Then she goes and flips up her skirts and a hissing goblin bursts out from between her legs, and Astarionās dead heart flops about in his chest. He might make a disgustingly soft sound.
That no one hears because two of the wretched gur shoot at him at the same time.
Astarion has seen his share of bloodshed in the months since the nautiloid crashed. Not the slow, dreadful violence of the kennels, or what sometimes happens during his nightly duties, but proper fighting. A thrilling kill.
Out in the wilds beyond the city, heās been free to maim and murder to his withered heartās content. To gorge himself after, more often than not. He can stab anything that tries to do him harm. Can refuse. Can anger those around him without being commanded to peel the skin from his own fingers.
This is not the wilds. Heās in the streets (slums) of Rivington, and in these streets he is an obedient thing. Pliable, alluring, whatever he needs to be, whatever he needs to endure in order to bring some fool back to the palace.
For one moment, he pauses.
An arrow punches into his chest. Nicks a rib and buries into a lung. The bastard was aiming for his heart. The arrow reeks of something akin to garlic left out for thirty days in a fishmongerās stall. Were it not for the tadpole, his insides would likely be on their way to violently propelling themselves into his outsides through any means available.
One of the gur rushes Eleanor. Snatches at her. But she reaches into her pocket and pulls out an entire spear.
Astarion nearly gets shot again. Chides himself on his focus. He can clap for his friendās vicious, delightful madness later.
This is Rivington, Astarion knows the rules binding him. Knows they donāt matter anymore.
He lifts one hand. Dips his senses into the stream of magic about them, and diverts it to his palm. Gives it shape by the word, āTormentum.ā
Itās one of the scrolls lovely Eleanor found in the Underdark and gave to him. She believed he could learn it. He was more than a pretty face and a convenient set of lock picks. She believed he could give himself real power.
Red light flickers. Coalesces into a ball of spitting, angry light. He savors the flash of alarm on his attackersā facesāheās more than a spawn, than a victim, and he can damn well enjoy dishing out pain.
Three bolts fly from his hand. The first hits the closest as he tries to pivot and flings the man into the dirt. The second has enough wherewithal to lift a shield. It still pushes him back. The third strikes the man Eleanor jabs at, and blasts him fully in the face. That one drops howling.
Green light flashes.
Astarion leaps. Lands. Turns on his heel to dart towards the spell caster.
But the ground beneath him cracks and bursts apart. Vines as thick as his thigh skewer up. One catches his foot as he tries to dodge. His knives are in his hands, slashing at it. But too many join. They grab one of his wrists, then two, try to wrench him to the ground.
Another spell forms on his lips. The necklace he rarely takes offāanother gift from his friend.
āIn veniumāā he starts.
A vine jams between his lips.
He snaps into it. Teeth and fangs both, savaging it as best he can. Splinters break apart and jam into his gums, his inner cheeks, his tongue. Liquid trickles into his mouth and itās as if he swallowed acid. Burning scorches the soft tissues. Rushes down his throat and up behind his eyes and he chokes. His dead lungs seize. He doesnāt need to breathe, but the old memory of suffocating-horror-panic claws through him.
Eleanor swipes at another gur, her hood thrown back, the curtain sliding halfway off her. She pauses just long enough to rip it away. Manages to stab a shallow line up the ribs of the gur that gets too close. The thing about spears is that they force a wonderfully distant reach.
The gur are after him. Monster hunters taking down a monster. They wonāt want her, provided she doesnāt score a more fatal wound. Theyāre going easy on her. Trying to grab her rather than wound her.
They would let her go.
She glances over. Her eyes widen. In that breathless moment, he knows that she knows. She could leave. Save herself. Ostensibly to fetch help, but the gur move swiftly and by the time she managed to returnā¦
Heās done that to her before. Many times. He wouldnātā¦blame her, exactly. Not entirely. Savingās one skin is the top priority, but it still hurtsā
She shoves her hand into her wondrous pocket (she must have fastened her bag of holding onto the pocket belt under the top skirt, clever thing). Pulls out a bottle. Invisibility potion, perhaps? Flight?
āHey bitch!ā she yells.
Throws the bottle at the man with the glowing, green hands who holds Astarion.
It shatters. Grease spatters everywhere. Catches the old bat of a gur leader as she charges in with that great, big battle ax. One of her feet skid out. A second woman catches her.
Itās enough for Eleanor to break away from her would be saviors. She turns. Sprints.
For him. Rushing to his side and jamming her spear under her arm to she can grab at the vine in his mouth and pull.
She doesnāt even hesitate. He acted the beast last night, knowing it would upset her. Relished in the petty cruelty. Shoved down the hurt and fear after sheād gone with the wizard and it occurred to him she might not come back. Or she could, having realized her mistake in trying to befriend him.
She does not hesitate. Scrabbles at the vine, even as the others tighten on his limbs and bend him backwards, trying to force him to the ground. She calls, deliberately loudly, āSet it on fire!ā
It takes him but a moment. She aimed well with that grease. Theyāve done this before, back in a swamp, he thinks? Grease spatters the gur. Grease burns.
āShoot her!ā someone says.
He meets her gaze. No idea what his own face is doing, only the tightness in his chest clawing up his throat, no no noā
She grabs at his hand. Snatches his knife from his grasp. Saws at the vine far too clumsily, too near his mouth. She catches one of her own fingers and the ambrosia of her blood overwhelms him a moment. Then sheās wrenching and heās spitting and his mouth is clear of the horrid thing.
The vines shatter to ash. Astarion staggers. Manages to twist and barely keep to his feet, Eleanorās hands around one of his arms. He turns. The cantrip on his lips. Eleanor is a cunning, vicious creature when pushed to it, gods below he want to shove his mouth to hers.
āAqua pura!ā
Darkness piles above their heads. Clouds roiling up out of nothing, black as pitch, smelling of rain. The downpour hits. A proper torrent the Gate doesnāt often seeāwhen it does it turns the narrow, winding streets to raging rivers the street urchins go sailing down in whatever baskets and boxes they can find.
Theyāre soaking wet in less than a breath. The ground canāt take this much water and a small pond rushes out from around them, sweeping the surface dirt away.
āToo bad yāall donāt got soap,ā his beautiful friend says. And pulls a second bottle of grease from her pocket. āOil slicks burn, fuckers.ā
Heās not sure what an oil slick is, but her threat is plain.
Astarion takes his shot. Literally. āTormentum!ā
All three bolts lance towards the spell caster. Hit him in the arm, the thigh, right above his groin (damn, Astarion was aiming lower) (dearest Eleanor and her goblin arenāt the only ones with a perchance for cock shots).
The rain sloughs away. The clouds melt.
āIgnis,ā Astarion says as fire coils to life in his palm.
Right as their goblin hits the ground beside him ass first, skidding in the new mud. She spits blood (not hers) and snarls, āTribe.ā
Eleanor lifts her next bottle. Says, āWe can still talk, or yāall can be a bunch of Kentucky fried assholes.ā
Sheās so demented. His stomach flutters and he swallows down a giggle.
The battle ax of an old gur lifts her hand. Eyes narrowed. āHold.ā
A man, dressed casual with no armor but a knife in his belt. Heās got clean hands and groomed hair in a tidy man bun. Seems to be loitering.
Fuck.
A purse snatcher, yāall can deal with. This one looking so neat tightens every muscle in your back up to the base of your skull. Especially since heās moseying along after yāall.
āWe being robbed?ā you say. Hope they donāt got human trafficking, but this is fucked up Middle Narnia and they got to have human trafficking.
āI certainly hope so,ā Astarion says all breezy. Part bravado, part murder hobo. Heās always hungry. You donāt like the idea of him running down some poor, uninvolved bastard. But the others in the brainworm party flagged that man as a vampire day one. If this chucklefuck starts somethingā¦well. Natural selection and all.
Yāall head on, arm and arm. It wigs you out a little. Not just because heās had his hand and his face in your cooch (maybe a little bit because), but heās been near you for months. You been using his shin as a pillow. Holding his damn hand sometimes. Heās a known entity to you, and youāre accustomed to his room temperature thermostat, soā¦
This whole thing has really fucked with your head.
A second guy steps out. This one wears a padded coat (whatever itās called what Astarion wears).
āLeft,ā you mutter.
āIndeed.ā
Any hope this wasnāt targeting yāall dies with a whimper as these two tail after. Nothing rushed. Nothing obvious. One will stop to check his shoe or gab at some rando in the street. If you wasnāt a teensy bit of a true crime bitch, walking arm in arm with a literal vampire, you might not have noticed.
āAny chance theyāre undercover fisters?ā you say.
You forget you been using that name in your head. Astarion stops dead. Fucking boggles at you. āThe what?ā
For a second, you think you got away with it and the dirt potion failed you at a good time. Except the longer he stares, the more his eyes take on a diabolic gleam.
In for a penny.
āThe fisters. Guys running around with a fist on fire painted on their shirts?ā
Astarion cracks. Throws his head back, mouth open so wide his fangs is bared to god and country, and he cackles. Goes full mad bastard so hard people stop to stare.
He does catch himself quick. Mostly because he seems to inhale his own spit and starts coughing.
āKeep walking,ā you say. āIt aināt that funny.ā
Heās crying. Laughing so hard the manās got tears in his stupid eyes and has to wipe at them with his thumb.
āYou are such a demented little freak,ā he says, still grinning.
Your face is hot, even more than trudging along in the piss heat under salvaged fucking drapes. But your own lips twitch. You try to bite it back, donāt want to give him the satisfaction (thatās part of the game between yāallāheās full drama queen and youāre stone-faced).
He catches that, too. Gives your arm a reassuring pat. āAnd I wouldnāt have it any other way.ā
āSo I guess yāall got that word.ā
He cocks his head. Frowns a titch. Mouths out the shape of the English wordāhe donāt speak it as much as Gale, but heās got your twang, too. Then his whole face twists up with malicious glee. āBu the gods, it is. I suppose out respective peoples have that in common. Don't worry, darling, youāre hardly the first to make that particular comparison. It was simply shocking to hear it from such a, ahem, inexperienced mouth.ā
āI choked one time. Aināt that inexperienced.ā
Then you both realize what yāall said, and stand and stare at each other as a weirdness settles over your skin.
Are saved from the weirdness when a thirdāa womanājoins the tail.
āMotherfucker,ā you say.
Yāallāve curved around closer to the outer wall and into something of a shanty town. Huts cobbled together out of whatever people can find. One with a busted wagon wheel as a door. People watch y'all, but make no move about it. Two civilians, one in a fucking curtain, and the other the pastiest fucker they ever did see.
Itās enough they leave yāall alone.
They donāt seem bothered by the tail, neither. That dings some alarm bells. Them people is known.
āCan we make it back to a busy section?ā you say. Wonāt stop a thief, but it might stop a stabbing or kidnapping.
āTheyāve got us hemmed in,ā Astarion says and squashes your dreams.
Wesaās been keeping pace shuffling along on your ass. You readjust your skirt to get her attention.
āTribe?ā she mutters.
āGround rules,ā you say.
A pause. Then, āTribe.ā
Old girl might just get herself another kneecap today.
You can feel Astarionās question even as you slip your free hand into your left pocket and rummage. Say, āLet me play along as long as I can?ā
āA surprise stabbing from an elderly woman?ā he says, amusement curling his words, turning them low and warm (why does your stomach flop) (you know why). āBy all means.ā
Yāall make it a few more yards before a fourth man steps out right in your path. Heās got neck-length hair, the front pieces pulled back into braids clasped behind his head. A shaved chin but a mustache a nineteenth century German baron would envy. The edges is even waxed into little curls.
āI see youāve returned to your hunting grounds,ā Mustache says.
Heās dressed casual. Plain tunic with embroidery around the cuffs and collar. A leather vest with loops to hold a couple tools you donāt recognize. A bandolier with little tubes in it where Arnold Schwarzenegger would have bullets for some stupid gun heās carrying around in a jungle in the ā80s.
āTerribly sorry,ā Astarion saysāsimpers, actually. āIām trying to get my ailing grandmother to a doctor.ā
You suck in a wad of spit and cough as nasty as you can.
Mustache looks you over. You got the curtain pulled up into a grim reaper hood, make sure to lower your gaze so he donāt see your unwrinkled face. He says, āA high elf with a human grandmother?ā
āMy grandfather got around. Those beasts at the bridge wonāt let us across. I heard there was someone over here we could see.ā
Mustache folds his arms.
āNewly returned and already trying to slink into your masterās good graces.ā A new voice. A woman.
You turn, find her and two others behind yāall. Sheās a wiry old bird, silver hair shaved to the scalp on one side. Clearly armed and armored with some kinds braided, silver band around her forehead.
Something about that tugs at you.
āI beg your pardon?ā Astarionās good at this most of the time. Too much practice. But you know him well enough to pick up the cold edge.
His master.
Your fingers brush cool, sturdy wood in your pocket. You wrap your hand around it.
āWe've no money, if thatās what youāre after,ā he says. āThough I wouldnāt put it past your kind to rob an old woman.ā
The fuckārude. Then the pieces start to come together. Dread starts to coilā
āSheās not your usual type. Getting desperate, spawn?ā
Astarion goes still as a corpse. His gaze is fixed on her, pupils blown wide. A hunting cat on something wounded, something small and hobbling.
āWhatever could that mean?ā he says. Sweet words in a sweet tone absolutely curdled with malice.
Oh shit. Fuck you. They know what he is. He knowsāand seems to despiseāthem. Oh shit, oh fuck.
One of the women with Silver Hair draws a short sword. The air swims around it and something like rancid garlic singes the hairs in your nose. Astarionās whole face twists up until he stops breathing.
āHow are you walking in the sunlight?ā Silver says. Donāt take her eyes off Astarion. To her companions, āTake it alive. I have questions. You, flee.ā
The last part to you, the unsuspecting victim. Clearly not a threat to what got to be gur.
āWait,ā you say. āHold on.ā
You tried to talk Gandrel down. Tried so goddamn hard. Didnāt want to hurt him. Couldnāt let him take Astarion, neither. And in the endā¦
āPlease,ā you say. āJust this once, please.ā
Silver says nothing. Lowers her chin. Itās got to be a signal, because the two beside her advance.
Why in the fuck wonāt people fucking listen. Yāall could be allies, for fuckās sake! Put aside the hurt (the very, very valid hurt) and go after the sonuvabitch at the heart of it.
Astarion glances to you. Something almostā¦tremulous in his eyes. A question. A fear.
āMotherfucker,ā you say.
You grab a handful of skirt. Say one word. āTribe.ā
Yank them skirts right up. A moment when the gur pause, less than a second of surprise.
Itās all Wesa needs to shoot out, leap into the air, and hit the guy on the left with both feet, square in the dick.
There they stand: a vampire spawn, an alien, and a goblin on the edge of a daylit street. And what Astarion feels most acutely is how very close that conversation came. How narrowly he dodged it.
Eleanor all but shoves the goblin behind her. Looks about as she edges them both towards the alley they emerged from. No one seems to have noticed the sudden appearance of a goblin, judging from the distinct lack of āgods below, thereās a goblin in our streets!ā But that will change any moment.
āIs there another way outta here?ā his friend asks.
Itās temporary, this reprieve, and that knowledge is peeled and carved and burned into his flesh despite the stupidity whispering at him: this time could be different. She needs him now, but once theyāre out, once itās the two (three) of them outside Rivington, her question will return. The accusations, the blame. The punishment. He didnāt thinkāhe never thinks and thatās precisely the problemā
A tap on the back of his hand. Heās crouched at the mouth of an alley with his friend, who shields her pet goblin from sight. Right.
Across are several abandoned houses. Boarded up houses, which means the occupant hopes the abandonment will be temporary as well. He listens past the crush and rush of so many people. Focuses on the two-story town home closest to them. Shuttered windows. A handful of boards across the door.
Quiet within. Save for the scratching of pests and pigeons.
āIf we can get over there,ā he says.
And his little deviant of a friendĀ lifts her skirts and ushers the goblin underneath. Sheās wearing trousers, but it still smacks him. The indecency of it out in public, no less, and from someone inexperienced asā
Wait, no. No, the goblin ducks under and dearest Eleanor straightens and her skirts are voluminous enough to hide the beastie, provided no one looks too closely at their combined feet.
Then again, theyāre right outside Wyrmās crossing into the city, and there are much stranger things than a woman with four feet. Not many, but some.
They cross the street as casually and as dignified as they can. Thatās the trick: look like one is meant to be doing a thing, and most people wonāt bother questioning it. That is their house, obviously. Of course they belong.
At least until Astarion takes a knee and reaches for his lock picks. Eleanor is clever enough to play along and shield him with her generous frame as he works. She fans herself with one hand, the other propped up on her hip, the image of a sweating and irritable landowner.
(He wonders what it would taste like should he run his tongue up the side of that delightful neck, not even for blood, justā
A crash up the road. A band of urchins stumbles into the street, faces hidden with scarves and hoods as a chicken shrieks and flees from them. A woman follows soon after, broom swinging, the entire lot of them squalling and shouting and running.
How wonderful, the newest crop of thieves are unionizing.
(A memory flits through his mind: the one-eyed tiefling girl abducted by those flying monstrosities and he wonders whatever happened to her.)
The lock gives. He pushes open the door. Generously allows the goblin to crawl between the boards to scope the place, draw any traps or lurking dangers to her, first.
āTribe,ā she says, which must mean nothingās attacked her.
He crawls in after. The place has been deserted for several tendays, at least. The floorboards are steady, only slightly creaking, and the place reeks of old piss. Most of the furniture is gone, the rest of is smashed up and joining piles of refuse in the corners. Others have been taking shelter illicitly in here. None right now, and they havenāt started tearing up the floors for salvage yet or setting anything on fire, so it will do for now.
Eleanor has to twist to get her hips through the gap. He nearly reaches for her, offers her a hand. But he stops himself. He tells himself itās so he can admire the way her cleavage rushes to the top of her stays (and it is an admirable sight), but that sourness clings to his throat. The cold, heavy dread pulls his innards towards the ground.
He should say something. Lance the wound, as it were. Sheās cross with him. Heās been callous and haughty (perhaps you need another lesson, boy). Heās offended her. He mustnāt offend guests or marks, not those that matter. He was justā¦first the bear, then the wizard (the tiefling is too enchanted by the Blade for either of them nose their way into it, and the cleric and the gith donāt seem her type). He has nothing to offer but more burdens. Itās only a matter of time before she realizes that. Before the midnight chimes ring out.
Eleanor pulls herself up, wipes her hands on her skirts (her skin must be crawling at the feeling of it, of course the wizard put her up to it; the man doesnāt know her well enough to understand why sheās been avoiding them this entire time, even though it makes relieving someone with her anatomy easier). She surveys her surroundings. āAnything left we can use as a disguise?ā
He needs to say something. End this infernal waiting.
Astarion slips on an easy smile. āI doubt it, but we can check, eh?ā
Astarion is a coward. He always has been. He can charm her. Heās done that many times. She responds so very well so long as heās not trying to seduce her (she prefers his reading rather than fondling her) (why does that tighten his chest, gods, heās in so far over his head).
He can impress her. Be useful to her. Make her forget all about last night and how atrocious he was, and once theyāre safe she wonāt turn on him.
(It never works.)
(Heās an idiot who tries every time, even knowing it never works.)
(Sheās not like that. Sheās different. Which is why he cannot risk it.)
They find a cloak. Or a curtain, rather. Wadded up on the floor where it was torn down, chewed full of holes by mice and moths. But she drapes it over herself, tucks the edges over her head and around her neck to partially hide her face.
āAre you sure you wonāt faint?ā he says. āThat looks rather warm.ā
Her face glistens with sweat. But her jaw sets into that stubbornness she mostly hides form the others. āIāll be fine. Been though worse heat. Whereād Wesa get up to?ā
Hunting, apparently. The goblin swaggers into the room happily crunching on a dead rat the way festival goers chew on a head of roasted maize.
She carries a second, the tail looped through her belt, dead head swinging in time to her gait. She plucks it from her waist and holds it out to him. āTribe?ā
He wrinkles his nose. Opens his mouth to verbally eviscerate herāEleanor watches. Eleanor, whom heās already offended. āEr, no.ā
The goblin merely shrugs and bites the head off the second rat.
Even Eleanor looks away.
Astarion fiddles with one of his knives as his dearest (only) friend checks her curtain cloak. Shakes the edges out. Putters about and seems to come to a decision.
She looks to him. Were he a living man, his heart would stop.
But she only says, āThink you can pull off escorting an arthritic old grandma outta this town?ā
The fist do seem more concerned with keeping people out than in.
Be agreeable. Be careful. Do not lose her good graces.
He bared the soft underbelly of his careful plan to her knowing full well how sensitive she was to such manipulations, and she didnāt cast him out. How he seduced her. Used her. She didnāt even hurt him. Sheāsā¦unlike anyone else. She must be, to keep him with her even now. However he found her in all these years of pure shitā¦
His luck never holds. Not for long. It will turn. She will.
He clears his throat. āI believe I can.ā
They exit out a window in the backāthe glass long shattered, the shutters gone entirely and that explains the stink in here. Before they go, the goblin totters over and shoves a broken chair leg into his friendās pocket.
Dearest Eleanor squints in the way she does when she rather wants to ask a question but debates the likelihood of getting a sufficient answer. She decides against it and only nods. Then she climbs out, ushers the goblin under her skirts again. Pauses when he offers an arm.
āUnless youād rather not?ā he says. Sheās quite averse to touching. He should have thought of that. An oversight, habit from long years. He starts to lower his arm.
She slips hers through his. Her warm hand rests on his forearm. Heās wearing a padded doublet and a blouse beneath with large, lacy cuffs. But the sheer, living warmth of her sinks into his dead skin even through all the layers. He can feel the rush of her blood in her veins. He has to school his face into casual indifference. Cannot let anyone see how he basks in this.
They walk arm in arm. Her hood is low. She hunches and totters along next to him, and he plays the dotingā¦grandson? Guardsman? Valet. Her doting valet.
She keeps hold of him as they go. Touches him as they go. Just on the arm. No hand snaking back to grab his ass or fiddle with his hair or, gods forbid, paw at his ears. They can touch like this with no expectation of anything else. Not to use him (well, they are, but this game is fun).
He doesnāt want to lose this. He must not.
Theyāre nearing the slums pressed against the inner wall of Rivington when he picks up an oddity. A heartbeat at a steady distance.
Nothing irregular to it. A touch fast, perhaps. But itās keeping pace. Out of the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of a man.
Dearest Eleanor makes an inquiring sound. Doesnāt stop or turn (he wants to bite her soft cheek and chew on it).
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