The chanting followed us.
It carried without rhythm, without unity—voices rising and falling unevenly, spears striking stone at intervals that never quite aligned. The sound echoed into the cave behind us, warped by the narrow entrance until it became something hollow and expectant.
Anticipation.
Melicamp walked ahead of us—or tried to. His gait was uneven, feathers shifting with each step as though his body had not yet agreed with the idea of direction. He paused once, glancing back toward the cave mouth where the xvarts clustered in a loose half-circle.
Watching.
Waiting.
"…just to be clear," he muttered under his breath, "this is still an exceptionally poor plan."
"It's the one we have," I said.
"Yes, well," he replied, "I had hoped for something slightly less reliant on improvisation and theatrical fraud."
Xan made a quiet sound. "You chose your audience poorly."
"I did not choose them at all," Melicamp snapped. "That is rather the issue."
Imoen leaned slightly closer as we moved deeper into the cave, lowering her voice. "So how does that even happen?"
Melicamp flicked an eye toward her. "…how does what happen?"
She gestured vaguely at him. "All of that."
A brief pause.
Then, resigned:
"I misjudged a spell," he said. "Badly. Text beyond my level, insufficient preparation, entirely misplaced confidence—it was all very educational in retrospect."
"And reversing it?" she asked.
Melicamp hesitated.
"…possible," he said, eventually. "My master has a spell—Chickenator, charmingly named—that should, in theory, restore me."
"In theory," Xan repeated.
"Yes," Melicamp said flatly. "There is a non-trivial chance it will instead produce something… adjacent."
Imoen blinked. "…adjacent to what?"
Melicamp didn't answer.
"That seems unwise," Rasaad said.
"It is," Melicamp replied. "But I am willing to accept a certain degree of existential risk in exchange for no longer being this."
That ended the conversation.
The cave sloped downward, light thinning with each step until the entrance behind us became a framed glow, fractured by movement as the xvarts shifted and leaned for a better view.
Still watching.
Still waiting.
I felt the expectation press forward with us—coming not just from them, but from the situation itself.
I had expected something like this to feel familiar.
A cave. A bear. A confined space.
The first time had been different—uncertain, reactive, too close.
This wasn't.
The recognition remained, but distant now, filed away rather than pressing forward. The edges had dulled with everything that had come after.
I noticed it.
Then let it go.
Ahead, something shifted.
It wasn't sound.
It was presence.
Minsc slowed first, posture tightening as his hand drifted toward his sword.
"Something waits," he said.
No one argued.
We saw it a moment later.
At first, only shape—a darker mass within shadow, broad and still, positioned just beyond where the cave widened into a natural chamber. As our eyes adjusted, the details followed—fur matted in places, movement slow but deliberate, the outline unmistakable.
Large.
Larger than it should have been.
Scars cut through its hide in uneven lines, old and new layered together without pattern. One shoulder carried a deeper mark, the fur around it thinner, the flesh beneath pulled slightly tight.
This wasn't just survival.
This was conflict.
Repeated.
Melicamp stopped.
"…that," he said quietly, "is considerably larger than I had hoped."
No one responded.
Weapons shifted.
Held.
Waiting.
The bear's head lifted.
Slowly.
The movement carried weight—not just of size, but of awareness. Its gaze settled on us, steady in a way that felt too deliberate for instinct alone.
Melicamp leaned slightly closer.
"…any ideas?" he asked, voice tight.
Minsc's hand closed fully around his weapon. Branwen adjusted her stance. Rasaad shifted, balanced and ready.
I didn't answer.
Not yet.
The bear exhaled—a low sound, more breath than growl.
Then it moved.
Rising.
Partially.
Wrong.
Its front lifted higher than it should have, weight shifting backward in a way that forced its spine toward something closer to upright. The motion lacked precision—but not intent.
Something strained beneath the surface.
Not emerging.
Failing to stay buried.
Then—
it spoke.
"Don't tell me," the bear said, voice rough and strained, "you're here to help those things."
No one moved.
For a moment, even the chanting behind us faltered, the uneven rhythm catching against the cave walls before thinning into something quieter.
Melicamp blinked.
"…oh," he said faintly.
Xan's voice cut in, low and measured.
"Well," he said, "this continues to deteriorate in fascinating ways."
The bear's gaze shifted between us, irritation settling into its expression.
"I asked a question."
Silence held for half a beat longer.
Then—
everything changed.