truth Finally Came in Treason (III)

An astrally-projected dwarf floated aimlessly in the Astra Plane, staring dumbly all around him. The grey… everything was decorated with the occasional floating rock drifting in and out of view, but otherwise remained entirely unremarkable. Full even.

Had… had whatever that had been passed him over? Why? How!?

He had absolutely no idea what had just happened. He hadn't done anything!

He waited for a while and no time at all…

Nothing happened.

He waited some more.

Nothing continued to happen.

He was still alive.

…

Hysterical laughter burst out of him before he managed to slap his free hand over his mouth. Then he just rocked quietly in place, shaking for however long it took his hysteria to come and go, then come again another couple of times. He realised that at some stage since being given the death glare by the Cosmos he'd desynced from the Prime Material. That, at least, was fine. His crystal cord had reconnected the first time he tried to step back into the waking world.

Wiping sweat that really had no place on a spiritual body – or did it? Was this like the Astral Projection spell or something else? – the dwarf gave himself a few more moments to get over the shivers and chill that had gripped him at whatever stage in that… whatever it had been. Figuring that if anything was going to look for him and try to end him in whatever fashion would have done it by now, the Bhaalspawn – or was he now? – took stock of… whatever there was to take stock of.

Not much, as it turned out. A small diamond holding a knife and a cloud of quintessence – power/claim/possibility entirely unaligned with anything now that he wasn't either - a fully healed body, a fully healed soul and total liberty from anything and everything.

Including the Weave. It had pained him to do it, but leaving himself the subject of one Deity would have been a supremely stupid idea. Especially since said Deity would have been obliged to out him to all relevant parties immediately. If he'd lived somewhere other than where he did, maybe it could have been avoided. Alas, even if he held no particular fondness for Toril, his loved ones did live there.

Loved ones…

The happiness he hadn't been allowed to indulge in earlier filled and enveloped him like the warmest of all things.

It felt wonderful.

Enough to offset the realization that he'd entirely cut himself off from magic.

Or had he? It wasn't like he'd been casting magic the normal way, at least not for those handful of deliberately useless spells he'd studied with his unnatural eyes. The difference was that he knew what he'd been doing now. All that time he'd basically… poured out divinity, grabbed the Weave and shaped it in the appropriate way.

He looked down at the diamond in his palm.

Barely enough to cast level 3 spells. One level 3 spell actually. Or one at a time at least, since the essence fortunately came back after use.

He had the small bead phase into his chest for safe keeping – it was all a metaphor, really – as he thought back to the piles upon piles of Bhaal-charged enchanted items that were stashed all throughout Candlekeep's many vaults.

He'd have to drop by as soon as possible, and in the meantime he could at least leverage the charges stored in his Father's rods of absorption if necessary. Which, given how strange his life was becoming, meant that he'd likely use half or more of all charges currently available within minutes of… waking… up.

Father.

Surprised. Swaying, losing balance as his arm came apart at the shoulder.

Cyrus Anwar cursed, spun around – absolutely pointless, that – and woke up in the waking world with a full head of hair, a beard in need of grooming, a younger sister cautiously backing off and two walls of diamond between him and Father.

Gorion.

Standing, somehow, propped against the outer shell with his remaining arm while Khelben and Elminster were casting something or other. The man had, despite everything, held onto the Staff of Healing while being disarmed in the most literal fashion. His soul was a blazing mixture of terrified/stubborn/hopeful and his voice was hoarse but strong, somehow, as he yelled at Imoen, berating her for being foolish and asking what happened at the same time.

The dwarf pushed to his feet – he'd fallen to one knee at some point? – and looked between the silent Imoen, her quiet but still floating instruments, and the diamond shell. The diamond shell and the lines of death all over it.

Well.

Prestidigitation to create a nominally sharp implement.

Time to get to work.