Space Barbarian

Barbarian head to toe. She/her

[vixstarria]

Bloodbang Chronicles - Chapter 18 - Therapy

Chapter summary: When couple's counselling isn't an option but relationship issues must be resolved - a.k.a. 'fucking it out'

Chapter word count: 4.5k

Chapter CW: Smut

Previous chapter | Series masterlist | AO3 | Overall masterlist

Series summary:

Five years have passed since the confrontation with the Netherbrain. Astarion and his warlock lover, Asmodea, are living it up in Baldur’s Gate, running a cabaret. Their life of decadence and debauchery seems idyllic, until Asmodea’s patron disrupts it with a proposal. One that seems too good to be true. One they cannot refuse.

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Genre: Humor / adventure / smut

Rating: Explicit

Asmodea dreamt about Halsin that night. A memory, of climbing beneath the covers in the pre-dawn, Astarion still out enjoying the quiet of the night. The druid stirred awake, roused by her movements.

“How is it possible your feet are colder than Astarion’s..?” he grumbled, still half-asleep, turning and gathering her in his arms. Asmodea chuckled, perhaps somewhat wickedly, perhaps making an effort to press her offending icy appendages against the druid’s warm skin, and buried her face in his chest, enjoying the warmth.

Warmth.

Her eyes snapped open.

The sun was up. The arms around her were Astarion’s, and the warmth was emanating from him. Astarion hummed with discontent as she shifted in his arms and sat up. Scrunched his nose and blinked sleep from his eyes, glaring with contempt at the canopy of their tent. The material could have been more perfectly opaque.

“Do you want me to cast darkness?”

“It’s fine,” he shook his head. “I’d much rather be able to see you.”

He drew her back down, until they lay side by side, facing each other.

They looked into each other’s eyes, each trying to silently convey things they couldn’t put into words yet. Too many thoughts and feelings with too much murky depth and nuance, without sufficient words to capture them. Instead he stroked her cheek with a feather-light touch. She smiled back at him.

As though agreeing to give up, at least for now, they held each other in a tight embrace, in lieu of any words.

“I love you,” Asmodea whispered, releasing a relieved sigh.

“I love you too,” murmured Astarion.

“And I’ll always keep a spare fireball up my sleeve, I promise,” she added, mumbled into his chest.

“Why does that promise sound like a threat..?” he frowned, before they both broke into a laugh.

“You’re still warm,” Asmodea murmured after a while, running her fingers over his skin where she had slipped her hands beneath his shirt. It was a warmth from within, not merely one he had borrowed from her own body heat, a bath or an open flame. “How much blood did you have last night..?”

“You don’t want to know,” Astarion said lazily. “And I wasn’t keeping a tally.”

“How does it feel..? When you gorge.”

“Hmm,” Astarion deliberated. “At first it’s like pins and needles. Your flesh coming to life. You begin to feel things that you haven’t felt in so long, you think you’re dying. When my heart beat for the first time in two centuries, I was sure I drank something poisoned and was finally done for... Then that feeling melts and turns to warmth. But there is a wrongness to it. You feel displaced in your own body. Yet at the same time you are desperate for that feeling to never go away, but it slips like sand through your fingers with each passing second...”

“Is that how you feel now..?”

“I know I can get more,” he shook his head. “Though even now, knowing and understanding isn’t always believing... But never mind all that.” He lay back, propping himself up on an elbow. “Are you okay..? Truly?”

“What are you asking?”

“Did anything happen to you yesterday..?”

“Such as..?”

“Oh don’t play daft.”

“I told you, I was fine,” she sighed. “Got slapped around a bit. Wouldn’t be the first time. Shitbag who did it got an arrow through his eye. And what would it matter now, anyway..?”

“It never stops to ‘matter’,” said Astarion. “Whatever you tell yourself, however you sweep it beneath a rug and flatten it, once it’s there, it stays. And believe me, I know talking about it may be the last thing you want to do, but… You can’t leave a rothe in a porcelain shop. And no, I couldn’t do anything short of going back in time, but-”

“Astarion…” she interrupted with a finger pressed against his lips. “I’m fine. Thank you, but… I’m fine. Truly.”

He took her hand, turning it over, and kissed her knuckles, looking into her eyes. “I’m glad,” he whispered, concern melting into a relieved acceptance. “What did happen?” he asked. “You looked ill.”

“I poisoned myself,” Asmodea shrugged. “Just enough to make the prospect of being anywhere near me unappealing,” she added as Astarion quirked a brow in question. “I don’t know if it was really necessary - Jaxxon later told me they all knew better than to touch me,” she said. “Though I don’t know if I believe that. He’ll tell any lie just to throw you off-balance. Or just for the fun of it.”

“But poisoning yourself..? How… unconventional,” he remarked. “When did you become an aspiring alchemist?”

“Girl’s got to pick up some tricks living alone on the road.”

“Self-sabotaging tricks..?”

“Ideally, I would be sabotaging someone else…” If she told him that she had been following Fuckface’s reluctant instructions, she would never hear the end of it, she knew. Instead Astarion chuckled, accepting his explanation. “But sometimes one has to improvise, you know?”

“Darling you deliberately poisoned yourself in self-defence!” They were both laughing, an inane, tittering, relieved giggle, now that everything seemed to be fine again. “What’s next, you’ll see danger and pretend to drop dead so it passes you by?”

“It works with some bears!” she protested, but Astarion only held her close again, covering her face in kisses.

“Astarion…” she said, continuing to titter. “Astarion, there is something between us that needs to be addressed,” she added, lightly grinding her hips against his.

“Hmm, is it a problem?” he asked between kisses, trailing one hand down her back to her ass to squeeze and hold her tighter, encouraging her to throw a leg over and around his hips.

“It’s a big problem,” she said deadpan, before they both broke into laughter again. “But now, really? Was it the thought of poison, or of me dropping dead?”

“It’s all the recent murder, darling,” he said, making her snort. “You know being full of borrowed blood makes everything more sensitive.”

“Borrowed,” she snickered. “Are you going to give any of it back?”

“Stolen,” he shrugged. “Actually, no, not stolen. Just taken.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, palming his big problem. “I like when you just take things.”

The hand and the increasingly lustful look in her eyes were a clear enough invitation, but... the recent captivity would have left her shaken, Astarion knew. Perturbed. Left a mark on her, no matter what had or hadn’t occurred. Perhaps leaning into and painting over it was better than skirting the edges. In any event, if there was any hesitation or recoil, he would know.

“I saw you there, you know,” he murmured. “All bound and helpless.”

“Oh?” said Asmodea. She might have sounded somewhat surprised, but didn’t stop what she was doing with his cock through the fabric of his trousers.

“I haven’t been able to get that thought out of my mind since,” he breathed against the shell of her ear.

She huffed then, in mock outrage. “Since when does seeing me ‘bound and helpless’ around other men turn you on?!”

Astarion clicked his tongue. “You’ve got it all back to front, darling. It’s having other men seeing you restrained around me that turns me on.”

To his relief, she laughed and rolled over on top of him, straddling his hips. “Why? What would you do? Tell me,” she said with an encouraging roll of her hips against his.

“Kept you tied and taken you right there in the middle of camp, with that half-elf stuck kneeling in the dirt, watching. Made him understand who you truly belong to.”

Asmodea released a low, throaty chuckle, but continued to grind against him. “Just the three of us, surrounded by blood and corpses? And the bard playing his flute in the bushes, I guess.”

“Could’ve hung the others up by their balls and had them watch as well - put on a little show as a gift before ending them.” Asmodea laughed again. It was absurd, but he could her pulse quicken. She did always like the idea of having an audience. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Them seeing that I can do anything I want to you? Seeing how eager you are to let me..?” he whispered in her ear, his hands kneading her ass, pulling her ever closer and tighter against him.

A rugged breath tore from her throat, her voice husky with want. “Wouldn’t you untie me..?”

“Eventually.”

“Jaxxon would be the type to provide running commentary, you know.”

“Not once I cut his tongue out. I would make sure your cries drowned him out anyway.”

“And how would you lay your claim on me, exactly..? You’d want them all to have a good view, no?”

“Hmm,” hummed Astarion. “We’d want them to see, wouldn’t we? Maybe I’d throw you over some of the crates. Or maybe I would just hold you up while I fucked you. Or maybe, just maybe, I’d leave you on top, just like this, so they’d all see just how needy you are for me.”

She continued to grind against his cock as he spoke, still separated from it by the thin fabric of his pants and her dampening smallclothes. One of her fingertips glided, tortuously slowly, along the helix of his ear, until it reached its sensitive - alarmingly sensitive - tip, and started anew. Gods, if this is how sensitive his ear had become, then how sensitive-

“You need to stop that,” he growled, his words accentuated by an involuntary jolt of his hips.

“Make me,” she whispered with her lips brushing the shell of his ear, then dragged her teeth along his earlobe.

Astarion twisted her arms behind her back, pulling the sleeves of the shirt she had been sleeping in down until he could tie them, keeping her wrists together, trapping her arms restrained behind her back. He pulled back on her arms until she was sitting up, straddling him.

“That’s much better,” he murmured. His hand slid between her legs and stroked through the fabric, eliciting a moan from her. He’d wanted to draw this out longer, but when faced with that sound, his favourite sound in the world… He leaned forward to sit up, reaching behind her with one hand, holding her back by her tied arms, the other pulling aside the fabric of her panties, trying to conceal his own impatience. “Completely soaked,” he groaned against her neck where he kissed it. “You like being helpless, don’t you?”

“I’m not helpless,” she said breathlessly.

“Oh? And just how are you going to get what you want..?” he plunged a single digit inside her, shallowly.

“Please…” she moaned, rolling her hips, trying to get more friction against his hand.

“Ah, by begging then?” he laughed, removing his hand from between her legs and falling back against the bedroll. She did not answer, aside from making a frustrated noise, and rolling her hips, grinding against his cock. His cock, which, to both their detriment, was still confined in his pants. “Please what..?”

“Please don’t stop,” she moaned, sighing with relief when the hand returned, a second finger joining the first. She fell against him. “Keep stroking me like that,” she whispered in his ear. Somewhere in the back of his very much preoccupied mind, Astarion reflected on the irony - he was supposed to be the one teasing her, and yet he was the one about to lose his mind from the way her warm body writhed against his, from her sighs of pleasure, from the scent of her building arousal filling the confines of their tent, while he had naught but the slightest bit of frustrating friction, and that still through fabric. And then, whether involuntarily, or by deliberately flexing her muscles, she twitched, deliciously, around his fingers.

“You’re really going to settle for that tight, hot hole quivering around your fingers, when it could be around your cock instead..?” she breathed huskily against his ear.

“You shameless, dirty brat,” he murmured. How did she always manage to get her way..? But she was right, he needed to be inside her. …On his own terms.

Taking as much time and restraint as the compromise between his dignity and pure animalistic need would allow - in other words rushing and all but growling - he undid the clasps and ties of his pants, shimmying out of them and kicking them off. Asmodea’s panties had remained simply shoved to the side. He caught her smirking knowingly where she had collapsed against his chest. Her hands were still tangled in the sleeves of her shirt, behind her back. Very conveniently so.

Astarion forced her back up into a sitting position, not that she objected in the least. Another roll of her hips against his finally freed cock, spreading her slick over the shaft, making his toes curl from the sensation, and then he finally thrust inside her, to both of their relief.

He wanted nothing more than to flip her over on her back and take her, roughly. Which was precisely why she had better stay on top - he was having trouble enough as it was holding back, with so much blood still hot in his veins.

Astarion looked in her eyes to find her pupils completely blown with lust. He took some satisfaction in that - she was further gone than he, barely holding on to control. Lustful gaze holding his, lips parted, hair more dishevelled than usual, she began to ride him. Torturously slowly, rolling and rubbing her clit against him. If it were up to her, she would grind against him to completion, he knew. Which was sensuous and rewarding enough - you can hardly complain when someone is coming on your cock. Besides, after her initial orgasm he would be welcome, encouraged even, to do anything he liked to her, in her debauched state.

He wasn’t convinced she had earned it yet, though.

Her shirt had slipped off her shoulders and barely held on. Astarion undid the few remaining buttons to better enjoy the view. Perky breasts, perhaps on the petite side by human standards. Swaying, almost hypnotically, with her movements. Her pert nipples were begging to be played with. It would be a crime not to, really.

“Not like that,” he said, with a pinch. She gasped, her intake of breath punctuated by her squeezing tighter around his cock. She looked at him questioningly. “Bounce,” he said, with an upward thrust of his hips. Just one, he wasn’t about to do the work for her. “You’re not getting anything until you’ve earned it.”

A fleeting whine, as though she wasn’t pleased with the prospect, and she complied, bearing down on him in earnest. He reached behind her and pulled back on the shirt secured around her wrists, making her lean backwards as she continued to straddle and ride him, arching her back. She set a relentless pace. Enjoying the view of his cock disappearing, rhythmically, into her weeping, hot, tight, pink- Fuck, he thought, tearing his eyes from the sight between her legs before he got carried away.

Every time she tried to guide the motion to a more rolling movement of her hips and press into him, she was cautioned with a cautionary pinch of her nipple.

“Star,” she moaned, finally. “Please…”

The hand that had been playing with one of her nipples snaked up along her chest and neck, stroked along her jaw, until Astarion’s thumb made it to her mouth. She bit, hard, resulting in a jolt of his hips. A knowing chuckle rose from her throat. 

“Behave now,” he warned. “You want to be rewarded, don’t you?” She hummed then, sucking on his thumb and playing with the pad of the digit with her tongue, the same way she might with his- Godsdamnit, he thought again, trying to distract himself from getting too carried away too fast, again. But this all needed to come to a conclusion sooner rather than later. “Good girl,” he purred. “See, good things happen when you listen…” His hand came down between her legs, his wet thumb pressing down onto her clit. “Now take what you want.”

She rubbed against his hand - the motion almost reminiscent of a cat nudging against its human, demanding attention. And still, he made her do all the work, grinding against him, wanton moans escaping from her lips.

“Look at you…” he murmured with admiration. “Have you always been such a needy whore?”

She had the decency to look him in the eye and colour, however slightly. “Only for you and your cock,” she breathed, giving him a sultry look.

“Now don’t lie,” he tutted. “We both know how much you enjoyed Halsin’s.”

“Yours is harder,” she said with a treacherous twist of her hips and a glint in her eyes.

It was only fair that he retaliate - which he did, bucking his hips and beginning to trace tight circles around her clit. She met his motions, mewling moans spilling from her lips, her eyes shut tight, an expression of ecstasy blooming on her face.

“Yes that’s exactly what I’d want them all to see,” Astarion purred.

“Hmm?” her eyes fluttered open to momentary confusion, before the dazed lust gave way to comprehension. “The band?”

“Anyone,” he said. “I’d have the whole world know how eager you are to take my cock.”

She laughed but not before squeezing tighter around him, again. He couldn’t take it anymore - though he would, as long as he had to.

Astarion sat up, leaning forward. The hand that had been holding on to the shirt that kept Asmodea’s hands tied behind her back instead grabbed hold of a handful of tresses of hair, pulling her backwards. The other continued to rub and circle her swollen, exposed clit, with intent now. He thrust into her, as much as the position would allow, while she whimpered and met his movements with her own. The sight of her, her tits bounding in his face, was mesmerising. He leaned further forward, until he could graze her neck with his fangs. She gasped, though he did not break the skin, only rested his lips on her racing pulse beneath his marks he’d made on her, which stopped fully going away long ago. It was enough, her movements becoming choppy, the telltale tightening of her muscles around him becoming more intense, her moans now keening.

“Come for me,” he growled against her neck.

She spasmed around him, her hips jerking erratically against his. He’d released her hair, both his hands digging into the plump flesh of her ass, squeezing and trying to keep her as close as he could, even as he continued to try to thrust. Until her moans were replaced by quiet, shuddering breaths, easing into sighs, and she fell slack against him.

Astarion too fell back until he was lying on the bedroll again, Asmodea collapsing on top of him, his cock still buried inside her. The look on her face was of unabashed euphoria. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, tracing her jaw with kisses as she hummed with pleasure. Perfect. She was perfect. Angelic in her pure ecstasy, or at least she had been for some brief moments - until he glimpsed the rapture on her face being quickly replaced by something mischievous, again.

She buried her face in his neck, giggling as he attempted to untie the shirt that had been tied around her forearms - it was tighter than Astarion had realised. The giggling gave way to her nibbling on and tonguing his neck, while he continued to struggle with the shirt.

“Behave,” he warned. He was answered with another laugh and a more persistent bite. “Then I’ll put that naughty mouth to better use,” he said, finally managing to get the shirt off and flinging it aside.

He rolled both of them over, so that Asmodea was now on her back, Astarion leaning over her. Shifted forward until he hovered over her, sitting up with his knees on either side of her head, the thick head of his cock - flushed, glistening with her juices and well-overdue for its own release - poised at her lips. Roguish look still on her face, she began to lick herself off him, down the length of his shaft, meticulously, as though savouring the taste - she’s always been eager to lick pussy off his cock, Astarion reflected, the thought further antagonising him and making his breath catch in his throat. How he had managed not to spill into her earlier, he did not know, but he wasn’t about to continue his heroics.

Fingers tangled in her hair, he slid, impatiently, inside her hot, willing mouth. He immediately hissed, his cock twitching, from how oversensitive he had gotten. As though expressing concern over his aching member, Asmodea hummed consolingly, lips wrapped tightly around the shaft - the ministrations making him twitch again. Her eyes, locked onto his, showed absolutely no remorse. Astarion cursed softly and squeezed his eyes shut, bucking his hips in time with the bobbing of her head. He felt her fingertips wandering along the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, one hand sneaking further between his legs until it cupped his balls. A whimper escaped him as she caressed the tender skin. They tightened in her hand, which now played with them in an unconcerned yet possessive manner, alternating between squeezing, lightly, and idly tracing the seam that ran down their middle.

Astarion groaned at the drag of her hot mouth along his length. Encouraged by the sound, she picked up the pace, but it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough to sate the craving that was tormenting his body. He couldn’t take it any longer. He began fucking her mouth in earnest.

His hips thrust faster. The noises coming from Asmodea had turned from sultry self-satisfied moans to alarmed whimpers, fringed by filthy, sloppy wet sounds. Her hands had abandoned his sack, instead desperately grasping at his hips.

Better. Much better, though still not enough. He needed to claim and fill that insolent, impudent, mocking mouth. He looked down at her head between his thighs - saliva spilling from the edge of her lips, eyes watering as she continued to try to take him deeper and deeper. The sight was almost as lewd as the sound she made when he pulled most of the way out of her.

He reached down to wipe a tear that had spilled from the corner of her eye. “Are you going to be a good girl for me?” he whispered hoarsely, thrusting shallowly. She moaned what could only be interpreted as a ‘yes’ around him.

He picked up the pace again, thrusting deeper and deeper into her mouth, until she took him to the root, the tip of her nose pressing into his abdomen.

His whole body thrummed with each thrust, heat blazing and coiling in his abdomen, until it was intolerable. A few more stuttering jolts of his hips as she made obscene noises beneath him, and he couldn’t hold on any longer. He erupted as she swallowed obediently around him, the orgasm pulsing through his body. Drawing breath in tattered gasp, his thighs trembling, Astarion thrust into her mouth one final time, before the sensation became too much, and he pulled out her mouth, leaving her to sputter and gasp for air.

His vision swimming, his head light, he didn’t make out what she said when she spoke to him.

Her hand returned between his legs. Her lips lingering on the tip of his cock,

“What?” he asked, looking down to once again find his dick in a precarious position, being held hostage.

“I said, was I good for you?” Her smile was alarmingly sweet. Her tongue circled around his still throbbing glans.

“Hmm,” he inclined his head thoughtfully. He was nothing if not a taker of admittedly stupid risks. “Passable, but there’s much room for improvement. We’ll give you more lessons. And discipline.” He could also move much faster than she, when he needed to.

“You know…” Asmodea said some time later, when they were getting ready to get a move on. “It’s probably a good thing you came where you did.”

“…Hmm?” hummed Astarion.

“It ah… was warmer than usual. Seemed more… virile. We should probably be careful if your bandit diet is to continue.”

Astarion responded with something between a grunt and a chuckle. Not just for decoration after all, perhaps… Were these the circumstances which led to the conception of dhampir..? Over two centuries as a vampire, and he still was about as knowledgeable about his kind’s reproduction as a virgin maiden raised by a priest sworn to chastity, he thought bitterly.

This thought rapidly reminded him of another, which he had pushed to the back of his mind.

“Listen…” began Astarion. “Not to keep beating a dead… horse… And I promise I will not bring this name up again - frankly I don’t want to hear it myself either, but…” he stalled, until Asmodea raised an eyebrow at him where she sat lacing up her boots. “I just want to ask. Was there… something that tied you to Jaxxon?”

“Something that tied me to him?” she frowned.

“Some… connection. Something that made you stay as long as you did? That prevented you from leaving sooner..?”

“Still wondering if I had an excuse..? Hah… Sorry to disappoint, but all I have to blame for that is my own stupidity,” Asmodea said, her gaze softening. “But worry not, I’m an old and wizened woman now,” she smiled and leaned toward Astarion to kiss him, but paused just before their lips touched. “Wait, are you worried I might have married him in the past and not told you?” She leaned back away from him, grinning. “Is that what this is about? Were the legal cogs in your brain spinning, making you wonder whether I’m a bigamist?”

Truth be told, the thought had not crossed Astarion’s mind at all, but now he was curious. “Are you?”

“No,” she laughed, returning to her boots.

That seemed to be the end of that conversation, and the stifling of any admissions that may have been made in its course, and Astarion returned to gathering his own equipment.

“I wonder if he made it,” Asmodea said, her tone too off-handed to be anything but the very opposite. Astarion glanced at her. A sombreness seemed to cast a shadow over her expression. He took a steadying breath. If he was going to tell her about anything that had transpired after their argument yesterday - it was then or never.

“…Who knows,” he said, finally. “…but I certainly hope not,” he added with a toothy grin. Asmodea looked up at him and nodded, whether in agreement or acknowledgement - it was unclear.

They finished gathering their things.

It was time to move on.

~~~~~

Thank you for reading!

Find the fic on AO3 as well.

[spacebarbarianweird]

Oh my fucking god

It was so hot

[vixstarria]

Bloodbang Chronicles - Chapter 17 - Jealousy

Chapter summary: Astarion Ancunin, who is doing absolutely fine, thank you, addresses some unfinished business

Previous chapter | Series masterlist | AO3 | Overall masterlist

Series summary:

Five years have passed since the confrontation with the Netherbrain. Astarion and his warlock lover, Asmodea, are living large in Baldur’s Gate, running a cabaret. Their life of decadence and debauchery seems idyllic, until Asmodea’s patron disrupts it with a proposal. One that seems too good to be true. One they cannot refuse.

Chapter word count: 3.7k

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Genre: Humor / adventure / smut

Rating: Explicit

A minor fire elemental danced amongst the ashes of the camp. It frolicked and played, tossing the bandits’ remaining personal belongings upward and shooting firebolts at them in midair. Stomping on the bones until they cracked and split. It seemed to like the popping sounds they made. Asmodea watched it with a grim and unblinking intensity, until Thorn sheepishly reminded her that it would burn the whole forest down if she didn’t banish it back to the elemental plane.

Any and all remaining glee disappeared together with the fire elemental’s dismissal. The dried pine needles beneath their feet may as well have been replaced by eggshells - the barest minimum of words was exchanged between Astarion and Asmodea. Instead, Asmodea filled the silence by trading playful if somewhat forced jabs and barbs with Thorn. Astarion maintained a bristling silence.

They moved away from the destroyed camp and its charred corpses, but no progress towards Berdusk was made that night.

A stream was located, and Thorn was volunteered for hauling water to be boiled. He also offered, of his own volition, what little healing he could do, which Asmodea graciously accepted. It seemed to eliminate the remaining lingering side effects of her self-inflicted poisoning, though it appeared to only amplify her weariness.

Patched up, washed and fed, Asmodea retreated to their reclaimed tent. Some minutes later, as she was getting ready to sleep, Astarion followed after her.

“You let him go.”

Just that. No more concerns expressed. No questions about how she’d fared for that entire day in a bandit camp. No care extended whatsoever. The only thought that seemed to occupy Astarion was Jaxxon being left alive. Asmodea felt a dejected bitterness, but she was not surprised.

“He’ll succumb to the hex, it will wring the life out of him before sunrise.”

“You don’t know that. He might come across a healer, or maybe he has a scroll stashed away for this occasion. Or maybe your spell wasn’t as strong as you think it was. Hells, maybe you softened it on purpose.”

“What..?” Asmodea blinked in surprise. “I did not! And it’s an ugly way to die, much worse than simply being stabbed or having his throat slit - shouldn’t knowing that give you a warm and fuzzy feeling?” she said not looking at him, instead continuing to get ready for sleep, lying down on a makeshift bedroll and closing her eyes.

“You couldn’t bring yourself to kill him,” Astarion’s accusation hung in the air. Asmodea said nothing, determined to ignore him in favour of sleep. “I just… I can’t understand it,” Astarion added after a silence had held for a good minute. “I can’t reconcile the idea of that man and you.”

“I was young and stupid,” Asmodea said wearily. “Next question.”

“How stupid could you have possibly been?!”

Asmodea released something between a sigh and a frustrated growl, her eyes snapping open. “Did you think you were the only one capable of leading young naive girls astray?”

Astarion’s nostrils flared. “That’s a low blow,” he said.

“And pestering me with this when I can barely keep conscious isn’t?!”

“And you forget that this ‘naive girl’ wasn’t swept away for a single night of a meaningless fling, five years you stayed with him. How? Why?!”

 “Because he was a half elf!” Asmodea snapped. “Because he was handsome and charming, because he was my age, because he seemed completely smitten with me. Because my whole life I listened to everyone lamenting about me winding up with a human only to tragically watch them die. Because I thought I was lucky and it hurt too much to admit it when I realised I wasn’t.”

“You loved that piece of shit,” Astarion pressed on.

With a visible effort, Asmodea sat up, supporting herself on an elbow.

“Love isn’t always a choice, Astarion. Sometimes we fall, or accidentally step into it, find it on the bottom of our shoe at the end of the day, and nothing we ever do after that seems to get the stench out.”

Astarion digested that for a moment, before continuing.

“So that’s how it is, then? You’re still carrying him on the soles of your boots, after all these years..?”

“I threw those boots out long ago,” Asmodea shook her head, and turned over on her side, facing away from him. “Now leave me be, will you?”

Another silence held, until Astarion huffed and spoke. “Fine. Sleep,” he said, rising to his feet. “Worry not, I’ll spare you the trouble and remove myself from your boots on my own.” Not waiting for any response, he left the tent.

Outside, Thorn tended to his fiddle (apparently he did have spare strings after all) with the look of someone who was trying very hard to pretend they were unaware of anything going on around them.

“What a fine, beautiful night, is it not?!” he said with a near desperation in his voice. “The stars are shining bright, the owls have left their hollows - they live in hollows, do they not? - and are hooting, the wolves are… distant. The weather-”

“Can you perform a Sending yet?” Astarion interrupted.

“Yes,” Thorn said, with some relief.

“Good. If anyone - anyone, you hear? - approaches the camp, let me know immediately.”

“Yes sir,” said Thorn. “…Are you leaving, then?”

“I’m heading out for a hunt,” said Astarion. “I’ll be back by sunrise.”

Astarion did not consider himself a jealous man. Possessive, nay, territorial - perhaps, to an extent. He was a vampire, after all. Tending to one’s own domain was only proper.

But jealousy? Hah! The bodies that had at one point or another ended up in their bed over the past five years never meant anything. Meaningless amusement. He and Asmodea took what they wanted, when it was offered. And once the fun was had, they parted with their guests with no hard feelings (or any feelings, for that matter) - it was when their visitors deemed themselves entitled to something more or wished to extend their stays when they were no longer welcome that things got ugly.

Halsin had been different. But Halsin never took more than he offered, and he had belonged to both of them equally. Still did, in a way; was still connected to them by an invisible but indestructible string.

No, this wasn’t about jealousy or grudges. So she fell in love with someone who turned out to be a wretched bastard, when she was young. Who hasn’t?!

Rather, this was a question of dignity. Astarion wasn’t about to let anyone, much less this rancid waste of breath, simply walk away after disrespecting Asmodea the way that he did, whether she chose to swallow it or not. Never mind that she was content to be besmirched. She was his, and any insult or injury inflicted on her was an affront to him as well. Astarion would not allow that which belonged to him to be treated that way, her own thoughts on the matter be damned.

Though Astarion was loath to admit it, it wasn’t merely that his sense of smell was similar to that of a bloodhound’s - it indeed surpassed it. At least when he’d had as much blood to fuel his vampiric senses and abilities as he did those past few days. One man the night before. Another drained dry just before sunset. Two lookouts. Or was it three? The odd spray of blood here and there as he butchered and maimed his way through the camp. He had gorged. Having been accustomed to little more than a rat or mouse per night for centuries before, this was an unthinkable luxury.

And now he all but saw scents painted throughout the moonlit forest. One that he had identified as Jaxxon’s, a scent laced with rot and putrefaction, trailing between the trees. Some distance away from the camp, it converged with another, one of stale sweat, roasted mortal food and tobacco. That one was unfamiliar to Astarion, but there was only one other man he was aware had escaped. Oddie had allowed that one to go, too.

Together, they made their way to a place Astarion had already grown sick of: the godsdamned shack, again.

There, the scent of putrefaction lingered and intensified. The other man’s had moved on, further into the forest. It did not loop back.

Astarion entered.

“What took you so long?!” Jaxxon’s voice rose from where he lay with his eyes closed on the earthen floor in the corner of the cabin. His voice and breathing sounded laboured, despite his apparent irritation. “Did you find it?”

“Find what?” asked Astarion.

Jaxxon’s eyes snapped open, in hatred and anger.

“You are not welcome in this house,” said Jaxxon. “Leave. You are not invited. You may not enter. I banish-” he didn’t finish whatever he was trying to say, breaking out into a coughing fit, speckles of blood flying from his mouth.

Astarion snorted and crossed his arms across his chest. “Nice try,” he said. “But truly, find what..? Do you think there’s some root or mushroom that will lift the curse?”

Jaxxon finished coughing his lungs out and swore, wincing as he moved to sit up. “Come to take your revenge, then? Or just here to gloat?”

“Oh don’t be silly, you know there’s no need for revenge - you’re already done for.” Despite Astarion’s insinuation that she had let Jaxxon off the hook, Oddie’s spite had produced a curse likely more powerful than she herself had intended. The hex had aged the half-elf some 30 human years over the past few hours. Muscles had already begun to waste away, greyed skin stretched tight against jutting bones. His lips were cracked and covered in sores. Dark, hollowed sockets held bloodshot eyes - they alone still blazed with the vigour of hatred at Astarion. Though gratifying, that wasn’t quite the emotion Astarion wanted to see in them. “That old man knows it too, he’s left you for dead.”

Why had he come?

It wasn’t because he wanted to make sure that Jaxxon died - he knew he would. No. Astarion’s purpose and reason for being here was different. It was very simple: between the anger and the bravado and the jests at the bard’s expense, he had seen Asmodea continually blinking away tears for the past few hours. And although he detested the very idea that this son of a bitch could spark such distress in her, it could not be denied: the bastard made her cry. And now Astarion couldn’t rest until he’d witnessed Jaxxon degrade and debase himself. Death wasn’t enough. Let him piss himself in terror first.

“No, there’s nothing short of a cleric or paladin that can remove the curse now,” Astarion continued. “…I could as well, I suppose.”

“You?” Jaxxon blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“I wouldn’t remove it, per se, it would run its course and dissipate upon your death,” said Astarion. Jaxxon shook his head and closed his eyes, leaning back against the cabin’s wall. “But after…”

“After?” Jaxxon opened his eyes and looked up at Astarion again. “What do you mean, after?”

“After. It is entirely within my power to provide you with an ‘after’, you know. Death is so boring, wouldn’t you say? Why should our fun stop there, when we’ve only just come to know each other?” Astarion crouched down, sitting on his heels in front of Jaxxon.

“You…” Fear had finally begun to bloom in Jaxxon’s eyes. “No. I refuse.”

“That is not up to you to decide,” Astarion smirked. “And then nothing will ever be up to you ever again.”

“You can’t.”

Astarion leaned forward, as Jaxxon reflexively shrunk back against the wall. “I can,” he smiled. “But look on the bright side! Your body will be back to its youthful state. At least I think it will be - you are not much to look at now.” Astarion grabbed Jaxxon’s jaw and twisted his head left and right, as though to inspect him. Jaxxon attempted to spit at Astarion, but succeeded only in leaving a dribble of bloody spit trailing down his own chin. “And then it will return to that youthful state, no matter what is done to it. Well… Just about, but we can get into that later. It’s remarkable, really.” Jaxxon stared back at Astarion with disbelief and dread as he continued. “For instance… I could command you to press your fingers into your own eyes, slowly, until they burst and leaked out of their sockets - it’s somewhat satisfying when they finally give, really. Imagine a runny egg, encased in the skin of a large grape.” Whether due to a sufficiently obliging imagination, or the effects of the curse, but Jaxxon twisted to the side and vomited. “And even that wouldn’t be permanent!” continued Astarion. “A few nights is all it would take for them to regenerate. Depending, of course, on how quickly you could find something to eat, blind. And you might think the bursting business is distasteful - and it is - but it is actually the healing that’s the worst part. Like a thousand tiny blades stabbing into your sockets. I would not recommend it.”

“You won’t,” Jaxxon spat.

“What makes you so sure?” Astarion inclined his head.

“You’ll turn me and have me scamper after you, like a dog? After both of you? You think she will appreciate that, be impressed?”

“I’ll throw you down a well, seal it and pay you a visit every decade or so,” Astarion hissed, grabbing Jaxxon’s throat. To his annoyance, the half-elf began to laugh. Or rather, began to make irregular choking sounds, like a dying toad, that Astarion realised were laughter.

“She will find out,” Jaxxon rasped once Astarion loosened his grip on his throat. “She will find out and will see you for what you are - an abomination. You’ll find yourself all alone one morning, and there will be nothing you can do. And by the time you can follow her she’ll be long gone.” Astarion growled and squeezed his throat tighter again, but Jaxxon continued, through the choking. “Or do you really think you’ll ever make her happy?”

“And you?!” Astarion snapped, knocking the back of Jaxxon’s head hard against the cabin’s wall before releasing him. “You’ve not got a single leg to stand on, talking about her happiness.”

“Oh but I do. And I’ve seen that which you never will. I’ve given her that which you never will. She’s lost it since, but when she had it, she was so, so happy…”

“What in the hells are you talking about?” Astarion snarled.

“You don’t know? She keeps secrets from you, then? And here I thought you were the perfect, happy couple…”

“Keep testing my patience, and I will blind you, cut out your tongue, castrate you, and then turn you.”

“Of course you’re preoccupied with my balls - your own are only for decoration, aren’t they?” Something in Astarion’s face must have changed, for Jaxxon smirked in self-satisfaction before continuing. “She carried my child once.”

Astarion saw red.

Before he knew it, his dagger was in his hand, and that hand was engaged in ripping as many puncture wounds in Jaxxon’s chest and guts in as brief a time as possible, the other grasping the half-elf by the hair. Jaxxon had long ceased making any sound, putting up any resistance, or taking any breaths, by the time Astarion finally rose, staggering away from him.

Lies, all lies… And even if they’re not, it doesn’t matter, why would it matter, there is no reason for it to matter, it doesn’t matter…

He wiped away the blood which had landed on his face. He wouldn’t drink a drop of it.

He looked at the mess that was left lying on the cabin’s earthen floor. Straightened his clothes. Sheathed his dagger - he didn’t even recall taking it out. Regained control of his breathing.

The corpse’s face was twisted in a grimace, as though frozen in a final mocking grin at Astarion’s expense. He brought his boot down on it, snapping the neck and breaking the jaw, before turning and stalking out of the cabin.

Death would have to do.

Thorn was passed out in front of the fire when Astarion returned.

“I’m awake! I’m awake!!” he jolted back into consciousness, roused by the toe of Astarion’s boot in his ribs. “Merely resting my eyes!”

Astarion clicked his tongue in disapproval, but the truth was - he didn’t particularly care that the bard had fallen asleep while he was supposed to be keeping watch. An illusion masked their tent as a massive anthill, and had any surviving bandits or gnolls stumbled on the camp and attacked - Thorn’s demise would only have served to alert Asmodea.

“I’ve been thinking,” continued Thorn. “It’s been a pleasure - an honour, even - to have you and… uh… the pyromaniac lady as company. And this nighttime escapade has been a lot of fun, but… I think it’s time for us to part ways. It’s almost daytime, and I’m starting to miss civilisation. Too much competition out here with the nightingales, you know…”

“I am wounded to the bottom of my heart,” said Astarion, who had decided earlier that telling the bard to scram was going to be his first order of business on returning to camp. “I thought a minstrel would relish the opportunity to travel with a noble vampire and a mad warlock. The tales you could spin, yourself being in the midst of the adventures…”

“Oh, well…” Thorn’s face fell a bit at that - it appeared he had not considered such an option - though moments later resolve reappeared on his features once more. “That’s quite alright, the events of the last few days alone are fuel enough for several songs. And I need some time to recover before inviting any further… ‘inspiration’ into my life.”

“Suit yourself,” said Astarion. He paused, watching Thorn gather his things. “Headed towards Baldur’s Gate, are you? Have you been there before?”

Thorn furrowed his brow and looked to the sky, then shook his head. “No, never the city proper. Not for a while, at least. But I figured there will be ample opportunity for a bard to make some coin. Maybe my sister’s gone there as well…”

A moment’s hesitation and a sigh followed before Astarion spoke again - Thorn did help some, after all. “You can stop at the Dancing Siren. Speak with Frederic, he will arrange board for you.”

“Oh? Friend of yours? Is the Dancing Siren a tavern?” Thorn perked up.

“Our master of ceremonies,” Astarion said offhandedly. “The Siren is our theatre.”

“Oh,” Thorn blinked with a change of face again. “Your theatre, you say. I will certainly find this Frederic. Thank you, Lord Van Koonin! But um… Is he a trusting sort of fellow? Would he take me at my word that I’ve really met you and got your invitation? Could you write an introductory note, perhaps..?”

Astarion waved a hand in dismissal. “Tell Frederic I know he supplies his mistress with wine from my cellar. He’s not half as discreet as he thinks he is. And tell him if he keeps taking the good bottles, I’ll follow him to her door one night, and tear off his fake moustache and his toupee in front of her.”

Asmodea lay awake, listening to Astarion sending off the bard. Now that she could rest safely and undisturbed, she found that she could not sleep a wink. Instead she lay on her side, staring at the wall of the tent. The twisting ache in her stomach had all but subsided, as had the blotches that had painted her skin. The physical discomfort was replaced, instead, by a biting void within her mind. She picked at the events of the day like prodding a raw wound. A profound sense of loneliness cast a further shadow over everything. She had chased Fuckface out of her mind on the pretext of needing sleep, but the fey could have offered nothing in consolation anyway, and obtaining any solace from them always felt like scraping the bottom of a barrel.

She heard Astarion enter the tent, discard his jacket, unclasp his weapon belt and throw it aside, kick off his boots.

She didn’t turn, didn’t stir, tried her hardest to give the impression that she was sleeping. Breathe like she was asleep, but how could she possibly know how she breathed while she slept..? He could hear her heartbeat anyway. How did her heart beat when she slept? How did it beat when she lay awake, anxious and angry and willing it to calm, and growing more anxious and angry by the second, knowing that it didn’t..? He knew, he had to know, and if he knew - then her silence was louder than any words. Still she stubbornly continued the ruse. Maybe he would let her, and they would both lie awake, pretending to sleep until eventually, hopefully, fatigue would take over. Or maybe he would break the silence at any moment, speaking to her like she was a child. A stupid, stubborn, sulking child. Or, maybe, that was being too generous and presumptuous. Maybe he was sick and tired of her. Maybe-

An arm slid beneath the bundled cloak she had been using as a pillow, another wrapped around her waist, and held her close. His body pressed tightly against hers, leaving no space between them. Lips brushed against her shoulder, then at its juncture at her neck, behind her ear.

“My treasure,” Astarion whispered softly.

The tears flowed then. She bit her lip, trying to hold on to the anger, and still they flowed. She drove an elbow sharply into his ribs, succeeded only in making him grunt lightly, though the grunt sounded almost like a laugh. Twisted in his arms, turning around. Beat his chest and shoulder with her fist, cursing with the worst expletives she could think of, until he was laughing and telling her that was enough, until somehow she found herself shaking and sobbing, her face buried in his neck. His arms tightened around her again, holding her against him and rocking her in place as he cooed something soothing in her ear.

Stupid, weak, pathetic, useless, spineless, pitiful…

“My priceless, precious treasure…”

~~~~~

Thank you for reading!

Find the fic on AO3 as well.

Byyye Thorn, I'll miss you! Thorn belongs to my friend @glassphinix. Check out his fics here and on AO3. Thank you for letting me borrow him (yet again)!

[spacebarbarianweird]

Ooooh such a cool chapter!

[vixstarria]

Bloodbang Chronicles - Chapter 17 - Jealousy

Chapter summary: Astarion Ancunin, who is doing absolutely fine, thank you, addresses some unfinished business

Previous chapter | Series masterlist | AO3 | Overall masterlist

Series summary:

Five years have passed since the confrontation with the Netherbrain. Astarion and his warlock lover, Asmodea, are living large in Baldur’s Gate, running a cabaret. Their life of decadence and debauchery seems idyllic, until Asmodea’s patron disrupts it with a proposal. One that seems too good to be true. One they cannot refuse.

Chapter word count: 3.7k

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Genre: Humor / adventure / smut

Rating: Explicit

A minor fire elemental danced amongst the ashes of the camp. It frolicked and played, tossing the bandits’ remaining personal belongings upward and shooting firebolts at them in midair. Stomping on the bones until they cracked and split. It seemed to like the popping sounds they made. Asmodea watched it with a grim and unblinking intensity, until Thorn sheepishly reminded her that it would burn the whole forest down if she didn’t banish it back to the elemental plane.

Any and all remaining glee disappeared together with the fire elemental’s dismissal. The dried pine needles beneath their feet may as well have been replaced by eggshells - the barest minimum of words was exchanged between Astarion and Asmodea. Instead, Asmodea filled the silence by trading playful if somewhat forced jabs and barbs with Thorn. Astarion maintained a bristling silence.

They moved away from the destroyed camp and its charred corpses, but no progress towards Berdusk was made that night.

A stream was located, and Thorn was volunteered for hauling water to be boiled. He also offered, of his own volition, what little healing he could do, which Asmodea graciously accepted. It seemed to eliminate the remaining lingering side effects of her self-inflicted poisoning, though it appeared to only amplify her weariness.

Patched up, washed and fed, Asmodea retreated to their reclaimed tent. Some minutes later, as she was getting ready to sleep, Astarion followed after her.

“You let him go.”

Just that. No more concerns expressed. No questions about how she’d fared for that entire day in a bandit camp. No care extended whatsoever. The only thought that seemed to occupy Astarion was Jaxxon being left alive. Asmodea felt a dejected bitterness, but she was not surprised.

“He’ll succumb to the hex, it will wring the life out of him before sunrise.”

“You don’t know that. He might come across a healer, or maybe he has a scroll stashed away for this occasion. Or maybe your spell wasn’t as strong as you think it was. Hells, maybe you softened it on purpose.”

“What..?” Asmodea blinked in surprise. “I did not! And it’s an ugly way to die, much worse than simply being stabbed or having his throat slit - shouldn’t knowing that give you a warm and fuzzy feeling?” she said not looking at him, instead continuing to get ready for sleep, lying down on a makeshift bedroll and closing her eyes.

“You couldn’t bring yourself to kill him,” Astarion’s accusation hung in the air. Asmodea said nothing, determined to ignore him in favour of sleep. “I just… I can’t understand it,” Astarion added after a silence had held for a good minute. “I can’t reconcile the idea of that man and you.”

“I was young and stupid,” Asmodea said wearily. “Next question.”

“How stupid could you have possibly been?!”

Asmodea released something between a sigh and a frustrated growl, her eyes snapping open. “Did you think you were the only one capable of leading young naive girls astray?”

Astarion’s nostrils flared. “That’s a low blow,” he said.

“And pestering me with this when I can barely keep conscious isn’t?!”

“And you forget that this ‘naive girl’ wasn’t swept away for a single night of a meaningless fling, five years you stayed with him. How? Why?!”

 “Because he was a half elf!” Asmodea snapped. “Because he was handsome and charming, because he was my age, because he seemed completely smitten with me. Because my whole life I listened to everyone lamenting about me winding up with a human only to tragically watch them die. Because I thought I was lucky and it hurt too much to admit it when I realised I wasn’t.”

“You loved that piece of shit,” Astarion pressed on.

With a visible effort, Asmodea sat up, supporting herself on an elbow.

“Love isn’t always a choice, Astarion. Sometimes we fall, or accidentally step into it, find it on the bottom of our shoe at the end of the day, and nothing we ever do after that seems to get the stench out.”

Astarion digested that for a moment, before continuing.

“So that’s how it is, then? You’re still carrying him on the soles of your boots, after all these years..?”

“I threw those boots out long ago,” Asmodea shook her head, and turned over on her side, facing away from him. “Now leave me be, will you?”

Another silence held, until Astarion huffed and spoke. “Fine. Sleep,” he said, rising to his feet. “Worry not, I’ll spare you the trouble and remove myself from your boots on my own.” Not waiting for any response, he left the tent.

Outside, Thorn tended to his fiddle (apparently he did have spare strings after all) with the look of someone who was trying very hard to pretend they were unaware of anything going on around them.

“What a fine, beautiful night, is it not?!” he said with a near desperation in his voice. “The stars are shining bright, the owls have left their hollows - they live in hollows, do they not? - and are hooting, the wolves are… distant. The weather-”

“Can you perform a Sending yet?” Astarion interrupted.

“Yes,” Thorn said, with some relief.

“Good. If anyone - anyone, you hear? - approaches the camp, let me know immediately.”

“Yes sir,” said Thorn. “…Are you leaving, then?”

“I’m heading out for a hunt,” said Astarion. “I’ll be back by sunrise.”

Astarion did not consider himself a jealous man. Possessive, nay, territorial - perhaps, to an extent. He was a vampire, after all. Tending to one’s own domain was only proper.

But jealousy? Hah! The bodies that had at one point or another ended up in their bed over the past five years never meant anything. Meaningless amusement. He and Asmodea took what they wanted, when it was offered. And once the fun was had, they parted with their guests with no hard feelings (or any feelings, for that matter) - it was when their visitors deemed themselves entitled to something more or wished to extend their stays when they were no longer welcome that things got ugly.

Halsin had been different. But Halsin never took more than he offered, and he had belonged to both of them equally. Still did, in a way; was still connected to them by an invisible but indestructible string.

No, this wasn’t about jealousy or grudges. So she fell in love with someone who turned out to be a wretched bastard, when she was young. Who hasn’t?!

Rather, this was a question of dignity. Astarion wasn’t about to let anyone, much less this rancid waste of breath, simply walk away after disrespecting Asmodea the way that he did, whether she chose to swallow it or not. Never mind that she was content to be besmirched. She was his, and any insult or injury inflicted on her was an affront to him as well. Astarion would not allow that which belonged to him to be treated that way, her own thoughts on the matter be damned.

Though Astarion was loath to admit it, it wasn’t merely that his sense of smell was similar to that of a bloodhound’s - it indeed surpassed it. At least when he’d had as much blood to fuel his vampiric senses and abilities as he did those past few days. One man the night before. Another drained dry just before sunset. Two lookouts. Or was it three? The odd spray of blood here and there as he butchered and maimed his way through the camp. He had gorged. Having been accustomed to little more than a rat or mouse per night for centuries before, this was an unthinkable luxury.

And now he all but saw scents painted throughout the moonlit forest. One that he had identified as Jaxxon’s, a scent laced with rot and putrefaction, trailing between the trees. Some distance away from the camp, it converged with another, one of stale sweat, roasted mortal food and tobacco. That one was unfamiliar to Astarion, but there was only one other man he was aware had escaped. Oddie had allowed that one to go, too.

Together, they made their way to a place Astarion had already grown sick of: the godsdamned shack, again.

There, the scent of putrefaction lingered and intensified. The other man’s had moved on, further into the forest. It did not loop back.

Astarion entered.

“What took you so long?!” Jaxxon’s voice rose from where he lay with his eyes closed on the earthen floor in the corner of the cabin. His voice and breathing sounded laboured, despite his apparent irritation. “Did you find it?”

“Find what?” asked Astarion.

Jaxxon’s eyes snapped open, in hatred and anger.

“You are not welcome in this house,” said Jaxxon. “Leave. You are not invited. You may not enter. I banish-” he didn’t finish whatever he was trying to say, breaking out into a coughing fit, speckles of blood flying from his mouth.

Astarion snorted and crossed his arms across his chest. “Nice try,” he said. “But truly, find what..? Do you think there’s some root or mushroom that will lift the curse?”

Jaxxon finished coughing his lungs out and swore, wincing as he moved to sit up. “Come to take your revenge, then? Or just here to gloat?”

“Oh don’t be silly, you know there’s no need for revenge - you’re already done for.” Despite Astarion’s insinuation that she had let Jaxxon off the hook, Oddie’s spite had produced a curse likely more powerful than she herself had intended. The hex had aged the half-elf some 30 human years over the past few hours. Muscles had already begun to waste away, greyed skin stretched tight against jutting bones. His lips were cracked and covered in sores. Dark, hollowed sockets held bloodshot eyes - they alone still blazed with the vigour of hatred at Astarion. Though gratifying, that wasn’t quite the emotion Astarion wanted to see in them. “That old man knows it too, he’s left you for dead.”

Why had he come?

It wasn’t because he wanted to make sure that Jaxxon died - he knew he would. No. Astarion’s purpose and reason for being here was different. It was very simple: between the anger and the bravado and the jests at the bard’s expense, he had seen Asmodea continually blinking away tears for the past few hours. And although he detested the very idea that this son of a bitch could spark such distress in her, it could not be denied: the bastard made her cry. And now Astarion couldn’t rest until he’d witnessed Jaxxon degrade and debase himself. Death wasn’t enough. Let him piss himself in terror first.

“No, there’s nothing short of a cleric or paladin that can remove the curse now,” Astarion continued. “…I could as well, I suppose.”

“You?” Jaxxon blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“I wouldn’t remove it, per se, it would run its course and dissipate upon your death,” said Astarion. Jaxxon shook his head and closed his eyes, leaning back against the cabin’s wall. “But after…”

“After?” Jaxxon opened his eyes and looked up at Astarion again. “What do you mean, after?”

“After. It is entirely within my power to provide you with an ‘after’, you know. Death is so boring, wouldn’t you say? Why should our fun stop there, when we’ve only just come to know each other?” Astarion crouched down, sitting on his heels in front of Jaxxon.

“You…” Fear had finally begun to bloom in Jaxxon’s eyes. “No. I refuse.”

“That is not up to you to decide,” Astarion smirked. “And then nothing will ever be up to you ever again.”

“You can’t.”

Astarion leaned forward, as Jaxxon reflexively shrunk back against the wall. “I can,” he smiled. “But look on the bright side! Your body will be back to its youthful state. At least I think it will be - you are not much to look at now.” Astarion grabbed Jaxxon’s jaw and twisted his head left and right, as though to inspect him. Jaxxon attempted to spit at Astarion, but succeeded only in leaving a dribble of bloody spit trailing down his own chin. “And then it will return to that youthful state, no matter what is done to it. Well… Just about, but we can get into that later. It’s remarkable, really.” Jaxxon stared back at Astarion with disbelief and dread as he continued. “For instance… I could command you to press your fingers into your own eyes, slowly, until they burst and leaked out of their sockets - it’s somewhat satisfying when they finally give, really. Imagine a runny egg, encased in the skin of a large grape.” Whether due to a sufficiently obliging imagination, or the effects of the curse, but Jaxxon twisted to the side and vomited. “And even that wouldn’t be permanent!” continued Astarion. “A few nights is all it would take for them to regenerate. Depending, of course, on how quickly you could find something to eat, blind. And you might think the bursting business is distasteful - and it is - but it is actually the healing that’s the worst part. Like a thousand tiny blades stabbing into your sockets. I would not recommend it.”

“You won’t,” Jaxxon spat.

“What makes you so sure?” Astarion inclined his head.

“You’ll turn me and have me scamper after you, like a dog? After both of you? You think she will appreciate that, be impressed?”

“I’ll throw you down a well, seal it and pay you a visit every decade or so,” Astarion hissed, grabbing Jaxxon’s throat. To his annoyance, the half-elf began to laugh. Or rather, began to make irregular choking sounds, like a dying toad, that Astarion realised were laughter.

“She will find out,” Jaxxon rasped once Astarion loosened his grip on his throat. “She will find out and will see you for what you are - an abomination. You’ll find yourself all alone one morning, and there will be nothing you can do. And by the time you can follow her she’ll be long gone.” Astarion growled and squeezed his throat tighter again, but Jaxxon continued, through the choking. “Or do you really think you’ll ever make her happy?”

“And you?!” Astarion snapped, knocking the back of Jaxxon’s head hard against the cabin’s wall before releasing him. “You’ve not got a single leg to stand on, talking about her happiness.”

“Oh but I do. And I’ve seen that which you never will. I’ve given her that which you never will. She’s lost it since, but when she had it, she was so, so happy…”

“What in the hells are you talking about?” Astarion snarled.

“You don’t know? She keeps secrets from you, then? And here I thought you were the perfect, happy couple…”

“Keep testing my patience, and I will blind you, cut out your tongue, castrate you, and then turn you.”

“Of course you’re preoccupied with my balls - your own are only for decoration, aren’t they?” Something in Astarion’s face must have changed, for Jaxxon smirked in self-satisfaction before continuing. “She carried my child once.”

Astarion saw red.

Before he knew it, his dagger was in his hand, and that hand was engaged in ripping as many puncture wounds in Jaxxon’s chest and guts in as brief a time as possible, the other grasping the half-elf by the hair. Jaxxon had long ceased making any sound, putting up any resistance, or taking any breaths, by the time Astarion finally rose, staggering away from him.

Lies, all lies… And even if they’re not, it doesn’t matter, why would it matter, there is no reason for it to matter, it doesn’t matter…

He wiped away the blood which had landed on his face. He wouldn’t drink a drop of it.

He looked at the mess that was left lying on the cabin’s earthen floor. Straightened his clothes. Sheathed his dagger - he didn’t even recall taking it out. Regained control of his breathing.

The corpse’s face was twisted in a grimace, as though frozen in a final mocking grin at Astarion’s expense. He brought his boot down on it, snapping the neck and breaking the jaw, before turning and stalking out of the cabin.

Death would have to do.

Thorn was passed out in front of the fire when Astarion returned.

“I’m awake! I’m awake!!” he jolted back into consciousness, roused by the toe of Astarion’s boot in his ribs. “Merely resting my eyes!”

Astarion clicked his tongue in disapproval, but the truth was - he didn’t particularly care that the bard had fallen asleep while he was supposed to be keeping watch. An illusion masked their tent as a massive anthill, and had any surviving bandits or gnolls stumbled on the camp and attacked - Thorn’s demise would only have served to alert Asmodea.

“I’ve been thinking,” continued Thorn. “It’s been a pleasure - an honour, even - to have you and… uh… the pyromaniac lady as company. And this nighttime escapade has been a lot of fun, but… I think it’s time for us to part ways. It’s almost daytime, and I’m starting to miss civilisation. Too much competition out here with the nightingales, you know…”

“I am wounded to the bottom of my heart,” said Astarion, who had decided earlier that telling the bard to scram was going to be his first order of business on returning to camp. “I thought a minstrel would relish the opportunity to travel with a noble vampire and a mad warlock. The tales you could spin, yourself being in the midst of the adventures…”

“Oh, well…” Thorn’s face fell a bit at that - it appeared he had not considered such an option - though moments later resolve reappeared on his features once more. “That’s quite alright, the events of the last few days alone are fuel enough for several songs. And I need some time to recover before inviting any further… ‘inspiration’ into my life.”

“Suit yourself,” said Astarion. He paused, watching Thorn gather his things. “Headed towards Baldur’s Gate, are you? Have you been there before?”

Thorn furrowed his brow and looked to the sky, then shook his head. “No, never the city proper. Not for a while, at least. But I figured there will be ample opportunity for a bard to make some coin. Maybe my sister’s gone there as well…”

A moment’s hesitation and a sigh followed before Astarion spoke again - Thorn did help some, after all. “You can stop at the Dancing Siren. Speak with Frederic, he will arrange board for you.”

“Oh? Friend of yours? Is the Dancing Siren a tavern?” Thorn perked up.

“Our master of ceremonies,” Astarion said offhandedly. “The Siren is our theatre.”

“Oh,” Thorn blinked with a change of face again. “Your theatre, you say. I will certainly find this Frederic. Thank you, Lord Van Koonin! But um… Is he a trusting sort of fellow? Would he take me at my word that I’ve really met you and got your invitation? Could you write an introductory note, perhaps..?”

Astarion waved a hand in dismissal. “Tell Frederic I know he supplies his mistress with wine from my cellar. He’s not half as discreet as he thinks he is. And tell him if he keeps taking the good bottles, I’ll follow him to her door one night, and tear off his fake moustache and his toupee in front of her.”

Asmodea lay awake, listening to Astarion sending off the bard. Now that she could rest safely and undisturbed, she found that she could not sleep a wink. Instead she lay on her side, staring at the wall of the tent. The twisting ache in her stomach had all but subsided, as had the blotches that had painted her skin. The physical discomfort was replaced, instead, by a biting void within her mind. She picked at the events of the day like prodding a raw wound. A profound sense of loneliness cast a further shadow over everything. She had chased Fuckface out of her mind on the pretext of needing sleep, but the fey could have offered nothing in consolation anyway, and obtaining any solace from them always felt like scraping the bottom of a barrel.

She heard Astarion enter the tent, discard his jacket, unclasp his weapon belt and throw it aside, kick off his boots.

She didn’t turn, didn’t stir, tried her hardest to give the impression that she was sleeping. Breathe like she was asleep, but how could she possibly know how she breathed while she slept..? He could hear her heartbeat anyway. How did her heart beat when she slept? How did it beat when she lay awake, anxious and angry and willing it to calm, and growing more anxious and angry by the second, knowing that it didn’t..? He knew, he had to know, and if he knew - then her silence was louder than any words. Still she stubbornly continued the ruse. Maybe he would let her, and they would both lie awake, pretending to sleep until eventually, hopefully, fatigue would take over. Or maybe he would break the silence at any moment, speaking to her like she was a child. A stupid, stubborn, sulking child. Or, maybe, that was being too generous and presumptuous. Maybe he was sick and tired of her. Maybe-

An arm slid beneath the bundled cloak she had been using as a pillow, another wrapped around her waist, and held her close. His body pressed tightly against hers, leaving no space between them. Lips brushed against her shoulder, then at its juncture at her neck, behind her ear.

“My treasure,” Astarion whispered softly.

The tears flowed then. She bit her lip, trying to hold on to the anger, and still they flowed. She drove an elbow sharply into his ribs, succeeded only in making him grunt lightly, though the grunt sounded almost like a laugh. Twisted in his arms, turning around. Beat his chest and shoulder with her fist, cursing with the worst expletives she could think of, until he was laughing and telling her that was enough, until somehow she found herself shaking and sobbing, her face buried in his neck. His arms tightened around her again, holding her against him and rocking her in place as he cooed something soothing in her ear.

Stupid, weak, pathetic, useless, spineless, pitiful…

“My priceless, precious treasure…”

~~~~~

Thank you for reading!

Find the fic on AO3 as well.

Byyye Thorn, I'll miss you! Thorn belongs to my friend @glassphinix. Check out his fics here and on AO3. Thank you for letting me borrow him (yet again)!

[spacebarbarianweird]

Ooooh such a cool chapter!

[vixstarria]

Bloodbang Chronicles - Chapter 16 - Vicious Mockery

Chapter summary: Absolutely no one has a good time although many die trying

Chapter CW: Violence, gore, your emotionally abusive ex

Previous chapter | Series masterlist | AO3 | Overall masterlist

Series summary:

Five years have passed since the confrontation with the Netherbrain. Astarion and his warlock lover, Asmodea, are living large in Baldur’s Gate, running a cabaret. Their life of decadence and debauchery seems idyllic, until Asmodea’s patron disrupts it with a proposal. One that seems too good to be true. One they cannot refuse.

Chapter word count: 5.3k

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Genre: Humor / adventure / smut

Rating: Explicit

“I need to trance.”

There was no going around it. Thorn had told him there was a score of bandits in the band, working in shifts. Astarion would be in his own element once night fell, but he needed to be sharp, use his every advantage. The remaining thug still wheezed on the ground, waiting to be drained - which he would be, just before sunset. But even with all the sapient blood coursing through him, Astarion felt a sluggishness coming over him. He needed rest. A regular sleep would do the trick, but there was no way Astarion could have fallen asleep. But a reverie… a state of trance could be forced.

“Shall I sing a song of rest for you, to lull you into a reverie?”

“Don’t you dare.”

When was his last reverie..? Years ago now, after he took a bad beating in the outskirts of New Reithwin. Halsin couldn’t heal him. The force of the midday sun, though he was shielded from it by a stone dwelling, prevented him from regenerating as quickly as he ought to have. He had to slip into a trance. He got lucky then. The memory he relived was merely one of a brawl he had walked out of, bloodied but with his pride intact.

What would it be now, when he cowered uselessly in a dark corner in a shack, whilst his love was surrounded by rapists and cutthroats..?

“I will keep watch then. I’ll wake you should anyone approach. I can play one hell of an earth-shattering cord if need be, but I’ll only get one chance, so I’ll need to make it count.”

“Do not cast shatter inside this shack.”

“No, no, I meant through the window of course…”

Five years of pleasant memories against two centuries of shit... The odds were against him, but not impossibly so.

“I sure could eat something,” Thorn broke the silence once again. “My stomach’s rumbling so loud I’m scared it will give us away. Suppose I could go out and maybe shoot a rabbit, gather some mushrooms..? A rabbit and mushroom stew would be nice right now. …Ahh, but a fire would draw attention to us, wouldn’t it? Better not. And we don’t have a pot, do we? And I don’t know how to cook…”

“A day’s fast won’t kill you,” said Astarion. “Now shut your mouth, or I will.”

He guided his mind toward the familiar grooves of a reverie, trying to slip into it gently. Perhaps if he concentrated on her… He couldn’t pick exactly where the reverie took him, but he could coax it, softly, in a direction of his choosing, if he kept to the right thoughts. Oddie. His sweet Oddie. Her voice. A little hoarse, a bit raspy. Husky. It used to grate on his nerves when they’d first met. As all bards tend to. Bards. Annoying. But he never took bards, except that one time… No matter. Oddie. Concentrate on her. Her touch. Her form. A woman’s body. Soft slender curves. The outline of her veins. The pulse of her blood beneath her skin. Her blood. No, no blood. She is unharmed. No harm. No suffering. No cries of pain. No, don’t even think about that, don’t think in negatives, don’t think about that, don’t think about…

The woman before him screamed in agony. The scent of blood permeated the air, but for once it stirred absolutely nothing within him. Another vampire’s blood was of no interest to him. Godey set aside the scalpel, and picked up the pliers. Astarion knew better than to look away - he knew his purpose here.

“Beg your master.”

Astarion glanced, briefly, at Cazador, before training his eyes back on Violet. He immediately regretted taking his eyes off her. His momentary lapse had gone unnoticed, but he wished he had not witnessed the childlike glee on his master’s face. The manic concentration of a boy tearing wings and legs from flies.

“Astarion, please!” Violet crawled over to him, bloodied lips pressing against his shoes, leaving trails of spit, blood and tears on the worn leather.

“What say you, Astarion?” Cazador’s voice was putrid oil. “Has your spawn been thoroughly disciplined?”

Astarion hated this game. He hated all of Cazador’s games, but this one required him to think rather than simply endure, which meant he had to remain present throughout.

There was no correct answer, of course. Agree with the implication that he was Violet’s master and suffer Cazador’s wrath at his impudence. Deny it and be punished for insolence. Astarion swallowed, mulling over the best choice of words.

“She is your property, master. I could not presume to decide on your behalf.”

This seemed to appease Cazador for the time being - in any event the game continued without immediate backlash.

“I do so enjoy when you are humble, boy,” Cazador’s fingers slid through Astarion’s hair, stroking and petting him though he were a dog. “But don’t be shy. It is entirely thanks to you that she is here with us.”

That was true enough.

A meeting with another vampire lord on neutral ground. Reithwin was deemed both sufficiently neutral and close for the event. Astarion was chosen to accompany Cazador. Aurelia had actually wanted to go, and so she was commanded to stay. No, the master would not be seen in public with a neurotic tiefling woman. A handsome elven valet with impeccable manners was nothing to be scoffed at, however. Curse Astarion’s upbringing.

Astarion didn’t recall the purpose of the meeting - he was excluded from the dealings. What he remembered was Cazador’s expression as he observed the performance of Violet Goldhammer, the famed nightingale of Reithwin, the night their business in town had been concluded.

“Neither you nor Aurelia have an ear for music.”

“I’m afraid not, master.”

“I should like you to fetch me someone who does.”

Astarion fetched.

“Well? Has she had enough?” Cazador twirled a strand of Astarion’s hair at the nape of his neck around a finger.

Astarion sighed inwardly.

It was all so… tedious. Tiresome. Boring. Did Cazador truly find this amusing? How much longer would this go on..?

Meanwhile, Violet gazed up at him, hatred blazing through her tears.

She would learn, eventually. She would learn, the way that he quickly learned from being the whipping boy for all of Aurelia’s purported transgressions, that his punishments never had anything to do with Aurelia, nor him, nor anything at all besides Cazador’s moods and whims.

Today Violet was crawling in the basement muck, tomorrow it would be him. If he tried to protect her or show mercy, it would be both of them. He didn’t truly have any power over her. Did she not see that? Did she still not understand that..?

It was nothing personal. And it would all balance over time, their torment levelled. If Violet had any mettle whatsoever, that is.

Little more than half a century, and Aurelia was well on her way to becoming nought but a husk. Astarion didn’t think she even felt fear anymore. Her sorrow, once so bitter, had diminished until it was but a tepid melancholy, the only emotion present in her dull eyes. She was otherwise the embodiment of acceptance.

The acceptance had earned her a measure of peace, but its soullessness terrified Astarion. The thought of becoming like her terrified him.

He had to prove to himself that he wasn’t succumbing to this second death the way she was.

Little acts of rebellion. Ones he committed almost wishing he would be caught and punished. A snide remark here. Speaking out of turn there. Shattering, as though by accident, precious items around the manor. Possessions of his own left in hidden places. Returning late. Returning with vagrants so filthy he wondered whether Cazador might catch fleas from them.

He would watch his own skin peeled, and somewhere in the back of his mind, through the agony, he would laugh, for it was his choice. It was a stupid choice, but it was his. And as long as he was able to make any choice at all, it meant that there was still something left of him.

“Answer me, boy.” The fingers’ grip tightened in Astarion’s hair. “Would you stop her torment?”

“Not yet,” he whispered. Violet shrieked and was dragged off his boot.

“Lord Van Koonin!” Astarion was jolted back into conscious wakefulness by Thorn whisper-shouting at him. “It’s beginning to darken outside!”

The sun was well on its way back down to the horizon by the time Asmodea was roused from her sleep by Jaxxon’s return to the camp.

Her head still throbbed and her gut was a coil of pain. Her natural charm had waned considerably thanks to her earlier efforts - she was still broken out in hives and ran a fever. She sat shivering, covered in a cold sweat, and needed to bathe, badly. Still, she felt refreshed in the way that mattered: she had a rein on her powers once more. There was only so much she could do in her weakened state, but she wouldn’t require anything extraordinary.

The slightest bit of compulsion as she whispered a word to Smiles - that dented skull was begging to be breached - and he would plant a cleaver right in the back of Jaxxon’s head then rush the other members of the band. It would pose no difficulty at all to slip away in the ensuing commotion.

But that was boring. Predictable. Cliche. Slipping into a simple mind and making its owner wreak havoc on the smaller and weaker. She’s done it before and didn’t want to fall back on it again. No, she could stage a better production than that.

“You’ll be no fun at all, if you’re dead,” cautioned Fuckface.

And yet, Asmodea felt her patron pacing in her mind like a caged wildcat that had caught the scent of raw meat.

No, she didn’t want to deal anything so blase as a basic mind control frenzy. The handful of white amanitas she had slipped into her thigh bag, however… Now that posed some interesting opportunities.

She could hand them to the grey-haired ranger that was tending a cook pot. A sweet smile, the lightest nudge of compulsion. He would throw them right in. Feed them to the crew. Or better yet - add them to the brewing tea. Mix it with the grog. Have Jaxxon call his band around for a toast.

Simple.

Ah, but Astarion... He will have been going mad with worry and self-loathing for being unable to help her, she knew. Astarion’s ego was more elastic and malleable than that pitiful fragile thing carried by most men. But to have him come to her rescue only to discover her in a camp full of corpses…

Asmodea sighed inwardly. No. The satisfaction of showing him that she could singlehandedly deal with two dozen men would be spoiled by the shadow that would no doubt pull over him once again. That feeling of uselessness and ineptitude, which had haunted him for so long in the years past. And none of this was his fault…

Let him come. Let him slaughter to his heart’s content. Let him tell her how reckless she’s been, after. She would wait. She might even think before wasting her powers on gnolls and any other local wildlife again.

She ignored Fuckface humming with approval in the back of her mind.

“Open wide…” The spoon moved back out of reach just as Asmodea opened her mouth. “Oh no, but what am I doing, you’ll burn yourself. Here, I’ll blow on it.”

Asmodea’s lips curled in disgust as Jaxxon indeed blew on the spoonful of porridge that he had held out for her. She was seated upright on a log, with her hands tied behind her back.

“Here comes the birdie,” he sang. The spoon came within reach again, only to move away at the last moment once more. “Too slow! Missed it.” And again. No, this was too much.

“Jaxx,” she sighed. “If you want some childish entertainment - untie me and I will juggle for you. Just let me have some godsdamned food first or I’ll collapse again.”

“Childish?” he asked. “What do you mean?” He bopped the tip of her nose with the spoon, leaving a small glob of the porridge on it. “You’re the child, look at the mess you’re making. Silly, I’ll help you.”

He leaned forward and it dawned in a horrifying realisation on Asmodea that he was about to lick the porridge off her nose, and she quickly turned her head to rub it off on her own raised shoulder instead.

As soon as she turned back Jaxxon flicked the spoon at her, now leaving speckles of porridge all over her face.

“Look, now you got it everywhere! Can you do anything right?!”

She went to try to rub her face against her shoulder again, but found her chin in his hands, her face lifted to meet his eyes.

“You didn’t need to poison yourself, you know,” he murmured. “They knew better than to touch you.” The gall of this man, saying that while looking straight into her swollen eye, the result of her being backhanded by Smiles earlier. “But you went ahead and did something stupid anyway. Typical.”

Maybe she should go for the hatchet in the back of the head after all - why should Astarion’s pride be more important than her own?

“And you - taunting a bound woman, really? Is this what you do to get off now?” she sneered. “Does this make you feel big?”

Her satisfaction was short-lived. Jaxxon took a handful of porridge from the bowl and smeared it over her face, as she yelped from the heat. Next moment, he had leaned toward her, his hot breath at her ear. 

“As a matter of fact, it does.”

Jaxxon got up, thrusting the bowl and spoon to the ranger who had been hovering by the cookpot nearby. “I’ve no time for this. Spade, you’re on nanny duty.”

“Aye,” the man said, seemingly unaffected, catching the bowl before it clattered to the ground. Jaxxon then disappeared inside one of the tents.

The man, ‘Spade’, had a weathered look about him. His face was hardened and crossed by lines of wrinkles, his hair hardly had any of its original colour left. His eyes, though, were lively, and crinkled at Asmodea with amusement.

“So you’re the one,” he said, sitting down. He took a cloth to dab at Asmodea’s face, wiping off the porridge, taking care around her swollen eye.

“I don’t know,” she said bitterly, “which one would that be?”

Spade threw a quick look over his shoulder before responding. “The one that got away. Never seen him peacock and strut so much before a wench. Got his smalls all in a twist.”

Surprised, she only made a non-committal grunt in lieu of a response. I suppose this does pass as flirting for him… Meanwhile, Spade had finished with the cloth and picked up the bowl and spoon.

“He didn’t say nothing about untying you,” he said apologetically.

“Yes, yes, can’t have you biting the hand that feeds you,” sighed Asmodea. “Be loyal and obey.” She accepted the spoon, relieved that this time it went straight into her mouth instead of making figure-eights around her head.

“I’m the hand that feeds this lot,” said Spade. He had a quiet confidence about him. “And they know it. Jaxxon’s still the head though.”

Asmodea grunted again, and accepted another spoonful, giving Spade a curious look.

“This your cloak around my shoulders by any chance?” she asked, noting that he was not wearing one despite the evening chill.

Spade nodded. “The less of you they see, the fewer ideas they’ll get,” he said.

“Prone to ideas, are they?” she asked.

Spade threw her another amused look. “Does that surprise you? Most of the men here are murderers and rapists. Brigands. A few are mere burglars and contrabandists - our gentry, so to speak. The lieutenants are all deserters, finally getting to push instead of be pushed around.”

 “And you?” Asmodea attempted to lift an eyebrow - the effort hindered by the swelling. “Let me guess - a burglar brought to hard times by crackling kneecaps.”

Spade chuckled and shook his head. “Me - I’m just a farmer,” he said.

“No offense, but you’re remarkably shit at farming - there’s not a patch of tilled earth in sight. Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

Spade chuckled again before speaking. “Have you heard of the wasting disease? The one that was running rampant through these parts some years back?” he asked. Asmodea nodded. “Nasty, senseless thing, it was… Lost my wife to it. She was the first it took. Then I lost my son. Then my daughter-in-law. And my little grandson, too. Smallest casket I’d ever seen - could’ve been a box for toys or knickknacks…” Asmodea murmured some condolences as the man continued. “Lost most of my crops to a drought that year, too. Lost my livestock to wolves. Then the tax man comes. Says I owed Lord Whats-his-name a tithe for the past five years. I told him I had nothing to pay no tithe from. He called me a liar, and a cheat, and a good for nothing lazy pig that needed to respect his betters, and told me he’d throw me in gaol unless I came up with the money.”

“…I take it the next thing you lost was your temper?” Asmodea asked after a pause.

Spade barked a brief laugh before answering. “You could say that. Then finally I lost a spade in his skull, left my farm and never looked back.”

“Embezzlement of the lord’s coffers,” Asmodea said thoughtfully, accepting another spoonful of porridge. She had to admit, it wasn’t half-bad. “Impressive. You must be cream of the crop around here. Suppose you don’t mind the company you keep?”

“I was a ranger before settling on my old farm,” said Spade. “It’s been decades, but thing about plants and animals is - they don’t change much. I know my way around the forest, know the plants and mushrooms, know how to brew up an anti-venom or throw together a poultice when needed. Can patch up wounds in a way that won’t make the flesh rot after. They don’t bother me, and I get to sleep with a full belly every night. Couldn’t leave them if I’d wanted to anyway,” Spade added after a pause. “My face is on wanted posters all over now.”

Darkness had descended.

And with it came a preternatural silence. No hooting or trilling of night birds. No chittering or scurrying of small animals. Even the usual cacophony of crickets was silent. It was as though all life had fled the area, bar the oblivious men that surrounded Asmodea.

Astarion.

“What are you smiling about, lass?” Spade asked from his seat near her, where he smoked his pipe. Asmodea grinned at him but did not reply. “Givin’ me the creeps,” he muttered beneath his breath.

A shrill whistle broke the relative peace of the night.

“Ohhhh, what an exquisite example of extraneous excrement!” sounded a young man’s voice. The bandits paused where they stood or lounged, exchanging confused looks. Someone giggled, some others murmured in confusion. “That means I just called you all useless sacks of shit, by the way,” the voice added from the darkness beyond the camp.

Some chuckled at that, though many of the bandits were less than happy with the explanation. Someone shouted for the orator to come out into the light.

The same voice sounded from a different location. “No, you come to me! Here, boys! Here, you lice-laden worgs!”

This did have the supposed desired effect of the speaker, because several bandits indeed got up, their weapons drawn, and stalked in the direction of the voice.

Jaxxon appeared from his tent. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Sounds like that bard bloke,” said Spade. “Playing the fool, throwing his voice around. Pate and Toad must have done in that lordling and returned with him. This will be their idea, not the boy’s.”

“Pate and Toad never had an idea between them in their lives,” frowned Jaxxon.

“Cum-guzzling cuckolds!” the voice sounded from another direction.

“He’s got balls, I’ll give him that,” said Spade, drawing on his pipe.

“And I ought to cut his tongue out for putting them out for display like that,” said Jaxxon.

A commotion sounded from the horse corral, the horses neighing and stomping around. Some moments later, shouts sounded about the horses being loose, and several bandits ran to the corral, swearing.

“Your harem’s on the run, horse-rutting whoresons!” Thorn’s voice rang again. It sounded like he was nowhere near the horses.

“How is he doing that..?” frowned Spade.

“I’ll cut his tongue and his balls off! Catch those horses!” shouted Jaxxon.

Unable to contain herself any longer, Asmodea snickered. Spade caught her eye again, frowning. “Something ain’t right,” he said to Jaxxon, who was shouting orders and not listening.

A man Asmodea had identified as one of the lieutenants stalked toward Jaxxon. “It’s that little prick,” he hissed. “He wouldn’t dare this on his own, he must have brought the militia here.”

“Anything from the lookouts?” asked Jaxxon.

“I’ll find out,” said the man before striding off. Jaxxon turned and disappeared in his tent again - likely to grab his weapons.

Spade stood up, slowly, looking around. Apprehension gradually painting on his features. “It’s quiet,” he murmured. “Too quiet.” His head whipped back to Asmodea, met her eyes as she smirked back at him. “It’s not the militia!” he tried to warn the others, but no one was listening. “You know, don’t you..?” he asked her, urgency in his voice. “What is it..?”

Asmodea shrugged his cloak off her shoulders and twisted with her back to him, motioning with her eyes to her bound hands. Spade only stared back, frozen in place.

“This isn’t for me,” she said, looking into his eyes. Not a drop of compulsion or any other beguilement laced her words. “This is for you.”

A moment’s hesitation, and Spade darted to her, dagger in trembling hand, and hurriedly began sawing through the ropes around her wrists.

“Hey!” Smiles approached, battle axe at the ready. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Spade ignored him, sawing faster, more frantically. Sweat was rapidly breaking out on his paling forehead.

 “I’m talking to you, gruel pusher!” Smiles snarled, getting closer.

“Oi, you dumb cunt,” sounded just from the bushes nearby. Smiles spun, correctly identifying himself as the addressee.

The bindings fell from Asmodea’s wrists just as an arrow lodged itself in one of Smile’s eye sockets. He collapsed, staggering backwards from the force. Beyond him, Jaxxon had just reappeared from the tent. No else one seemed to have seen Smiles being shot, his fallen body separated from the rest of the camp by a tent.

“Ad lipidem,” Asmodea hissed through her teeth as she rose, rubbing at her wrists, casting a Hold spell. Jaxxon’s entire body stiffened and went rigid mid-step. Spade fell at her feet with a stifled cry. “There there…” Asmodea murmured, stepping over him. “Now just stay low.”

Jaxxon’s eyes bulged as he managed to coax the muscles of his locked jaw open. Before he could make any sound, Asmodea grabbed a handful of porridge from the pot and stuffed it into his open mouth.

“What about this?” she grit through her teeth, as he choked and coughed up globs of hot gruel, now unable to shut his mouth from the spell. “Does this make you feel big?” She kicked his feet out from under him, making him fall to his knees. “That’s better.”

Behind her, Spade crawled to the bushes and scampered through, fleeing the camp.

No one seemed to be paying them any mind, as urgent shouts sounded from across the camp. Something about a dead lookout.

Jaxxon’s lieutenant had drawn his steel and shouted, rousing the rest of the band. “Up! Up, you mangy dogs! To arms!”

Amid the clamour, a black blur - a dark mist, with the vague outline of a man within it - shot across the camp. It crashed against the man who had been barking orders, slamming him into a pine. Before anyone could react, it dragged him up into the boughs of the tree, his blood-curdling screaming resonating through the otherwise silent forest. Someone screamed about shooting whatever it was that had carried him up the tree. Another person argued that they would hit their comrade. Then the man’s screaming stopped, abruptly. Moments later, the body fell onto the ground, crashing through the branches. The head was facing backwards.

Carnage followed.

The blur materialised in the shape of a man, and leaped from bandit to bandit, moving too quickly for an eye to keep track of.

One by one, men collapsed in sprays of blood. They were struck with cruel lacerations, aimed to prolong suffering. Disembowelment in place of what could have been quick, precise, lethal strokes. Maimed and mangled, they crawled for cover, though no cover could be found, desperately clutching to the hope of life even as they left trails of their own viscera.

A part of Asmodea felt sick. Another part was infected by her patron’s contagious glee.

“Fire, fire, fire, fire, fire, FIRE!!!”

Her head pounded with the chanting. Flames all but percolated on her fingertips, threatening to set anything she touched ablaze. Fuckface was very insistent.

“FINE!!! Just shut up!”

Asmodea looked away, buried her face in the crook of an arm - there would be no singed eyebrows this time - and threw the other arm out, fingers twisted into an amplification gesture taught to her by Gale, concentrating the full power of her fury, fuelled with Fuckface’s offering, into what manifested as a gargantuan fireball.

It shot out of her hand, illuminating the night, and devoured everything in its path, almost liquid in the way it clung to trees, tents and flailing bodies.

Smoke and the stench of charred flesh hit her nostrils again. This time, all she felt was spite.

And then Astarion was before her. His eyes glowed like the coals of hell, blood trailed down his chin and neck. Horror and monstrosity incarnate, his appearance in stark contrast to the tenderness with which he took her in his arms. Fingers - warm, fever-hot fingers - good gods, how much blood has he had..? - caressed her cheek.

“Are you hurt?” the hellfire coals radiated concern, then narrowed as Astarion’s fingers brushed against the bruising around her eye, softly. “I’ll find a way to resurrect them then kill them again.”

Asmodea shook her head and smiled. “That’s the worst of it.”

Astarion breathed a sigh of relief and pressed his blood-stained lips to her forehead, no doubt leaving a mark over the ever-present symbol drawn there.

“That is how far you have fallen?” a voice sounded behind her. “Being a vampire’s whore?”

Gritting her teeth, Asmodea reached inside her sleeve, retrieving the wedding band that had been safely tucked away there, and slipped it back on as she turned.

“Astarion is my husband,” she said. As the words left her mouth she immediately felt ridiculous for the insatiable urge to prove herself to this nobody that still knelt in the mud, trapped by her Hold spell. And yet, she could not stop herself. “We are considered heroes in Baldur’s Gate. We count the Archduke among our closest friends. We could have paid the paltry sum you named twenty times over like it was nothing, if we’d wanted to. So yes, this is how far I have fallen - no match for you, who has been running around with a band of lowlives, shitting in the bushes for the past twenty years.”

“Come and clap my hands for me,” said Jaxxon.

“I’m going to savour killing you,” hissed Astarion. “I left you last, for a treat.”

“Kill me?” Jaxxon asked with faux-outrage, shifting his gaze from Astarion to Asmodea. “You’ll let your rich-heroic-noble monster of a husband kill me? After everything I’ve done for you?!”

“You’ve never done a thing for me,” spat Asmodea.

“No? Who took you in from the streets? Who fed you, clothed you, taught you to survive?”

“You think you did me a favour by turning me into an outlaw?!”

“Oh you ungrateful whore…” he laughed. “You’d still be sucking cocks in Berdusk, if not for me! Or more likely dead, drowned in a gutter, stupefied out of your mind from pixie dust.”

 “Stop! Lying! Gratitude?! For what?! I know you were going to sell me to that drow!”

Heart hammering against her ribs, Asmodea fought hard to gain control of her breathing. She looked away, scowling. Twenty years. Twenty years, she’d been free of him, barely even thought of him, and just like that, there he was again, where she’d sworn she’d never allow him or anyone else ever again: beneath her skin. No response followed, and she looked at Jaxxon again, finding a strange look on his face.

“…Who told you that..?”

Genuine incredulity. That’s what it was. So rare to be seen across his features. Asmodea swallowed hard before speaking.

“I heard it from the goblins.”

“And you believed that..?” By the gods, he actually managed to sound hurt. “Believed some goblins, no less..? After everything we’d been through? After I kept you safe and unharmed all those years? Do you remember that tiefling that lost his tail for thinking he could touch you? No one ever laid a hand on you, I made sure of that. Everything I did, I did for you. You were my queen. Then just as we’re on the cusp of our big break, you disappear!”

“Oh shut up.”

“That drow? I lost to him on purpose, to get his guard down. Make him think I was like him. He was going to get his throat slit. All for you.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you remember, we were going to-”

“Shut up!”

“You broke my heart, Jade!” he cried out, anguish mixed with outrage in his voice.

Something snapped in her then. “That is not my name! Do you even remember what my name is?!”

“Does it matter?” Jaxxon’s tone had suddenly grown cold again. “You’ll never be that person again. I made you who you are. Who you still are, no matter what you call yourself.”

Astarion, who had been listening to the exchange impassively until that moment, bared his fangs, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his dagger. Asmodea’s hand shot out to grab his wrist, staying him.

“You’re right,” she said, quietly. “Who am I to choose whether you live or die? Let’s let fate decide,” she continued, ignoring Astarion’s eyes boring into her. “Te exsecror!” she hissed a hex.

Jaxxon fell to the ground, the grasp of the Hold releasing him. He winced, feeling his life force beginning to steadily seep out of him.

“If there is anyone in these woods who cares enough to dispel that before it extinguishes you, you might live. If not - you will die like a dog,” said Asmodea. “Now run!”

“Really?!” growled Astarion. “That’s what you want?! To let him walk?” Asmodea held his gaze, unflinching.

Beside them, Jaxxon staggered to his feet. A laugh escaped him. Astarion and Asmodea both turned their heads, glaring at him. “Three things…” he said, sucking his breath through his teeth against the pain that had now taken root in him. “Three things from you I will take to the grave with me,” he repeated, still unsteady on his feet, holding up a hand and counting down with his fingers. “Your innocence. Your pride. And your spine.”

A scream of rage finally tore from Asmodea’s throat then, and a firebolt exploded from her fingertips, but Jaxxon had found his resolve and footing at last, and had already disappeared through the trees.”

~~~~~

Thank you for reading!

Find the fic on AO3 as well.

Thorn belongs to my friend @glassphinix. Check out his fics here and on AO3. Thank you for letting me borrow him (again)!

[spiritsong]

you know once you make a supplementary OC for your main OC's backstory you're doomed

[vixstarria]

@spacebarbarianweird how many generations of Tiriel's progeny are there now, in the family saga? 😄😅

[spacebarbarianweird]

@vixstarria

1 kid

Three grandkids

An unknown number of great grandkids and further. Also ancestors and distant relatives 😅😅 because Tiriel has a daughter who has a husband and the husband has an uncle and the uncle has relatives too!

[vixstarria]

Bloodbang Chronicles - Chapter 15 - Thorn. Just Thorn.

Chapter summary: Asmodea plays 3D chess with her ex and a campful of bandits like an absolute champ. Meanwhile, Astarion nearly loses his mind dealing with a single bard.

Previous chapter | Series masterlist | AO3 | Overall masterlist

Series summary:

Five years have passed since the confrontation with the Netherbrain. Astarion and his warlock lover, Asmodea, are living large in Baldur’s Gate, running a cabaret. Their life of decadence and debauchery seems idyllic, until Asmodea’s patron disrupts it with a proposal. One that seems too good to be true. One they cannot refuse.

Chapter word count: 4.9k

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Genre: Humor / adventure / smut

Rating: Explicit

With a final look at Astarion over her shoulder, trying to convey the idea that everything was going to be fine, hoping she looked more convincing than she felt, Asmodea allowed herself to be led away by Jaxxon.

He clicked his tongue, following her gaze. “There was a time you looked at me that way,” he noted.

“Please,” Asmodea scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. Did you see him? I was going to ride that elf all the way to Berdusk, but you had to butt in and ruin all my plans.”

“Twenty years, and still you haven’t learned a thing about life or men,” said Jaxxon. “That elf,” he continued, “is a latent homosexual and a deviant, if I’ve ever seen one. I would wager he only ever looked at you because you look more scarecrow than woman. What the fuck have you done to yourself?” He reached to tug on something - whether her hair or a piercing, Asmodea did not find out, swatting his hand away before it touched her. “Look at you - you’re a mess!”

“And he’s a deviant alright,” Asmodea couldn’t help herself, noting an immediate flaring of Jaxxon’s nostrils with some satisfaction.

“Anyway, loverboy didn’t seem particularly keen to protect you. Bailed at the first opportunity, which you so courageously provided.”

“I told you, there’s more to it than you think,” said Asmodea.

“Oh just drop it,” said Jaxxon. “Do you think you’re fooling anyone? Or are you truly so smitten with that ageing elf that you believe yourself?”

Ageing elf, Asmodea thought to herself. Astarion would be livid.

“He’ll be back,” she said, her self-assuredness somewhat ruined by an escaped hiccup.

Jaxxon only snickered and pulled her onwards, continuing to berate her.

Asmodea let the words spill over her without absorbing any of them. It was strange, watching this man who had been nothing and no one to her for so long, suddenly trying to worm his way into long-forgotten and sealed crevices and grooves of her psyche. The familiarity with which he tried to reopen old wounds was nauseating, but ‘Jade’, the woman he thought he was jabbing was little more than a ghost Asmodea had all but abandoned, whose presence she had done her best to ignore for the past two decades. What stung most was the fact she had allowed any of this before.

Still, he would be angry if he thought he failed to get under her skin, she knew. He would press harder. Humouring his ego might eliminate potential problems, but did she want to slip into the same worn tracks again?

Asmodea sighed inwardly. She was too tired for all this.

The barking of dogs alerted the camp of their arrival - the day was dawning by the time they reached the campgrounds.

How she and Astarion (particularly Astarion, with his superior sense of smell and hearing) had managed to miss its being so close by - she had no idea. Some form of warding or other means of repelling beasts and monsters, if she had to guess. Possibly some tricks they had learned from the Gur. She had to admit, the camp didn’t look half as shabby as she had expected.

The campsite appeared to have been settled in for the long haul. The forest floor around the camp had been trampled flat with use. Canvas tents stood in loosely organised rows, and  smoke curled from a number of fire pits housing simmering pots and kettles. At the centre of the camp, a collection of weathered chests and unhitched carts likely held stolen goods or supplies or both. To one side, a makeshift corral held a considerable number of horses. A few scruffy dogs wandered freely throughout the campgrounds.

Already, members of the band - another dozen or so in addition to those who had accompanied her and Jaxxon, were moving about. They greeted Jaxxon with a respectful familiarity, even as they jeered at and ogled at her. No familiar faces, she thought. Probably a good thing.

How in the hells did Jaxxon manage to stay in charge all these years, she wondered.

He wasn’t the strongest man in the camp. She doubted he was the smartest or the most skilled. He wouldn’t be the most cruel or ruthless. He had never been as cunning as he thought he was, either. Frankly in most respects he was perfectly average.

What was it that kept the others compliant, kept them from taking his place? An example he had made of someone in the past? Did he deliver on his promises? Was he generous? Was it his sheer experience? He had been living this way for over two decades. The band did provide the impression of an organised operation rather than that of a scrounging ragtag group.

Was it just plain charisma? Asmodea observed him slapping shoulders and exchanging friendly jibes with his men as they progressed through the camp, Jaxxon’s jovial smile sliding off his face the moment his back was turned to them.

Perhaps they simply haven’t known him long.

Jaxxon whistled and two of the scruffy dogs trotted over, their panting maws unsettlingly reminiscent of the gnolls Asmodea had encountered a mere few hours prior. They barked and beat their tails wildly as he tousled their ears and ruffled their fur, letting them lick his face. Asmodea tried to step back, but moments later the dogs were all over her, circling and sniffing and trying to jump on her, as Jaxxon grinned up at her from where he still crouched on the ground.

Gods fucking damnit…

They had her scent. Asmodea didn’t know whether he’d used any animal speaking on them, but even if she had been in any state to use the spell herself, she knew there would be no point trying to communicate with them - clearly he was their master.

“You stay this close to Hornhollow and they haven’t ousted you..?” asked Asmodea, trying to ignore the dogs.

“We have an understanding,” said Jaxxon. “They’re deaf and dumb as to our presence in the woods, and give us a fair warning of any patrol or company passing through, rare as that is. In turn we leave them alone, and trade for their grog and grub fair and square.”

“How bloody noble of you,” commented Asmodea.

“Common courtesy goes a long way,” said Jaxxon. “You rub my back, I’ll rub yours. And, if you do something else with my back, say, stab it, like an ungrateful bitch, well…” he trailed off.

One of the men approached, casting a quick, distrustful glance over Asmodea, and leaned in to exchange some quiet words with Jaxxon. Something about a shipment’s arrival, she overheard. Still dabbling in smuggling, then, she thought. Perhaps the most innocuous of his ventures, though who knew what he was smuggling these days.

Jaxxon nodded and turned to shout some orders. Asmodea saw a group rise, gathering their gear, as the men they had arrived with continued to unstrap their armour and help themselves to portions of pottage simmering on the campfires. Others yet only began to stir from their tents. The band must have been organised to work in shifts.

“Well then,” said Jaxxon. “We can continue this conversation later, but now business calls.”

“Wait, what?” said Asmodea. “You’re leaving?!”

“Why, what’s wrong?” Jaxxon cocked his head. “Worried you’ll miss me?”

“Yes,” Asmodea said, deadpan. “Sorely. Why don’t I come with you?”

Despite the 20-year gap in their acquaintanceship, Asmodea figured she had at least a rough estimation of what she might expect from Jaxxon. What she did not know, however, was what to expect from a camp full of brigands. She knew where she would prefer to cast her lot.

“I am touched, but there’s no need. We’ll have plenty of time to sift through ashes and rekindle old flames together when I return. But for now, you can get acquainted with your new friends. Here, why don’t you start with Smiles?”

A man appeared at Jaxxon’s side. A hulking mountain of muscle and lard, clean-shaven or in any event completely bald, which baldness accentuated what appeared to be a sizeable dent in his skull. Smiles grinned at Asmodea, revealing a mouthful of rotting or outright missing teeth.

“Smiles is great with the ladies,” continued Jaxxon. “He’ll look after you.”

With that, he turned and mounted a horse that someone else had led to him.

“Now wait a-” Asmodea attempted, but Smiles stepped between her and Jaxxon’s horse, blocking her path. “Jaxx!” she shouted.

“Make yourself at home!” he saluted her. “I’ll be back by nightfall.” With that, he was off, followed by a group on horseback.

Asmodea swore and turned to stalk in the opposite direction, all too cognisant of the figure that followed her.

“Where you think yer going?” it asked.

“Bushes,” she threw over her shoulder, “to powder my nose.” To her partial relief, Smiles did not object, though he still followed, lagging some way behind. The dogs, on the other hand, happily ran after her, panting and trying to trip her.

Asmodea gently probed at her powers. Even thinking of casting anything made her head throb. As she carefully pulled on the strings of her magic, testing for anything that might give, a presence stirred in her mind. Asmodea gained the distinct impression that it was performing the mental equivalent of yawning and rubbing sleep out of its eyes. A silence held while it observed through her eyes, as she allowed it a view of the bandit camp before climbing into some shrubbery.

“What have you gotten yourself into now, little one..?”

Asmodea quickly shoved images of the past few hours at her patron.

“I leave you alone for two hours…” the presence sighed.

“I shouldn’t have wasted all that energy on those fucking gnolls.”

“Yes, I told you as much.”

“Well it’s too late to not do that, so now what?”

“I can extend more magic to you. Misty step. Invisibility. Then run.”

“Even if I weren’t too exhausted to cast anything, I won’t get far before they track me down.”

“Then you’re on your own.”

“Can’t you do anything..? Tear a portal open between the feywild and this blasted forest? I only need a teensy little one, just big enough for me to crawl through. Then have it spit me back out somewhere near Astarion?” Fuckface said nothing for a while. “Well? It’s a profoundly simple, brilliant idea, no?”

“It’s against the rules.”

“You have rules..? You follow rules?!”

“For you to enter the feywild now would… complicate things.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to inconvenience you. I’ll just spend my day getting passed around a bandit camp instead.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

A string of expletives exploded from her mind and into Fuckface’s just as Smiles yelled at her to hurry up else he’d go and drag her out whether her pants were up or down.

“Can you fetch me a rag? It’s a giant mess in here,” Asmodea shouted back at him.

“Your vampling will come find you come sunset, yes? I can’t help you if you’re too weak to accept my boons, but I can… take your memories at the end of the day. If you want.”

Asmodea shuddered. This notion of having her memories wiped, of them needing to be wiped for that matter, was not comforting.

“I have a better idea. You see those mushrooms?”

“…The white amanitas?”

“Yep, those ones. Now will you be a dear and tell me, exactly how much I should eat if I just want to be violently ill but not die?”

“None! A single cap will turn your liver into a slurry and make your blood go sour. Why do you want to poison yourself?!”

“Well would you touch someone who’s spewing from both ends?”

A wave of disgust and incredulity washed over her before her patron responded in words.

“Leave the amanitas. …But see those purple fly agarics, to the side.”

“The ones with the white spots?”

“Yes. Eat two. The effect will be almost instantaneous.”

Asmodea crawled out of the bushes just as Smiles was about to make good on his earlier promise.

“Sorry… Sorry…” she gasped. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, but… I don’t feel so good…” Just as she was yanked upright, Asmodea doubled over and expelled the contents of her stomach all over the man’s trousers and boots.

Smiles swore. He must have struck her, because her head snapped from a crack of sudden thunder and for a few moments all she saw was white, but then a hot sting spilled from the side of her head, and next thing she knew, she was being dragged, stumbling, by her hair. More vomit exploded from her, this time to a chorus of amused cries - it appeared she had gained an audience. Then she found herself thrown onto the ground near one of the tents.

“What’s wrong with her?” someone nearby asked.

“Fuck if I know,” said Smiles. “Bitch is sick as a dog.”

Asmodea opened her eyes and watched with a morbid fascination as her arm began to break out in hives before her very eyes.

“Reckon it’s contagious?”

“You wanna find out?”

Someone spat, and then a pair of boots headed away from her. Now wasn’t that easy? Asmodea began to giggle before groaning in pain and curling into a ball - her guts began twisting themselves into knots and her head spun. She wondered if the band had a healer. Suddenly she wasn’t so sure whether the notion that they most likely did not scared or comforted her.

The bandit’s body still pulled ragged, uneven, wheezing breaths. Convenient, though it was mere chance that kept it in this barely living state. The body really ought to be drained before it expired, Astarion knew, but he preferred to leave the bandit for later. For now, he would simply keep an ear out for its breathing and heartbeat. Sapient creature blood lost its most beneficial properties once its vessel was dead.

The bloodless husk of the other bandit’s body lay hastily covered in a heap of leaves somewhere. Perhaps the remaining hyenas from the gnoll camp would find it soon. 

The bard boy lay hunched, tied up and gagged, in a corner. He’d finally stopped sobbing and whimpering, and instead just stared straight ahead, accepting whatever fate was to befall him. A question Astarion had yet to decide.

As for Astarion himself, he sat in a dark corner of the ceiling. He wasn’t being theatrical, he would never - it was merely the darkest spot in the cabin - the very same cabin where he’d encountered the runaway gnome vampires earlier.

The moment they were out of sight and earshot of the main band, Astarion had turned on his escorts. Broke something near-vital in the one that now lay gurgling on the cabin’s earthen floor. Tore the throat of the other. The boy had tried to run, but Astarion quickly caught him and knocked him out as well.

He was then faced with a decision, and he prayed that he had made the right choice. He turned and broke further away from the group that left with Asmodea, managing to reach the cabin hauling both his captives just before the break of dawn.

Should he have taken the chance, tried to take on a dozen armed men..?

Asmodea couldn’t have been any help in the state she was in, and his reappearance likely would have placed her into further danger. She quite literally told him to get out and away, but of course she would have…

Should he have taken a chance and stayed..?

He didn’t know.

Astarion’s attention turned to the boy. It did not escape him that he’d told Jaxxon that he would need to get some rest before he could manage a Sending - at the very least it meant that Astarion wouldn’t need to worry about him divulging their location to anyone, for the time being. Though how long it would take for him to recover - Astarion did not know. And what the boy might consider a lesser evil: a dozen bandits, or a single vampire, Astarion also did not know. The simplest solution would be to kill him, Astarion thought. Just as that thought crossed his mind, the youth raised his damp, frightened eyes to Astarion.

“Mghuphh,” he said.

He’s just a kid…

Well, he could always kill him later, for now he may as well see if he might be useful.

Astarion jumped down from the ceiling with a graceful twirl of his cloak, and approached the boy, who tried to shrink further against the wall as Astarion neared him.

“A few things you should know,” said Astarion, crouching down by the young bard. “One, your friends have my wife.” As expected, the bard immediately began to shake his head, as Astarion continued. “Two, I do not intend to kill you, unless you give me reason to, or unless you fail to be useful. I will take your gag out, to give you a chance to be useful. And three, there is no one close enough to hear you scream, so let’s spare my eardrums and skip that, shall we?” The boy eagerly nodded, and Astarion proceeded to remove the gag.

Words immediately poured from the bard, as though a dam finally gave way to a flood.

“I was not with them! They are not my friends! I was held against my will, just like that lady! Err, uh, your wife that is.”

His name was Thorn. He was not a bandit, or so he kept repeating, in fact he grew up in a circus but left the troupe a few years back. He had been with the bandits for all of two days when they stumbled on Astarion and Asmodea’s campsite.

Continuously steering the conversation back on track from Thorn’s life story, Astarion ascertained the number of bandits, the camp location, layout, and everything else that he thought relevant which Thorn was able to provide. All that was left was determining what to do with Thorn himself.

“And how in the hells did a milksop like you wind up with a band of cutthroats, anyway?”

“Like I said, I was held against my will. I was travelling with a caravan. You see I’ve been searching for my sister…”

Astarion frowned. “Say, what’s your sister’s name?”

“Rose.”

“Rose and Thorn, truly?” Astarion snorted. “No wonder you ran away from home, with the parents playing favourites…”

“Welllll…” said Thorn. “That was her stage name.”

“Hmm. Is your sister a tall redhead, by any chance..? Mohawk, scars, massive greataxe?”

“What? No… Long brown hair, no scars - she’s my identical twin. And I doubt she’s ever even touched a greataxe...”

“Never mind.” Astarion brushed his earlier thought aside. No, Thorn and Tiriel looked nothing alike. If anything, one might have assumed she was Oddie’s sister, going by the way she looked and acted. Though the barbarian could probably also snap either of them over her knee besides.

“Anyway, what happened to the caravan?”

“I was the sole survivor,” said Thorn. “Dead, all of them!”

“Yet you were spared,” Astarion lifted a brow.

“Well I managed to convince their leader not to kill me. Said I wanted to join them, would provide them with entertainment. Performed with all the flair and pizzazz I could muster, that with my ‘audition’ being right next to a pile of still warm corpses and all…”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes, I am a man of many talents, and I’ve always got pizzazz to spare. And I can be very convincing when I want to be,” Thorn said proudly.

Astarion was not convinced. “Lovely. Very well, I’ve heard enough now.”

“Not that I would try to use my power of persuasion on y-” Seeing Astarion reach for the gag once more, the bard began to thrash. “Wait, wait, wait, don’t do that, there is another- WAIT, THERE’S MORE!”

“Oh for hells’ sake, what?!”

“There is a matter that needs to be addressed, urgently,” said Thorn, more measured now, though his eyes flickered nervously around the cabin, before falling back on Astarion, who continued to crouch over the bard, staring silently. “…Ahem. …I need to pee.”

Astarion released a sigh.

Godsdamned mortals and their incessant need to leak from every hole and crevice…

“Y’know, glad I avoided having the piss scared out of me but… Oh, why thank you,” said Thorn, realising that Astarion was untying his hands, which had been bound behind his back. “How very kind of you.”

“I am not holding it for you,” Astarion snapped, heaving the bard upright. Thorn’s feet remained bound. Astarion then gestured to the cabin’s windows, or rather the opening which served as one, before retreating to his spot on the ceiling. “And before you get any stupid, fatal ideas, I can assure you that I can move faster than you can jump out, and even should you fall through, I will not burn in the time it takes me to drag you back inside.”

Thorn made a few uncertain hops towards the window, before turning to look up at Astarion.

“…I’m afraid there is another matter that needs to be addressed,” he said.

Astarion groaned in exasperation.

“I don’t care for you and your prick, and if I did - I wouldn’t need to resort to this to get it out of your pants. Go.”

“It’s not that, it’s just I… I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?” Astarion narrowed his gaze.

“Well, just that, I can’t just point and aim...”

“Sing if you must, and I shall avert my gaze,” Astarion rolled his eyes.

“No, no, the rather… awkward intimacy of all this aside… I still simply can’t.”

“Yes you can, you pussyfooted ninny, now shut up, get it over with, and go sit back down.”

“I can’t!” Thorn too appeared to be getting agitated.

“Do I need to explain the mechanics of using your cock to you?!” Astarion was losing the last dregs of his patience. “I haven’t used mine to piss in over two centuries, but I know it is so simple even infants can figure it out.”

Thorn breathed a silent curse before training his eyes on Astarion, this time angrily. “Of course I know how pricks work, but I don’t fucking have one!” Thorn hissed, angrily, gesturing at his nether regions with both hands.

A silence held, in which Astarion took a closer look at the bard. Androgynous features, not dissimilar to those of most other half-elves. Smooth cheeks, though Astarion figured the utter lack of stubble was due to a young age - he had assumed Thorn was still a teenager, as attested to by a ripe zit in the middle of his forehead. Lovely delicate neck, not that Astarion was feeling peckish yet. Astarion couldn’t make out much else of the bard’s body, concealed as it was beneath a doublet and comfortable baggy trousers. He did mention an identical twin sister, he supposed.

“How inconvenient,” remarked Astarion.

“‘Inconvenient’?!” repeated Thorn, incredulously. “Do you have any idea, how-” he suddenly grew silent, perhaps realising that yelling at a vampire that was holding him captive may not have been the best idea. “…Yes, so the possibility of me pissing out the window has… gone out the window. Unless you’d like to see me attempt some acrobatic feats, though I assure you I am not all that flexible. Now I suppose this is an earthen floor, so as unpleasant as that would be-” he went on blabbering as Astarion silently massaged his own temples.

“Just go,” Astarion interrupted Thorn’s verbal torrent.

“…What? Go?”

“Yes, unless you’d like me to tear your throat out, shut your mouth and go.”

“…Where, in the corner?”

“Outside!” Astarion growled, gesturing at the door. “Before I change my mind! Go! Go piss, boy!”

Thorn hopped, hurriedly, toward the door, before losing his balance and falling onto the ground and fumbling with the bindings around his legs to untie them, all the while mumbling apologies and promising that he would be back in just a minute’s time. Finally, he got rid of the rope and stumbled out the door.

In the ensuing silence, Astarion’s mind turned back to the impotent rage he had been drowning in earlier. Safe, sated and left in relative peace and even relative comfort, while his love was surrounded by brigands. Occasions when Astarion’s inability to walk in the daylight was truly a hindrance were surprisingly few - he had long learned to make do with night hours, but just then he felt castrated. She was so close, yet so impossibly far. He couldn’t even attempt to test the prototype sunwalking ring Gale had gifted him, they had stupidly thrown that into the bag of holding. Hells, it would probably protect him for all of a minute before he turned to ash anyway, Gale had warned him it was not and could not be tested.

He thumbed the warding bond ring instead. She was yet unharmed, at least he thought so. He would know if she was injured. For all the good that would do either of them - he could not reach her no matter what happened. Gods, but he had never before felt so useless…

Astarion’s thoughts were interrupted as the door creaked open to admit the bard. He took great care to open it barely wide enough to squeeze through, so as to avoid any light penetrating inside the cabin.

“Okay, now then! With that over and done with… Let us plan and strategise! Devise our plan of attack. Or our deceptive infiltration - I’d much rather that, to be honest, never been one to charge in headfirst. But one way or another, we shall thwart the villains’ plans, rescue the fair maiden and, almost as importantly, reclaim my fiddle.” Noticing Astarion’s strange reaction to his words, Thorn paused, sheepishly. “…Erm. Is something wrong..? …Mister vampire, sir..? …Are you alright..?”

Astarion was choking on his own laughter. “You absolute imbecile,” Astarion managed through his fit of inane giggling. “You actually came back!”

Asmodea lay curled in on herself, occasionally whimpering from the spasms rolling through her stomach. On the positive side, she was, indeed, left alone with her misery and a skin of water that someone had thoughtfully left next to her head. The same person must have thrown a cloak over her, where she lay covered in sweat despite also shivering violently as though from a bad chill.

She twisted her warding bond ring absentmindedly. She didn’t know how far Astarion was, but Gale had done something to the paired rings to enable them to maintain their effect over a much larger distance than ought be possible.

Did it affect him, she wondered. Did he feel what she felt? His own digestive system had been defunct for over two centuries. The way he had described his blood cravings to her sounded more like an addiction than ordinary hunger pangs. The pain she was feeling now would have been completely alien to him. Why how exciting, a new experience to share… Asmodea chuckled before groaning in pain from yet another spasm.

Well, if she was making him ill, at least he knew she was alive. Small mercies. She didn’t have this luxury, the ring’s bond only worked one way. But he would be fine. Had to be, else his ‘escort’ would have returned by now, bragging about killing a vampire.

A frog hopped across the ground in front of her. It seemed to shine - no, not shine - it was reflecting light, for it appeared to be made entirely of crystals and gemstones…

What in the hells..?

“Do those mushrooms make you hallucinate..?” she asked her patron. She did not receive a response. Meanwhile, the frog continued to hop along until it disappeared, in a shimmer of amethyst, topaz and jade.

‘Jade’…

Why that name? Jaxxon knew her real name. Why couldn’t he have used it, just this once..?

But she knew why, of course. ‘Jade’ was the name he had given her. After her eyes, he said. Because outlaws had to have aliases, of course. It all seemed so exciting and adventurous, back then. So romantic.

Stupid…

He never called her by her real name again, after he picked ‘Jade’ for her.

What was her real name, anyway..?

It had been slipping her whenever she thought of it. What was her father’s name..? Bartholomew, she knew. Or, in Rashemi, Varfolomei. But what was his family name..? She would share it, wouldn’t she? Only whenever she thought of it, her mind drifted, and should she attempt to concentrate on it, she would swiftly develop a headache.

Forget the family name, what was her given name..? What did her father call her when she was little? What was it he shouted to call her home for dinner? To show her something new he brought for her?

It was as though it was just on the tip of her tongue, just on the edge of her consciousness, but impossibly far, and the way she could not grasp it was simply infuriating.

Oh well. Fuckface would know.

Asmodea. Her name was Asmodea. That’s what most people called her nowadays.

Astarion called her Oddie.

Karlach, bless her soul, whatever was left of it, had called her Oddball.

Halsin had affectionately called her Arma, the elven word for sunbeam. He had called her other elven words as well, but ‘Arma’ had been her favourite among his nicknames.

Jade was what she had been to Jaxxon. And Jade had suffocated her. But Jade was gone and she would never return.

She was Asmodea Ancunin. She had fought vampire lords, devils and gods’ avatars. And she would turn this bandit camp and all its residents to ash.

But first, she needed a nap.

~~~~~

Thank you for reading!

Find the fic on AO3 as well.

Thorn belongs to my friend @glassphinix. Check out his fics here and on AO3. Thank you for letting me borrow him, Thorn was a lot of fun to write!

[spacebarbarianweird]

Awee that was amazing! And I loved Tiriel's cameo!

[vixstarria]

Bloodbang Chronicles - Chapter 14 - Jaxxon the Noose

Chapter summary: After a night of running around the woods killing gnolls, Asmodea is drunk, exhausted, and out of spellslots. Astarion is looking a bit worse for wear as well. Be a shame if they got ambushed (again).

Also, seeing as we're 14 chapters in, now may be a good time to finally introduce Asmodea properly.

Chapter word count: 4.5k

Previous chapter | Series masterlist | AO3 | Overall masterlist

Series summary:

Five years have passed since the confrontation with the Netherbrain. Astarion and his warlock lover, Asmodea, are living it up in Baldur’s Gate, running a cabaret. Their life of decadence and debauchery seems idyllic, until Asmodea’s patron disrupts it with a proposal. One that seems too good to be true. One they cannot refuse.

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Genre: Humor / adventure / smut

Rating: Explicit

Five years ago, Shadow-Cursed Lands

Astarion lay in his tent, staring up at the roof and fretting.

Suppose she had regained her senses and changed her mind. Suppose she had said what she did only from pity, whilst being put on the spot. And now, now that she’d had two seconds to herself to think, she would realise what a huge mistake she was making, and she would end it after all.

Where was she now? Was she avoiding him? Who was she with?

He had so foolishly excised the one advantage he had over the others…

Gale certainly wouldn’t hesitate another moment before inviting her into his bed. …Not that anything would come from that. Or anyone. Astarion snickered, briefly, before a different vision began to haunt him. Halsin, on the other hand…

Interrupting his quaking trail of thought, Asmodea ducked into the tent with two bottles of wine and a wide grin.

“Gods, I thought Gale would never go to sleep… I had to wait until he was gone, to get the good wine from his stash.”

His sweet angel, she hadn’t abandoned him at all, she had simply committed to committing theft.

Her hand snatched the bottle back away just as he reached for it.

“Or have you been lying about being able to taste wine, too?”

…Bitch.

“I have not,” Astarion said, baring his teeth. “Red wine defies the restrictions of a vampire’s palate. It’s one of the very few substances that do.” The bottle returned within his reach, and he yanked it out of Asmodea’s hand, putting on only a half-hearted display of indignation. “White wine tastes like piss though,” he added.

If Asmodea wondered whether he meant that literally, she didn’t bat an eye.

“Nothing wrong with your palate, that’s just how white wine tastes.”

She sat across from him, cross-legged, and held out a hand.

“Care for some seasoning?”

Without thinking, Astarion simply stuck her ring finger in his mouth, and quickly pierced it with a fang. Droplets of blood were swiftly and carefully dripped into his wine, and the finger went back into Astarion’s mouth. He was in the midst of playfully circling the pad of her finger with the tip of his tongue before he realised what he was doing and that he didn’t have to do it anymore. He caught an unusually sheepish look from her, before throwing her one of his own, placing a light kiss on her knuckles and returning her hand.

He cleared his throat. “Why all this, anyway? Are we celebrating something?”

“We are…” she said, tentatively. “This is a new beginning of sorts, isn’t it? A clean slate. I thought it worthy of a little celebration.”

“And here I thought you’d just decided to get me drunk so you could seduce me,” Astarion jibed, before he saw her frown. “…sorry, that was in poor taste.”

“Yes, most of your jokes are,” she smiled. “It’s one of the many things I… enjoy about you. So here’s to your terrible sense of humour.”

“And to your questionable appreciation of it,” Astarion answered. They clinked their bottles and each had a sip.

Asmodea then remained seated, moving her bottle from hand to hand, staring at the ground. Clearly she wanted to say something and was looking for the right words. Astarion did not interrupt her, though the longer the silence held, the more a knot tightened in his stomach.

“The wine - it’s also liquid courage,” she said at last.

“Oh?” Astarion said, nonchalant, even as the tent’s floor seemed to begin to drop and give way beneath him. Perhaps he had relaxed too soon. Perhaps the slate had been cleared for friendship, or worse - for nothing at all. Perhaps-

“You have very generously revealed your skeletons to me. I thought now would be a good time for me to return the favour,” she said. “…If you want to hear about them, that is.”

“Skeletons, you say,” he couldn’t help smiling, the ground beneath him solid again.

Whatever skeletons she had, they could not compare to his own stockpile. Still… He had to admit, there was not much he knew about her. She had been a travelling bard for 20 years or so. …Not a particularly good one, but good enough to get by. She’d travelled all over the Sword Coast, had a story to tell about just about every town and hamlet. And just before she was abducted by the mindflayers, a fey that she affectionately referred to as ‘Fuckface’ appeared in her mind and made a deal with her that forced her to amuse it in exchange for its magic. But beyond that… Why he didn’t know the first thing about her.

“What is your real name?” he asked softly. Perhaps that omission had been a cautious choice, not an obligation.

“I can’t tell you,” she shook her head. “That’s locked by the contract. But you can call me-” Her lips sealed, abruptly, just as they began to form the ‘O’. It was a few seconds before she managed to pry them open into a scowl. “…what you’ve been calling me. I like it, anyway.”

“Oddie it is, then,” Astarion smiled. “And where does my dear Oddie call home?”

“Home?!” Asmodea laughed with a tinge of bitterness. “I have no home. But I’m from Elversult, if that’s what you mean. Or, as everyone I’ve ever mentioned the town name to likes to joke, Elvenslut.”

Astarion snorted, as he lay back, reclining catlike, and continued to sip his wine, his worries abating by the minute.

“Why can’t you call Elvenslut home?” he asked. “Did you not spend long there?”

“The first 12 or 13 years or so… Then I was sent to Berdusk.”

“Yet it’s not home,” Astarion probed again.

“Not by choice…” Asmodea sighed. “The short version of the story is, in Elversult children inherit their parents’ debts. While the banks will eventually write them off, private debts have no expiry at all. And the scum that enforce this are not people you want to test.”

“Your family made some bad deals then, I take it.”

“My father. He’s the only family I ever knew.”

“Your father was around and he didn’t even teach you elven..?!” The notion that an elf would fail to pass on the True Tongue to their progeny seemed more objectionable to Astarion than the thought of the said elf accumulating sizeable debts.

Asmodea blinked in momentary confusion.

“…My father was human,” she said. “He taught me Rashemi. It was my mother who was the elf. I never met her.”

“Ah,” Astarion was taken aback. Not the usual way it went with half-elves, but not unheard of either. “I’m sorry, I assumed… Never mind. Died in childbirth, I suppose?”

“What? No, no… She was alive and well, last my father saw her, as far as I know… He hasn’t talked about her much, only occasionally when he drank… But from what I’ve gathered, my father went on his dajemma. Ended up working for my mother’s family. They had an affair. Had me. Then she handed me over to him, and sent him on his merry way. Her family paid him off to leave and never come back, and to never tell me where I came from. I was a shameful accident for them, I expect,” Asmodea huffed and had more of her wine.

“Darling…” said Astarion. “I don’t know what might have occurred, but elven women don’t have ‘accidents’… You were a choice, and you were wanted.”

Asmodea frowned, digesting that information, before shrugging and continuing.

“Regardless, my father never ended up returning to Rashemen. He took the money he was given and settled down in Elversult. Became a merchant. A fairly successful one, until the last few years. I don’t know what happened. A series of bad calls, maybe. A famine somewhere. Stolen, uninsured shipments. Who knows? Point is, he went bust. Racked up more and more debts he couldn’t pay. Then I guess he was killed, or maybe killed himself before someone else could. I don’t know…” The look in her eyes didn’t match the flippancy of her tone, and Astarion reached out to give her hand a light squeeze.

“Berdusk, you said..?” he asked, gently running his thumb over her knuckles.

“The school at the bardic college there,” Asmodea nodded. “I only realised it later, but he probably did it on purpose, so I would be nowhere near once the inevitable happened. Though I guess he expected I would be able to pay my own tuition,” she smiled humourlessly. “They kicked me out when I was 15.”

“Kicked you out? Truly?”

“I wasn’t there on merit. As soon as the payments stopped, I was told to gather my things.”

“Clearly that did not deter you or make a difference,” Astarion offered.

“Oh please… The college produces court bards and historians. Me, I assault my lute and scream profane ditties about tavernkeepers’ daughters losing their maidenhoods. There is a slight difference between the foregone possibilities and reality.”

“Still,” Astarion continued, “you’ve been making a living as a bard for… What? Close to 20 years now?”

“About 15.”

Astarion did some rough maths in his head. “That leaves bit of a gap,” he said, as Asmodea held his gaze, drank her wine, and nodded. “…How did you fill that gap?”

“Well,” she said. “First I got a job as a governess though a friend’s parents. That lasted all of a month, before I fled. Never did like children… Then, I tried making ends meet as a barmaid in a couple taverns. That turned out to be too much work for too little pay, and involved too many drunk men with wandering hands. Then I got a job at a tailor’s shop, and I thought that was going well, but then two months later the owner accused me of stealing and kicked me out.”

“Were you stealing?”

“Not even half as much as he claimed I did!” Asmodea said, indignantly. “After that I was at a complete loss. I searched, but no place else wanted to hire me. I couldn’t go back to Elversult. My college friends shunned me. What was a girl to do..?” she asked, cocking her head.

“…Ah,” said Astarion. “Say no more, I can imagine. Well come now, I am the last person in the world who would judge you for that.”

To his surprise, Asmodea laughed and shook her head.

“I can guess where your mind went, but no, that’s not what happened…”

“Oh? And what did happen?”

“Well, you see…” she said. “I met a man…”

Present day

“Ah, but where are my manners,” the man said, as though only then taking note of Astarion. “Jaxxon the Noose,” he said, with a bow and a flourish, “at your service.”

From the moment he laid eyes on him, Astarion decided he hated this puffed up ruffian. He hated his raven hair which looked greasy to the touch. Hated his stupid twirled mustache and goatee. Hated the tacky diamond stud in his half-elven ear, definitely a fake. Hated the feather decorating his hat, and the way his forest green breeches and vest complemented his olive skin. Hated his over-familiar, jovial, phoney tone, his smug grin. And, above all, hated the way his eyes slid all over Asmodea.

“I beg your pardon… Does what on the noose..?” Astarion quirked a brow.

“His name is Jaxxon,” Asmodea cut in. “They tried to hang him, once, but he got away, with the noose still on his neck.”

“Ah yes, it was quite the tale - I could recount it…”

“Please don’t,” said Asmodea.

“You always were a spoilsport, Jade,” said Jaxxon.

“Jade?!” Astarion turned his head and asked, excitedly.

Asmodea only shook her head, briefly. It was only one of her many fake names.

“No, not what you go by, these days?” asked Jaxxon.

“Why Lady Oddette, you surprise me,” said Astarion.

“Lady?!” Jaxxon exclaimed before bursting into laughter. “If you only knew this ‘lady’ as well as I have,” he said, his laughter dying down. “Ah, but it appears you may,” he said, gesturing at their single pitched tent. “Anyway. You haven’t introduced me to your companion.”

“This is A-” Asmodea fumbled for a name for a moment “…Astrahdian van Koonin. He’s uh…”

“He’s certainly a mouthful,” Jaxxon interjected, frowning. “You will forgive me if I don’t introduce you to all of my friends right now,” he said, waving his hand at the jeering crowd that surrounded them. “You will have plenty of time to get to know them better later. At ease, boys!” The ‘boys’ which had already seemed perfectly at ease, relaxed further. One began pissing on a nearby tree. “So what brings you and Astrahdian van Koonin to this neck of the woods?”

“We’re taking a shortcut,” Asmodea said just as Astarion chimed in with “We’re taking the scenic route.”

“Hmm,” hummed Jaxxon. “My, how awkward… We sprung on you before you could agree on a story. No matter, I’ll play along. And how are you finding the scenery, Lord van Koonin?”

“Horrid,” said Astarion, casting an eye around the bandits encircling them.

Half a dozen hard-looking men, not counting Jaxxon himself. Standing deceptively at ease, though a few still held loaded crossbows in the crooks of their arms, quarrels pointed at him and Asmodea. Astarion suppressed a sigh. Though he could most likely survive being treated as a crossbow bolt pincushion, Asmodea was regretfully fragile and could boast no such thing. Besides, an unarmed youth, a boy somewhere between 16 and 20, lurked behind them. A strange addition to a band of ruffians, which also worried Astarion in its utter incongruousness. A wizard’s apprentice gone rogue, perhaps?

His eyes flicked to Asmodea. Though she attempted to hide her inebriation, he saw through the facade she put on, the glassy eyes, the sluggishness masked as a lack of concern. Besides, ‘can’t gather enough magic to lift a feather’ were her own words, not an hour past.

No, there could be no heroics. Though with the impending dawn, he had to think quickly now. Perhaps if he drew the attention to himself…

“And foul-smelling,” he added.

Asmodea all but hissed at him, clearly unhappy with his plan to provoke and distract.

“I am his guide,” she grit through her teeth, speaking to Jaxxon. “He’s a diplomat. We have to get to Berdusk, and we can’t risk the roads.”

“Why not?” asked Jaxxon.

“Don’t you know? The roads are crawling with bandits!” said Astarion, releasing a high-pitched, foppish giggle.

“Listen,” Asmodea continued, leaning in towards Jaxxon conspiratorially. “There’s something going on. It’s big. Bigger than all of us…”

“Right,” said Jaxxon. “There is a grand conspiracy, the world is coming to an end, and so you’re shitfaced in the middle of the woods at night with an elven lordling. What have you been drinking?” he asked, waving a hand in front of his face, as though to ward off the fumes coming from her. “Your story is ripping at the seams, sweetheart. But you know what hasn’t ripped at the seams? My bag of holding!” he exclaimed, gesturing at Asmodea’s old bag, which was thrown carelessly onto the ground by their tent. “Do you have any idea how difficult they are to come by?” Jaxxon asked, his tone changing. “Real ones, not imitation with a fraction of the capacity, or ones with temporary enchantments, that stop working inexplicably, exploding along with all of one’s possessions? Speaking of, all of my possessions were in the bag when you so thoughtlessly decided to wander off with it.”

Before Astarion could attempt to talk his way into making amends on behalf of his ‘guide’, Asmodea’s eyes blazed and she exploded with indignation.

“That bag held a handful of mismatched torn socks and some skidmarked underwear, a rusty shortsword, some subpar shifter erotica, and a few weak potions!”

“And the band’s earnings from two raids.”

“Did it..? The sum was so measly, it’s fled my mind.”

Astarion did groan out loud them. He attempted to stand up, but was immediately forced to sit back down as more weapons appeared in the hands of the bandits.

“We would be happy to recompense you for any damages suffered at Lady Oddette’s wandering hands,” spoke Astarion, “ten-fold, but you see we don’t have that kind of money with us here, and…”

“And you suppose I should let you go to the nearest town with a bank and trust that you will return with the gold in hand,” said Jaxxon.

“You’re right,” said Asmodea. It appeared she too had finally noticed the shifting colouring of the pre-dawn sky. “I’ll stay. As collateral. Lord van Koonin will retrieve the gold. Isn’t that right?”

It wasn’t right. None of this was right. But there was no way they could both survive a fist of armed and alert bandits, especially if that youth did indeed have some tricks up his voluminous sleeves, as likely did Jaxxon himself, the way he strutted apparently unarmed. Not to mention that if Astarion didn’t leave, now, he would soon become a pile of ash.

“I suppose I don’t have a choice,” he grated. Astarion’s eyes flicked back to Jaxxon. “How much?”

Jaxxon named an exorbitant amount.

“Fine,” Astarion shrugged. “I best get on my way, then,” he said. He rose, first casually picking up Asmodea’s journal and depositing it into an inside pocket of his doublet.

“Hold it,” laughed Jaxxon. “You could at least try to barter to try to make it more believable, she’s not that good of a lay.”

“She is needed in Berdusk,” Astarion said, managing to look down his nose at Jaxxon, though they were the same height. “You’ll get your damned gold. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“I will not excuse you,” said Jaxxon. “You two,” he said, pointing to two of his thugs. “Accompany Lord van Koonin. The moment he appears to be inclined to appeal to the authorities or flee without making good on his promise to our dear Jade, or Oddette, or whatever the hells she calls herself now, dispose of him.”

“If I could have a word,” pitched in the youth who had been hanging behind the others. “I also need to visit a town. You see, the strings of my fiddle which one of your gentlemen accidentally snapped… Obviously I can’t acquire new ones in the woods out here. I must visit a music shop.”

Merely a bard, thought Astarion, tightening his lips in irritation.

“And get the boy some new strings, will you,” Jaxxon waved a hand.

“No! Er- No, that simply won’t do,” objected the youth. “Strings are a private, intimate matter, not just any strings will do - they must sing to me, speak to me, I must pick them out myself. I can’t bear the thought of doing any less than my full potential at your service. If I-”

“Can you do Sendings?” Jaxxon interrupted.

“Well… yes,” stuttered the boy. "I need to rest a while, but-”

“Fine, go. You will update me on the progress.” Jaxxon turned to the two men picked to accompany Astarion. “If he tries to run, catch him and remove a finger. He can choose which one - don’t want to hinder his ability to play. Repeat as necessary.” He turned back to Astarion. “I will leave to your imagination what will happen if you try to flee.” He smiled cheerfully. “But I’ve got better things to do in the meantime,” he added, grabbing Asmodea by the elbow. “Catching up with old friends and such. Well then. Toodaloo!”

Five years ago, Shadow-Cursed Lands, later the same night

Astarion lay back and released a low whistle.

“I wonder what the others would make of that. Lae’zel wouldn’t see anything wrong with it, I’m sure. But Wyll? Karlach? Halsin would stop finding himself in your company at every opportune moment, that’s for sure.”

“It wasn’t always so bad,” said Asmodea. “In fact, it started off almost innocent. Back in the early days… When it was just me and Jaxx and a few others. We would ambush travellers on quiet roads. I would play the maiden in distress. Stay on the side of the road, looking pathetic. My cart had broken down, my horse had run away, my child was sick, whatever. Whoever was passing by would stop their horses, get out of their carriages. Then Jaxx and the others would come out of hiding with their crossbows.”

“Innocent, you say?” Astarion raised an eyebrow.

“Compared to what it evolved into, that was child’s play. Jaxx was still putting on some ‘noble brigand’ act. Women and children weren’t harmed. No one got killed unless they tried to fight back. We got their gold and jewellery, and they got a lesson in caution.”

“So what changed?”

“I don’t know,” said Asmodea. She sat back, thoughtfully taking another gulp from the half-forgotten bottle of her wine, before continuing. “It’s not like it happened overnight. But the band gradually grew, got more violent. Every day, I would see or do or ignore a fraction more than I did the day before. Until I didn’t even recognise myself anymore.”

“I understand,” Astarion said softly. “So how did it end?”

Fifteen years prior, Hidden Grove

Charred pork. The air smelled like charred pork.

She wandered, in a stunned stupor, through what remained of the grove.

Bodies sprawled in puddles of blood and bile. So many dead. So many struck down from behind trying to flee. It was senseless. What was the drow that had hired them even trying to achieve..? And when had their band of thieves turned into a band of mercenaries..? The drow’s goblins had done most of the massacring, but she’d seen some of Jaxx’s men running around like children in a candy shop, pillaging.

Some of the grove’s residents were still alive. A woman’s screaming sounded from a nearby hut, as did mens’ laughter.

Asmodea - although she wasn’t ‘Asmodea’ yet back then. What name had she been using..? No matter… Asmodea shuddered and started humming a tuneless song to herself.

Abruptly, the screaming stopped, and male voices began to shout angrily, instead. Someone had found a measure of twisted mercy, then, it seemed.

From the corner of her eye, she saw movement within one of the shacks. Someone small and light-skinned. Not a goblin. She proceeded into the hut.

What she found was a young teenager - barely more than a child - with an unruly mess of brown hair, cowering in a corner, staring at her with shocked, unblinking eyes of a strange pink hue. She cradled a dead toddler - no, not a toddler but a gnome child - against her chest. Blood poured in a steady trickle from a gash on the girl’s lips, colouring the gnome’s pale hair crimson. The gash would leave an ugly scar. If the girl lived long enough to accumulate any scars, that is.

Shit.

It was much easier when they were just dead - she had absolutely no obligations towards them. Nothing could be done for them anyway. But this girl - she was a problem. She didn’t want to witness anything that might happen to her.

What was she supposed to do now?

Her own protected status was hanging on by a thread, she couldn’t realistically extend it to this girl. And how would she justify that, anyway? Claim her as an apprentice? A servant? As if the girl wouldn’t stab her at first opportunity, after what her cohorts had done to her friends and family. Or, more likely, bite her - the poor, feral looking thing was practically snarling.

“Hey. What’s your name?” Asmodea asked.

The girl stopped snarling and finally blinked, suddenly looking every bit just a scared, distraught child, and wiped at her face.

“Winnie.”

Good… The girl still had her wits about her. Wasn’t frozen in place by fear. She had a chance, maybe.

Asmodea finally noticed a dead goblin in the corner of the shack. A druidic weapon protruded from the goblin’s chest. Asmodea bent down to pull the blade out.

“Did you kill this goblin, Winnie?”

The girl sniffed, and reached up to rub her face again, only managing to smear more blood across it.

“Y-yeah,” she said.

“Good,” said Asmodea, handing Winnie the blade, handle-first. The child finally let go of the corpse she had been clutching, and took the knife from Asmodea’s hands instead. Asmodea then looked back over her shoulder, checking for her ‘comrades’. There was no one around. “Now get the fuck out of here, Winnie.”

The girl sniffed again but got up, eyeing Asmodea with distrust.

Asmodea stepped aside, away from the doorway, and the girl walked out, looking around, dazed. She began to stumble in the direction of some of the burning houses.

“Other way!” Asmodea called out, sharply.

Winnie sobbed but turned around and hurried in the other direction, disappearing among the trees.

Well then. The girl was out of Asmodea’s hair and in the hands of whatever gods she worshipped, now.

She shouldn’t have come here. Best to leave and try to forget.

Rounding a corner, Asmodea walked straight into a staggering goblin woman, who smelled like an explosion in a distillery.

“Pretty half-breed,” the goblin screeched in a mock sing-song voice. “Pretty half-breed girl,” she repeated, reaching for Asmodea’s long, silken hair, and chortled. Asmodea attempted to side-step the goblin woman, but she blocked her path. “Pretty half-breed girl’s man was playing cards with the drow yesterday,” she said conspiratorially.

“It’s a free forest, he can play cards with whomever he wants,” said Asmodea, pulling her hair back out from between the goblin’s fingers.

“Pretty half-breed girl’s man lost her to the drow,” the goblin grinned. “Won’t be pretty no more, once the drow gets his hands on her.” The goblin then spilled into a cackling laughter. She walked past, as Asmodea’s spine turned into an icicle.

He wouldn’t…

Her feet carried her away from that hideous cackling goblin, away from that awful burning village.

It can’t be serious, no one in their right mind-

She reached the edge of the grove, heading for their small encampment, where they kept the horses.

Even if he did, he would fix it, you can’t just lose a person in cards…

No Jaxxon in sight. Only a single bored-looking sentry keeping an eye on the horses. Did he leer at her knowingly? Didn’t matter, she was free to come and go as she pleased. Wasn’t she?

Only once she was safely atop her own horse did she allow anger to seep into the incredulity and disbelief that she was feeling. And panic. But mostly anger.

Bastard.

Asmodea’s eye caught sight of Jaxxon’s prized bag of holding strapped onto his own saddle. Strange, he rarely let it out of sight. Couldn’t be far, then. Before she could change her mind, she quickly unbuckled it, and secured it over her own shoulder.

The sentry didn’t even look her way as she spurred her horse on away from the others.

But where to?

She looked in the direction the girl had disappeared, and hesitated. The child couldn’t have gotten far, she could easily catch up to her.

Asmodea stalled a few moments longer, before riding in the opposite direction.

~~~~~

Thank you for reading!

Find the fic on AO3 as well.

Winnie belongs to my friend @thechaoticdruid. Check out her fics for more of Winnie's story. Thank you for letting me borrow her, and sorry Asmodea did your girl so dirty.

[spacebarbarianweird]

Finally!

[vixstarria]

Mr Mime

It was an ordinary day in Discord. "What pokemon would your Tav train?" someone asked, innocently.

I didn't have to think hard. Forget the Tav though. I knew exactly what I wanted to see Astarion encounter.

Astarion, bg3 x pokemon crossover, horror, crackfic 🎃🤡

Summary: Astarion and Tav find a lone Mr Mime out in the woods. It follows them.

2.3k words

The thing looked grotesque. A dumb look in its enormous eyes, a lipless mouth-hole opening into a toothless grin. Twig-thin arms and legs, appearing to be joined by hinges. Astarion supposed the blue tufts protruding from its head were meant to represent hair, or in any event were a mockery of it. It looked like a marionette with no strings, or a child’s drawing come to life: bright, and ridiculous, and wrong.

“Mr Mime,” it introduced itself, extending a gloved hand. No, not gloved, Astarion realised. The ‘glove’ was part of the abomination. Astarion’s stomach twisted into knots and he crossed his arms in front of it and glared down his nose at the creature.

“I found it when I was gathering mushrooms,” said Tav. “It followed me back to camp. I think it’s lost - Mr Mimes aren’t exactly known to be a wild-roaming species.”

“Ugh,” said Astarion. “What does that have to do with us?” He did not wish to spend their first pleasure trip since obtaining the sunwalker ring for him petsitting someone’s lost pokemon. Especially not this parody of a being.

“We can’t just leave it here!” protested Tav. “We’ll take it to the nearest town, maybe someone’s looking it. Who knows, there might even be a reward.”

“Or a bounty on its head…” muttered Astarion. He didn’t want to admit it, but this caricature of a clown unsettled him. “…But fine, I suppose it can come along,” he said, seeing that the decision had already been made for him.

“Mr Mime,” said Mr Mime.

Astarion resolved to simply ignore the Mr Mime. They would hand it to the authorities in the nearest town and that would be the end of it. And yet, he found himself unable to allow the creature out of his sight. There was something about it that unsettled him - he simply did not trust it.

The wretch did make an effort to make itself useful. Once they stopped to set up camp for the day, the creature immediately took to chores and all kinds of menial tasks, unprompted and with eager glee. The tent was pitched, the kindling was gathered, even Astarion’s boots were polished so brightly he might have seen his reflection in them, if he had one. Why he could almost forgive it its existence.

Then it picked up a knife.

Absolutely not. These creatures could be trusted with mops, brooms, rags, maybe a ladle or stirring spoon, but a blade..? Unacceptable. He was about to tell the Mime off, but instead watched, repelled yet mesmerised, as it took one of the rabbits Astarion had hunted earlier, and gutted it, slicing the carcass belly to sternum, with the precision and confidence of one who’s done it countless times before. It then proceeded to happily scoop out the rabbit’s intestines and internal organs, humming a children’s nursery rhyme to itself.

“Hey,” Astarion managed through his suddenly parched throat, coming to from his stupor. “Just what do you think you’re doing?!”

“Mr Mime,” answered Mr Mime, continuing its work on the carcass. It looked up at Astarion and smiled, holding his gaze as it swiftly peeled the rabbit’s hide from its flesh in a single smooth motion. Astarion flinched. Mr Mime grinned wider. It then looked away and set to dismembering the carcass.

Was this normal..? Was it supposed to know how to do that, so smoothly?

What in the hells had happened to its owners, anyway, wondered Astarion.

Astarion watched it all through the following day.

It followed at their heels with the devotion of a loyal dog, never dawdling, never straying far. Always there to offer a helping hand. Always watching, Astarion noticed. Always calculating, always apprehending their every move, as though memorising and learning their habits.

Oh it played the fool, waving its hideous twig arms around, and humming off-key tunes. Yet when Tav tripped over a root and fell, it was there even before Astarion, offering a hand.

Tav seemed smitten by the thing, but Astarion knew better. It was trying so hard to ingratiate itself, make itself useful, indispensable... Astarion knew this song and dance so well, performed it himself not so long ago…

That evening at camp, Mr Mime sat turned away from Astarion, tinkering with something. No, not tinkering… Astarion realised that his tin jar containing his sewing kit was on the ground beside it. Astarion scowled at the sight - the creature indeed had gotten its disgusting grubby hands on his needles and thread, and was mending Tav’s torn shirt.

Indignant, Astarion turned to Tav.

“What’s this? Did I say that the dunce could play with my tools?!”

“Astarion, will you stop complaining about the poor Mr Mime?” snapped Tav. Had he been complaining about it..? Surely not. Shared some observations, at most. “It wanted to help, so I found something for it to do. It’s been weeks since I asked you to mend the shirt.”

“And I said I would do it!” huffed Astarion.

“But you didn’t,” said Tav, giving him a pointed look. Tav turned away before Astarion could come up with a retort.

Great, he thought, I’m being undermined by a clown with a two-word vocabulary. At least it’s not my wardrobe being ruined for its amusement.

“Mr Mime,” said Mr Mime, grinning at Astarion. It held up the mended shirt. It was immaculate.

The following day, Astarion found Mr Mime hunched over near a stream, scrubbing laundry.

He could hardly find fault with this - the stream would have been acid to Astarion’s own hands. He was about to leave the creature to its task, when he glanced at the contents of its basket to discover that the pile of laundry consisted almost entirely of Tav’s smallclothes.

It wasn’t right. Mouth twisting in incredulity and revulsion at this invasion, Astarion was about to approach the Mime and yank the item from its hands, when he saw Mr Mime reach for a new piece of clothing. It turned the item in its hands, inspecting it. Astarion was behind, and couldn’t quite see exactly what it was doing, but…

Why is it inspecting it so closely..? It’s just a pair of… Oh gods, did it just sniff them?!

Mr Mime lowered the item and continued to happily hum and mumble, splashing in the stream.

Astarion’s stomach turned, a nauseating feeling that had nothing to do with his eternal hunger twisting it into knots. He turned, his feet carrying him away from the perverse clown seemingly of their own volition. He couldn’t stand to be anywhere near it. He needed to get away from it. Now. And he had to get rid of it, had to…

A fruitless hunt. A waste of time, a waste of breath… A failure. Astarion returned to camp empty-handed. It was late, Tav had already gone to sleep. At least the blasted Mime would also be lying in its spot by the fire, thought Astarion, and yet…

The damned creature was standing at the entrance to their tent, its back to Astarion, only again bent over something that it was fidgeting with and adjusting. What now..? Astarion decided to circle around, out of sight, until he could get a prior view.

Creeping around the edge of the camp, Astarion discovered that the object in Mr Mime’s hands was in fact another pokemon. A Ditto. A pink blob of a thing. It had a face, one even more imbecilic than the Mime’s. The two simpletons whispered to each other. How in the hells could they understand each other’s inane gibberish, and what could they possibly have to talk about..?

Astarion’s ponderings were cut short as the Ditto shimmered, liquified and morphed into an oblong shape. Astarion briefly wondered if it had transformed itself into a bludgeon, before realising, with a sickening disgust that it in fact turned into a massive, pulsing, pink phallus. Perfectly anatomically correct, if one were to ignore the imbecilic smiling face with beady little eyes at the tip of the glans. It fastened to Mr Mime’s nether regions.

“Mr Mime,” said Mr Mime. Astarion realised that the creature was watching him and grinning, a moronic look of joy plastered on its face. It wagged its hips, causing the Ditto-phallus to wave to and fro.

Astarion had had enough. He could not, would not simply walk away from this grotesque display, the way he did at the stream. He pulled a dagger, determined to put an end to it once and for all.

As Astarion lunged, Mr Mime pulled an exaggerated surprised face and began pantomiming the motions of pressing an invisible wall with the palms of its hands. Just as Astarion was about to strike out, he found himself running into an invisible barrier, and dropped the dagger from his hand.

“Mr Mime,” said Mr Mime, gleefully stroking its Ditto, as Astarion crashed again and again into an invisible yet irrefutably solid wall. The barrier appeared to extend all way way around the tent and was impenetrable. All Astarion could do was beat his fists against it and scream in impotent rage as Mr Mime turned and disappeared into the tent where Tav lay sleeping.

Astarion awoke screaming, in a puddle of his own sweat, his chest pained as though a stake had been driven through it.

“Mr Mime,” said Mr Mime. The creature was crouching next to him. It offered him a towel.

Instead of accepting the towel, Astarion grabbed the Mime’s neck.

“I know what you’re doing,” he growled. “I know what you are. Did you think I’m stupid - I know you’re a psychic type,” Astarion went on, as the Mime opened its mouth pathetically and grasped for Astarion’s hand around its throat, to no avail. “You gave me that dream. Why? To torment and taunt me?” Mr Mime suddenly reached and slapped Astarion with its overlong arms. More from surprise than from pain, Astarion’s grip loosened, and the creature scrambled away, running. “Come back here!” Astarion chased after it .

Mr Mime sprinted as fast as its stumpy legs could carry it, and ran and hid behind Tav, who rose from the campfire.

“What is going on?!”

Mr Mime wrapped its little twig arms around Tav’s waist as it cowered. It was so short, Astarion realised, it didn’t even come up to chest-height standing next to Tav. Evil certainly came in small packages.

“This thing is feeding me nightmares!” hissed Astarion. “It’s in my head, it wants- It’s trying to… to…” Whatever words he wanted to say died in his throat, smothered by the weight of their absurdity before they could leave his mouth.

“What is it trying..?” Tav asked, carefully, as the Mime continued to whimper.

“It’s trying to replace me,” Astarion blurted.

“It’s trying to replace you..?” Tav repeated, looking at him as though he was the cretin. “Are you out of your godsdamned mind?! You were thrashing in your sleep. It was concerned, and went to make sure you were alright. You’ve been spending so much time in the sun, maybe it’s addled your brain.”

“I am not crazy!” Astarion exclaimed, the tone of his voice bordering on hysteria. “That lying, scheming abomination is manipulating you and plotting against me!”

“Astarion stop it, it’s terrified!”

“Mr Mime!” cried Mr Mime. Tav bent down to console it, giving Astarion a dirty look.

Astarion stormed off.

It’s psychic. It knows exactly what it’s doing. Everything is deliberate, everything. Bet it has Tav under its spell as well, it must.

They walked through the forest. The trees had thinned, the ground was interlaced with trails and the wild berry bushes they passed were picked clean. No doubt they were nearing a village or hamlet.

Mr Mime, carefully steering clear of Astarion, was holding Tav’s hand and skipping like a child.

I need to get rid of it. I will get rid of it. Before something happens. It’s got Tav wrapped around its finger, but Tav will understand once it’s all over. Has to. Has to…

Mr Mime stopped skipping. It suddenly stood still. Looked around, an expression of befuddlement on its face.

You can read my thoughts, can’t you clown? Yes, I know you can. I’m going to rip you apart with my bare hands, tear your throat out and wring you out until you are an empty husk.

“Mr Mime! MR MIME!” It took off running.

…Shit. It really can read my mind.

His dagger in hand, Astarion chased after the creature. All he knew was, he couldn’t allow it out of sight - he had to catch it before it could get away, before it could hide. Otherwise it would return when they least expected it, to do something insidious. Somewhere behind him, Tav yelled and followed after them.

They broke out through the edge of the woods. A hamlet, just as Astarion had suspected. And from one of the cottages, an elderly woman stepped out, likely to investigate the source of all the noise. Mr Mime sprinted straight at her.

“Watch out!” Astarion shouted, but though the woman yelped at the sight of the Mr Mime, instead of rushing back inside to hide behind a locked door from the crazed creature, she hurried toward it, to gather Mr Mime in her embrace. A man also emerged from the house, and rushed toward them.

Astarion stopped dead in his tracks, Tav overtaking and passing him, laughing. His mouth dry, traces of words exchanged between Tav and the elderly couple reached him through the buzzing in his ears.

“…Got lost… …like a daughter to us, ever since our children grew up and left… …we call her Mimi… …very young, still a child… …thought we’d never see her again…”

They were happy, they were so, so happy and relieved…

Astarion sank to his knees, the dagger slipping from his fingers and falling onto the ground.

“Astarion?” Tav’s voice broke him from his stupor. “Are you okay..?”

“What?” Astarion said, blinking away tears, no not tears, the sun was just so damned bright, he still had not adjusted to it. “Why yes of course, I’m perfectly fine, I just…” He fumbled, at a loss for words. “I’m just so relieved this story has a happy ending.”

~~~~~

Thanks for reading and I'm sorry.

PS I had to use a generic Tav instead of Asmodea because she flipped me off and said she wanted nothing to do with this.

Masterlist post | AO3

[spacebarbarianweird]

Omg I am dead

[vixstarria]

Legacy of Ash

Chapter 16 - The trial

Chapter summary: Magistrate Ancunin is back at it again

Previous chapter | Series masterlist |AO3 | Overall masterlist

Series summary:

A magical storm descends over Baldur’s Gate. The city freezes and vampires roam freely in the daylight, while the raging tempest threatens to tear a rift between the material plane and the domain of a malevolent fey. Holding the key to the storm is the fey’s warlock - the late Cazador Szarr’s sister, Constancia Szarr. Her first order of business on arrival in Baldur’s Gate? Vengeance. “And the escaped spawn that returned to kill Cazador… The one you say has stayed in the city since,” Constancia interrogated her captive. “This ‘Astarion’. Where is he now?”

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Genre: Angst / Drama / Romance / Horror / Dark comedy if you squint

Rating: Explicit

Chapter word count: 4.6k

The incessant pruritic sensation at the back of Astarion’s mind had grown into an irritating itch that was impossible to ignore. It was no longer simply a passive hum created by the presence of his kin. No - someone, through some psychosomatic capability, was actively calling him. They had no means of forcing him to adhere to their demand, but neither could he block out the assault on his senses - the equivalent of the trespasser, whoever they were, shouting his name at the top of their lungs.

Irritated, he approached a window, jerking a drape aside to glare at the intruder.

A waifish figure - a small and slender elf - stood beneath a gas light across from the manor. The diminutive elf inspired no fear, though Astarion was certain it was capable of tearing a mortal apart with their bare hands in actuality, for they were, undoubtedly, a vampire. A well-fed and reasonably strong one, judging by the straight back and collected arrogance with which they stood. Not one of his own catches, Astarion noted, at least not as far as he could remember.

The vampire met his gaze and bowed, with a flourish of their cape. The sensation eased, diminishing to an acceptable hum, but the figure straightened only to continue to stare at him, patient and unblinking.

Either he was being subjected to some intricate mockery - unlikely, as such gestures were pointless without an audience, and he was certain that the vampire was the sole creature out on the street. Or… Or this was no mockery, but rather the steps of a dance intended to pull him into his siblings’ schemes and machinations. Something which he would not be allowed to ignore had been set in motion.

Astarion cursed and headed downstairs.

Astarion lingered at the entrance, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, neither stepping out, nor inviting the visitor inside.

“Lord Astarion,” the elf said, with another deferential bow. “My name is Zephyrus. I hope you will excuse my intrusion.”

“What do you want, Zephyrus,” Astarion asked warily.

“I am a herald of the Lady Dalyria.”

“A herald?” Astarion snickered. “Is that what she calls her messengers now?!” He barked a short laugh and did a double-take of the elf. “Some herald you are, screeching beneath my windows.”

“I thought it prudent to forego the trumpet, given the late hour,” the herald smiled apologetically. “I did attempt to be admitted via regular means, but your butler refused me entry and said you were not to be disturbed.”

Vilhelm would require another talking to - refusing invitations to vampire callers was well and fine. Omitting to report such visitors to his new masters, however, was negligent.

“Well, go on, make your proclamation,” Astarion waved his hand dismissively.

“The Lady has made an appearance on neutral ground within the city and requests your presence-”

“No. I have had it up to my ears with all these ladies and their appearances and requests,” Astarion snapped before the elf could finish. “Whatever it is, she can either deal with it herself, or, if she wishes to see me - she can come to me herself. The audacity of trying to summon me, like…”

The elf took advantage of a brief lull in Astarion’s indignant tirade to calmly interject.

“The Lady Dalyria seeks your counsel in adjudicating a matter.”

Astarion gave pause, brows furrowed. This was not something he had expected to hear.

“Is that so..?”

“The matter the subject of her concern rightfully lies in your domain, and its resolution is your duty and responsibility. She does not claim authority and will defer to your judgement.”

Astarion swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. Domain… Duty… Responsibility…

“And since when and why, pray tell, do I have any such obligations..?”

The herald held a brief pause before answering.

“Do you not claim the title of Master Vampire of Baldur’s Gate..?”

It was true that Astarion was the only of his siblings to remain at Baldur’s Gate after Cazador’s defeat. From what he had learned in sporadic correspondence from those who wrote to him - mostly Dalyria and Leon - they had since separated into covens led by Cazador’s spawn, and spread throughout the Underdark. Dalyria’s coven settled in an area near Baldur’s Gate. The others spread deeper or further out.

As for Astarion, his remaining in the city had never been challenged or questioned. Not after he personally stabbed Cazador to death and freed all seven thousand of his intended sacrifices.

He had been vaguely aware of his siblings’ ongoing schemes and intrigues somewhere in the periphery of his own existence. They had formed a council, Astarion understood, and occasionally requested his presence or input, which requests he ignored and avoided as best he could - content to live his life of inconsequential troubles and simple pleasures on the surface. Blissfully shielded and distracted from it all in the comfort of Asmodea’s arms and the everyday affairs of running the tavern.

It seemed his siblings had begun making decisions for him in his stead, in his continued absence.

It would have been nice to be informed of these decisions, Astarion thought, though truth be told, the news of his ‘appointment’ and all its associated ‘duties and responsibilities’ may well have been contained in an unopened, forgotten letter, received somewhere in the course of the past year.

“I must warn you,” the herald continued, “if you abdicate in favour of the Szarr heir - the covens will not accept her. The Elders will wage war for the title and territory. You and the newly turned fledgling under your protection will no doubt be destroyed in the fallout. It is in everyone’s best interests to avoid this bloodshed.”

Astarion sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. Covens, Elders and all the associated posturing and politicking brought on by his siblings… The fledgling under my protection, he thought, the notion bittersweet. It seemed he was going to have to confront this reality after all.

“We have achieved a peace,” Zephyrus said in a tone different to that which they had adopted prior - the appeal seeming to be a personal one rather than one made in an official capacity. “We would keep that peace.”

“And my claim on the title? It is not contested?”

“You have the majority vote,” the herald smiled with a show of sharp teeth.

The majority vote… Not unanimous, then. Violet, no doubt. And likely Petras, the idiot.

“Lead the way,” Astarion said, resigned to go along with whatever had been set in place.

The ‘neutral ground’ had turned out to be one of many underground hideouts within the sprawling undercity network beneath Baldur’s Gate.

A circular, tiered room ringed by columns. A few lit torches hung on the columns, doing little but creating dancing shadows with their unstable flickering. At one side, on something akin to a flat podium or lectern, perched Dalyria. A hideously scarred vampire stood by her. Other vampires, presumably her guard, skulked in the shadows. And on a lone stool at the room’s centre, seemingly unaffected, sat the Kura-Turan half-elf. Constancia’s lapdog, Astarion thought, clenching his jaw, Hanzo.

“Brother,” Dalyria nodded with a slight smile.

“Dal,” Astarion responded. “You will forgive me if I don’t rush over to embrace you - I never have been a hugger. …And,” he added, casting an eye over the room, spotting yet more of Dalyria’s entourage “I doubt your friends would approve the sentiment.”

Astarion trained his eye on the half-elf. Still dressed as he had been when Astarion last saw him before confronting Constancia, though he appeared to have lost his coat jacket. He didn’t look much worse for wear at first glance - his vest and trousers were now deeply creased, and he wore his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, but he otherwise sported a look of outward nonchalance, silently smoking a cigarette.

“No chains, no shackles?” Astarion asked, circling Hanzo where he sat. “Not even a perfunctory beating?” He clicked his tongue.

“We’re vampires, not monsters,” Dalyria answered.

“And the other two?” Astarion asked, pausing in front of Dalyria. Azora and Thalia had disappeared shortly after Constancia’s death, he had been told.

“They’re safe.”

“You never could resist taking care of all the strays,” Astarion said with a not entirely unkind smirk, before turning back to Hanzo. “So what in the hells do you want me to do here?”

“He has committed an offence against one of my people,” Dalyria said, motioning to the scarred vampire beside her.

Astarion cast an eye at the disfigured man. He looked as though he had been chopped into pieces and hastily stitched together. Ragged scars appeared at his wrists and elbows, at his misshapen fingers. His face was a mesh of poorly healed wounds. He was missing an ear. But, most disturbing, was the scar running around his neck. At first Astarion thought the man simply held his head cocked to one side, but on more careful inspection it appeared as though his neck had been chopped and reattached at a wrong angle.

“What in the hells…” Astarion murmured.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the man scowled, his voice sounding like sandpaper rubbed together.

“No,” Astarion admitted. “And I would certainly remember…” he waved a hand at the man “…all that.”

“He did not look this way until the past tenday,” said Dalyria. “He was captured in the city whilst on a job for me. Taken to Constancia. Interrogated about all he knew of Cazador and his remaining spawn. Tortured. Dismembered. Beheaded. He then awoke in a pig-trough filled with blood, roused by his very torturer, who carried this man’s card.”

“Remarkable…” murmured Astarion, approaching the man closer to observe him. “To survive such an ordeal… Though it didn’t take very well, I’m afraid… Your head.”

“I had instructed the torturer to apply some care when mending the body,” Hanzo spoke at last behind him. “It appears he did not listen. This was beyond my control. I do hope he made for a decent meal, in partial recompense.”

“Your man did this?” Astarion nodded at the disfigured vampire.

“Constancia’s. My aim was simply to send word to the Underdark vampires about Cazador’s kin returning to the city. I had a reasonable expectation that they would be incited to act against her.”

“Why would you have him captured and tortured, if you simply wanted to send word to the covens?” asked Astarion.

“My point exactly,” followed a dry remark from Hanzo. “Constancia’s other servants got him before I could reach out by ordinary means. I then had to make careful reparations, hence…” he gestured at the vampire “…his unfortunate yet still conscious and animate state.”

“I suppose you’d have us believe that you’re innocent as a lamb, and had been wishing nothing more than your mistress’s demise,” Astarion said, turning to face Hanzo.

“Is the latter so hard to believe?” Hanzo looked at Astarion from beneath his brows.

“No,” said Astarion, after a pause. “Not at all.”

“He stood there, advising her as it happened,” the vampire rasped behind Astarion. “Made suggestions, posed questions, observed it like it was nothing to him!”

“Well you heard the man - he then kindly made sure you were stitched back together. What more do you want?” Astarion threw over his shoulder. “If you like, we can procure another barrel of blood, re-decapitate you, throw you in and see if your head grows back any straighter next time.”

The vampire spat but did not argue.

“Your verdict?” spoke Dalyria.

“Innocent,” said Astarion. “Of this charge,” he added after a brief pause.

A silence held, disturbed only by a quiet chuckle that escaped Hanzo, and by his drawing on his cigarette. Astarion began circling him again, quietly, the other vampires likewise staying silent.

“You were responsible for kidnapping someone very dear to me.”

“The alternative was bringing you to Constancia in silver chains.”

“I’d rather you had attempted that.”

“My people would have succeeded, and you would have been dead. Instead, I bought you time.”

“Leaving her to freeze and starve in a filthy dungeon cell.”

“I made her stay as comfortable as was within my power.”

“Yes, I saw your cloak on the floor of her cell - the height of comfort and luxury.”

“I did not touch her.”

“I know,” conceded Astarion. “If you had - I would be turning you inside out, slowly, as we speak.”

Hanzo released a deep, exasperated sigh and sat up straighter on his stool, irritation blazing in his eyes. Something in the gesture reeked of Cazador and Astarion barely suppressed a shiver.

“If you are going to execute me for following Constancia’s orders - cease this charade now, and do it. I have witnessed a century and a half worth of vampires playing cat and mouse with their prey, and I have had enough of it. Do it however you wish, it does not matter to me. I am willing to scream, if it satisfies you, but I will not beg.”

“A century and a half in a vampire’s service, of your own free will,” murmured Astarion, otherwise ignoring Hanzo’s outburst. “You were not charmed, nor were you a sycophant, like the ones who flocked to her from Cazador. It was your choice. Why?”

“Because one does not simply leave a Szarr’s service, you ought not be so naive as to think otherwise. And a half-elf, in Kura-Tur?” smirked Hanzo. “An outcast, lower than the poorest peasant. Do you know the paths that would have been available to me, without Constancia’s patronage?” He began listing, putting a finger down for each item. “Executioner. Mortician. Butcher. Nightsoil man.”

“Is that not exactly what you did for Constancia..? Directly or otherwise?”

Hanzo’s nostrils flares but he did not speak. Astarion paused in front of him, crossing his arms and cocking his head.

“Surviving Constancia for a century and a half, you say… Are you Amanita’s father, then?”

“No,” Hanzo’s lips curled in distaste as he spoke. “Assisting Constancia in producing an heir was never one of my duties.”

“Who was it then?”

“A cousin, several times removed, or a distant nephew, depending how you bend the family tree. They are all intermarried and interbred, of course,” Hanzo shrugged. “Elven. Mortal. At the time.”

“At the time… She turned him?”

“Yes. It was the reward she had promised him if he succeeded. And she kept it.” Hanzo drew one last time on his cigarette, before flicking it away with a look of wistful regret. “She had never specified that she would free him, however. He had merely assumed that serving her was a right of passage, and that he would become a full vampire as a matter of course. Szarrs did not keep other Szarrs as spawn.”

“I take it he is no longer around,” said Astarion.

“That sweet idiot…” Hanzo shook his head, a touch of scorn slipping into his voice. “Harmless, but full of hubris, like all the Szarrs. He would not listen to my words of caution. He deemed himself her consort. Acted as though he were her equal, instead of keeping his head low. Reckless, stupid…” he whispered, looking away.

Behind Astarion, Dalyria drew in a breath through her teeth. “If Constancia was anything like Cazador in her cruelty…”

“More than anything, Constancia was fond of making broad gestures and displays,” continued Hanzo. “She set a date for the granting of his freedom. Gathered all the household staff and guard in a shrouded auditorium, at the height of noon. …Then bade him to open the doors and walk out into the sun.” He reached into a pocket to retrieve an ornate silver cigarette case only to find it empty, and resentfully snapped it back shut. “He screamed until he was ash. I can still hear it,” said Hanzo. “T’was a shame…” he added bitterly. “I quite enjoyed him.”

“…Ah,” said Astarion. Another silence held before he spoke again. “This would have been decades ago now, yes? They do say revenge is best served cold, but by now surely it would be a stale, dried out husk..?”

Hanzo met his gaze again. “Constancia has trusted me to manage all her affairs. She paid little attention to anything but her pleasures and research, herself. I have been running her estate into the ground for decades. Everything, all her holdings, are either in my name, or on the cusp of ruination. I merely needed someone to eliminate her. I could not do it myself. I was not under full compulsion, but she did take certain precautions with all members of her household.”

“I see,” said Astarion, pensively, continuing to slowly pace again. “And Amanita?”

“Amanita grew to become a fangless, rosy-cheeked toddler. Constancia could not bear to look at her. She sent her to a Szarr estate far away from Kura-Tur. She had long fallen out of favour with the rest of the family by then, you see. She did not want the child to fall to assassins.”

Astarion nodded - this was consistent with what Constancia herself had disclosed before her skull was pulverised.

“I would ask you something,” Hanzo spoke again. Astarion lifted a questioning brow at him. “I have heard that I am a spitting image of Cazador.”

“It’s uncanny,” said Astarion. Dalyria nodded from where she continued to perch, quietly observing.

“You were his spawn for two centuries, I hear. Can you think of any occasion, when… Had he taken any trips to Kura-Tur, perhaps..?”

“Are you out of your mind?” Astarion scoffed. “Do you think I kept a diary detailing all his trysts over the past 200 years?”

“Trysts?” Dal spoke up, surprised. “Our M- Cazador didn’t have trysts,” she objected. “Not ones that made it through the night to ever see the light of day again. Or ones that weren’t-” she cut herself short.

“Ones that weren’t me,” Astarion finished for her. “You don’t have have to beat around the bush, darling.” He frowned, thinking. “He was more sociable, back in the day, but not by much… About 150 years, you say?”

“I don’t know exactly,” the half-elf nodded.

“It would have been just me and Aurelia… Likely not long before Violet…” Astarion began thinking aloud. “He still threw balls for the Szarr family back then. There still was a Szarr family in Baldur’s Gate then. It was before Tumbledown was burnt to the ground and all its residents slaughtered. Do you know anything about that, by the way?” Astarion turned to Hanzo again.

“I assisted Constancia in orchestrating it,” Hanzo nodded.

Astarion guffawed before regaining a thoughtful expression as he dug through his memories.

“I do not recall ever meeting your mistress before, but memories of her may have fallen through the cracks, like so many others…” he said. “Cazador has not travelled far from Baldur’s Gate in the past two centuries, no, but he has received guests from Kura Tur. Large retinues, with their own attendants and pleasure servants. The memories are foggy... Could it have been around that time? Maybe. Could he have spitefully defiled a favoured concubine of a cousin that’s slighted him? Quite possibly. But beyond that… I do not know.”

Hanzo nodded, an impassive mask once again painting over his features.

“…The possibility of you being his son only makes me want to see you dead even more, you know,” Astarion added. Hanzo did not respond.

Dalyria cleared her throat. “Your verdict, brother.”

Astarion crossed his arms, lost in thought. He stayed that way for some time before he spoke again.

“You have until the coming midnight to leave the city,” he said. Hanzo looked up at him in surprise, Dalyria’s head likewise snapped to him. “A day ought to be enough to finalise your affairs and gather your things. You may attend at the manor to collect your possessions - Vilhelm with assist you. …Yes, I seem to have inherited him from Constancia. He insisted. The manor itself you will sign over to me, of course. What else… Ah yes, if you are caught within the city bounds after midnight, you will be executed.”

“I…” Hanzo said, at a loss for words.

“Go. Get out of my sight,” Astarion said, not looking at him.

Dalyria motioned to a few of her guard. “Lead him out of the undercity. Watch him. Ensure that he remains unharmed as long as he fulfils his obligation to leave.”

Hanzo rose, standing on unsure legs. He caught Astarion’s eye and a scowl, and, instead of saying anything, gave a stiff, formal bow in his and Dalyria’s direction, before turning to follow his guides.

“You are dismissed. Leave us,” Dalyria directed to her remaining guard. They melted away into the darkness until she was alone with Astarion. “I will admit, you have surprised me with your magnanimity. May I ask why..?”

“I think this is what Oddie would have wanted,” Astarion shrugged. “And if I’m wrong, she’ll have a chance to tear out his throat with her own teeth, when he shows up at the manor,” he grinned.

“How is she..?” Dalyria asked with a hint of a smile.

“Well…” Astarion sighed. “She has made it abundantly clear that she considers everything that’s happened to be my fault… But that I am also encouraged to make amends and work my way back up into her good graces. Nothing that cannot be achieved within an immortal’s lifetime, so I shan’t complain.”

Dalyria broke into a laugh. “It warms my heart to hear you have found someone who not only willingly tolerates you, but also manages to curb your complaining. I think I might like to get to know her better.”

“She is curious about the Underdark. Should you extend an invitation for an evening of mulled blood and bone marrow biscuits, we just might accept,” said Astarion. Dalyria laughed again, as he studied his nails, as though contemplating his next words. “How are the others..? I suppose I should know what is going on on this ‘council’ of yours,” he said at last.

“Aurelia sleeps in an undisclosed location,” said Dalyria. “Who knows when she will wake. Until she does, I have her proxy vote on the council.”

“Convenient. Would you like mine as well, so I can be absolved of all this nonsense..?”

“I cannot,” Dalyria shook her head. “Whilst you are animate, Baldur’s Gate is your responsibility. The council has voted you Master Vampire of the region.”

“Who else voted in my favour..?”

“Everyone but Violet and Petras. She resents you still, and has Petras wrapped around her finger.”

“Ha! How predictable…” Astarion laughed. “But Leon voted with you, truly..? After what you’ve done?”

“Leon has allied with and votes with Yousen.”

“And why would Yousen vote for me - he despises me.”

“He hates Violet more,” Dalyria pointed out.

“Well if Baldur’s Gate is my domain, then we need to talk about this butchery operation you’ve apparently been running right under my nose. I am entitled to a cut for your use of the slaughterhouse.”

“I have an entire coven to feed, you only have yourself and Asmodea,” Dalyria shrugged. “Besides, it was all outlined in a letter I’d sent you earlier this year. There were two follow-ups, and you had a month to respond with any objections.”

“Oh you know damned well I don’t read these letters!” Astarion exclaimed. “And besides, proper service of official correspondence is to be undertaken by an agent in person, not merely sent in the mail, and-” he cut himself off before be could continue his tangent, sighing and pinching and rubbing the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Dal, what in the hells are we doing..?” he continued, more calmly. “Don’t get me wrong, it is positively adorable, your playing at royalty or nobility or what have you. It’s commendable, really. After all, it’s important to have a hobby to while away the time. And I see you’ve got the whole family involved in this... production of yours. ...But don’t you think you’re taking this whole ‘Master Vampire’ idea too far..?”

“Whysoever would you say that, brother?”

“I can ‘claim’ any title I like, but what do you expect me to do when a real vampire lord shows up in Baldur’s Gate to lay their claim on the city? We got lucky with Constancia, she was too arrogant to even consider that she wasn’t invincible. But someone wiser? More powerful? I will be swatted aside. I doubt you would be so kind as to allow me to call in the cavalry from the Underdark.”

Dalyria stayed silent for a moment, observing him like he was a fascinating cretin, before eventually breaking the silence with a sigh.

“Our master is dead, Astarion. We are not merely escaped spawn. He is dead and we are free.”

“And..? We never drank his blood. We are no longer enslaved, yes. And so we can do a few more tricks than Cazador originally told us. Did you know we can turn into bats? And mist, it turns out? …But we are doomed to be mere spawn forevermore. ...Are we not?”

Dalyria hopped off the podium, turned and walked off into the shadows.

“Dal?” Astarion called after her. “What do you mean, we are not merely escaped spawn? Dal??”

“Ask Amanita,” she shot over her shoulder and disappeared.

The journal lay hidden beneath a loose floorboard, further concealed beneath a rug.

A cheap illusion spell - so cheap it could be dispelled by merely giving the journal a good smack against a hard surface - disguised the book as an accounting ledger.

On dispelling the illusion, flipping through the pages, one would find doodles scattered throughout, interspersed withing the writing. Blades. Skulls. Sketches of a woman with dreadlocked hair in various states of undress. Gruesome, bloody scenes of violence. Jewellery - ring designs in particular. Demonic visages. Flowers. Birds.

As for the text itself - the last line of defence against prying eyes was the author’s handwriting. Sweeping, elaborate capitals collapsed into wave-like script. Elegant, flowing, beautiful to the point of absurdity - it was completely illegible.

A poem was scribbled towards the end of the used up pages of the journal. Clearly a work in progress, it was messy, with passages and words scratched out and re-written multiple times. What could be made out of it read as follows:

My love, she is a blood-red rose, both tender bloom and blade, Her scent Her thorns have marked me through and through — a price I gladly paid. She dances to a madman’s tune, her laughter wild and free, And I, a fool bewitched, fall into step and join her revelry.

My love, she’s irresistible, her vibrancy my bane snare, Her siren-song consumes my will, strips me and leaves me bare. She is my sun, my heart, my pain joy, my dawn, my solace and my sin, My headache sweetest torment, burning flame that scorches from within.

My love - one day she’ll fade, her petals turn to dust. I'll hold her till her dying breath - Such is our fate. I must. I only pray that when she withers I too will turn to ash, That death may bind us, body and soul, that we may not unlash.

My love, until the end, whenever it may come, I’ll lie awake through night’s day’s long hush flush, and softly, one by one, I’ll whisper to your sleeping form my vows until the dawn night’s fall: That I will love you to the end of times That I will love you till this world expires That I will go through raging fire for you That I will love you until the end of you

~~~~~

(ignore some of the weird formatting issues in the poem with the font sizing - every time I fix a line or word, tumblr breaks something else; it's an endless cycle of whac-a-mole and I am at my wit's end with it)

For reference: Tumbledown - a district located within the Outer City of Baldur's Gate, which once belonged to the Szarr family. Every member of the Szarr family residing there has since been murdered, and their holdings burnt to the ground.

Thank you so much to everyone who's come on this journey with me and made it this far! I will post a brief epilogue in a few days' time, however you can consider this the end of the story. I think I will post a few headcanon bullet points about Constancia and co later as well. As you can imagine, the lore that made it to the fic is only the tip of the iceberg, what I hold in my mind runs much deeper.

I love you. ❤

PS I am never writing another bloody poem again, and you can't make me.

AO3

[vixstarria]

Legacy of Ash

Chapter 16 - The trial

Chapter summary: Magistrate Ancunin is back at it again

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Series summary:

A magical storm descends over Baldur’s Gate. The city freezes and vampires roam freely in the daylight, while the raging tempest threatens to tear a rift between the material plane and the domain of a malevolent fey. Holding the key to the storm is the fey’s warlock - the late Cazador Szarr’s sister, Constancia Szarr. Her first order of business on arrival in Baldur’s Gate? Vengeance. “And the escaped spawn that returned to kill Cazador… The one you say has stayed in the city since,” Constancia interrogated her captive. “This ‘Astarion’. Where is he now?”

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Genre: Angst / Drama / Romance / Horror / Dark comedy if you squint

Rating: Explicit

Chapter word count: 4.6k

The incessant pruritic sensation at the back of Astarion’s mind had grown into an irritating itch that was impossible to ignore. It was no longer simply a passive hum created by the presence of his kin. No - someone, through some psychosomatic capability, was actively calling him. They had no means of forcing him to adhere to their demand, but neither could he block out the assault on his senses - the equivalent of the trespasser, whoever they were, shouting his name at the top of their lungs.

Irritated, he approached a window, jerking a drape aside to glare at the intruder.

A waifish figure - a small and slender elf - stood beneath a gas light across from the manor. The diminutive elf inspired no fear, though Astarion was certain it was capable of tearing a mortal apart with their bare hands in actuality, for they were, undoubtedly, a vampire. A well-fed and reasonably strong one, judging by the straight back and collected arrogance with which they stood. Not one of his own catches, Astarion noted, at least not as far as he could remember.

The vampire met his gaze and bowed, with a flourish of their cape. The sensation eased, diminishing to an acceptable hum, but the figure straightened only to continue to stare at him, patient and unblinking.

Either he was being subjected to some intricate mockery - unlikely, as such gestures were pointless without an audience, and he was certain that the vampire was the sole creature out on the street. Or… Or this was no mockery, but rather the steps of a dance intended to pull him into his siblings’ schemes and machinations. Something which he would not be allowed to ignore had been set in motion.

Astarion cursed and headed downstairs.

Astarion lingered at the entrance, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, neither stepping out, nor inviting the visitor inside.

“Lord Astarion,” the elf said, with another deferential bow. “My name is Zephyrus. I hope you will excuse my intrusion.”

“What do you want, Zephyrus,” Astarion asked warily.

“I am a herald of the Lady Dalyria.”

“A herald?” Astarion snickered. “Is that what she calls her messengers now?!” He barked a short laugh and did a double-take of the elf. “Some herald you are, screeching beneath my windows.”

“I thought it prudent to forego the trumpet, given the late hour,” the herald smiled apologetically. “I did attempt to be admitted via regular means, but your butler refused me entry and said you were not to be disturbed.”

Vilhelm would require another talking to - refusing invitations to vampire callers was well and fine. Omitting to report such visitors to his new masters, however, was negligent.

“Well, go on, make your proclamation,” Astarion waved his hand dismissively.

“The Lady has made an appearance on neutral ground within the city and requests your presence-”

“No. I have had it up to my ears with all these ladies and their appearances and requests,” Astarion snapped before the elf could finish. “Whatever it is, she can either deal with it herself, or, if she wishes to see me - she can come to me herself. The audacity of trying to summon me, like…”

The elf took advantage of a brief lull in Astarion’s indignant tirade to calmly interject.

“The Lady Dalyria seeks your counsel in adjudicating a matter.”

Astarion gave pause, brows furrowed. This was not something he had expected to hear.

“Is that so..?”

“The matter the subject of her concern rightfully lies in your domain, and its resolution is your duty and responsibility. She does not claim authority and will defer to your judgement.”

Astarion swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. Domain… Duty… Responsibility…

“And since when and why, pray tell, do I have any such obligations..?”

The herald held a brief pause before answering.

“Do you not claim the title of Master Vampire of Baldur’s Gate..?”

It was true that Astarion was the only of his siblings to remain at Baldur’s Gate after Cazador’s defeat. From what he had learned in sporadic correspondence from those who wrote to him - mostly Dalyria and Leon - they had since separated into covens led by Cazador’s spawn, and spread throughout the Underdark. Dalyria’s coven settled in an area near Baldur’s Gate. The others spread deeper or further out.

As for Astarion, his remaining in the city had never been challenged or questioned. Not after he personally stabbed Cazador to death and freed all seven thousand of his intended sacrifices.

He had been vaguely aware of his siblings’ ongoing schemes and intrigues somewhere in the periphery of his own existence. They had formed a council, Astarion understood, and occasionally requested his presence or input, which requests he ignored and avoided as best he could - content to live his life of inconsequential troubles and simple pleasures on the surface. Blissfully shielded and distracted from it all in the comfort of Asmodea’s arms and the everyday affairs of running the tavern.

It seemed his siblings had begun making decisions for him in his stead, in his continued absence.

It would have been nice to be informed of these decisions, Astarion thought, though truth be told, the news of his ‘appointment’ and all its associated ‘duties and responsibilities’ may well have been contained in an unopened, forgotten letter, received somewhere in the course of the past year.

“I must warn you,” the herald continued, “if you abdicate in favour of the Szarr heir - the covens will not accept her. The Elders will wage war for the title and territory. You and the newly turned fledgling under your protection will no doubt be destroyed in the fallout. It is in everyone’s best interests to avoid this bloodshed.”

Astarion sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. Covens, Elders and all the associated posturing and politicking brought on by his siblings… The fledgling under my protection, he thought, the notion bittersweet. It seemed he was going to have to confront this reality after all.

“We have achieved a peace,” Zephyrus said in a tone different to that which they had adopted prior - the appeal seeming to be a personal one rather than one made in an official capacity. “We would keep that peace.”

“And my claim on the title? It is not contested?”

“You have the majority vote,” the herald smiled with a show of sharp teeth.

The majority vote… Not unanimous, then. Violet, no doubt. And likely Petras, the idiot.

“Lead the way,” Astarion said, resigned to go along with whatever had been set in place.

The ‘neutral ground’ had turned out to be one of many underground hideouts within the sprawling undercity network beneath Baldur’s Gate.

A circular, tiered room ringed by columns. A few lit torches hung on the columns, doing little but creating dancing shadows with their unstable flickering. At one side, on something akin to a flat podium or lectern, perched Dalyria. A hideously scarred vampire stood by her. Other vampires, presumably her guard, skulked in the shadows. And on a lone stool at the room’s centre, seemingly unaffected, sat the Kura-Turan half-elf. Constancia’s lapdog, Astarion thought, clenching his jaw, Hanzo.

“Brother,” Dalyria nodded with a slight smile.

“Dal,” Astarion responded. “You will forgive me if I don’t rush over to embrace you - I never have been a hugger. …And,” he added, casting an eye over the room, spotting yet more of Dalyria’s entourage “I doubt your friends would approve the sentiment.”

Astarion trained his eye on the half-elf. Still dressed as he had been when Astarion last saw him before confronting Constancia, though he appeared to have lost his coat jacket. He didn’t look much worse for wear at first glance - his vest and trousers were now deeply creased, and he wore his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, but he otherwise sported a look of outward nonchalance, silently smoking a cigarette.

“No chains, no shackles?” Astarion asked, circling Hanzo where he sat. “Not even a perfunctory beating?” He clicked his tongue.

“We’re vampires, not monsters,” Dalyria answered.

“And the other two?” Astarion asked, pausing in front of Dalyria. Azora and Thalia had disappeared shortly after Constancia’s death, he had been told.

“They’re safe.”

“You never could resist taking care of all the strays,” Astarion said with a not entirely unkind smirk, before turning back to Hanzo. “So what in the hells do you want me to do here?”

“He has committed an offence against one of my people,” Dalyria said, motioning to the scarred vampire beside her.

Astarion cast an eye at the disfigured man. He looked as though he had been chopped into pieces and hastily stitched together. Ragged scars appeared at his wrists and elbows, at his misshapen fingers. His face was a mesh of poorly healed wounds. He was missing an ear. But, most disturbing, was the scar running around his neck. At first Astarion thought the man simply held his head cocked to one side, but on more careful inspection it appeared as though his neck had been chopped and reattached at a wrong angle.

“What in the hells…” Astarion murmured.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the man scowled, his voice sounding like sandpaper rubbed together.

“No,” Astarion admitted. “And I would certainly remember…” he waved a hand at the man “…all that.”

“He did not look this way until the past tenday,” said Dalyria. “He was captured in the city whilst on a job for me. Taken to Constancia. Interrogated about all he knew of Cazador and his remaining spawn. Tortured. Dismembered. Beheaded. He then awoke in a pig-trough filled with blood, roused by his very torturer, who carried this man’s card.”

“Remarkable…” murmured Astarion, approaching the man closer to observe him. “To survive such an ordeal… Though it didn’t take very well, I’m afraid… Your head.”

“I had instructed the torturer to apply some care when mending the body,” Hanzo spoke at last behind him. “It appears he did not listen. This was beyond my control. I do hope he made for a decent meal, in partial recompense.”

“Your man did this?” Astarion nodded at the disfigured vampire.

“Constancia’s. My aim was simply to send word to the Underdark vampires about Cazador’s kin returning to the city. I had a reasonable expectation that they would be incited to act against her.”

“Why would you have him captured and tortured, if you simply wanted to send word to the covens?” asked Astarion.

“My point exactly,” followed a dry remark from Hanzo. “Constancia’s other servants got him before I could reach out by ordinary means. I then had to make careful reparations, hence…” he gestured at the vampire “…his unfortunate yet still conscious and animate state.”

“I suppose you’d have us believe that you’re innocent as a lamb, and had been wishing nothing more than your mistress’s demise,” Astarion said, turning to face Hanzo.

“Is the latter so hard to believe?” Hanzo looked at Astarion from beneath his brows.

“No,” said Astarion, after a pause. “Not at all.”

“He stood there, advising her as it happened,” the vampire rasped behind Astarion. “Made suggestions, posed questions, observed it like it was nothing to him!”

“Well you heard the man - he then kindly made sure you were stitched back together. What more do you want?” Astarion threw over his shoulder. “If you like, we can procure another barrel of blood, re-decapitate you, throw you in and see if your head grows back any straighter next time.”

The vampire spat but did not argue.

“Your verdict?” spoke Dalyria.

“Innocent,” said Astarion. “Of this charge,” he added after a brief pause.

A silence held, disturbed only by a quiet chuckle that escaped Hanzo, and by his drawing on his cigarette. Astarion began circling him again, quietly, the other vampires likewise staying silent.

“You were responsible for kidnapping someone very dear to me.”

“The alternative was bringing you to Constancia in silver chains.”

“I’d rather you had attempted that.”

“My people would have succeeded, and you would have been dead. Instead, I bought you time.”

“Leaving her to freeze and starve in a filthy dungeon cell.”

“I made her stay as comfortable as was within my power.”

“Yes, I saw your cloak on the floor of her cell - the height of comfort and luxury.”

“I did not touch her.”

“I know,” conceded Astarion. “If you had - I would be turning you inside out, slowly, as we speak.”

Hanzo released a deep, exasperated sigh and sat up straighter on his stool, irritation blazing in his eyes. Something in the gesture reeked of Cazador and Astarion barely suppressed a shiver.

“If you are going to execute me for following Constancia’s orders - cease this charade now, and do it. I have witnessed a century and a half worth of vampires playing cat and mouse with their prey, and I have had enough of it. Do it however you wish, it does not matter to me. I am willing to scream, if it satisfies you, but I will not beg.”

“A century and a half in a vampire’s service, of your own free will,” murmured Astarion, otherwise ignoring Hanzo’s outburst. “You were not charmed, nor were you a sycophant, like the ones who flocked to her from Cazador. It was your choice. Why?”

“Because one does not simply leave a Szarr’s service, you ought not be so naive as to think otherwise. And a half-elf, in Kura-Tur?” smirked Hanzo. “An outcast, lower than the poorest peasant. Do you know the paths that would have been available to me, without Constancia’s patronage?” He began listing, putting a finger down for each item. “Executioner. Mortician. Butcher. Nightsoil man.”

“Is that not exactly what you did for Constancia..? Directly or otherwise?”

Hanzo’s nostrils flares but he did not speak. Astarion paused in front of him, crossing his arms and cocking his head.

“Surviving Constancia for a century and a half, you say… Are you Amanita’s father, then?”

“No,” Hanzo’s lips curled in distaste as he spoke. “Assisting Constancia in producing an heir was never one of my duties.”

“Who was it then?”

“A cousin, several times removed, or a distant nephew, depending how you bend the family tree. They are all intermarried and interbred, of course,” Hanzo shrugged. “Elven. Mortal. At the time.”

“At the time… She turned him?”

“Yes. It was the reward she had promised him if he succeeded. And she kept it.” Hanzo drew one last time on his cigarette, before flicking it away with a look of wistful regret. “She had never specified that she would free him, however. He had merely assumed that serving her was a right of passage, and that he would become a full vampire as a matter of course. Szarrs did not keep other Szarrs as spawn.”

“I take it he is no longer around,” said Astarion.

“That sweet idiot…” Hanzo shook his head, a touch of scorn slipping into his voice. “Harmless, but full of hubris, like all the Szarrs. He would not listen to my words of caution. He deemed himself her consort. Acted as though he were her equal, instead of keeping his head low. Reckless, stupid…” he whispered, looking away.

Behind Astarion, Dalyria drew in a breath through her teeth. “If Constancia was anything like Cazador in her cruelty…”

“More than anything, Constancia was fond of making broad gestures and displays,” continued Hanzo. “She set a date for the granting of his freedom. Gathered all the household staff and guard in a shrouded auditorium, at the height of noon. …Then bade him to open the doors and walk out into the sun.” He reached into a pocket to retrieve an ornate silver cigarette case only to find it empty, and resentfully snapped it back shut. “He screamed until he was ash. I can still hear it,” said Hanzo. “T’was a shame…” he added bitterly. “I quite enjoyed him.”

“…Ah,” said Astarion. Another silence held before he spoke again. “This would have been decades ago now, yes? They do say revenge is best served cold, but by now surely it would be a stale, dried out husk..?”

Hanzo met his gaze again. “Constancia has trusted me to manage all her affairs. She paid little attention to anything but her pleasures and research, herself. I have been running her estate into the ground for decades. Everything, all her holdings, are either in my name, or on the cusp of ruination. I merely needed someone to eliminate her. I could not do it myself. I was not under full compulsion, but she did take certain precautions with all members of her household.”

“I see,” said Astarion, pensively, continuing to slowly pace again. “And Amanita?”

“Amanita grew to become a fangless, rosy-cheeked toddler. Constancia could not bear to look at her. She sent her to a Szarr estate far away from Kura-Tur. She had long fallen out of favour with the rest of the family by then, you see. She did not want the child to fall to assassins.”

Astarion nodded - this was consistent with what Constancia herself had disclosed before her skull was pulverised.

“I would ask you something,” Hanzo spoke again. Astarion lifted a questioning brow at him. “I have heard that I am a spitting image of Cazador.”

“It’s uncanny,” said Astarion. Dalyria nodded from where she continued to perch, quietly observing.

“You were his spawn for two centuries, I hear. Can you think of any occasion, when… Had he taken any trips to Kura-Tur, perhaps..?”

“Are you out of your mind?” Astarion scoffed. “Do you think I kept a diary detailing all his trysts over the past 200 years?”

“Trysts?” Dal spoke up, surprised. “Our M- Cazador didn’t have trysts,” she objected. “Not ones that made it through the night to ever see the light of day again. Or ones that weren’t-” she cut herself short.

“Ones that weren’t me,” Astarion finished for her. “You don’t have have to beat around the bush, darling.” He frowned, thinking. “He was more sociable, back in the day, but not by much… About 150 years, you say?”

“I don’t know exactly,” the half-elf nodded.

“It would have been just me and Aurelia… Likely not long before Violet…” Astarion began thinking aloud. “He still threw balls for the Szarr family back then. There still was a Szarr family in Baldur’s Gate then. It was before Tumbledown was burnt to the ground and all its residents slaughtered. Do you know anything about that, by the way?” Astarion turned to Hanzo again.

“I assisted Constancia in orchestrating it,” Hanzo nodded.

Astarion guffawed before regaining a thoughtful expression as he dug through his memories.

“I do not recall ever meeting your mistress before, but memories of her may have fallen through the cracks, like so many others…” he said. “Cazador has not travelled far from Baldur’s Gate in the past two centuries, no, but he has received guests from Kura Tur. Large retinues, with their own attendants and pleasure servants. The memories are foggy... Could it have been around that time? Maybe. Could he have spitefully defiled a favoured concubine of a cousin that’s slighted him? Quite possibly. But beyond that… I do not know.”

Hanzo nodded, an impassive mask once again painting over his features.

“…The possibility of you being his son only makes me want to see you dead even more, you know,” Astarion added. Hanzo did not respond.

Dalyria cleared her throat. “Your verdict, brother.”

Astarion crossed his arms, lost in thought. He stayed that way for some time before he spoke again.

“You have until the coming midnight to leave the city,” he said. Hanzo looked up at him in surprise, Dalyria’s head likewise snapped to him. “A day ought to be enough to finalise your affairs and gather your things. You may attend at the manor to collect your possessions - Vilhelm with assist you. …Yes, I seem to have inherited him from Constancia. He insisted. The manor itself you will sign over to me, of course. What else… Ah yes, if you are caught within the city bounds after midnight, you will be executed.”

“I…” Hanzo said, at a loss for words.

“Go. Get out of my sight,” Astarion said, not looking at him.

Dalyria motioned to a few of her guard. “Lead him out of the undercity. Watch him. Ensure that he remains unharmed as long as he fulfils his obligation to leave.”

Hanzo rose, standing on unsure legs. He caught Astarion’s eye and a scowl, and, instead of saying anything, gave a stiff, formal bow in his and Dalyria’s direction, before turning to follow his guides.

“You are dismissed. Leave us,” Dalyria directed to her remaining guard. They melted away into the darkness until she was alone with Astarion. “I will admit, you have surprised me with your magnanimity. May I ask why..?”

“I think this is what Oddie would have wanted,” Astarion shrugged. “And if I’m wrong, she’ll have a chance to tear out his throat with her own teeth, when he shows up at the manor,” he grinned.

“How is she..?” Dalyria asked with a hint of a smile.

“Well…” Astarion sighed. “She has made it abundantly clear that she considers everything that’s happened to be my fault… But that I am also encouraged to make amends and work my way back up into her good graces. Nothing that cannot be achieved within an immortal’s lifetime, so I shan’t complain.”

Dalyria broke into a laugh. “It warms my heart to hear you have found someone who not only willingly tolerates you, but also manages to curb your complaining. I think I might like to get to know her better.”

“She is curious about the Underdark. Should you extend an invitation for an evening of mulled blood and bone marrow biscuits, we just might accept,” said Astarion. Dalyria laughed again, as he studied his nails, as though contemplating his next words. “How are the others..? I suppose I should know what is going on on this ‘council’ of yours,” he said at last.

“Aurelia sleeps in an undisclosed location,” said Dalyria. “Who knows when she will wake. Until she does, I have her proxy vote on the council.”

“Convenient. Would you like mine as well, so I can be absolved of all this nonsense..?”

“I cannot,” Dalyria shook her head. “Whilst you are animate, Baldur’s Gate is your responsibility. The council has voted you Master Vampire of the region.”

“Who else voted in my favour..?”

“Everyone but Violet and Petras. She resents you still, and has Petras wrapped around her finger.”

“Ha! How predictable…” Astarion laughed. “But Leon voted with you, truly..? After what you’ve done?”

“Leon has allied with and votes with Yousen.”

“And why would Yousen vote for me - he despises me.”

“He hates Violet more,” Dalyria pointed out.

“Well if Baldur’s Gate is my domain, then we need to talk about this butchery operation you’ve apparently been running right under my nose. I am entitled to a cut for your use of the slaughterhouse.”

“I have an entire coven to feed, you only have yourself and Asmodea,” Dalyria shrugged. “Besides, it was all outlined in a letter I’d sent you earlier this year. There were two follow-ups, and you had a month to respond with any objections.”

“Oh you know damned well I don’t read these letters!” Astarion exclaimed. “And besides, proper service of official correspondence is to be undertaken by an agent in person, not merely sent in the mail, and-” he cut himself off before be could continue his tangent, sighing and pinching and rubbing the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Dal, what in the hells are we doing..?” he continued, more calmly. “Don’t get me wrong, it is positively adorable, your playing at royalty or nobility or what have you. It’s commendable, really. After all, it’s important to have a hobby to while away the time. And I see you’ve got the whole family involved in this... production of yours. ...But don’t you think you’re taking this whole ‘Master Vampire’ idea too far..?”

“Whysoever would you say that, brother?”

“I can ‘claim’ any title I like, but what do you expect me to do when a real vampire lord shows up in Baldur’s Gate to lay their claim on the city? We got lucky with Constancia, she was too arrogant to even consider that she wasn’t invincible. But someone wiser? More powerful? I will be swatted aside. I doubt you would be so kind as to allow me to call in the cavalry from the Underdark.”

Dalyria stayed silent for a moment, observing him like he was a fascinating cretin, before eventually breaking the silence with a sigh.

“Our master is dead, Astarion. We are not merely escaped spawn. He is dead and we are free.”

“And..? We never drank his blood. We are no longer enslaved, yes. And so we can do a few more tricks than Cazador originally told us. Did you know we can turn into bats? And mist, it turns out? …But we are doomed to be mere spawn forevermore. ...Are we not?”

Dalyria hopped off the podium, turned and walked off into the shadows.

“Dal?” Astarion called after her. “What do you mean, we are not merely escaped spawn? Dal??”

“Ask Amanita,” she shot over her shoulder and disappeared.

The journal lay hidden beneath a loose floorboard, further concealed beneath a rug.

A cheap illusion spell - so cheap it could be dispelled by merely giving the journal a good smack against a hard surface - disguised the book as an accounting ledger.

On dispelling the illusion, flipping through the pages, one would find doodles scattered throughout, interspersed withing the writing. Blades. Skulls. Sketches of a woman with dreadlocked hair in various states of undress. Gruesome, bloody scenes of violence. Jewellery - ring designs in particular. Demonic visages. Flowers. Birds.

As for the text itself - the last line of defence against prying eyes was the author’s handwriting. Sweeping, elaborate capitals collapsed into wave-like script. Elegant, flowing, beautiful to the point of absurdity - it was completely illegible.

A poem was scribbled towards the end of the used up pages of the journal. Clearly a work in progress, it was messy, with passages and words scratched out and re-written multiple times. What could be made out of it read as follows:

My love, she is a blood-red rose, both tender bloom and blade, Her scent Her thorns have marked me through and through — a price I gladly paid. She dances to a madman’s tune, her laughter wild and free, And I, a fool bewitched, fall into step and join her revelry.

My love, she’s irresistible, her vibrancy my bane snare, Her siren-song consumes my will, strips me and leaves me bare. She is my sun, my heart, my pain joy, my dawn, my solace and my sin, My headache sweetest torment, burning flame that scorches from within.

My love - one day she’ll fade, her petals turn to dust. I'll hold her till her dying breath - Such is our fate. I must. I only pray that when she withers I too will turn to ash, That death may bind us, body and soul, that we may not unlash.

My love, until the end, whenever it may come, I’ll lie awake through night’s day’s long hush flush, and softly, one by one, I’ll whisper to your sleeping form my vows until the dawn night’s fall: That I will love you to the end of times That I will love you till this world expires That I will go through raging fire for you That I will love you until the end of you

~~~~~

For reference: Tumbledown - a district located within the Outer City of Baldur's Gate, which once belonged to the Szarr family. Every member of the Szarr family residing there has since been murdered, and their holdings burnt to the ground.

Thank you so much to everyone who's come on this journey with me and made it this far! I will post a brief epilogue in a few days' time, however you can consider this the end of the story. I think I will post a few headcanon bullet points about Constancia and co later as well. As you can imagine, the lore that made it to the fic is only the tip of the iceberg, what I hold in my mind runs much deeper.

I love you. ❤

PS I am never writing another bloody poem again, and you can't make me.

AO3

[vixstarria]

Legacy of Ash

Chapter 14 - Guilt

Chapter summary: The evil has been defeated, the captive heroine has been rescued. We are all set for a happy ending at last, right? RIGHT?

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Series summary:

A magical storm descends over Baldur’s Gate. The city freezes and vampires roam freely in the daylight, while the raging tempest threatens to tear a rift between the material plane and the domain of a malevolent fey. Holding the key to the storm is the fey’s warlock - the late Cazador Szarr’s sister, Constancia Szarr. Her first order of business on arrival in Baldur’s Gate? Vengeance. “And the escaped spawn that returned to kill Cazador… The one you say has stayed in the city since,” Constancia interrogated her captive. “This ‘Astarion’. Where is he now?”

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Genre: Angst / Drama / Romance / Horror / Dark comedy if you squint

Rating: Explicit

Chapter word count: 3,470

Several days later

A murmur of voices arose from behind the bedroom door. Astarion quietly opened it partway and lingered in the threshold, observing the scene before him.

“…of course, if you over-indulge, your eyes will begin glowing red. It can be hard to tell when that happens. Your eyes still won’t reflect in a mirror, but interestingly - the glare will. So what you want to do is, bring anything right up to your eye, and see if it suddenly gains a red tinge.” The words spilled, excitedly, from Amanita. She sat before a dressing table on a chair which was too high for her, kicking her feet.

“Or I could just glower at the first person I encounter and see if they run, screaming,” remarked Asmodea, who stood behind Amanita, braiding her hair.

“That works as well, yes,” said Amanita.

Asmodea stepped back, and Astarion saw the product of her work: Amanita’s hair was now arranged in plaits hugging the crown of her head, interwoven with ribbons and ending in ponytails. He’d had no idea Asmodea knew how to do that - her own hair had been woven into strands that were impervious to any brush for as long as he’d known her, and would now remain as such forevermore. “All done!” she said.

Amanita hopped off the stool, moved toward the centre of the room and spun. She was dressed like a doll, lacy petticoats peeking from a frock that was too short for her. Her face was a vulgar painting of kohl and rouge.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Pathetic. Vulnerable. Like someone a man would swear looked older than they really were and was asking for it,” Asmodea answered, to Amanita’s growing delight. The childlike vampire beamed. “Happy hunting,” Asmodea added. With that, Amanita flashed Asmodea a toothy smile and dissolved into shimmering mist to reform in her bat form, and flew out through the open balcony doors.

Asmodea too walked out onto the balcony and stayed there, gazing out into the night. Astarion entered the room and followed her.

“Please do not tell me this is to become a regular occurrence,” said Astarion.

“She’s so excited to have someone to talk to, how can I say no?” Asmodea shrugged. “Besides, it’s cute.”

“Cute? Darling, not you too…” said Astarion. “She is an adult, you know this.”

“She bounces on her toes when she gets excited,” Asmodea retorted.

“An act she’s perfected to disarm.” Astarion crossed his arms.

“Her favourite books are The Legends of Drizzt, she’s read them countless times.”

“So have- never mind. That doesn’t mean anything!”

“Astarion…” Asmodea sighed. “She is old, and knowledgeable, and hardened by harsh truths that were forced onto her, yes. But beneath it all is a young girl that never knew a mother’s love.”

“And what? You are going to take up that role for her?”

“Please,” Asmodea scoffed with mock horror. “I qualify as an eccentric wine aunt at best. …She’s invited me to join her at the docks sometime,” she added after a few moments’ silence.

“Did she now? Well, enjoy your little dinner date. I trust you’ll bond further over some drunk sailor.”

“She said she doesn’t like the drunk ones - they make her feel funny.”

Astarion threw his hands up and retreated back inside, as Asmodea lingered on the balcony.

“How’s Jaheira?” Asmodea called out to him.

“Halsin said she will walk again, but it will take time,” Astarion answered. “She asked why you didn’t come with me. She’s been wanting to see you.”

Asmodea did not reply.

Astarion returned to the balcony a minute later, with two glasses of wine, handing her one, and wrapping his arms around her from behind.

“Here, wine aunt,” he said softly, pressing a kiss against her temple. She accepted the glass from him. He drew his arms tighter around her waist, stroking the fabric of the garment she wore. A black silk chemise. She seemed to have decided to live in it. “Are you not going to change out of that..? You’ve been wearing that nightgown for days.”

“It’s night, isn’t it?” she shrugged, indifferent. “It’s always night.” She raised the glass to her lips.

A pained expression crossed Astarion’s face before he smoothed it away into a smile again.

“How does it taste..? Compared to before, I mean. I’ve always wondered how it truly holds up, but I can’t remember anymore.”

Asmodea took another sip, swirling the wine in her mouth before responding.

“It’s duller. Still nice, but… duller, yes. Like something’s missing.” She left the circle of his arms and hopped up to sit on the narrow railing of the balcony instead, balancing precariously with her back to the street. A spike of fear pierced through Astarion momentarily before melting away again - it seemed Asmodea was adapting to her new reflexes as though they were second nature. She didn’t seem to mind the chill one bit, either. “…Is there anything else, besides the obvious, that I will still taste..?”

“Wine, red wine in particular, is safe and retains its taste for us. I’m talking about good red wine, of course. The watered down swill the taverns call “house wine” always tastes like vinegar. And, if you add a few drops of blood, the wine gains a new dimension. Some herbs still work, too… Cardamom... Cloves...” He quieted, noticing she wasn’t really listening. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

“Hungry,” she said, not hesitating for a second before answering. “I’m always hungry,” she scowled. “You know… I went down into the larder earlier - I don’t know what I was expecting to find there, just sheer force of habit that took me there, I guess - and I found some raw meat that had been left thawing in the cold room… It was starting to go rank, but…” She sighed, shutting her eyes, before continuing. “I drank all the liquid in the tray and gnawed and sucked on the meat until all the juice had been squeezed out of it,” she said, her lips curling. “It was disgusting, there wasn’t a second when I didn’t think it was disgusting, but I was ravenous, Astarion!”

He only listened to her, silently.

“It abated for a short while, after Halsin let me feed on him, but then it returned, all too soon, and I swear it was worse than before.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Why am I even telling you this, you’ve experienced all that and worse over the past two centuries…”

“It gets better,” he said, softly. “The first days are the worst, as your body gets acclimated to its new state. I don’t remember going through it myself, but I’ve seen it in my younger siblings.” She listened to him, misty-eyed. He wanted to soothe but he couldn’t allow himself to sugarcoat. “It never fully goes away - the craving for more - but your mind and body do get used to it.” Astarion approached, taking her face with both hands, tenderly. “You will find you are much stronger than your impulses. You won’t let them rule you.” He kissed her, gently, lingering with his forehead touching hers, eyes closed. Her breath - for she still forgot she no longer needed to breathe - quivered, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on tightly. So soft, and fragile, and trusting… He wanted to stay in this moment forever, holding her, being her rock, but... “We need to talk,” he whispered.

She startled, drawing back and looking at him questioningly.

“I hate when you say that,” she murmured back.

Astarion stepped back, holding her hand and urging her gently after him, until she hopped back off the rail and followed him back into the room. He led her to the bed, it being the only furniture available besides the stool at the vanity. She sat next to him.

“Has Amanita told you anything about our first excursion into this manor?”

“Nothing that I haven’t also heard from you,” Asmodea shrugged.

“Did she tell you what happened when we exchanged blood? Did she talk to you about what happens when a vampire feeds on another vampire at all..?”

“She said you communicated telepathically. Why..? Is there more to it?”

“There is,” Astarion began, carefully. “Drinking another vampire’s blood does a few more things. For one, it makes you become enthralled by them, temporarily. And it forces you to feel… positive emotions for them.”

“What does that mean?” Asmodea furrowed her brows.

“Not very much, in the end,” Astarion said with a small laugh. “The mutual exchange negated the enthrallment, and I felt… sorry, for her. Protective, I suppose. Angry on her behalf, too, far angrier than I had felt in a long time about my own fate. I think she felt something similar for me.”

“And..?” Asmodea continued frowning. “Are you asking me if I’m jealous..? I’m not.”

“No! No…” Astarion breathed a chuckle. “I know… But another effect it had, and part of the reason we did it to begin with, is because it made it impossible for us to lie to one another. We could establish trust.” He took her hand. “I want to drink from you. …If you’ll allow me. And then I want to tell you something. And then, for what I’m about to tell you, I want you to be able to do anything you want to me.”

Asmodea blinked at him, speechless.

“Have you lost your mind..?” she said at last. “Whatever this is, you can just tell me. There’s no need for all… that.”

“Please.”

“I trust you…”

“I don’t trust me!” said Astarion.

“You’ve always been dramatic, but this is ridiculous. After all you’ve been through, how can you willingly enthrall yourself again, even temporarily?!” Astarion only met her stare with silence. “At least tell me why!”

“I don’t want anything to be reserved or omitted in this, not even by accident. I can’t leave any room for doubt.”

 “…Fine,” she sighed, eventually.

She went to move her hair away from her neck, but Astarion halted her, taking her hand in his instead, and lifted it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles tenderly, then turned it over to kiss her wrist, tracing a finger over it. It would be different from before, he knew. He found that thought both dejecting and exciting, and wished he could have done this under different circumstances. But, he could not postpone this any longer. Finally, he pierced the delicate veins that lay in her wrist.

The moment her blood hit his tongue, he almost sobbed.

It was similar, yet altered. Irreversibly, irrevocably so. Matured, enhanced in its complexity, yet stripped of the stark, bright, fresh purity it had before. What once brought up thoughts of wildflowers and sunlight, now reminded him of decadent bouquets and fire. It wasn’t worse, merely different, yet he mourned the memory of that which he would never experience again.

He felt traces of her blood seeping into his body and mingling with his own. No, not mingling, he thought. Running through him like an intruder against whom his own blood had not rallied any defences. Not yet. And until then…

He raised his eyes, meeting her gaze. She studied him with a scrutinising intensity he had never seen in her eyes before. Something predatory sharpened her features.

“There’s no mental link,” she said.

“You need some of my blood. Take a few drops, I don’t want it to overpower the effect of yours.”

“Give me your hand,” she nodded.

His arm shot out to her, on its own accord. They both startled, Astarion with a suppressed wince, Asmodea with guilt.

“I didn’t mean…” she began sheepishly, before shaking her head. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” he told her.

“Stop me after a few drops, I don’t know that I’ll be able to stop myself,” she said. She then took his hand, bringing his fingers up to her lips, and carefully pierced his thumb with a fang, before hungrily sucking it into her mouth.

“…Darling,” he said some moments later, when she indeed did not let go. “Ah-ah!” he said, removing his thumb from her mouth and smiling at the petulant look that crossed her face.

“I am not petulant!” she exclaimed, before breaking into a smile at last.

Astarion grinned back at her. He sensed her presence, he realised. The feeling was similar to the way the illithid tadpole had alerted him to others carrying the parasite. He could not read her mind however - whether because she had not taken enough blood from him, or because of her proficiency in psychic magic.

“Try me now. You’ll know if I’m telling the truth.”

“Oh I don’t know, now you’re putting me on the spot, nothing comes to mind…” she hesitated for some moments. “…What is your favourite colour?”

“Really?” he rolled his eyes. “That is the best you can come up with? Red.”

“Liar!”

“Fine,” he laughed, “pink.”

“That’s better,” Asmodea grinned. “What did you think of me when you saw me for the very first time?”

“That you looked like you’d escaped from a circus, and most likely couldn’t throw a punch.”

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

“What kind of a stupid question is that..?”

“Answer it!”

“Well do I already know you, and you’ve suddenly turned into a worm, and I now need to take care of you? Or are you already a worm when I’m meeting you for the very first time? Because the answers will be vastly different.”

“Have you ever written poetry?”

Astarion sighed before answering. “Yes.”

“In the last century?”

“Yes.”

“In the last decade?”

“…Yes.”

“In the last year?!” Asmodea asked, laughing.

“…Darling, if you truly love me, you will abandon this line of questioning,” said Astarion, grinning despite himself. She shook, tittering. This was the first time he saw her laughing, laughing, since the day of her rescue. He would’ve given anything to keep hearing it.

But, her laughter eventually fizzled out, just as the smile had gradually slipped off his own face.

“What is it you wanted to tell me..?”

Ah, there it is…

He sat up straighter on the bed. Something in his change of demeanor made Asmodea sit up as well, worry painted on her features.

“As you know… Amanita and I snuck inside the manor the day before we confronted Constancia. It was just the two of us. We split up. She searched for the source of the fey magic, I searched for you.”

Asmodea listened to him, her gaze trained on his face, unblinking.

“I ran into Azora and Thalia while Amanita was elsewhere. I… They… They told me you were in the cells. It was in a roundabout way, but they hinted that they could be persuaded to lead me there. That I could have gone and retrieved you right there and then. That they would not stand in my way.”

Not a single muscle on Asmodea’s face moved. She had ceased breathing. Her face had become an unreadable mask. Astarion took a useless breath, and forced himself to continue.

“…They also told me that Constancia was going to turn you. And that if I went and got you then, then you were going to remain mortal forever. And if I didn’t, if I’d only waited - I would come back to find you immortal.”

“You left me there,” Asmodea whispered, her face hardening further, impossibly.

“They laid out these options before me, taunting me,” Astarion shook his head vigorously as he continued, “and I… I froze.”

“You left me there.”

“I couldn’t move a single muscle. I couldn’t decide,” Astarion kept talking, the words tumbling out of him.

“You left me there!”

“And so after an eternity in this hell of indecision, which must have lasted all of a few seconds, certainly less than a minute… Thalia made the decision for me.”

“And if she hadn’t?!”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I would have done.”

A torturous silence stretched and held as Asmodea got up to pace around the room.

“Who are you..?” she said. Before he could say anything, she continued. “Who the fuck are you, to make any decisions for me? I am not your possession, I am not your plaything, I am not your pet, how dare you?!”

“I d-” Astarion began.

“Shut. Up!”

His jaw clamped shut involuntarily. Whether or not Asmodea had intended this to serve as a command, she didn’t look at him as she continued to pace.

“Even had Constancia not turned me, that bitch was going to start dismembering me just the night prior, held a blade to my skin - the only reason she didn’t slice anything off was because Fuckface managed to intervene. Did the thought that she would do that not cross your mind?”

It had, the very first night she disappeared. Astarion had projected the answer to her, still being unable to speak.

“So you knew. You knew what every moment might mean for me, and still you left me there.”

She approached him, tears beginning to spill from her eyes.

“And to think that I trusted you, I waited for you… How pathetic is it that a half-crazed, childish fey did their best to protect me, and stayed with me, holding my hand through the whole ordeal when all the while you were deciding how to best play the situation in your favour?!”

Still unable to speak, Astarion tried to reach for her instead.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

He nearly collapsed, his muscles stiffening and holding him in place, unwilling to budge no matter how his mind screamed for them to move. A single tear rolled down his cheek.

“What the fuck do you have to say for yourself?”

Only then did his jaw unclench.

“Nothing,” he whispered, more tears rolling down his face. “I’ve nothing to say at all. But allow me to show you… Please…”

His thoughts were still exposed to her, but in her tumult she hadn’t paid them any mind. She now delved, roughly and angrily.

Astarion recalled those moments with Azora and Thalia, trying to remember everything to the most minute detail, not concealing or embellishing, not trying to defend or justify himself. He merely laid it all out for her. His thoughts. His feelings. His every experience and sensation between that encounter and his reunion with her. His mindset when he saw her again at last. When he saw what had been done to her.

It was a hurricane of emotions, but first and foremost among them, all throughout, were two.

Grief and shame.

From then on and into the present moment.

Shame so profound he wished someone would stomp him into the dirt until he was nothing.

Grief for that which could never be taken back or reversed.

It didn’t matter that Thalia was the one to put an end to any notion of possible rescue that day. It wasn’t what he did - it was what he was willing to do.

He laid it all bare before her. Felt her sifting through his memories, picking through them and casting them aside, then withdrawing completely. He didn’t know what to make of his sudden solitude. She had turned away and wasn’t even looking at him anymore, gazing out the balcony again instead.

“When were you going to tell me?” she asked, quietly.

“As soon as I could,” Astarion answered. He found he could move again. “Only you weren’t yourself after you were turned. I’ve been waiting for you to get better. And…”

“And I haven’t,” she finished for him. “Gotten better. Maybe I never will.” She glanced at him over her shoulder, her eyes still glistening but cold as ice. “Was it worth it?”

It was as though an impenetrable stone wall had erected itself between them. In the ensuing frigidity, Astarion’s hope, which had been flickering weakly since the start of this evening, finally snuffed itself out.

“I’ve always been so aggrieved with the notion of losing you to old age in a century’s time... Every day we spent together meant one day less that was left of our happiness.” Astarion said, with a bitter sadness. “How silly I was… I needn’t have worried about time and age - I managed to lose you all by myself, in a matter of moments.” He got up. “No, it was not worth it. And for what little my apologies are worth… I am so sorry.”

He turned to leave the room, not knowing where he was going, only certain that there was nothing left for him in that bedroom, that manor, that city, perhaps that entire plane of existence, when, in the blink of an eye, moving at an inhuman speed, Asmodea was on him, at this throat, her fangs piercing his neck.

~~~~~

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, you can find more of my writing here. Leave a comment and you'll make my day. ❤

AO3

[spacebarbarianweird]

Sorry, I went ugly crying 😅

[vixstarria]

Legacy of Ash

Chapter 13 - A rude awakening

Chapter summary: Astarion and Asmodea are faced with a new reality

Chapter CW: blood, violence, poorly timed dick jokes

Previous chapter | Series masterlist | AO3 | Overall masterlist

Series summary:

A magical storm descends over Baldur’s Gate. The city freezes and vampires roam freely in the daylight, while the raging tempest threatens to tear a rift between the material plane and the domain of a malevolent fey. Holding the key to the storm is the fey’s warlock - the late Cazador Szarr’s sister, Constancia Szarr. Her first order of business on arrival in Baldur’s Gate? Vengeance. “And the escaped spawn that returned to kill Cazador… The one you say has stayed in the city since,” Constancia interrogated her captive. “This ‘Astarion’. Where is he now?”

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Genre: Angst / Drama / Romance / Horror / Dark comedy if you squint

Rating: Explicit

Chapter word count: 3,178

Amanita knelt, silently, over the pile of bone shards and brain matter, as the stone she had used to smash Constancia’s skull fell from her hands.

Somewhere within the the space of the last few frenzied blows Amanita had delivered to what remained of Constancia’s head, Asmodea had grown still in Astarion’s grasp, completely ceasing to struggle.

It’s over… It has to be over, and her last command dead with her…

He hastily pulled out the makeshift stake from Asmodea’s chest. No breath, no heartbeat, he would have had no way to know whether it had been too much, but a groan escaped her lips with the removal of the bolt. Astarion slid her onto his lap, wrapping her in an embrace and gently rocked her, his lips to her forehead. He should have felt relieved, he supposed, but it seemed there was absolutely no space for it yet.

Across the arena, Thalia released a bone chilling howl of anguish, hunched over on her knees. Azora cradled Thalia’s shaking body as the drow wailed, alert and scowling, fangs bared at anyone who might dare to approach. Between sobs, Thalia screamed again and again, until she finally went slack, sobbing in Azora’s arms, letting the blonde elf coo soothingly into her ear, even as she continued to eye the others with suspicion, though no one paid the two spawn any mind.

Shadowheart rushed over to Jaheira just as the portcullis rose and Halsin and Gale ran into the basement.

“Halsin!” Shadowheart called out. The druid threw a questioning glance at Astarion, and, having received a nod from the vampire, gave a brief sigh of relief and hurried towards Jaheira’s broken body.

Gale paused by Astarion.

“Is she… alive..?” he asked.

How did one answer that question, given the circumstances..?

“She’ll make it,” said Astarion.

Gale nodded, unsure, and, perhaps at a loss for anything further to say, and instead turned and walked cautiously towards Amanita.

Being free of anyone’s attention for the moment, Astarion swept Asmodea up into his arms and stood up, lifting her.

“Come on, love,” he murmured to her. “You’ve been here long enough.” And you won’t be able to tell friend from food when you come to.

A scene from the past flashed in his mind.

“Why don’t I just seduce a vampire lord?” Asmodea grinned, rolling over onto his chest in a tangle of bedsheets.

“You think you’ve got what it takes to catch the eye of one and make him want to keep you?” Astarion smiled, tucking away a stray lock of her hair.

“You don’t think I’m capable?”

“You’re… an acquired taste, darling,” he said, laughing as she tried to nip at the hand that had been caressing her cheek.

“So anyway,” Asmodea continued once she abandoned her onslaught, “he’ll turn me. But you’ll be lurking nearby all along, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And just as I’m awakening to my new eternal unlife in his dour and tacky bedchamber…”

“Mmhmm.”

“…You’ll leap out of his wardrobe, in a bonnet and layers and layers of petticoats…”

“A natural and indispensable part of any vampire lord’s wardrobe,” Astarion nodded.

“Yep. And with a stake in hand, of course - better bring your own, I’m not sure a vampire would keep one among the bonnets and petticoats.”

“And drive it into his heart, freeing you.”

“Yes! And then we’ll shag next to his corpse and live happily ever after.”

“Such a cunning, simple, foolproof plan, my love.”

They tittered and added other foolish details to their scheme, until eventually their mirth subsided. Astarion stared at the ceiling, idly tracing circles on Asmodea’s back as she began to drift away, still lying on his chest.

“You know that fate is the last thing in the world I would ever wish for you, don’t you..?” he whispered.

Liar, he thought to himself as he carried her limp body through the tunnels. Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar.

It wasn’t until they emerged from the basement that she stirred. She was gaunt, her features sharper and tighter than they had been, all colour gone from her face. But the wound from the stake was gone from her chest too, the lesions from being scorched by the Daylight spell almost healed. She must have used up all the remaining reserves of her mortal blood. Astarion’s own injuries had been pulling back shut, his flesh restoring. It stung, but it was the last thing on his mind.

“You bastards,” Asmodea muttered, slurring. “Where are you taking me… Let go, I’ll walk.”

She began to flail her arms and struggle, and Astarion set her down on her own two feet.

She swayed and would have fallen, had Astarion not been there to catch her. Eyes now open - red, Astarion confirmed for himself, with a touch of grief that he didn’t have time to acknowledge yet - blinking at her surroundings, as though she was having difficulty focusing on any single object, sound or thought. She was delirious and half-mad with hunger, Astarion knew - Constancia hadn’t given Asmodea anything but a single drop of her blood to claim her as her own since she rose.

Asmodea gasped, dry heaves coming through lungs that no longer needed air other than to speak. Her fangs remained fully distended, ready to sink into the first available vein or artery. Her features twisted with pain.

Astarion briefly considered giving her his own blood, but immediately decided against it. She had to feed on someone else. Someone mortal. He couldn’t impinge on her freedom and have control over her, even with the best intentions.

Her eyes focused on him at last.

“You came,” she whispered, spilling into a childlike smile.

“Of course I did, darling,” Astarion managed, blinking back tears. “It took so long to find you, but I came to you as quickly as I could. And Jaheira, and Shadowheart… Everyone but Wyll, really, but he helped too.” He was babbling, he realised.

“Where are they?” Asmodea asked. “I want to see them too.”

“They’re still in the dungeon, but-  Ah-ah!” Astarion said, drawing her back as she turned to head back underground, and leading her through the kitchen instead. He released a small sigh of relief when she followed him without resistance. Her faculties were returning to her, but this still reminded him of the times he’d had to take of her when she was intoxicated beyond common sense.

“Why can’t I see them?” Asmodea asked. Something predatorial had appeared in her eyes - the look of a hunter that had caught a trail.

“Well…” Astarion hesitated, considering the best way to answer. “Because one of those fools will offer to feed you, and you will accidentally tear out their throat,” he responded, continuing to lead her deeper into the manor, entering a hall.

“Feed me?” Asmodea frowned. “That’s ridiculous. And why would I tear any throats - did they do something I’ve forgotten?” She stopped in her tracks, looking down at the scant pink gossamer silks. “…Astarion, what the fuck am I wearing..? Did you get this for me? It’s… nice, I guess, but this infernal jingling…”

Asmodea began to fumble for a clasp of the collar around her neck, but immediately scratched herself and gasped, jerking her hand away to stare at the claws on her hand. Astarion hurriedly removed the collar with its jingling bell from her neck and threw it on the ground, all and any words and explanations stuck in his own throat.

“What’s…” she began to say, but shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she murmured. She lifted her eyes and looked around as though seeing their surroundings for the very first time. “And where…” Before Astarion could stop her, she broke away, hastening down the hall, and rounded a corner, where she stopped, frozen in place, her eyes transfixed on a single spot on the wall opposite. Astarion caught up with her and followed her gaze. 

She was looking at a mirror. A mirror in which she did not exist.

Astarion let her go when she broke away from him again, taking uncertain steps toward it. She reached out and touched the glass, as though to check that it was real. Her fingerprints remained on its surface, but her reflection was nowhere to be found. She traced it with her fingers, then, on some impulse, leaned forward and exhaled a breath onto the mirror’s surface. The breath left no trace. Asmodea backed away from the mirror until she walked into Astarion, releasing a small gasp.

“What is the last thing you remember?” Astarion asked quietly, wrapping his arms around her.

“Running through a field,” Asmodea whispered, to Astarion’s confusion. “Then I had a terrible nightmare. Complete nonsense, but terrible… Something about Cazador being a woman, I think. And before that…” she trailed off, eyes growing wider.

“Come on, love,” Astarion said softly, taking her by the hand, and urging her after him. She followed.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You must feed,” Astarion explained. “If you like, you can wait for me here, and I’ll drag the first person I find to you.”

“No!” she objected. “No, don’t go! Don’t leave me again,” she added, Astarion wincing at her words. Comprehension and cohesion were rapidly returning to her. Her mouth twisted, then opened to reveal her tonguing the tip of a fang. She brought her hand up to test the sharpness with a fingertip, recoiling slightly when it immediately drew blood. “Not a nightmare then,” she muttered.

“I’m afraid not, my love,” said Astarion, as she continued to prod at her fangs.

“Mine are longer than yours,” she said pensively.

“Well… No, thank you very much, mine are just as long,” Astarion said with a small huff. “They just extend from deeper within the jaw when we’re…” he waved his hand, searching for the right word.

“Excited?” Asmodea prompted.

“Yes, let’s call it that,” he conceded. “And…”

“…And it’s not how long they are, it’s how you use them?” Asmodea looked up at him, quirking a brow.

Astarion’s lips twitched towards a smile - the motion fleeting and incomplete, immediately extinguished when Asmodea did not cast back his momentary amusement.

She turned and stalked away from him.

“Any odd servant simply won’t do, I know exactly who I want,” she threw over her shoulder.”

“He fled,” Astarion said, following after her.

“Hmm?” Asmodea gave him a quizzical look as she entered a room. The drapes had been thrown open, exposing the space to light. Immediately, Astarion felt a mild burning sensation on his exposed skin again - the protective effect of the fey blizzard must have dissipated already.

Before he could pull Asmodea back, she hissed and flung an arm out, causing the curtains to slide back in place with telekinetic force, blocking out the light. At the other end of the room, someone gasped.

A young maid. The girl was startled by the intrusion, but, perhaps recognising the garments typically worn by Constancia’s spawn, opted to lower her gaze and dip into an unsure curtsy instead of raising alarm.

Asmodea strode over to her.

A shame, Astarion thought. He had been hoping they would encounter someone less… innocent. But it did not matter. He moved, positioning himself between the girl and the nearest door, just in case, and braced himself for a massacre.

Against his expectation, Asmodea did not strike, instead lifting the girl’s chin with a clawed finger to make her look her in the eyes.

“Tell me, love,” Asmodea smiled with a flash of her fangs at the girl, “where might I find Greenfern or Syrin?”

Astarion cocked an eyebrow, amused but not entirely surprised to hear they made it into Constancia’s service. They had been among the sycophantic fools that served Cazador in hope to one day be turned by him. Every day, they saw what befell Cazador’s spawn, and every day, they stayed begging to join their ranks. Astarion didn’t think Cazador had even paid them beyond an allowance to cover food and basic necessities.

“They… They ought be in a meeting with the butler in his office, just off the servants’ hall, milady,” the maid stammered, pointing in the direction of the servants’ rooms, eyeing Asmodea with apprehension.

Asmodea flashed the maid another smile, and stalked off in the direction she had provided, her face growing hard as she walked away.

“They hurt me,” Asmodea said simply, catching Astarion’s eye.

“Say no more,” he murmured. He was impressed and surprised with her self-restraint. But a need for vengeance stronger than a hunger - that he could understand and appreciate. “I know where it is. Come.” They passed several more rooms, heavy drapes sliding shut before Asmodea as she made her way. “Here,” Astarion pointed toward the room from which he had retrieved the basement key earlier.

Asmodea threw the door open.

The butler’s office consisted a modest room, the majority of which was taken up by a desk with a pair of chairs beside it, and several bookcases. It was windowless, being situated in an inner room of the manor, instead illuminated by some magelights affixed to the walls.

The two were seated in chairs before the desk, talking among themselves. The butler, Vilhelm, was nowhere to be found, likely still recovering from his migraine, as instructed.

The servants spun towards Asmodea.

“Does the Lady know you are here?!” Syrin snapped, rising to her feet.

Following Asmodea, Astarion entered the room, and shut the door behind himself, turning the lock and leaning with his back against it.

“Master Astarion..?” Greenfern said, confused.

Astarion had always been largely indifferent as to the servants. They had never done anything to him, beyond bearing witness to his numerous humiliations and treating him with an air of condescension. They had never done anything for him, either, for that matter, unless expressly ordered by Cazador. Their life or death had been of absolutely no consequence to him, and he had not at any point after Cazador’s death sought them out, nor even wondered about their fate.

But, harming his Oddie - that had signed their death sentences.

Asmodea launched herself at Syrin, faster than the woman could react, fangs tearing at her neck.

It was messy and imprecise, the ruptured artery splattering blood everywhere. And yet, Asmodea kept to the woman’s neck, frenzied but determined to feed.

It was only in that moment that Astarion finally allowed himself to acknowledge and come to terms with the change that had taken place in Asmodea - not as an abstract concept, but as the simple, undeniable, irreversible truth that his lover was gorging herself on blood before his very eyes.

He had recognised her vampirism logically. Had seen her fangs, her ruby eyes, her lack of reflection. Had accepted them as facts. But it wasn’t until he witnessed her in her animalistic, merciless fury, that he had allowed himself to comprehend it.

The consequences, the implications, and all the changes and adjustments, small and large, that they would need to consider and make - they were only beginning to catch up and dawn on him, somewhere in the back of his mind. But, in the meantime, something in his chest stirred and swelled with an elated, satisfied, spiteful pride at the sight before him.

Astarion’s exultation was drawn short by Greenfern screaming and charging at him with a chair. Astarion caught the chair one-handed, adrenaline assisting his vampiric strength, wrenching it out of the half-elf’s hands with an unconcerned tug. He crashed it against the man instead, casting him onto the floor. And still, he twisted, pulling a dagger from somewhere on his person, and trying to stab Astarion. The man certainly had a lot of fight in him, Astarion had to admit. It was extremely annoying.

Astarion kicked the dagger away, then knocked Greenfern back onto the floor. When he tried to pull something else from a pocket, Astarion stepped his back, grabbed and twisted both arms, wrenching them upwards with force. A giddy, morbid curiosity sparked in him - he had never been on the giving end of this exercise. A wet popping sound followed as one of the shoulder joints gave way, then another. Greenfern shrieked in agony, but Astarion had already abandoned him, having eyes only for Asmodea.

Asmodea allowed Syrin’s body to fall to the floor. She gulped for air, as though taking it in for the very first time, dazed hunger in her eyes replaced by an animated bloodlust.

Blood covered Asmodea’s mouth, running down her chin, rivulets trailing down her neck and chest. Hardened nipples stood out against the blood-dampened silk.

She looked wild. She looked glorious. 

Astarion, unable to tear his eyes from her, pulling Greenfern upright by a handful of hair.

“How about a first hunt, love?” he asked, his own breathing heavy with excitement. “Shall I open the door and let him run?”

She considered his words as she slowly, deliberately licked blood from her fingers, but shook her head.

“What did he do to you?” Astarion asked, pulling and twisting more, until the half-elf was back up on his feet, arched helplessly backwards, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides.

“I was only following orders!” the man protested in vain.

Asmodea tutted at him, before answering.

“He dragged me to her, the night… the night she killed me. He hit me. Slapped me. Insulted me. Threatened me. Had his filthy hands all over me while she watched.” She approached the half-elf, her face splitting in a wide grin as she addressed him. “You told me you’d come find me in the night, do you remember?” She laughed. “Well there’s no need for that now - I’ve found you all by myself now, haven’t I?”

Her face twisted, and she launched herself at him, the strike more precise this time. Moments after her fangs pierced his artery, Astarion tore into him as well, on the other side - aiming to hurt rather than feed, tearing through muscle and sinew, as the man screamed.

Greenfern was still alive when he collapsed after Astarion released him. He was already an all but forgotten afterthought when Astarion reached for Asmodea, cupping her face in his hands. She looked into his eyes, wild grin on her face.

“How do you feel..?” he asked.

“Alive,” she said. “More alive than I ever have, I think.”

Astarion pressed his lips to hers, tasting the blood that had spilled over her.

Moaning into her mouth, he walked her backwards until her back hit a wall, and lifted her off the ground, her legs wrapping around his hips.

She laughed, the mad thing, as he tongued her neck, licking the blood that covered her.

“So sloppy,” he murmured, an erection pressing into her core through her clothes. “I have so much to teach you.”

“Is there anything better?” she breathed, still grinning. “Is there anything better than this?”

“I’ll show you,” Astarion whispered into her ear, tearing at the scraps of cloth that served as her garments.

Behind them, in a puddle of blood, Greenfern gurgled and choked his last breaths.

~~~~~

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, you can find more of my writing here. Leave a comment and you'll make my day. ❤

AO3

[spacebarbarianweird]

Amazing as usual. I need to read it fully when I you finish it!

[vixstarria]

Legacy of Ash

Chapter 12 - Family reunion

Chapter summary: Check your gear and save your progress. It's the boss battle chapter.

Previous chapter | Series masterlist | AO3 | Overall masterlist

Series summary:

A magical storm descends over Baldur’s Gate. The city freezes and vampires roam freely in the daylight, while the raging tempest threatens to tear a rift between the material plane and the domain of a malevolent fey. Holding the key to the storm is the fey’s warlock - the late Cazador Szarr’s sister, Constancia Szarr. Her first order of business on arrival in Baldur’s Gate? Vengeance. “And the escaped spawn that returned to kill Cazador… The one you say has stayed in the city since,” Constancia interrogated her captive. “This ‘Astarion’. Where is he now?”

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Genre: Angst / Drama / Romance / Horror / Dark comedy if you squint

Rating: Explicit

Chapter word count: 7,685

It was pre-dawn hours by the time they made their way to Constancia’s manor.

Wyll had delivered on his promise, sending silver-forged blades and silver-tipped projectiles, as well as a collection of potions and scrolls. Blood warded against congealing had also been provided from the council blood bank for Astarion and Amanita.

Shadowheart too had successfully obtained the Blood of Lathander from the temple.

“Which of your cunning tricks did you employ?” Astarion asked, nodding at the mace. Shadowheart kept it enclosed in a casing that would prevent its aura from harming Astarion and Amanita with its proximity until it was unsheathed.

“I explained the situation to the Mornmaster,” said Shadowheart. “That there was a new vampire lord that needed to be culled.”

“…And they just handed over the mace?” Astarion sounded sceptical.

“Of course not, they refused,” said Shadowheart. “So I invited them to send someone from their order to accompany me and wield the weapon in my stead. Then they swiftly changed their tune.”

Astarion snorted. The Baldur’s Gate temple of Lathander, which had appeared in the city after the fall of the Netherbrain, was little more than a glorified soup kitchen. That Shadowheart had surrendered the legendary mace to them to begin with seemed ludicrous to him, but its whereabouts did not ultimately matter to him, as long as it wasn’t being used against him.

A contingent of harpers had been stationed around the manor. Their leader, an inconspicuous-looking dwarf, approached Jaheira.

“Not a soul’s been sighted all night, besides the vampire’s own lookouts,” he reported.

“And anything without a soul?” Jaheira asked.

“Not as far as we can tell,” the dwarf shook his head. “Not a glimpse of the big bad bitch or her lackeys. Had our druid flitting around as a bird, checking on the top floors - but the vampires ain’t been there all night. No bats or ravens flying in or out, either. Some cats out and about around the manor, one of them nearly got our druid, but they’re just regular ol’ cats, nothing that arose suspicion. …That is, unless vampires fancy sitting on windowsills, tonguing their own arseholes.” He glanced at Amanita. “Pardon my language, lass.”

“Cats in a vampire den?” Jaheira asked, skeptically, having dismissed the man.

“Cats don’t much mind the undead,” Amanita shrugged. “It’s dogs and horses that give us the most trouble.”

“Constancia must be somewhere underground,” murmured Astarion. “At least she won’t see us coming.”

“Speaking of, how do we proceed from here?” asked Shadowheart. “Take out the guards, rush the manor? Try to sneak in?”

Once again, all eyes turned to Astarion, waiting for his instructions. Since when had he been appointed leader, he wondered. Not even Jaheira was stepping forward with any input. He hummed and tapped his lip nervously, turning to the manor. A cat was indeed cleaning itself in one of the windows. Astarion frowned at it thoughtfully.

“Can you both shift into common housecats?” he asked Jaheira and Halsin. “And you, can you cast polymorph on yourself?” he asked Gale, once Halsin and Jaheira confirmed.

“I haven’t done it since I was a young boy, but I believe I still can…” said Gale. “But I won’t be able to cast any other spells while I’m maintaining it.”

“Good. You’ll be able to make it inside the manor and all the way upstairs to the artifact that way, then. Amanita and I can sneak in, invisible. That leaves…”

That left Shadowheart, who was clad in chainmail armour, complete with a large shield and several weapons, including the Blood of Lathander.

“We have invisibility potions, but there’s no point in you using them - the clanking ruckus you make with every step will give you away immediately,” said Astarion.

“Shall I hand you the mace and go home?” asked Shadowheart.

“We can hide her in plain sight,” Amanita pitched in, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “I can walk her right through the front door.”

“Explain,” Jaheira lifted a brow.

Amanita relayed her idea.

“It’s risky,” frowned Halsin. “And reliant on the foolishness of Constancia’s servants.”

“They’re all either charmed or willingly working for a vampire,” spoke Astarion. “How sharp can they be?” He turned to Shadowheart. “Are you up for it?”

“I…” she sighed, with a resigned expression on her face. “I suppose this is hardly any worse than marching straight into our enemies’ camp last year, pretending to be absolutists.”

“Let’s do it,” Astarion nodded at Amanita. “I’ll be right behind you in the shadows should it all go sour.”

Amanita beamed. “Look straight ahead,” she said to Shadowheart, “like there’s not a single thought in your head. Do not react to anything, unless it’s a danger to me, do not say anything, unless I address you, and do not do anything, unless I bid you to. Simplicity itself! Now, shall we?”

The door knocker was a gaudy bat-shaped thing. Tacky, and so very much on the nose, Astarion observed from the shadows, where he stood anxiously just off to Amanita’s side. He was invisible to the untrained eye. Somewhere around the back of the manor, Halsin, Jaheira and Gale would be jumping through an open window and proceeding toward the kitchen. A gargoyle head knocker, he thought, now that’s class.

The door was opened by a familiar yet unexpected face, so much so that Astarion nearly hissed.

“Ahh, it’s you!” Amanita squealed, all but clapping her hands. “From Uncle Cazador’s palace! I am so pleased to see you made it here as well!”

Clearly she did not remember the man’s name, though she must have glimpsed his face at some point.

“Vilhelm,” Astarion whispered to her from the shadows, as the man blinked, confused, at her and Shadowheart.

“Vilhelm, yes?” Amanita chirped. “Do you not remember me?” She turned to Shadowheart. “Announce me!”

“Kneel before the eminent Lady Amanita Szarr,” Shadowheart said dispassionately.

With that, Amanita beamed and held out her hand expectantly. Due to her height Vilhelm had no choice but to double over to kiss it.

“Please, enter, Lady Szarr,” he stammered.

“He’s not charmed, he’s just an imbecile,” Astarion whispered, as they entered. Amanita gave him a barely perceptible nod.

Lurid, Astarion thought, casting an eye around the manor’s entrance hall. He had not paid much attention to it during his first excursion within the manor. Where Cazador’s palace had been covered in macabre paintings, velvet and dust, Constancia’s was full of silk tapestries, porcelain vases and meticulously painted lacquered furniture, much of it in garish crimson and gold shades.

“How can I be of service?” Vilhelm asked with a pained smile, wringing his hands.

“I am here to visit Auntie Constancia, of course,” Amanita answered. “Is she home?”

“The Lady is attending to some business but will be with you shortly, I’m sure,” Vilhelm said, hesitantly. “I will send an attendant to announce you-”

“No, no, no need to disturb her, I will wait. I wanted it to be a surprise anyway.”

“And your… companion?” Vilhelm asked, looking at Shadowheart, who had been doing her best standing still as a statue. Suddenly, he took a step back, his eyes growing wide. “You!” he said to her. “I know you!”

“Oh, this,” Amanita waved dismissively, as Shadowheart fought to keep her expression impassive. “A cleric of Selune. I couldn’t come empty-handed - I was raised better than that. Do you know if Auntie Constancia likes cleric? I was thinking I might bring a dragonborn, they’re certainly more exotic, but then again all those scales can be tough to get through. And I didn’t know if she can handle her spice - Uncle Cazador couldn’t, you know.” She chirped, pacifying Vilhelm. “So I figured, you can’t go wrong with cleric! Ah, but I don’t believe I’ve watered her in two days, or maybe three. Mortals need to be rehydrated every three days or so, don’t they?”

“Daily, my lady,” Vilhelm said cautiously.

“Daily! Oh no! No, no, I cannot present her to Auntie this way! Would you take us to the kitchen? I need to attend to her before my aunt sees her. She must be grimy, too, oh no, I did not think this through,” Amanita lamented.

“Right away, my lady, please follow me,” Vilhelm said with some relief, seemingly once again in command of his wits.

“What have we here?” cut in a voice from behind them - a voice that decidedly lacked Vilhelm’s half-witted buffoonery. Astarion turned to see the half-elf he had witnessed in the markets descending the stairs and approaching them.

“The Lady Amanita Szarr, the Lady Constancia’s niece, has come to call,” Vilhelm answered for them.

Amanita looked, unsure, at the half-elf, who now stood before them. She extended a hand and he, too, brought it to his lips, more gracefully than had the butler.

“Is that so..?” he smiled. “The Lady has been made aware of your presence in the city and has been anticipating your visit.” His eyes scanned Amanita, then Shadowheart, his scrying gaze lingering on her weapons. His eyes then probed the shadows around the foyer in a studied manner. Astarion did not think the half-elf saw him, but his head did move in his direction as Astarion slipped behind him, readying to strike if necessary. But then he turned back to Amanita. “She did not anticipate you would bring company,” he added.

“It’s a surprise!” Amanita said innocently.

“How I would love to witness the reveal…” the half-elf chuckled. “Ah, but forgive me, where are my manners… My name is Hanzo, I am our Lady’s chamberlain. I’m afraid I cannot take the time to properly make your acquaintance now, or introduce you to the Lady myself, for urgent business demands my attention elsewhere.”

“No offence taken,” Amanita said with a touch of relief.

“Good luck, Lady Amanita, and farewell.” With that, Hanzo bowed, retrieved a cloak and was out the door. 

A curious parting, thought Astarion. Vilhelm too frowned at the chamberlain’s retreating back, before turning to lead his guests to the kitchen.

The kitchen was deserted save for three cats lounging on the workbench: a massive brown tabby tomcat, a lithe cat with rosette markings, and one with plush smoky-coloured fur. Vilhelm attempted to shoo the cats off the workbench, only to be stared down but otherwise completely ignored by them.

Being the last to enter, Shadowheart locked the kitchen door behind them. Astarion slipped out of the shadows to grab Vilhelm from behind, placing a hand over his mouth and holding a dagger to his neck.

The feline trio turned back into their humanoid forms, Gale and Halsin having first jumped onto the floor. Jaheira remained sitting cross-legged on the counter.

Vilhelm thrashed and moaned, shaking his head, in Astarion’s grasp. He clearly recognised Halsin as well - both he and Shadowheart had been there with Astarion and Asmodea the day they confronted Cazador.

“I should have ended you when I first had the chance,” Astarion hissed.

“Wait!” Amanita called out. “There’s no need, I have a better idea.” She approached Vilhelm, no trace left of her childish air. When she next spoke, there was a metallic, otherworldly quality to her voice. “You have a terrible migraine.”

Immediately, Vilhelm slackened in Astarion’s grasp, groaning and squeezing his eyes shut against the light.

“You will go back to bed and sleep it off,” Amanita continued.

“I will go back to bed and sleep it off,” Vilhelm echoed her, his face scrunched up in pain.

“You never saw us,” said Amanita.

“I never saw you,” Vilhelm repeated weakly, before staggering off, clutching his head. Shadowheart barely had time to re-open the door for him, before he walked into it headfirst.

“There, problem solved,” Amanita said in a normal voice.

“I would have happily strangled him,” Astarion scoffed, his lips curled in distaste.

“It is safer for him to be plausibly ill than missing, should anyone go looking for him,” Amanita shook her head. “He won’t remember seeing us anyway.”

“The chamberlain saw us,” objected Shadowheart.

“The chamberlain had the look of a rat fleeing a sinking ship,” remarked Astarion.

“I doubt he will cause us any trouble,” Amanita nodded. She turned to Shadowheart. “You did great! I thought I might need to charm you in truth, but it seems you are a natural.”

Shadowheart winced at the compliment. “I… It did come easy to me. Like something I’ve done countless times before. Putting on an act to infiltrate someplace I’m not supposed to be.” She shook her head. “Moonmaiden forgive me…” she whispered.

Jaheira cleared her throat and spoke up, while Halsin gave Shadowheart a reassuring pat on the back. “How do we go from here?” she asked.

“The artifact was upstairs, at the very top floor, in Constancia’s boudoir. With luck, it will still be there,” said Amanita.

“I’ll hop back into my whiskered form and head straight there,” said Gale.

“One of us should go with Gale,” said Jaheira, once again turning a questioning eye to Astarion.

“Halsin,” Astarion said without hesitating. “You go.” It had to be either him or Jaheira, and if Astarion failed again, if anything happened to Oddie, Jaheira’s presence would be easier to bear. And, frankly, there was no one he trusted better to watch Gale’s back. He couldn’t bear to lose both him and Oddie - a dark thought which he tried to brush aside.

Once Gale and Halsin had taken their leave, Astarion turned to the cellar hatch. It opened with the key he had stolen from the steward’s office during his previous excursion through the manor.

The cellar itself did not appear at all out of the ordinary.

“It must be through here…” Astarion muttered. “Constancia’s spawn mentioned a concealed level beneath the basement. Something about a door that would open for them…”

“Look for hidden levers, false walls, anything out of the ordinary,” said Jaheira as the group rummaged through the cellar.

“Found it,” Shadowheart called out from the opposite end of the room, sliding aside a false cabinet to reveal another door carved with the Szarr insignia. The door contained no visible keyhole, nor, for that matter, even a door handle - merely an indentation at the centre of the Szarr crest, as though to fit a ring or another object bearing an emblem. Astarion cursed, looking at the door.

“I did not think I would ever need Cazador’s blasted ring again, I don’t know if I still even have it… Last I thought of it, Oddie and I were arguing about the most offensive way to dispose of it… I don’t suppose you keep family paraphernalia on your person?” he asked Amanita.

Amanita observed the door thoughtfully. “No,” she said. “But I do not need a ring to prove that I’m a Szarr.”

She then bit down on her thumb, piercing it, and pressed a droplet of her blood into the centre of the crest.

The door slid open before them.

It was not merely a simplistic polymorph spell that Gale had cast on himself, the typical run of the mill version taught to students, which was more illusion than true transmutation. No. What he had done was the closest a wizard could come to a druid’s wildshape form. Druids, who all but became animals in truth, and indeed sometimes lost themselves in the wildshape, were something else entirely. Still, he came close.

His knees had ceased aching. His sudden flexibility was beyond measure. And, a whole new world opened itself to him. Smells and sounds painting pictures he had never thought possible. He understood messages left by other cats - most of which concerned territorial claims or invitations for mating - both matters he wanted nothing to do with. Suddenly feeling daunted and overwhelmed, he moved closer to Halsin as they left the kitchen.

The crest-sealed door opened to a passage leading further underground, which eventually gave onto a chamber containing numerous empty cells.

“Holding pens,” said Jaheira. She nodded at a barely visible symbol carved into a wall. “Zhentarim slave traders, as I thought. Right beneath our noses...”

Astarion said nothing, instead studying their surroundings. He paused in front of a cell which contained what appeared to be a discarded blanket or cloak. His chest tightening, he entered.

It was a cloak. Dark mink, or something similar, it lay in a crumpled heap on the dirty floor. Astarion picked it up and brought it to his nose. He drew in lingering traces of a man’s cologne, the very same one he sensed on that half-elf mere minutes ago, and beneath it, unmistakably... her.

“Have you picked up her trail?” rose Shadowheart’s voice.

“Do I look like a damned bloodhound?!” Astarion growled.

Rising back to his feet, he dropped the cloak and stalked deeper into the dungeon, gritting his teeth. Should he have gutted that half-elf, he wondered. What had he done to her..? And how dare he?

Another stairway took them deeper underground. They stood in a passageway that branched off in several directions. The tunnels led into darkness. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, and other echoing sounds whispered around them, but they could not identify their source.

“Shall we split up?” asked Amanita.

“No,” Astarion, Jaheira and Shadowheart said in unison.

“I was only joking,” Amanita pouted.

“A wrong turn may lead us halfway through the city,” said Jaheira. Astarion nodded, trying, in vain, to pick up on any sound they might want to follow. He couldn’t make out any footprints, either. Beside them, Shadowheart whispered a prayer for guidance, her eyes shut. Eventually, she stilled and opened her eyes, pointing in a direction.

“That way.”

Not for a moment did Astarion entertain the idea that a goddess would pay such close attention to a devotee as to actually answer their prayers or nudge them in the right direction, but it was as good a path as any. He nodded and led them down the tunnel.

Eventually they reached a large arch. A more complete darkness, impenetrable by vampiric and half-elven eyes, seemed to spill out of it.

“A perfect spot for an ambush, if I’ve ever seen one,” said Shadowheart.

Astarion unsheathed his daggers but shook his head. “Constancia wants to enjoy rubbing my face in whatever it is she’s done. Expect a speech and grand theatrics, not a simple, quiet knife in the back.” He stepped through the darkness, leaving his companions no choice but to follow after him.

Halsin’s steady, unhurried pace was beginning to grate on Gale’s nerves. Some instinct was telling him to arch his back, fold his ears back, hop around and sprint up the stairs, but Halsin, in his massive tabby form, with his massive furry balls - were they normal..? - continued his unbothered stroll ahead of him.

Gale’s mind wandered. He had noticed Shadowheart reaching to pet him earlier, catching and stopping herself just before her hand landed on his head. He wished she hadn’t. A scratch behind the ears would have been wonderful. Or some nice pets. How lovely that would be… Perhaps if he visited Naoise again, taking up her offer of a cuddle, stipulating that he would remain strictly in this form…

His ruminations were cut short as Halsin abruptly stopped at a landing, his back arched, his fur standing on end - several other tomcats had appeared in their path.

They emerged in a large, round chamber, with steep stone walls that rose further into a darkness their eyes could not penetrate. The floor and walls were stained with splatters of what was likely blood. All was silent and dark, but the air still smelled of misery.

“What is this place?” whispered Shadowheart.

“It was once a gladiatorial pit,” an ice-cold voice sliced through the silence. It came from somewhere above and behind them, and the group spun, just as a heavy iron portcullis dropped, cutting off any possible retreat. “The previous host held a great number of spectacles here. I am considering resuming the tradition. Shall we start today? There is no proper audience, but it could be a practice session.”

Several torches held in iron sconces around the arena came alight, casting flickering, dancing shadows on the curved walls. They now saw that a tiered viewing gallery encircled the arena, rising to an unseen ceiling.

“How right you were,” Jaheira murmured to Astarion.

Astarion’s attention was drawn to the overlook just above the entryway - he thought he saw some figures, but could not make them out.

“How long have you been skulking in the dark, waiting for us to enter?” Amanita asked snidely.

“Insolent brat,” the voice hissed. “I should have had you drowned when it was clear you had turned out a failure.”

“Show yourself!” Amanita scowled.

More torches lit ablaze, illuminating Constancia seated on something resembling a throne. She was flanked by the two spawn Astarion had encountered earlier, still gaudily dressed in scraps of silk. They seemed impassive, resigned and almost bored. But he had eyes only for the woman crouching in front of Constancia.

Dressed in the same type of gossamer bedlah as Azora and Thalia - pink, of all things, a colour she despised - and adorned with gaudy jewellery. Her mouth was open in a grimace, newfound fangs - fully distended, as though poised for a kill - on display. Her eyes shone with madness and... hunger, Astarion recognised. She must have risen from death only earlier this morning or during the night, remnants of her own mortal blood would still be fuelling her, turning her into a vampiric version of a berserker, until she burned through it.

Oh my love... What has she done to you..?

“Or have you decided to be a good girl, and brought them to me as a gift?” Constancia arched an amused brow.

“I have come here to place your head on a spike, mother.”

Shadowheart and Jaheira turned to look at Amanita in shock, but Astarion barely registered the words, continuing to try to communicate some kind of positive, reassuring feelings to Asmodea.

Her eyes - had they turned red? Astarion couldn’t tell in the light - had flicked to him, and he thought some recognition flashed in them.

“Oh, youthful maximalism…” Constancia smirked, with a shake of her head. Her hand drifted to Asmodea’s head, stroking her the way one might a cat. Her attention turned to Astarion.

“You must be the one who rid the world of my brother,” she said, continuing to stroke Asmodea. “I could almost thank you, but you see - he was my brother - it would be improper for me to allow anyone else to kill him.” Her lips curled into a cruel, humourless smile. “Do you like my new pet?”

An anger like burning coals flared behind Astarion’s eyelids.

“Touch her again, and I will show you everything your brother has taught me about pain in the past two centuries,” Astarion spat.

“Aww, do you hear that, pet?” Constancia leaned toward Asmodea, grasping her chin to force her to look her in the eyes. “Your knight in shining armour has arrived. Do you want to greet him?” Asmodea did not respond. “You will forgive her if she’s forgotten her manners,” Constancia said, turning back to Astarion. “She’s missed her dinner, you see. And her breakfast and lunch, come to think of it. Perhaps once we’re done here she can break her fast, hmm?”

The bitch had not allowed her to feed.

Astarion remembered the agony of his awakening into undeath. The pain of transformation was only marginally worse than the pain of the agonising hunger he felt when he had clawed his way out. And even Cazador had deemed it proper to allow Astarion to catch and drain some vermin shortly thereafter. But his Oddie had had nothing.

Her body belonged to her hunger, not to herself or anyone else. Constancia merely kept it leashed.

“Blah blah, nothing but petty posturing and pointless, boring blabbering,” Jaheira cut in, unsheathing her scimitars. “You said you wanted to have a practice session in the pit? Come and get it.”

Constancia’s smile widened. She dug her fingers into Asmodea’s hair, grabbing a handful, and forced her to sit up until Constancia could whisper something in her ear. Constancia then released her, the smile disappearing from her face without a trace, and she threw the party a look of contempt.

“Sic!” she threw, and her three spawn launched into action.

The other cats’ yowling sent a terror down Gale’s spine, the like of which he had rarely experienced before. He attempted to make himself appear as large as possible, jumped sideways and responded in full with his own caterwaul. The next thing he knew was, Halsin and another cat were a spinning coil of claws, tufts of fur flying. The other cat launched at Gale, but he managed to avoid it, bouncing off a wall and performing a summersault in midair - an acrobatic feat the likes of which he would never have even considered.

A servant intervened, shouting and flinging something at them. Their adversaries took off to a lower level of the house, while Gale and Halsin sprinted upstairs.

His cat heart pounding, he had never felt more alive.

The trouble, or rather one of the troubles with fighting vampires, was their complete disinclination to fight fair or out in the open. The latter was to be understood quite literally, as all six of the undead disappeared from sight the moment Constancia’s spawn made a move to attack. Jaheira and Shadowheart were left seemingly alone in the centre of the arena. Jaheira held her scimitars at the ready, as Shadowheart raised her shield and backup mace.

“Use the other mace, girl!” hissed Jaheira. “What are you doing?!”

“It will burn Asmodea too!” Shadowheart retorted.

Astarion stalked the edge of the arena, not willing to be the first to break invisibility. It appeared that that role fell, instead, to Azora and Thalia, as they emerged simultaneously besides Shadowheart and Jaheira, whispering something in their ears before turning into mist again. Something in the mortal women’s stances slackened, blank expressions glazing over their faces.

Fuck, Astarion’s brain articulated.

Whether because she had sensed him, or purely by chance, the druid conjured a Moonbeam right next to Astarion, just close enough to graze him with its light, making him lose concentration on his stealth. A Guiding Bolt immediately followed from Shadowheart.

Just as Astarion rolled out of the way of Shadowheart’s shoddily thrown spell, he saw Jaheira charging at him. He was still considering the best course of action that would both avoid harming the druid and circumvent his own imminent impalement on her blades, when Asmodea materialised in front of him, facing Jaheira.

“Be a good kitty cat!”

Jaheira immediately shifted into a panther wildshape form, momentarily dazed, but with Thalia’s Charm on her now broken. Moments later, she too disappeared, prowling through the shadows, just as Asmodea also turned invisible, leaving naught but the ringing sound of her laughter in her wake.

“We will see how funny you find it when I skin you after this!” Constancia’s voice rang from somewhere in the viewing gallery.

“But moooom, I’m helping!” retorted Asmodea’s voice.

Astarion winced. She had not yet learned that such promises from one’s master were to be taken literally. Gods and his daggers willing, she never would.

But how typical, Astarion reflected as he dodged another Guiding Bolt, both that she would override another’s Charm so easily, and would so do without a second thought. Mind control had always been a game to Asmodea, not the putrid thing that made him feel sick to his stomach.

Shadowheart abandoned her pursuits of striking him with magic, and instead rushed at him, swinging her mace.

He could Charm her, too, at least in theory, he thought. But doing so would sully the last vestiges of any honour and principles he had remaining.

He ducked out of the way and punched Shadowheart square in the nose instead.

She staggered back, cursing, as blood gushed from her nostrils, but in any event the compulsion was broken.

“Sorry, darling,” he threw as he moved away from her just in case. “Had to knock some sense back into you. I’ll let you have a free swing at me later, if you like.”

A movement in the shadows caught his eye, and he came upon Asmodea, who was staring, transfixed, at the blood on Shadowheart’s face. Her eyes turned to Astarion, something in her gaze making him freeze in his tracks.

“You’re late.”

Gale and Halsin reached Constancia’s boudoir without any further incident, turning back into their humanoid forms - Gale somewhat reluctantly so.

The artifact was exactly as Amanita had described - a snowglobe containing an intricate eladrin figurine, on Constancia’s vanity. And, just as Amanita had said, Gale found himself unable to touch it - the globe repelled his hand. A subtle probe with his magic showed that it was warded in such a way that made it impervious to that type of manipulation as well. The fey warding was completely alien to him.

“I fear this may be more complex than I had anticipated,” said Gale, a cold sweat beginning to break out on his forehead. “I will need time…” He wondered whether the globe served as a scrying sphere as well, and may have alerted Constancia of their presence.

“Perhaps we could lift the entire table together with the globe, if you need time to study it elsewhere,” offered Halsin.

Gale didn’t have much time to consider the logistics and ramifications of attempting to walk out of a vampire’s den carrying a piece of her furniture. Footsteps approached the bedroom door, and he and Halsin swiftly shifted back into cats.

Azora and Thalia had reappeared, striking at the two mortal women, only to be driven off.

“I’m not mad, but I am disappointed,” Constancia’s voice sounded again. “If you cannot secure your own dinner, the ghouls can have it instead.”

In the corner of his eye, Astarion caught movement in the gallery above him. In a moment of confusion, he briefly wondered where there had been spectators after all, but seconds later droves of peculiarly dressed ghouls began raining down onto the battleground.

“NOW!” screamed Jaheira, and Shadowheart retrieved the Blood of Lathander at last. The two vampires shrieked, scorched by its force, and retreated back into the shadows, but the ghouls continued to advance, mindlessly.

A light radiated around Shadowheart, turning into swirling spirit guardians which circled protectively around her and Jaheira as the ghouls rushed them. The druid’s moonbeam too rolled over the swarming ghouls, leaving ash in its wake. Jaheira’s whirlwind attacks made quick work of any remaining ghouls that managed to penetrate their line of defences.

“Where’s Amanita?” Shadowheart ground through her teeth.

She received an answer to her question as the force of an eldritch blast resonated above them, and Amanita’s body was hurled into the arena from the viewing gallery. She turned back into mist and was gone before she even hit the ground. Further sounds of a fight up in the stands followed.

“How did you two stinkers get in?!” a servant exclaimed from the door. “Shoo!”

Gale and Halsin had no choice but to scurry and hide beneath Constancia’s bed.

“Oi! Go on, get!” the servant swore, poking and prodding at them with a mop. “Scram, you gobshites!”

Some instinct urged Gale to hiss and swat at the mop, Halsin doing very much the same beside him. The horrible, filthy dragon of a thing threatened to strike him, splattering him with droplets of muck, but Gale bravely held his ground against the beast.

“Oh just leave them,” another servant’s weary voice accosted their assailant. “Even if they do anything - the Lady don’t breathe anyway.”

It was good that Jaheira and Shadowheart seemed to have everything under control, as Astarion couldn’t have helped them if he’d tried. Asmodea’s attention was now on him, and she sprang forward in attack.

It was unlike her - trying to physically assault him, or anyone, for that matter - she had always preferred to keep her distance, striking from afar with her spells, but…

“You still can’t cast anything, can you, darling?” Astarion said, dodging a swipe of her claws - claws! - that had been aimed for his jugular. Asmodea only snarled in response. “I bet you are going to feel very silly about trying to murder me, later, so to spare you the embarrassment, I’ll say it now - I know it’s not your fault,” he said, dodging another sloppy swing.

Her attacks would not have appeared sloppy to ordinary mortals - they were both moving at a preternatural speed, and he was able to dodge her purely due to his advantage in experience and reserves of energy.

“Love?” he asked, a shake in his voice betraying his desperation hidden behind the jovial tone. “Are you there?”

The only answer he received was another swipe of her claws.

The servants were taking forever in cleaning the room, and they had no choice but to wait. Gale’s tail whipped at the floor of its own accord - try as he may, he could not contain it. Next to him, ever unperturbed, Halsin appeared to be taking a nap.

The ghouls were down, as were Shadowheart’s spirit guardians, when Constancia herself was thrown into the arena. Astarion got his first proper look at her up close. Her similarity to Cazador was uncanny, down to the slicked back raven hair, and the colours of the heavy gown she wore, which covered her up to her chin. She stood tall, at least as tall as Astarion himself. Their eyes met, and she smirked, raising a hand, no doubt to hurl a spell at him, when Amanita was on her.

The ensuing fight was… undignified. Amanita and the elder vampire scuffled in a tangled mass of claws, fangs and snarls. They fought like two furious, hissing and spitting cats. Amanita was everywhere at once, jumping onto Constancia’s back, pulling on her hair, tearing at her throat, her eyes, but before long Constancia turned into mist and disengaged, Amanita following after her.

Azora and Thalia too resumed their onslaught, throwing themselves at Jaheira and Shadowheart, only to be driven back by the Blood of Lathander’s divine light.

“This is too easy,” said Shadowheart. In the next moment, the vampires were pushed even further away by a Daylight spell cast by Shadowheart. Beside her, Jaheira laughed and downed an elixir.

“Just leave the door open a crack, they’ll come out on their own.”

With that, the servants were finally gone.

Gale and Halsin returned to the vanity, retaining their feline forms - Gale jumping up with grace, Halsin knocking down a bunch of Constancia’s knick-knacks as he landed.

Seeing the objects tumble down from the vanity awakened a new instinct in Gale. He cocked his head to one side, staring at the globe. A sensation, an inexplicable need continued to manifest until he could contain himself no longer. He raised a paw and bopped the sphere.

His paw came in contact with the globe, unrepelled.

Gale exchanged a wide-eyed look with Halsin.

Cannot be touched by a human hand, of course... But nothing about a paw! Shoddy! Lazy work! My students wouldn’t even get a passing grade for this!

“Useless,” Constancia hissed once again from the gallery. “Asmodea!” Hearing this name from her lips sent a chill down Astarion’s spine, even if it was one he himself never used. “A chance for you to earn your keep. The Lady of Winter will allow a trickle of your mongrel’s power through. Burn him.”

Astarion peered into Asmodea’s eyes only to find that they were once again clouded with madness.

“You’re watching, aren’t you, fey..?” he said, peering deep into Asmodea’s eyes. Her own patron had to be present, it had to. Astarion refused to retreat. Now that he was back at her side he didn’t think he could ever leave her again, even if she was trying to kill him. “Help, and I will assist her with anything you want. We’ll rob a bank together. Streak through the streets naked. Set a temple on fire. Join a travelling circus. Just HELP!”

In response Asmodea bared her fangs in a mad grin and unleashed a torrent of harmless faerie lights at him.

“Thank you,” Astarion whispered as Asmodea shrieked with laughter.

Azora and Thalia stood just on the edge of the pool of Daylight, frustration written clearly on their faces.

“Come to me,” Thalia directed at Jaheira, a hypnotic cadence to her voice. “Come into my embrace.”

Jaheira took a step forward, then another, inching forward. Thalia smiled triumphantly as the druid got closer to the edge of the pool of light, but just before Jaheira approached to within arm’s reach, a Thorn Whip flew out of the druid’s hands, wrapping around Thalia’s waist.

“Did you truly think that would work on me again?” Jaheira spat. “You come to me,” she said, and tugged on the lash.

Thalia hissed and produced a firebolt to burn away the growth, only to reveal a thin silver chain which lay embedded within the plant matter, which remained wrapped around her.

The air filled with shrieks and cries of both Azora and Thalia, the high elf trying to drag her companion back out of the pool of light as she began to burn, Jaheira’s hold on the silver chain unrelenting. Shadowheart approached, brandishing the Blood of Lathander.

“Mistress!” Thalia shrieked.

Constancia herself had materialised besides Azora and Thalia.

“You dare?!” she thundered, her eyes glowing red with fury. “You dare harm my sweetlings?!”

A powerful blast slammed into Shadowheart and Jaheira. Shadowheart was merely knocked off her feet and dazed, but Jaheira was thrown like a rag doll into a wall. Something cracked. The druid did not get up.

“Let’s see how you like it,” Constancia spat, as Azora pulled Thalia away from the Daylight pool. She turned to Asmodea. Step into the light,” she commanded.

Gale swatted at the globe again, making it shake within its casing. Another silent exchange with Halsin, and he knocked it completely from its stand.

Gale and Halsin both watched the sphere with thoughtful curiosity as it rolled, slowly, to stop at the table’s edge.

Gale cocked his head and batted at the sphere again, inching it closer and closer to the edge. He couldn’t rush this. It was far too important. Something told him that this moment had to be savoured. Halsin, too, joined him at the table’s edge, watching the sphere. Finally, with a careful prod of his paw, Gale pushed it to fall onto the hard floor.

Both cats peered down from the vanity.

A hairline crack had appeared on the sphere’s surface from the impact.

Asmodea whimpered but obeyed. She ran into the pool of light, faster than Astarion could restrain her. Once within, she immediately began to char.

Astarion wasn’t thinking. There wasn’t room or time for any thought. All he did, all he could do was rush in after her, tear off his cloak and throw it over her.

A sharp sting, followed by an increasing burning sensation. Blisters began to form rapidly on his open skin.

He fell over Asmodea’s cloak-wrapped shape, and began to crawl towards the Daylight pool’s edge, dragging her with him, hoping there was still something left of her within - new vampires burn so quickly flashed in his frantic mind - hoping there would be enough left of him by the time they got over the boundary, too.

He saw Amanita attempting another strike at Constancia, only to be waved off like an annoying bug. She too was blasted away, the blow knocking her prone.

He saw Shadowheart trying to get back up on her feet and failing.

And, he saw Constancia forming a fireball in the air before her.

Gale raced down the hall leading away from Constancia’s boudoir, batting the globe in front of himself, Halsin on his heels. Gale had never enjoyed kicking a ball around - even as a child, he found it dreadfully dull, and much preferred the company of books - but this… this was exhilarating.

He skidded to a halt at the staircase landing, managing to stop the globe as well. Looked back at the druid, who was also agitated, transfixed by the sphere. Well, here goes nothing. He pawed at the sphere one last time, tipping it over the edge.

Moments later, the beautiful sound of shattering glass resonated from the floor below.

“Enough of this,” Constancia snarled, the flames forming into a molten sphere. But, just as the manifested sphere was about to launch, it fizzled out. A bewildered confusion crossed her face.

And then Astarion was engulfed in darkness.

His immediate conclusion was that his eyeballs had burst from the incinerating heat, but within moments he saw his surroundings again. A liquid darkness was melting and dissipating all around him - no doubt it had dispelled the Daylight spell.

Asmodea had rolled out from under him, untangling herself from his cloak. Scorched, but alive, she laughed maniacally and shouted something in sylvan.

She raised her hand, and a string of Eldritch Blasts flowed in Constancia’s direction - not at her, that would have been impossible, but all around, crashing into the wall behind her and dislodging large stones that rained down on the elder vampire. Never before had Astarion seen Asmodea wield enough power to shatter stone, but it did not matter anyway - none of the debris inflicted any serious damage to Constancia. She merely glared at Asmodea with contempt and disgust.

“I will suffer you not a moment longer. I’ve no time or need for something that refuses to be trained,” her lips curled. “Kill yourself!”

In the next moment, a bolt pierced Constancia’s chest. She bellowed with a monstrous roar and reached to pull it out, but another pierced it, closer to her heart, knocking her off her feet.

In the corner of Astarion’s eye, he saw Jaheira laying not far from him. She was twisted at an awkward angle, like a half-broken, discarded puppet, a pained expression painted on her face, her miniature crossbow in her hands.

This barely registered to Astarion, as he did all he could to wrap himself around Asmodea, pinning her arms down at her sides to try to keep her from harming herself. Asmodea cried out in fright, but continued to try to escape his grasp.

“Don’t let her get away,” rasped Jaheira. “Paralyse her!”

Just then, Asmodea began to vaporise. There were very few ways in which one could hold a vampire that did not wish to be held. The damned silver chain might have helped, but it was still wrapped around Thalia, Azora crying and continuing her efforts to peel it off her, pulling out chunks of flesh the chain had embedded itself into.

Asmodea was almost out of Astarion’s grasp when Jaheira tossed a silver-tipped crossbow bolt to him. Desperation seeping further and further in, he could not allow her to turn into mist and comply with Constancia’s command. He broke off the bolt’s silver tip.

“I’m so sorry, my love,” he said, driving the resultant stake into her heart. She arched and hissed and scratched at his arms, tearing what was left of his flesh into ribbons, but still he held her tight. “It hurts, I know it hurts, I’m so sorry, I have to,” he wept. She was not turning into mist and slipping away. That was all that mattered.

Amanita materialised next to Constancia and picked up a dislodged boulder - it was absurd and more than a little bizarre, seeing a small child lift something so large - and brought it down onto Constancia’s head.

Blood flowed down Constancia’s face. Constancia threw an incredulous look at Amanita, and burst into laughter.

“Matricide! Another worthy addition to our family record.”

Behind them, Azora began to rise to assist her mistress, but was caught in a Hold Undead spell thrown by Shadowheart.

“It didn’t have to be this way!” Amanita threw. “It’s your fault! It’s all your fault!”

Constancia laughed and was struck again, this blow inaccurate, only grazing her skull.

“Why? You sent me away! You let him take me! Why?!” Amanita was shaking and crying, still holding on to the stone.

Constancia chuckled more placidly now, taking her time to answer, a trickle of blood flowing from her mouth as she spoke.

“Why..? Because I never wanted a child - I wanted a dhampir. The perfect bodyguard against all other vampires. The perfect assassin. My magnum opus. Oh, the rivers of blood that cascaded through me to enable me to conceive you, girl…” Constancia smiled wistfully and closed her eyes. “But then years went by, and you were a toddler, and still you hadn’t contracted dhampirism. My experiment was a failure. And so I sent you far away.” Her speech began to slur. “So you could have a normal, mortal life, away from it all. I never thought Cazador would do what he did.”

Amanita listened, tears leaving trails down her dirtied cheeks, the stone lowering, slowly, in her hands.

“But then we learned the condition might still develop as you entered adolescence,” Constancia continued. “Only Cazador learned it, too, and got to you first. Spoiled your blood with vampirism before it could bloom to its full potential. Ruined you, my legacy. Made you useless.” Her eyes opened to meet Amanita’s gaze. “Look at you now… What a disgraceful waste… My biggest disappointment. You will never amount to anything.”

Amanita brought the stone down.

Then she did it again. Screamed and kept screaming and did it again. And again. And again.

Constancia continued to try to claw, weakly, at the stakes protruding from her chest even as her skull dented and sank in. She stilled only once chunks of gore began to fly from it, landing on Amanita. Astarion watched, mesmerised, as Amanita kept pounding at Constancia’s head until it was completely pulverised, only then finally letting the stone fall from her hands.

In the ensuing silence, Thalia began to wail.

In that very same moment, Asmodea went limp in Astarion’s arms.

~~~~~

AO3

Firstly, thanks for reading - this was a long one. Secondly, holy fuck, this chapter nearly killed me - I've never choreographed a full on boss battle before. With adds, no less.

So, who is the MVP here? Shadowheart and the power of light? Jaheira and her harper tricks? Amanita and her big rock? Gale's little paws? Halsin's thick ass? Asmodea's contempt for authority? Astarion's timing with punching Shadowheart in the nose? Someone else? No, seriously, I made a poll.

[vixstarria]

Legacy of Ash

Chapter 11 - Friends with benefits

Chapter summary: Astarion and co prepare to face Constancia. Asmodea suffers through yet more unwanted visitors.

Previous chapter | Series masterlist | AO3 | Overall masterlist

Series summary:

A magical storm descends over Baldur’s Gate. The city freezes and vampires roam freely in the daylight, while the raging tempest threatens to tear a rift between the material plane and the domain of a malevolent fey. Holding the key to the storm is the fey’s warlock - the late Cazador Szarr’s sister, Constancia Szarr. Her first order of business on arrival in Baldur’s Gate? Vengeance. “And the escaped spawn that returned to kill Cazador… The one you say has stayed in the city since,” Constancia interrogated her captive. “This ‘Astarion’. Where is he now?”

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Genre: Angst / Drama / Romance / Horror / Dark comedy if you squint

Rating: Explicit

Chapter word count: 4,000

With a final shove thrusting fragmented bits of knowledge and instructions into Astarion’s mind, the mental connection flickered like a dying flame and finally burned out, leaving only a lingering residue of Amanita’s scornful amusement in its wake.

Astarion tried to follow along with what she’d imparted to him. It was nauseating - he imagined that being sucked into a powerful maelstrom whilst being turned inside out might feel similar, though thankfully the metamorphosis his body was undergoing was painless and quick. Every single one of his senses was momentarily distorted. His body ceased to exist completely, yet somehow at the same time it expanded and twisted, before finally being spat back out into existence. He couldn’t tell which way was up or down, and then suddenly he found himself dry heaving in a snowbank at Jaheira’s feet.  

“Watch where you shift!” she exclaimed. “I nearly went down with you.”

Astarion scooped snow into his trembling hands. Not wings. Hands. His nails had begun shaping themselves into sharp, hardened claws again, as they were wont to do when he simply left them be - personal grooming had been the last thing on his mind the past few days - and yet, they were unmistakably, and delightfully, hands, not paws. His clothes, too, had remained intact on his re-forming. Relief burst out of him in a giggle.

“Well done! I feared you would get stuck in that shape and we would need one of the druids to translate your squeaking.”

He ignored her renewed mockery.

Two hundred years… Two hundred years of Cazador’s lies that spawn were incapable of shapeshifting... And perhaps we couldn’t, until his death… But now…

The giggle bloomed into laughter as he brushed the snow from his hands.

I can fly! I can go anywhere, so quickly and without a trace! The places and vantages that will be open to me now... So conveniently small, too, I can slip anywhere. Oh I can’t wait to show-

His laughter died and his stomach dropped with a sinking feeling that had nothing to do with his vertigo.

“Oh gods…” he whispered. “I completely blew it…”

“I found the artifact,” Amanita relayed excitedly to the group once they were back inside Gale’s house. “It’s a snow globe with a figurine of an eladrin or fey inside, on Constancia’s vanity. But it is warded. I couldn’t touch it - it repelled my hand. It would have repelled my very gaze, if I hadn’t come prepared.”

“Ah, are you also gifted in the arcane arts?” asked Gale.

“Sufficiently to sense magic within items,” said Amanita. “But not nearly enough to remove the warding effect, or delve into the item properly.”

“Perhaps if I could examine it…” Gale said, stroking his chin.

“And you, Astarion?” asked Jaheira. “What have you discovered?”

“I discovered Constancia’s spawn,” said Astarion. “Two crushed, ornamental wretches.”

“They will have no choice but to let their mistress know they saw you, won’t they?” asked Wyll.

“No doubt,” sighed Astarion. “We have go to back. Now. Before Constancia does anything to Oddie. The spawn confirmed that she is still living and is held captive.”

If anyone noticed the odd turn of phrase that escaped him, no one batted an eye. A murmur arose, everyone but Amanita seeming reluctant about the prospect of immediately rushing into a vampire’s den.

“Now? Truly?” Shadowheart’s voice cut through the din like a shard of ice. “Without delay, preparation or plan? …Remind me, how long did we leave Lae’zel as Orin’s captive, at Asmodea’s insistence?” 

“That was… different,” said Astarion. “We had no choice but to prioritise other matters before we could get to her. And we had Orin’s assurance that Lae’zel would be unharmed.”

“A Chosen of Bhaal’s assurance,” Shadowheart scoffed. “Listen to yourself. And killing a hag was a bigger priority than rescuing one of your allies?”

“The hag had stolen someone’s child, eaten her, and was carrying her, alive and conscious, inside her own body!” Astarion protested with a grimace.

“And Asmodea discovered this by chance, purely because she wanted to spend the evening getting plastered and pretending to be a pirate at the Blushing Mermaid!”

“What does it matter now?” Astarion scoffed. The hag was killed, the child saved, and your darling is all fine too - she’s probably flying on a dragon through the Astral Sea with an illithid’s head on a pike as we speak.”

“Astarion,” Halsin’s measured voice cut in. “Setting aside any past contentions - which we all agreed were done and dusted long ago,” he added, looking at Shadowheart, who crossed her arms but did not otherwise object, “most of us are in no state to fight.”

“Who knows what’s happening to her right now, while we just… twiddle our thumbs and wait,” Astarion threw his hands up.

“I understand, and it pains me,” said Halsin. “It pains all of us. But rushing in unprepared is tantamount to suicide.”

“And it’s exactly what she wants,” added Jaheira.

Astarion paced.

“We’ve defeated an Elder Brain. Bhaal’s chosen. Several gods’ avatars. Killed a devil in his own home. My own master of two centuries. Why should we cower before another vampire?!”

“Because Shadowheart has been tending to the sick at the Temple of Lathander all day. Because I have spent hours flying through a blizzard. Because Gale’s magic has been wrung dry for the day. We need to rest.”

“I’m afraid Halsin is right,” Gale said wearily, rubbing his eyes. “It’s been a long day and I’m drained. I need rest, at least a brief kip if I am to be of any use.”

Astarion cursed, continuing to pace.

“Well why are we taking these matters into our own hands, anyway, when the authorities are right here?” he said, turning to Wyll. You know Constancia is a vampire, can’t you just have the Fists storm the manor?”

“There are laws that protect her,” Wyll sighed. “The very same laws that we set in place to protect you.”

“You bloody well know that’s different! She’s kidnapped someone! And she brought the fey storm!”

“There is a due process that must be followed, warrants issued… Right now there is not a shred of concrete evidence, not one credible witness, there’s not even anything that points to her name being ‘Szarr’.”

“But you know. What is the godsdamned point of being a duke?! Isn’t your word worth anything? When you know.”

“Yes,” Wyll said, an uncharacteristic bitterness punctuating his words. “Just as I know about your nightly escapades, but can’t prove anything about them. And choose not to seek that proof.”

“I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about,” said Astarion, his face becoming expressionless. “And surely you wouldn’t abandon an old friend, one who had saved this very city and ensured your current position, in a vampire’s lair, all for some baseless accusations?”

A silence hung in the air, until Wyll broke it.

“I will obtain weapons for you,” he said, looking away. “Silver-tipped arrows and crossbow bolts, chains… Anything in our arsenal that might assist in fighting undead… But I cannot openly send the Firsts in. …Have you two fed recently?”

“I do not need to feed yet,” said Amanita. She had been quietly observing the discussions around her with some curiosity.

“Not since Oddie was taken,” Astarion admitted in response to Wyll’s questioning gaze. He did not specify that the blood he drank that night was that of a vagrant he’d found freezing to death, not Asmodea’s.

“I will have blood delivered from the blood bank,” Wyll nodded. “You both need to be prepared to face Constancia. But that is all I can do. I cannot participate personally, and I cannot send anyone else in my stead. I am sorry.”

Astarion sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, suddenly feeling weary down to his bones.

Amanita spoke for him. “That is most thoughtful and kind of you, Your Grace, and we appreciate it. Those of us who need to restore their strength could rest while you make arrangements to have the supplies delivered. Isn’t that right, U- Astarion?”

Damned brat, Astarion thought, though without any bite or venom left in his thoughts. And since when is she part of any ‘us’…

“Thank you, Wyll,” he said.

With that, Wyll, Gale and Halsin excused themselves, to rest and regroup later that night.

Astarion’s eyes flicked to Shadowheart, who still sat on Gale’s sofa, gazing into the glowing embers in the fireplace, chewing her lip.

“You are under no obligation to participate, of course,” Astarion said, wearily. “It’s not like we were ever… close.”

“Hmm?” she looked up, realising that Astarion was speaking to her. “Of course I’ll go, you dolt. Out of us all, I have the best chance in a fight against a vampire, besides you and Amanita.” Her gaze returned to the embers. “I am only wondering how I’m going to retrieve the Blood of Lathander from the temple,” she said. “I’ve surrendered it to them, as a gesture of good will.”

“Ah,” Astarion said, somewhat taken aback. “Well… Of all the relics you could possibly seek to steal, of course it’s the one I am physically incapable of touching, from a place I cannot enter,” he winced.

“Who said anything about stealing?” she raised her eyes back at him, a subtle smile playing on her lips. “I’ve got tricks up my sleeve that you could never even fathom, Astarion. Why you could learn from me! My methods are much more cunning.”

“And what might those methods be..?”

“I will ask for the mace. Nicely.”

Astarion chuckled, despite himself.

“And should that fail?”

“Coercion,” replied Shadowheart, “and blackmail.” With that, she was off as well.

Jaheira remained in the room, sitting before the fire, her feet thrown up on a footstool. She appeared to be dosing - her usually alert face relaxed. She looked defenceless and… old, Astarion realised. There had been ongoing jokes about her age for a long time, of course, which she took in good stride, but it was in that moment that he observed for the very first time her truly looking like a tired old woman, and not a stubborn leader and warrior. A half-elf, merely a century and a half old. Honed by a lifetime of battles, yet succumbing to frailty at last. The thought unsettled him and he forced himself to brush it away.

This left Astarion with Amanita.

All traces of her consciousness were gone from his mind by then. All that remained was an awkward, unpleasant feeling. The kind of shame and regret one might feel when waking up to remember a drunken heart to heart with someone they could barely stand sober.

“I am never doing that again,” said Astarion, with what meant to be a scowl but had turned into a wince instead.

“Agreed,” said Amanita, not looking at him. It was clear she had her own regrets about the things she’d shared.

With Amanita being out of his head, and seemingly content to maintain a silence, Astarion mulled over everything she had disclosed to him. The details about her past that didn’t quite add up, but also the newfound ability to turn into a bat, the mistform… What else was there, that he was unaware of..? What else did she know, and how? Eventually, his curiosity got the better of him.

“Where have you been over the past year, anyway?” Astarion asked, breaking the silence that had held for some time. “I’ve never caught your trail.”

“My home lies within Tumbledown,” said Amanita.

Astarion barked a brief laugh - there was a certain irony in the Lady Incognita, who had forsaken her family name, returning to the grounds of the old Szarr estate in the Outer City. An estate that too had been burned to the ground many years ago.

“Tumbledown! Is it true that Szarr ghosts still haunt it?”

“Only me,” Amanita smiled faintly. “I’m worth a dozen ghosts, no one dares come close to the crypts.”

“Just you alone in those decrepit catacombs..?” Jaheira’s voice rose from the chair in which she had been lounging by the fire.

“Not decrepit,” Amanita protested. “I keep them tidy. And they’re quite extensive and spacious. Ample room for my library and laboratory, and my private rooms besides. I would invite you for a tour, but I think it would be prudent to avoid harpers finding the entrance.”

Jaheira chuckled. “The harpers have had no cause for knocking on your door. None that we are aware of, anyway. I am curious, however… How have you been faring over these years? And where..? And do not tell me you’ve been feeding on animals all this time.”

“The docks,” answered Amanita.

“Preying on sailors?” Jaheira raised a brow.

“Quite the opposite - being preyed upon by them,” Amanita corrected her. “A touch of smeared rouge - no need for a reflection, the less skilful the better. Skirts hiked up too high, stockings torn at the knees, bows and ringlets in my hair. Sometimes I’ll take a teddybear, to look all the younger and more pathetic. Any night I venture out, someone always takes the bait.”

Astarion swore under his breath.

“To think there is that much scum in the city…” Jaheira muttered.

“A steady supply,” Amanita nodded. “…Some only ask me about my parents, or try to take me to the city watch to see about placing me into an orphanage,” she shrugged. “Those ones get to live.”

“No harper of mine will bother you,” said Jaheira. “You are doing the city a service.”

Astarion stayed silent. It was no surprise, him and Amanita never having crossed paths. He made a point of avoiding the docks. Oh he had re-visited them a few times, at first. It was easy pickings. But it was also too many raw memories. If he never smelled the sea breeze mixed with cheap grog and piss again, it would still be too soon.

His eyes trained on the grandfather clock at the far wall. He followed the precious seconds ticking, wastefully, away, trying to make sense of his mixture of glee and dread at the passage of each one.

Asmodea stirred awake to a presence at her cell once again. For a fleeting moment she wondered whether Constancia’s spawn had indeed returned with the promised dress and ribbons, but no, the visitors were a human woman and a half-elf man, both vaguely familiar.

“It’s her…” the woman whispered. “She was with the traitor the night the old master perished.” She stalled at the cell’s door, clutching a set of keys. “She’s dangerous! Does the mistress know?!”

Cazador’s old servants… Of course they would scuttle to a new master.

“Of course she knows!” the man snapped. “The walls are warded and she’s been disarmed. Unlock the cell, Syrin.”

Tentatively, the woman reached for the lock.

It wasn’t that Asmodea was scared of them, no. But she knew one thing for certain: wherever they meant to take her - she did not want to go. She would rather stay in the cell, holding on to each passing second, and wait for Astarion - what in the hells was taking him so long, anyway?! - or the two spawn women, or even that scheming bastard of a half-elf. It was futile, trying to remain in the cell, but still better than the alternative. She had to act quick.

She hurled herself at the cell door, lunging on all fours, snarling like a rabid animal.

Syrin screamed, keys clattering to the stone floor as she stumbled back. Asmodea quickly snatched them up and retreated back to her spot at the far wall.

She could feel her little stunt being acknowledged by her patron - a wordless sensation, like receiving a pat on the head for a job well done. Halfhearted. She gained the impression that Fuckface too was exhausted.

“Look what you’ve done!” the man accosted Syrin.

“I’m sorry, Greenfern,” she breathed.

Greenfern cursed. “Stay here, and make sure she doesn’t do anything else. I’ll fetch another set.” He stormed off.

Another set, Asmodea sighed inwardly.

She slumped back against the wall. She briefly considered unlocking her own door and springing at the servant, but… The woman would bolt, Greenfern couldn’t have gone far, and gods only knew who and what awaited her upstairs, anyway. Better to conserve her energy for now.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked Syrin instead. “You had an out, could have lived a normal, ordinary little life, but came back crawling to another vampire master instead. Why?”

At those words, Syrin’s gaze sharpened, anger eclipsing her fear.

“An ‘out’..?” she hissed. “The old master was our ‘out’! Our solution to mortality, our escape from death. Until you showed up and ruined everything!”

“You thought Cazador was going to turn you?” Asmodea laughed with disbelief. “Why would he..? You simpered and prostrated yourselves before him without him ever needing to.”

“The master hinted he would bestow us the gift of eternity. We only needed to be patient and faithful, and wait.”

“Of course he would dangle a carrot before you to keep you in line. And how stupid are you?!” Asmodea went on, getting riled up. “Have you not seen how Cazador treated his spawn? The abuse he inflicted? He was going to butcher them all in a demonic sacrifice, if only we hadn’t stopped him!”

“Yes,” Syrin breathed, anger blazing in her eyes. “Those disobedient ingrates were unworthy. And Master would have needed new spawn. We were told to always be ready. To prepare our bodies to the highest standard. And we did! Every morning, I arranged my hair in a way the master approved of. Morning and night, I slathered oils and tonics all over my body, to remain youthful. I starved myself, for the master preferred slender women. I plucked and tore every hair on my body, to appear more elven to him. I was ready! And you ruined it!”

“The pain, the servitude, it is all temporary,” Greenfern’s voice had gained a preacher-like quality as he approached the cell with a new set of keys. “One can always work their way up, the only question is time. And with our new mistress we will have an eternity.”

The cell was unlocked and he motioned for Syrin to approach Asmodea with him.

Asmodea attempted to use the keys in her hand as a makeshift weapon, but it was no use - Greenfern was strong than her. Whatever he did to prepare his body to the ‘highest standard’, it ensured he was not a weak man. He and Syrin yanked her up by her arms.

“Let me go! You can come with me, both of you,” Asmodea switched tactic, appealing to them conspiratorially. “She’s never going to turn you, anyway! My friends are on their way to put an end to her as we speak. But you’ll be safe until this is all over, I promise! You will walk away and start over.” 

Neither dignified her with a response, only continued to drag her along the corridor. Something in their grim, spiteful determination was harrowing.

“Do you know what we did to Cazador?” Asmodea continued with urgency. “Astarion gutted him like an ordinary beast. His body was quartered and thrown into the sun, burned until not even ashes remained. The same thing will happen to your cunt of a mistress. And if you think that after finding you here, again, Astarion will let you leave-”

A blow landed across her face.

“Stop that!” Greenfern accosted Syrin. “Disfigure her now and the Lady will feed you to the ghouls instead of rewarding you.”

“It’s not fair,” Syrin hissed through her teeth. “We have proven ourselves again and again, and still we get nothing while this ungrateful-” she didn’t finish what she was saying, instead yanking hard on Asmodea’s hair, twisting and pulling. Asmodea managed to surge sideways, towards Syrin, knocking her off balance, and sank her teeth into her forearm. She only grazed Syrin, however, the woman quickly getting away. Another backhanded blow landed across Asmodea’s mouth instead, splitting her lip.

“She’s biting already,” Greenfern laughed. “Don’t worry, the Lady won’t keep her for long. She is not bestowing a gift, merely placing her on a leash.”

“I’ll fucking kill you myself, both of you!” Asmodea snarled, continuing to struggle and kick.

“You will not,” said Greenfern. “The Lady’s spawn are under strict orders not to lay a finger on the household staff. So hush now.” His gaze slid like grease over her body. “But you’ll come find me when you want a warm bed, won’t you?” He smiled knowingly. “Perhaps she will even order you to - she does believe in rewarding good behaviour, and punishing disobedience.”

Asmodea spat at him but missed. This time it was a hard blow to her stomach that followed, knocking the air out of her. Her knees buckled, her body doubling over and sagging uselessly between her captors. Tears of helplessness, pain and rage gathered in her eyes.

‘Do something. At least say something!’

‘I can make you sleep. Would you like that?’ The voice of her patron was pained.

She wasn’t being taken to the surgery, she realised, but someplace else, to a lower level of the dungeon.

‘Not yet.’

The corridor branched into several directions. They took a turn and emerged in a cavern glowing with luminescent fungal growths. Constancia stood at the far end of the cavern, next to a pool of dark, still water. Her two spawn stood dutifully off to the side. The moon elf pointedly didn’t look in Asmodea’s direction, but the drow threw her a sympathetic glance.

“Welcome,” said Constancia. “This shall be my greenhouse. A place of growth and transformation.” Indeed, the ground beneath her feet was no longer stone. The air smelled of wet earth.

Greenfern and Syrin dragged Asmodea toward Constancia, as she continued to struggle.

“I do so love when they have some fight in them…” remarked Constancia. She sniffed at the air near Asmodea, and wrinkled her nose. “Filth is unacceptable, however. Have her washed,” she commanded the servants.

Asmodea was once again dragged along, this time to the pool. Greenfern kicked her feet out from under her, and she collapsed hard onto her knees. She found herself kneeling at the water’s edge, bent over the water, held back by her hair. In the stillness of the water, she observed the reflection, with a detached curiosity. Pale, wide-eyed, gulping for air like a fish out of water. Who was this woman..? Such things didn’t happen to her, it had to be someone else.

“Just her neck, my Lady?”

“You were bound to me first. No matter what, any bond she places on you will be lesser. She can’t take that which has already been spoken for. Remember that.”

A teardrop fell into the pool, distorting the woman’s face with ripples. Whoever she was, no lover or trusted companions came to her rescue. Of course not, such things only happened in stupid two-penny romances.

“All of her, you imbecile. Who do you take me for?”

This poor, pathetic, wretch.

And suddenly her head was pushed forward until it collided and crashed through the other woman’s face, plunging into the cold pool, and was held underwater.

‘I think I’ve seen enough now.’

‘Sleep, little one… There is no need for you to bear witness.’

In her dream, she raced through a grassland, a sea of swaying stalks so tall and dense she couldn’t see beyond her outstretched hand. Someone, a friend, led her by the hand, tugging her along, just two steps ahead, out of sight, yet never out of reach. She laughed, holding on, and chased after them, running and laughing until she was breathless, and then running and laughing some more. Her lungs burned, and still she ran. Her heart pounded so loud and hard it became a solid resonating thrum, and still she screamed with joy and defiance, louder than the thunder ringing in her ears, and kept running.

At last, her legs gave out. She stumbled and fell, collapsing, drowning in the sea of grass.

‘Wait… Don’t leave me!’ she pleaded, calling after her companion.

‘Never,’ rang in her consciousness, and she was pulled back up onto her feet, and they were racing again.

~~~~~

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, you can find more of my writing here. Leave a comment and you'll make my day. ❤

AO3

[spacebarbarianweird]

It's amazing! (and you didn't tag me so I missed it) XD

[vixstarria]

"It's not just a phase, mom!" or the life and struggles of Maximilian Ancunin

Chapter 2 - Adolescence

Summary:

Maximilian (Max) Ancunin is Astarion's unlikely, unforeseen and unintentional child. He is not a dhampir. He is as likely to accidentally stab himself as he is to harm anyone else when he wields a blade. He has no magical talent. Hells, he can't even sing or juggle, and he is perpetually shit out of luck. And by the gods, is he going to make that everyone else's problem.

Chapter 1 | Read on AO3

Astarion x Asmodea, Dadstarion, Humor

Chapter CW: I briefly but strongly considered naming this chapter 'A boy and his sock'. That is all I will say.

Max's parents, Asmodea and Astarion, operate a theatre in Baldur's Gate. I have several fics featuring them, the most prominent one being Bloodbang Chronicles. Asmodea is a warlock. Astarion is Astarion. Neither of them should be parents.

Approx. 6.6k words

When I lost all hope for waking up to discover I had become a dhampir overnight, I decided to become a powerful wizard instead.

One of my parents’ friends happened to pay them a visit around that time. It was a man of some renown. A professor of the Blackstaff Academy. The Archmage of Waterdeep. Or, for my parents at least, simply ‘Gale’. 

He didn’t impress me very much, to be honest. Though his hair was silvery-white, his face was nearly unlined by age. He had a beard, but it was neatly trimmed. Instead of wizardly robes he sported a three piece suit. He had a staff, but it was a retractable one that could be collapsed into a gentleman’s cane with a purple gemstone at the grip. He had a faint tattoo running up from his collarbone, and he wore an earring. Hardly a proper wizard at all.

He sat with me in my room, away from everyone else’s curiosity and judgment. With a kind and patient smile, he tried to walk me through some spells. I was trying to conjure some mage lights, but kept failing. Again, and again, and again. As my efforts fizzled out before they ever ignited, his expression gradually turned from encouraging to pitying. Eventually, he stopped me.

“I believe I’ve seen enough to conclude your strengths like elsewhere. One could have a perfectly good and solid rock, but there would be no use trying to squeeze water from it.”

Geodes could have water inside them, I thought, but arguing about that would only hamper my case before the Archmage.

“I nearly had it the last time, I swear!” I protested instead, panicking that my dreams of becoming a mage were coming to an abrupt and irrevocable end.

He sighed. “My youngest granddaughter began summoning mage lights to amuse herself whilst still in the crib. But, perhaps you are simply a late bloomer… And, perhaps, there is some… ‘performance anxiety’ at play here.” He handed me a small book. “Here. The instructions and some runes for you to concentrate on. Try by yourself. I will go downstairs for some refreshments, and will be back before the next bell.”

He left, and I set to work once again. I stared hard at the runes in the book, and repeated the incantations, to no avail. I couldn’t understand how I could possibly fail so badly. I was an elf. I was supposed to have some innate abilities. It didn’t make any sense, I thought, but then it dawned on me… I was approaching it all completely wrong. What if, the reason I couldn’t cast mage lights by the book was because I was no wizard, but indeed a sorcerer! What if, my abilities were hidden away and simply in need of being unlocked. What if, I just ignored the book - which was clearly just holding me back! - and gave it my all…

Fire, not harmless mage lights, exploded from my fingertips. It scorched me, and set my bedding and curtains on fire. The Archmage walked back in just as I was desperately trying to stuff my burning blanket out the burning window (don’t ask why, it made sense at the time), only making both fires worse. He quickly snuffed the flames out with a casual gesture. We exchanged a look - one of chagrin on my side, and of unsurprised resignation on his.

“Young man,” he said, “perhaps you’d best follow in your parents’ footsteps rather than embark on this perilous path. If you do continue on this journey, it will be lonely, and full of dangers, for I can guarantee you no one will risk taking you on as an apprentice.”

Alas, I was not meant to walk my parents’ footsteps either.

Back when I was still enchanted by the theatre, I begged and begged to be included in the shows. Performances that were appropriate for a child were far and few, but mom and dad tried to accommodate me.

I was the comic relief. I mean, the shows were full of comedy anyway, but I jumped at opportunities to be the butt of the joke. The clown that couldn’t juggle, the singer that couldn’t sing, the acrobat that couldn’t tumble. I was getting so many laughs. It was great.

Then, when I tried to actually learn the skills I was making a mockery of, well… Mom was no court bard herself, but she could hit all her notes - something I proved incapable of when she tried to give me singing lessons. I really was clumsy. I really had no balance. I couldn’t remember my lines and messed up the dance steps.

Once I realised the audience could only ever laugh at me, it wasn’t fun anymore. I told my parents I didn’t want to do the shows any longer. They didn’t try to talk me out of it.

Having abandoned my artistic endeavours, I found myself with an overabundance of free unsupervised time. I spent most of this time sequestered in my room. Mom and dad were concerned that I was bored sitting alone up there, but I had so many ways of keeping myself entertained.

I raided my parents’ library. They had an eclectic mix of adventure stories, history books, treatises on magical topics I did not understand, and a huge collection of flimsy paperbacks featuring scantily clad men, women and other creatures on the covers. Mom and dad seemed to analyse those with particular care. Flipping through, I’d find their notes and marking in the margins. ‘Third hand?’ in the margins of one book. ‘Throbbing meatstaff’ underlined thrice on another. ‘Sheathed to the hilt - 14x’ written on the title page in another book. ‘Do not recommend - tried to replicate, dislocated shoulder, still looking for the tassels’ in yet another. Confused and more than a little bit disturbed, I abstained from looking through any more of their annotations after that. Anyway, as for me, I read and re-read my dad’s Legends of Drizzt - they were my favourite, along with other adventure tales.

I also gathered an entire collection of miniature figurines of the heroes and villains mentioned in one of the book series. The figures came as plain wood, and I meticulously painted them, in great detail, and then lacquered them. I was quite proud of them. I ended up with a whole army. They were supposed to be used in campaign games with other players. What I didn’t have was anyone to play the said campaigns with, so I did it by myself, playing out scenarios in my mind. I did all that in secret, of course. I was much too old to be playing with toys. No one could ever know. Never mind that it was supposed to be a group activity, I was too embarrassed to look for other players, so it was just me and my figurines.

The rest of my spare time I spent smoking weed and jerking off.

Well. That’s not entirely true. I felt the compulsion to do the latter several times each day, and did, but I felt that it was taking too much time away from my campaigns. But then it hit me - I could combine the two!

You see, I had this sock.

This sock became the banner of my armies, and I became their god. Each day would begin and end with a sacred ritual - I would consecrate the banner with my blessing. I took my godly duties very seriously. It was with great satisfaction that I observed how over time the sock absorbed more and more of my benediction, until I thought it might have finally become more divine consecration than worldly fibre. It could have been used as a holy weapon, that sock. Or a holy breadknife, at the very least - it eventually grew stiff enough to be used as one.

Then, one day, the sock disappeared.

I was horrified. Shaken to my core. Terror pierced through every fibre of my being.

Had my pretend games gone so far as to turn into real heresy? Had I flown too high, too close to the sun in my presumptuous arrogance and pride, and was I now damned to fall, burning? Had I angered the actual divines with my sins?

My thoughts turned to god.

Gods. I realised I faced a new problem: I couldn’t actually decide which god it was I wanted to turn to in my time of crisis.

It was then that I turned to worrying about mine and my parents’ eternal souls.

There was no use talking to my father about it. He was convinced he no longer had one anyway, and carried a deep scorn for the gods.

I decided to go to my mother instead.

She had a small study on the upper floor of the building which housed the threatre and our living quarters. Whenever serious talks were to be had with her, it was there that they happened. (Conversely, serious talks with my father usually took place within the theatre. Often with him covered in sequins and feathers.)

The study was always kept locked, and so ever since I was a child I always felt some trepidation when I got to go inside. Even then, as a teenager, I felt slightly agitated as I knocked. But the lock clicked open and her voice bade me to come in, and so I entered.

It was the only room in the house that was always bright. It smelled like coffee and mom’s perfume. Dad never went there either, at least not during the day, and so the curtains were always thrown open, admitting sunlight. A large heavy desk stood at the far wall, where mom could sit whilst keeping an eye on the entrance. The walls were lined with shelves, which were filled with notebooks, ledgers, binders and boxes, and in between all of them, assorted items mom had collected during her travels. Some strange and beautiful, like her githyanki artifacts that she said served as books. Some plain but I guess carrying some other value, like an ordinary throwing axe she kept on a shelf behind her.

It was also the only room in the house with any plants. Mostly ferns and devil’s ivy and the like. Explosions of chaotic, wild greenery in between the shelves and furniture.

A bright splash of colour I’d never noticed before drew my eye. It was a large violet blossom that appeared to be growing out of one of the ferns. I couldn’t be sure in the bright daylight, but I could have sworn it wasn’t just vibrant - but it indeed shone, quite literally.

“Is that… a fern flower..?” I asked. “But ferns don’t bloom.”

Mom lifted her head and followed my gaze.

“A gift from my patron,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”

I was certainly going to worry about it now, but first thing’s first, we needed to have a serious talk, and I looked for a place to sit.

As for mom herself, she had been doing what looked like copying numbers from receipts and various shreds of papers  into a notebook, then copying something else into another notebook, clanking erratically with an abacus, and then writing yet more into a third notebook and finally stuffing the receipts into boxes. I don’t know why she couldn’t go straight to the stuffing things into boxes part if that was the ultimate goal.

Her desk, the chairs, and even the very floor were concealed under piles of folders, papers spilling out of them. I started to lift one such stack off a chair, before mom shouted at me.

“Do not touch anything!” she glared at me from behind her desk.

“But…” I protested, gesturing around me.

“I know exactly where everything is now, and if you start moving things around I’ll lose track.”

I sighed and moved to the only clear surface in the study - mom’s recliner that stood by a window.

“Now is this about my soul again?” mom asked.

“It’s about both our souls,” I replied with what I thought was gravitas.

“Sorry, sweetie, we can discuss yours if you want, but mine will have to wait to be saved until we’re done with this audit.”

“But the Wall of the Faithless! An eternity of rotting with other souls who haven’t been claimed by a god after you die…”

“Why would I do that?” she asked, nonchalant, continuing to scribble in a ledger.

“Do what?” I blinked. “Be condemned with other godless..?”

“Die.”

Often, I couldn’t tell whether mom was joking, or acting stupid, or acting like she was joking when she was actually being stupid. You see, at that age I still thought that my parents always knew what they were talking about or doing. Hairline cracks of doubt were beginning to spread, but at that point, confronted with the fact that my mother may in fact be as mad as people seemed to think she was, I decided to change the subject instead.

“What’s an audit?” I asked.

“Well… It’s when they take a drab little man that’s never laughed in his life, shove him up your a- attic, and have him dig and sniff for anything that doesn’t smell right. And the whole time he’s up there you have to act like he’s an honoured guest, accommodate his every need, and answer his every demand, or he’ll get spiteful and dig harder. Honestly, it’s all about as pleasant as that great Wall of yours.”

“Can’t we just refuse to let him in?”

“No, it doesn’t work that way,” she sighed. “The little man will suck the soul out of you faster than any vampire, but unfortunately that’s where the similarities end.” She shut a ledger with a loud snap, and looked up at me with a smile. “Souls, you said?”

“I can’t choose a god,” I admitted sheepishly. “How does one know they’ve chosen the right one?”

“Hmm,” mom hummed, leaning back in her chair. “I’d say steer clear of Shar, Bhaal, Bane and Myrkul, and you’re good as gold,” she said. “And Mystra. Never liked her either. …You’re too old for her to take an interest in you now, anyway,” she added after a moment’s deliberation.

I wasn’t sure what she meant about Mystra, but this was otherwise all too obvious.

“So stay away from the Lady of Darkness and the Dead Three, that is your advice,” I deadpanned. “What about Jergal, aren’t you going to warn me against him?”

“Jergal’s an old friend,” she shrugged. “You could do worse.” I barely concealed an exasperated sigh, but she didn’t seem to notice, being lost in thought. “What about Selune?” she asked. “She’s not the worst. Your aunt Shadowheart - do you remember her? - she still serves as a cleric of Selune and seems content. I’ve met one of Selune’s daughters, you know… Then again, she had abandoned this daughter to rot in the Shadowfell for about a century at that time - take that as you will.”

There she went again with her stories, like I was still a gullible child… Still, Selune was worth considering.

“Do all her acolytes have their hair turn white?” I asked.

“I think so,” mom frowned. “Why?”

“I don’t think it would suit me,” I said.

“Fair point,” mom snorted, “let’s set Selune aside, then.”

“There’s Lathander…” I intoned, already knowing what she would say.

“Stomp all over your father’s undead heart, why don’t you.”

“Then there’s Kalemvor…”

“Who’s also not keen on vampires. And do you really want to spend your living days worshiping death?”

“Tymora?”

“Lady Luck has never taken any notice of you, and I doubt she will start now,” said mom. Harsh, but true. I did not argue.

“Silvanus? Uncle Halsin worships him.”

“Silvanus won’t hear you in the city, darling. What about Corellon? I don’t think you need to trouble yourself with other gods - your soul already belongs to him.”

“Does it?” I frowned.

“You still see glimpses of your past lives, don’t you?” she asked, cocking her head.

Dad never would have asked this, but mom didn’t treat elven matters with the same reverence. I nodded.

“Well then there you go,” she said. “You’re part of the cycle. And should anything happen to you - you will simply return to Arvandor, to eventually reincarnate to a new life.”

“I suppose so,” I said, feeling like a heavy load had lifted off my shoulders, just briefly, before pressing down again. “What about you..?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, again.

I supposed there was no use worrying about it. Why worry when you can’t do anything anyway? My eyes were drawn to the fern bloom again. There was no doubt about it - it did glimmer, and I realised there was also a slight, barely there sound emanating from it - like tiny bells chiming.

“Do you still want to learn how to run the Siren?” mom asked, drawing my attention from it. I nodded, and she beckoned me to approach. “Alright, then you need to understand all this. Look here, see these columns? On the left we have ‘debit’…”

My eyes glazed over and my mind drifted away.

Having resolved my crisis of faith, but still recovering from the loss of my armies’ banner, I returned to spending time with my friends again.

My status and social standing within the group had diminished over time. They were no longer impressed by sneaking into my parents’ theatre. No, they had moved on to other things. So, I had to adapt.

Growing up, you hear so much about not giving in to peer pressure. In particular, the adults around me were always warning me against accepting drugs from strangers. It seemed they were under the impression that I would be swatting away giving hands left and right every time I left the house. This was absolute nonsense. Who in their right mind would offer anyone drugs for free? I certainly didn’t. I charged a reasonable but competitive price for mine. 

No. The main subject of any peer pressure I ever faced was sex.

 All anyone was interested in was sex, and dating, and gossip about who was dating whom, and what they were doing, and what they weren’t doing, or who had broken up and why, and who cheated on whom; and everyone revolved in little cliques within the circle, which shifted and blended as everyone had fallings-out and then reconciled; and I was annoyed and couldn’t be bothered to keep track of any of it, but I was ridiculed for not taking part in it all.

Fine, I thought, and so I began ‘courting’ (as my father would put it) a girl. She was pretty, and was on the reserved and quiet side, which was fine by me. We went on long walks around the nicer parts of the city, but we very quickly discovered we had nothing to talk about. I wasn’t oblivious - I knew to ask her questions about herself, but she only gave one-word responses, and didn’t ask anything in return.

I mentioned this conundrum to my father, and he suggested I take her dancing instead. I did, taking her to a nice tavern. This too was a failure - she spent the evening glued to a chair, consuming food and sugary drinks I supplied but not otherwise moving or engaging with me or anything else. I offered her some of my halfling weed, hoping it would help her overcome her shyness, but she only looked with me with her big, round eyes, shocked with the very idea.

At the end of the evening I went to kiss her. I thought it would be an innocent peck, but she took me by surprise by wasting no time in invading my mouth, deeply, with her tongue. It was cold and tasted like banana from the milkshake she had been drinking. I hated bananas, but I persevered.

On removing her mouth from mine, she immediately informed me that she intended to have three children, and that she would remain chaste until marriage.

Completely overwhelmed by this sudden turn of events - I had absolutely no desire to come into possession of a wife and children at that age, and I thought it would be unfair to lead the poor girl on to believe otherwise - I told her, as gently as I could, that that did not align with my plans, and suggested we remained friends instead. She seemed to understand.

The very next day, I found myself the subject of scorn of the entire female population of my circle of friends. “All men want the same thing” was the general consensus, and I became public enemy number one. Exasperated, I retreated back to my room and to my miniature painting until it all blew over - which took all of three days before someone else did something stupid to take attention away from me.

I decided I was done with dating.

This little foray was not enough to rid me of ridicule and teasing, however, because it was public knowledge that I was still a virgin. The only way I could make it worse was by pretending otherwise, and so I endured.

One evening, it was just me and Dodd - remember Dodd? - left, after everyone else had gone. He was in the same boat I was, mockery-wise, only whilst I didn’t cop it too bad (no one wanted to lose their weed supply, after all), he had no such defences. Indeed, though he had towered over me in the first years of school, he was now a full head shorter, had a high-pitched voice, and wasn’t much to look at besides. He was the brunt of every joke, him being a kissless virgin being the absolute icing on everyone’s cake. Unfortunately, he considered me his ally and confidant, and was worked up, complaining to me. I didn’t really care, but I was tired of listening to him, and had, I thought, a bright idea.

“Listen,” I said, “you and I, we have the same problem.”

“Yeah, obviously,” he said.

“Right,” I continued, “so seeing as we have the same problem - why don’t we help each other solve this problem, which we share? …Do you understand what I mean?”

He wasn’t the smartest, but his eyes widened, flooded by comprehension.

“You mean… me and you?!”

“Well why not?”

“But… It’s not the same, is it?”

“Of course it is.”

“But… It’s not like we’ve been an item, so it’s like… I don’t know, cheating the system? Getting away with a technicality, dishonourably? Like we haven’t earned it, you know? It won’t count, everyone will say so.”

This talk about honour and earning things coming from the mouth of someone who’d spent years copying my homework…

“So we’ll say we were seeing each other secretly, without anyone knowing,” I shrugged.

“But then we’ll have to keep pretending!”

“We’ll say we broke up.” Dodd seemed unconvinced, and I was starting to regret bringing up this whole thing, and I got up to head home. “You know what, forget it.”

“No! No, let’s uh… yeah let’s do it. Yes. Um. It.” He stared at me, tensely, wringing his hands. “…So when should we, uh, get it over with? Like, right now?”

“What? No, no, don’t you want to prepare and, you know, get ready..?” I hoped he knew what I meant by that, but I was continuing to lose confidence in my idea by the second.

“Riiiiight, right right right, of course…” He stammered, nodding. “Tomorrow, then? My parents will be away, come by after dinner.”

I had strong doubts about what I’d gotten myself into, but I wasn’t about to back out.

The following night found me alone with Dodd in his room.

It had already been hours, and we hadn’t gotten anywhere. He kept talking, I don’t even know what about, certainly nothing of significance, and laughing about nothing, and then talking some more. There wasn’t a moment of silence or any opportunity for me to divert the topic. I thought about kissing him, that would shut him up at least, but I really didn’t want to do that. The phantom taste of banana still haunted me. Instead, I repeated a move I saw in a play once: I stood before him, and I touched my index finger against his lips.

It worked. He stilled and was silent, looking up at me doe-eyed. He did have nice eyes, I’ll give him that.

Wordlessly, I began taking my clothes off. After a few moments’ hesitation, Dodd followed my lead.

He stayed silent and unsure once we were undressed. Indeed, he didn’t know what to do with himself, and looked anywhere but at me, his face becoming blotched, as though undecided whether to settle for a pasty white or a shade of bright crimson, his hands twitching to cover himself.

You see, Dodd was a city elf.

I mean, I was too, but I had the benefit of spending every summer until recent times in a village with wood elves. Everyone, no matter the age or sex, bathed in a nearby spring, with no shame or reservation. And back in the city, I saw more bodies in various stages of undress at the theatre in a week than most people (humans, at least) did in a lifetime. I was brought up believing that my body was the most natural thing in the world.

I don’t know exactly how Dodd was brought up, but when he finally moved, it was to go snuff out the lights. I don’t know why he bothered - we could both see in the dark, though it did conceal whatever shade his face had settled on. He was already erect, I noticed. I had some catching up to do.

“Shall we lie down?” I asked.

“Uh-huh,” he said. He walked briskly to his bed, lay down flat on his back, and looked up at me expectantly.

I went over and got on top of him, crouching over him on my hands and knees.

I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure exactly where to go from there. I mean, I knew what had to be done, but it seemed I had to take certain steps or perform certain rituals before I could do that, and I wasn’t sure how to progress through those steps and rituals. I still didn’t want to kiss him. We weren’t that type of friends. So I decided to lower myself against him, reclining on one elbow and half-hovering over him, and touched him, drawing little circles on his chest with my fingertips.

“You smell nice,” he rasped.

“Thanks.”

Of course I did, I had borrowed my father’s cologne for the occasion. I continued to move my hand lower, past his scrawny pectorals and on to his stomach.

He moaned and arched up on the bed a little. I was a bit surprised - there wasn’t anything to moan about yet. I continued.

“You smell really, really nice,” he spoke up again, with shaking breath, “and you’re so close and warm, and- ah!”

What felt like an eruption of warm silly string suddenly squirted onto my stomach and up against my chest. I should have known, I did know, but I was startled and wasn’t thinking straight, and so I just lifted myself slightly and looked down, and another spurt hit me square in the eye. And still, instead of getting out of the way I just rubbed at my eye, while it kept on going, getting in my hair, on my neck, all over my hand that I was trying to shield myself with, just everywhere.

“Really?! I haven’t even touched you there yet!”

Dodd let out a strained sob in response.

“Look, I don’t think this counts, but we can swap for a while, and-”

“Get out.”

“…What?”

“I said get out! Leave!”

Dodd pushed me off himself, got up, and began to frantically pull his pants back on. I stared at him, incredulous, but he wouldn’t meet my eye.

“Man, you jizzed all over my hair, can I at least wash that out?”

“GET THE FUCK OUT!”

I left.

It was almost dawn by the time I made my way back home. I figured mom and dad would already be asleep by the time I crept back inside via the kitchen. Just as I thought I was in the clear, I heard dad’s voice behind me.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

I turned. He glared up at me from a bench. How long he’d been waiting for me, I had no idea, but he had a book with him to bide the time, and a half-empty bottle of wine.

“Sorry, I didn’t notice how late it was,” I muttered. “I better head to bed.”

“I’m talking to you!” he said, just as I turned to disappear up the service stairs. “Come back here!”

I rolled my eyes, sighed and turned back. Dad got up by then, and approached me, no doubt about to launch into a tirade about monsters that lurked the streets at night, preying on unsuspecting youths, blah blah, when instead he froze, looking at me wide-eyed.

Well... Fuck.

He knew.

I knew he knew.

He knew I knew he knew.

You see, my father’s nose has been the bane of my existence since my childhood. He’s worse than a bloodhound. No sweet treat eaten before dinner could ever stay a secret. As I got older, no cigar or joint I smoked. No tankard of beer I drank. I couldn’t skip school because he’d notice my clothes didn’t smell right. Hells, he’d even know who I spent any time with. He could pinpoint exactly where I’d been and where I hadn’t been.

What’s more, just earlier that week, we had had yet another explosive altercation. I don’t remember exactly what it was about anymore, but it involved mutual accusations and culminated in a waterfall of tears and both of lying that we would henceforth be honest, open and forthcoming with one another, and wouldn’t keep secrets. The promises were a touch too fresh to break so soon.

And so, we stood in silence, eyes locked, mirroring each other’s expressions of helpless, abject terror.

All I knew was, the proverbial ball was in his court - I refused to make any move, I merely stood and waited to see what he would do. At last, he spoke.

“How in the hells did it end up in your hair?” he asked point blank.

I appreciated the direct approach, but I was not about to launch into an explanation.

“Dad,” I said solemnly. “I’ve had a very difficult day, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

After a few moments of silence, he nodded.

“Go wash up.”

Trying not to look too relieved, I headed up to my room. I was halfway up the stairs when he called after me again.

“Just so we’re clear… …Do I need to kill anyone?”

It was nice of him to ask.

“Um,” I said. “Just me, I guess.”

“Get out of here,” he sighed with a shake of his head.

As I hurried up, I saw him take a big swig of his wine straight from the bottle, just before he disappeared from my line of sight.

My night with Dodd may have been a disaster, but it set me on a path which I was determined to follow to its end. Not long after that fiasco, full of spite, resolve, and some liquid courage, I made my way to the infamous Sharess Caress.

I was greeted by Nym, the proprietress of the establishment - she ran it with her brother Sorn.

I explained my situation to her, and relayed, in no uncertain terms, that money was no issue, but that I was to be thoroughly rid of my virginity, in all manners deemed appropriate and possible, once and for all, so that not even a shadow of a doubt could be left regarding my being ‘inexperienced’.

She heard me out and regarded me thoughtfully.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Old enough,” I said.

“Yes… Elves must grow up so quickly in human cities,” she sighed. “Were you in Evereska, you would be attending your first balls, stealing your first kisses and writing poetry full of youthful naivete and trepidation for your belle or beau.”

“You’re not from Evereska,” I observed. “What would I be doing in Menzoberenzzan?”

“In Menzoberenzzan you would be undergoing training in a pleasure house,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Or, more likely, be dead. But no matter. You are in Baldur’s Gate, and your wish is our pleasure to fulfil.” She called out to a drow man lingering near the bar, flirting with another patron. “Sorn! A very special request. I think it best we both attend to this client.”

I was whisked away to a private chamber with dimmed light. It was filled with cushions, bottles of scented oils, implements I had never seen and did not know the name of. I was overwhelmed. Something in the very air made my head swim, and the blood play in my veins. My hosts led me toward a scented bath.

Sorn pulled my shirt up over my head as Nym kneeled before me, unlacing my trousers.

“Ah, you must be the Ancunin boy!” she exclaimed as they came off. I was too distracted by everything around me to wonder how she had arrived at that conclusion. “Why did you not say so? Don’t worry about payment, this one’s on us, sweetheart.”

It was… fine. Some of the things we did I enjoyed more than others. Some were slightly uncomfortable. Others were kind of funny, though I don’t think they were meant to be such. Overall, to be honest, I didn’t think it was worth all the fuss everyone made about it. I could get the job done just as well all by myself, and it would be done quicker, neater, and without all the sweat and smalltalk.

Nym did hold me in her arms once we were done, humming a song and playing with my hair, and that was nice.

But, most importantly, I finally belonged to a certain group of people, and this membership would never be revoked. I walked out of Sharess’ a new person. Filled with pride, my head held high, I made my way back home with a calm and confident stride. I would roll a joint, paint a miniature, and never worry about this nonsense again.

By then I was done with school. There were some tepid discussions about sending me to a bardic college - not for any artistic endeavors, mind you, but rather purely for me to study history and maybe polish my shoddy swordsmanship. My parents could certainly afford it, but I had no interest in it and doubted I would last longer than a semester anyway, and I so set my foot down, informing them I would instead take some time to find myself. I was an adult. I would make my own decisions about my fate.

Mom and dad respected my decision. In their encouragement for my striving for independence and self-sufficiency, they even went as far as to promptly cease all financial contributions to my person. I was blown away by their support. I nearly shouted myself hoarse, telling them everything I thought about it.

Despite my outburst, they allowed me to keep my room, and even offered me a job within their very own restaurant’s scullery.

A year or so passed. Search as I may, I never did manage to find myself within the soap suds, or, later, once I was allowed to tend to the guests, on the plates I took to and from the tables every night. Until one night, I myself was found.

I approached a guest seated alone in a booth within the restaurant. Well-dressed, olive-skinned with slicked back dark hair, sharp-eyed, haughty, he immediately struck me as either a noble, or a professional actor trying to pass himself off as one. More likely the latter, I though as soon as he opened his mouth and I heard his trained voice and diction.

“My, my, what have we here… If it isn’t the little mouseling, delivering itself to the cat.”

The patrons would sometimes give me strange compliments or nicknames, but ‘mouseling’ was a new one. I ignored it.

“Are you ready to order? Or, can I interest you in a drink while you continue to peruse?”

“Oh I have spent more than enough time perusing,” the man said with a curl of his lips. “But you have interested me, yes.”

I sighed inwardly. This again.

“Sir, you have to order from the menu, and I am not on it.”

I wasn’t being cheeky or rude, merely stating facts - it was a common misapprehension that the Dancing Siren was a brothel. Which it wasn’t. Sure, some of the dancers did entertain guests privately, and my parents did host weird sex parties, I would later learn, but that was totally different. Anyway.

The man laughed.

“Everything is on the menu, for the right price,” he said. “Including you. Do not delude yourself. The only question is, at what cost?”

I swallowed hard, as I considered what I thought he was offering.

Look, I was earning peanuts waiting tables at the Siren. A rich man taking an interest in me might cover weeks if not months of my earnings. How bad could it be? The only thing that made me hesitate was the fact he looked like someone who didn’t take well to being disappointed. And I didn’t think I had it in me to avoid disappointing him.

“You will find professionals at Sharess’…” I started.

“I am not interested in your flesh, boy,” he said, eyeing me up and down with disdain and dismissal. “No. I am looking for… let’s call it a protege. And I believe you will be perfect for the role.”

“Ah, well…” I stammered, racking my brain for why he might have chosen me, of all people. Perhaps he was just an eccentric, I thought. But, I had nothing to lose, or so I thought, and so I decided to try to impress him and upsell myself and my skills, whatever they were. “I have been looking at my options, investigating opportunities… Which are many and numerous.” I shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly all too conscious of my ill-fitting pants and stained work shirt. “Should the right one arise, I will consider, for the right price of course. Don’t want to make bad investments. But um. To circle back and touch base. …About what it will take, I mean. The cost. Uh. …What are you offering?”

He had to be an actor, I thought, and a brilliant one. Not a single muscle twitched on his face as he listened to me.

“I can offer you all that you desire most deeply,” he said.

“Oh?” I said. “Like what?”

This was a genuine question. I didn’t know what I desired. Well, right in that moment I desired to finish work, kick off my stiff shoes, rub one out, light a spliff, and then maybe read something before calling it a day. But beyond that… No. I didn’t know what I wanted.

The man looked deep into my eyes, leaned forward and smiled.

“Power,” he said. “Power that will make you a force to be reckoned with. Power that will make you be seen, recognised. Power that will make everyone realise just how wrong they’ve always been about you. Power that will show everyone just how significant you are. You will show them. You will never be disregarded again.”

Oh.

I stood staring at the man, unblinking, the order docket book and pencil still ready in my hands. The man smiled at me with a knowing look, and gestured at the seat opposite him.

“Please, sit.”

I sat.

~~~~~

To be continued

Tagging those who enjoyed the first chapter: @mj-bites @thechaoticdruid @whiskeyskin @spacebarbarianweird @themadlu

Thank you for reading! Nothing encourages more writing like a comment. ❤

AO3 | Series master list

[spacebarbarianweird]

OMG it was so intense and hilarious! Loved every bit of it

[pyrateko]

Who knows how much longer I'll lay on the floor

Touch me till I vomit

I'm not scared of god, I'm scared he was gone all along

[exhuastedpigeon]

Every unhinged fic writer needs an equally unhinged friend who "yes ands" their ideas and encourages them to write all their most far fetched and insane stories.

[vixstarria]

@spacebarbarianweird every time 😁

[spacebarbarianweird]

Ahahahaha

Me and @vixstarria and @themadlu