Many killing moons have waxed. As each set, more of your mind waned. No mortal cell could hold you, the bars broke like bones. You pray with each new heart-spillage. You worship with your diseased embrace - siring a mad legion. You scream, for you cannot speak. Yet, in the treacle-pulp of your brain something called you back here.

You find yourself where everything started, your companions celebrate in the distance, the sound of the chatter invading your ears, you can almost hear it; the vampire's voice in the distance.

Each time you unhinge your maw the words of the prophet tumble forth. You glance piteously upon your false bride Astarion. You are Bhaal's stallion - many of you Bhaalspawn have been born to die in this half-year, your new children will become the tyrant's hoard. Why do you spare even one thought for your forsaken mate?

Now you are what he fears most. A starved ratling, an inching prowler, a reminder of his worst self, best to be left to history — As Astarion raises his glass for a toast, you do the same with your blade almost instinctively. — The pity gags in your gullet, yes, they will die, yes. Just for you.

As time passes by, they go to rest, it is finally the moment to strike - Astarion's tent is at your sight, you have to proceed.