Caduceus Clay 99% of the time: I have healing spells to save my friends, I'll cast bless so you guys get a d4, protection spells, general status effects to make the fight easier
Caduceus Clay 1% of the time: I'm tired and frustrated so have a fuck-ton of necrotic damage right in your face, please die.
Words: 4912
Summary: Act 1- Part 2. The first fight is over. The Tieflings are safe, Halsin is returned, but a war continues inside and itâs hard to say whoâs winning. Astarionâs courtroom skills are rusty and Triel trusts dreams except for when she doesnât
**Content warning for suicidal ideation and attempts at self harm**
The sun is setting as they near the campsite, stopping for one last break to rest their aching feet and for the mortals to put something in their stomachs before they reach the promised party and all the booze that comes with it.Â
Triel slips away as Shadowheart and Gale rummage through their packs engaged in a good-natured argument over the best treats, as Wyll launches into another retelling of his many exploits, Laeâzel scrutinizing him appreciatively whenever something in his story died.Â
It wasnât unusual for the ranger to do this. Triel wanders off, especially into the woods, and inevitably comes back with an armful of mushrooms and bushels of mergrass.Â
She eats, though, and itâs in his own best interest if his blood supply is well-fed.Â
Astarion doesnât have a horse in this race, so heâs not missing out if he leaves the others to squabble over snacks. If he warns her now, there may be something left by the time they return.Â
Which is how he finds her hideous goat hide armour abandoned neatly in a dry spot by the riverbank. Astarion furrows his brow and raises his gaze along the shore, into the river, andâÂ
Her back is to him, the thin clothes she wears beneath her armour drenched. Sheâs waded out, waist deep, in the middle of the Chionthar.Â
He canât imagine what drow bathing custom would involve a knife. There probably was one, but this certainly wasnât it. He takes it at first as some deranged attempt at fishing, but sheâs just⊠stopped, tense and frozen mid-river, water rushing around her.Â
What in the sweet hells is she doing?Â
He hears her voice but not the words, lost to the roar of the river, but theyâre fraught, and sheâs not so much immobile as she is held, fighting to move. Something has her.Â
Stop her! He recognizes the voice from his dreams, but heâs already moving.Â
Astarion bolts towards Triel, in up to his knees before he really registered the water and feels himself slow. He grits sharpened teeth and pushes harder, sloshing through the river as quickly and quietly as he can, certain that something will drag her down any moment, dimly aware of their dream visitorâs encouragement in the back of his mind.Â
As he reaches her he sees what he couldnât from the shore. Trielâdraâs teeth are grit, eyes clenched shut, one hand gripping the side of her head in agony, as she does whenever the tadpole makes itself known.Â
The knife in her other hand is turned on herself.Â
She hisses in frustration, arm shaking with effort as some unseen force tries to drive the blade into her heart.Â
Whatever has her in its grip hasnât noticed him, and heâs able to grab her from behind, helping brace her arm against the force, trying to wrest the blade from her hand.Â
âNo!â she cries, knuckles pale with the strength of her grip on the weapon. âLet me go.âÂ
âTriel, itâs me. Itâs Astarion; I have you. Whatâs happening?âÂ
The tiny drow writhes in his grasp, impossibly strong, and he can scarcely keep hold of her. He can feel it: the drive of her arm isnât out, itâs in.Â
Stop her! Their dream friend insists again. She wonât listen to me.Â
 âShut up!â Triel says to their unseen ally. She hears it too. Itâs the most of anything heâs ever heard in her sombre voice. Itâs desperation; sheâs pleading. âLet go!â
Triel, who has seemingly no concern for her own safety, who throws herself at fights alone and offers a starving monster her throat each night. Who has been turning to pain and disfiguration for any chance of escape from the parasite in her head. The precipice, the puddle of oh-so-potent wyvern toxin.Â
The tumblers click into place, the lock slides open. On the sum of the evidence before him, there is only one possible verdict.Â
âTrielâdra,â he demands, gaping at her, âhave you been trying to kill yourself all day?â
âIt wont let me,â she snarls, and he understands now why she hasnât been able to wrench herself free, strong as she is. The tadpole is protecting its host, even from herself, keeping the dagger from her heart, keeping her safe in his grasp and itself by extension. âAnd sheâ the dream-duregar, she will not stop shoutingââÂ
âThen listen to her!â Astarion responds, completely baffled. âIs this because that idiot in the grove tried to euthanize you? BecauseââÂ
âShe is right,â Triel nearly sobs. âLaeâzel was right! You were right. I am a danger, Iâ if I become a⊠an illithid, my mind will beâ I cannot allow that Astarion, let me go.âÂ
âNo,â Astarion snaps, anger fuelling his grip on her as a sudden surge of indignance washes over him. Betrayal. âNo, you donât get to promiseâ â he breaks off, biting back the rest of the thought, bile rising. Heâd confided in her about Cazador. She had sworn to help him, and heâs surprised how bitter the sting of her abandonment feels, surprised that heâd expected anything more than disappointment. But sheâd seemed so sincere, and heâd believed her. More fool him.Â
To the hells with her: if she wants out, he should leave her to it. Â
Astarion braces himself against the rocky river bottom and redoubles his effort.Â
âDamn it, you volunteer us for tiefling resettlement and druid rescue and then leave? Absolutely not!âÂ
He can feel the snared animal of her mind when he reaches out.Â
Sheâs not listening.Â
Triel is in a blind panic he knows all too well, fighting against his grasp, railing against the strange voice in her mind and the worm in her head. Heâs tempted to sink his fangs into her neck, for whatever it is in his bite that makes her numb and listless, but squirming like this he may well hit an artery, and sheâd want him to.Â
Nothing Astarion has done can reach her, but thereâs one thing he hasnât triedâ the only thing heâs ever been good for, the one thing thatâs never failed him.Â
All he has is a hammer and everyone wants to get nailed.Â
In his mindâs eye, still linked to hers, Astarion turns Triel in his grasp. Centuries of darkened alleyways make for ample fodder as he conjures the feeling of her hip beneath his one hand, the way his other would slip beneath her jaw and gently tilt, real and intense enough to cut through the static of her desperation.Â
He kisses her.Â
The drow goes still in his grasp. Her mind quiets. Thereâs a sleek plunk as the dagger tumbles from her fingers and slips beneath the waves.Â
Astarion can feel Trielâs heart pounding through her back against his chest, racing just the way it does when he feeds. He doesnât need the tether between their minds to know this is where her thoughts drift when he leans in close and brings his lips to her throat. What she wants.Â
What everyone wants.
Astarion loosens his grip, lets his hands move to rest on her hips. She leans, unconsciously, into his touch. He smiles, a mixture of performance and genuine satisfaction, if not the kind it seems, and leans down to speak softly, just a whisper from the shell of her pointed ear.Â
âI hope that wasnât one of the good knives.âÂ
âI took it off of a goblin.â
âAh,â he replies, still smirking at the quaver in her voice. âNo harm, then.âÂ
Trielâdra doesnât pull away; she rests against him, caught in his embrace, and swallows hard. She cranes her neck, offering, like sheâs waiting for him to feed, or perhaps, in hopes of other attentions. If Astarion had anything like scruples, he might call this too easy.Â
If.Â
She tries to turn. Perhaps the rocks of the riverbed are slick with algae, perhaps one looses under her foot, but she stumbles, catching herself after a brief dip in deeper water. Sheâs scarcely a pace away when she rights herself, and when she turns to meet his gaze again, her drow pupils are blown too wide for this light, her cheeks dark with a rush of blood. He can imagine the delicious warmth coming off that flush. He lets his gaze linger on it, on her lips as they part, trying and failing to speak.Â
Astarion knows this dance all too well, knows just how to fan the flames to make the heat in the scant space between them unbearable.Â
Dreaded Gloomstalker. Fearsome shadow.Â
He has her trembling.Â
âWhat are you doing out there?âÂ
The tension snaps, the spell broken as they turn towards the voice from the shore, Triel nearly startled back into the water.Â
Wyll is at the riverside, hands cupped at his mouth to call out to them.Â
âSome of us,â Astarion calls back, only a sliver of the irritation heâs feeling slipping out in his voice, âdonât want to show up to a party reeking of goblin entrails.âÂ
He has to hide a canary-eating grin as he glances over his shoulder and finds the ranger still frozen, stock still in the rushing water, wide-eyed, colour still high in her cheeks. âShall we?âÂ
She jumps at being addressed and stiffly nods her head, hastening towards the shore, unable to meet his gaze.Â
The sense of accomplishment does little to quell the sense of regret as he reaches the shore and drags his sodden armour out of the river. Heâs not about to show that in front of Wyll, though, and does his best to saunter rather than squelch his way past the warlock, and to ignore the puddling boot prints heâs leaving in his wake.Â
Astarion pretends to ignore Triel splashing out a moment later, but listens intently.Â
âNo. No, everything is fine.â Trielâs voice is small and soft, and she says no more about it.Â
Thereâs merciless teasing when he sops his way back to the campfire, his armour heavy with river water. âYes, well,â he snipes back at Shadowheartâs laughter, ârunning water is something of a novelty for me, and I got carried away.âÂ
Itâs still surreal. Without thinking, he had run into a river. Waist-deep in the fucking Chionthar. And heâs fine. It should have burnt like acid, but it had been nothing more than cool and pleasant, the way the setting sun does nothing but warm his skin.Â
Thankfully, he has no more need for clever retorts and can let the lump in his throat sit until it passes.Â
The cleric does raise a wry eyebrow when Wyll and Triel return, Trielâs leather armour draped over her arm, drenched herself. She glances back to Astarion, looks between them conspiratorially, but doesnât comment.
Triel is quiet the rest of the way back to the campsite, but thatâs nothing new. Not to the others, at least, who donât bother to take in her stiff spine and darting eyes. More so than usual, anyway. The drow is always wound like a spring, but this is different.Â
She is very pointedly Not Looking at Astarion.Â
At long last, soggy trudging gives way to familiar forest and the distant sound of merriment. The campsite is alight with activity, drink shared freely between jubilant tieflings and druids alike, the bard theyâd encountered plucking away at her lute.Â
Astarion retreats to his tent to peel off his waterlogged clothes, pour the Chionthar out of his boots, and wriggle into something dry⊠and tight, low cut, and enticing. Not any of the garbage heâs picked up on the roadâ his own clothes, tonight. Heâs on the hunt, and the gameâs afoot.Â
When Astarion emerges back into the night air, itâs easy enough to find a fresh bottle, a grateful tiefling handing it over gladly. Heâs not bothered to remember which is which. Thereâs the old leader, the wizard, and the rest of them, and this is one of the latter. He smiles, takes it politely, but the awestruck look sheâs giving him is making his skin crawl. Itâs not how heâs used to being stared at, and as he looks around he finds it echoed on all the other faces that catch his eye. Smiles, drinks raised in cheers, all expectant and eager.Â
He uncorks the wine with his teeth and takes a swig. Itâs foul, but heâs far too sober to deal with all this⊠fawning.Â
Astarion would have left them in a heartbeat, if he had one of those. Itâs the drow they want, her bleeding heart that spared them.Â
He grimaces as he takes another sip of the wine. There was a time he would have enjoyed it, anything to drown out the taste of rat and roach, but now itâs just sour and corky, falling short of what heâs really craving.Â
He finally catches sight of her, skulking around the edge of the party, trying to dodge anyoneâs notice. She looks as uncomfortable as he feels. Sheâs come from the direction of the riverbank, where he knows Wyll is off sulking, for whatever reason he thinks he has.Â
She slinks, one by one, to check in with their companions, and then finally settles beside the massive archdruid observing from the edge of the wood.Â
Astarionâs mouth twitches, a flicker of irritation.Â
The old bear is eyeing her like a fresh honeycomb.Â
Astarion would know that look anywhereâ he survived on it for two centuries.Â
He tries not to watch too conspicuously over the bottle raised to his lips, not to look too intent. Itâs the jealousy of a dog with a bone. Something he wants, someone threatening to take it away. But if sheâs noticed Halsinâs naked intent, it doesnât seem to be affecting herâ at least not the way that his had.Â
He has nothing to worry about.Â
Astarion releases a breath he doesnât need, feels the tension drain from his shoulders as she finally drifts away from Halsin, and thereâs nowhere left to go to but him.Â
She creeps towards his tent, pauses a respectable distance away and idles like she means to be there. Like sheâs waiting for him to chase her away.Â
âDo you need an invitation, darling? I know the feeling.âÂ
Triel approaches, a meaningful pause before she steps onto one of the rugs that marks the borders of his quarters in their camp. He welcomes her with a playful bow.Â
âYou know,â he muses as she settles awkwardly into his space, âI never pictured myself as a hero. Never thought Iâd be the one theyâd toast for saving so many lives. And now that Iâm here,â he takes another swig of his wine and nearly shudders from the acrid taste. âI hate it. This is awful.âÂ
The drow hums, thoughtfully, not dissenting. âI like celebrations, at home,â she says, looking uneasily out at the crowd. âBut they are to celebrate a harvest, or honour a deity. I can simply observe; I am not accustomed to eyes on me, let alone strange ones. It isâŠâ just for an instant her gaze meets his, then drops again, hurriedly. âOverwhelming.âÂ
âOh, Iâll take the adulation, donât misunderstand. Iâd just prefer for their gratitude to come in a more useful form than⊠what, a pat on the head and vinegar for wine? Here.âÂ
Triel'dra takes the bottle when he offers it, takes a tentative sip, and considers.Â
âSee what I mean? Awful.âÂ
âI know very little about surface wines.â Is all Triel says as a review, though sheâs clearly being diplomatic. Astarion can feel something more sheâs not saying as she passes it back. Instead, she watches, brows furrowed, as he takes another gulp and represses another grimace. âIf you find it disgusting, why are you drinking it?âÂ
Astarionâs stomach churns as the bitter wine stings his tongue, burns his throat.Â
Disgust has never stopped him before. Itâs a thing to be endured, ignored.Â
He shrugs, gives her a sly smile instead, pushes down the taste in his mouth and the pit in his belly. âBecause this awful plonk is the least awful of the plonk on offer, and tipsy is tipsy. So,â with a nod of his head he indicates towards the nearest of the open crates the tieflings had brought with them. Heâs been watching partygoers rummage through it all evening. âWhat are you having, darling? Red? White?âÂ
He starts for it, and canât help a smirk when she trails after.Â
âI have tried a bit of both, I think, since I have been on the surface, butâŠ.â she shrugs, peers quizzically into the crate when they stop. Heâs seen her take sips, here and there, of the garbage theyâve found in old cellars and the abandoned packs of long-dead travellers, but that kind of swill is hardly going to elicit an appreciation, especially if sheâs used to better.Â
âYou know, Iâve heard stories about drow wine. Itâs green, isnât it? I canât remember the name, heard it in passing from Patriars slumming it in the Lower City, butââÂ
âYes,â she snaps.
Astarion raises an eyebrow. It was a brief flicker of impatience, and it seems to have surprised her as much as it had him. Trielâs eyes dart, her shoulders tense and she grabs the first bottle that catches her eye.Â
âWhat about this one?â her voice is soft again, but thereâs a nervousness in it. An overcorrection.Â
Sheâs pulled a bottle of tyche pink from the crate and hands it to him for his appraisal.Â
Heâd proposed red or white and of course sheâs found the one that is both and neither. Heâs never met someone so contrary who didnât mean to be.
âCongratulations. Youâve found the plonkiest plonk here.âÂ
Triel shrugs, takes the bottle from his incredulous hands, pulls a knife from her boot to uncork it. âIt is a pretty colour.âÂ
She takes a drink, the revolted shudder he expects from the rose abomination never manifesting. She contemplates the bottle as the flavour lingers on her tongue, holds it up to the light of the nearest torch, admires the blush hue that can only really be inferred, ruined by the dark glass of the bottle.Â
âI didnât think you liked colour.âÂ
âI do. In small doses.â She smiles to herself, fond and private. âIf we decide to take the path through the Underdark, I will show you.â The smile fades in an instant as she catches herself.Â
More promises she may not be around to keep.Â
He lets out a patient sigh, and at the subtlest hint of meaning, she intuits to follow him back towards his tent. Does Trielâdra dance? He gets the feeling sheâd make an excellent partner.Â
Though heâs going to have a much better sense of her before the night is through.Â
Astarion settles into the mess of pillows and carpets heâs hoarded into something like comfortable around his tent. Sheâs sat with him here before, mending arrows while he darns battle damaged clothing in the grey dawn light while the aethen were still sleeping. She hesitates now, has to be encouraged again, all prey-animal still beneath the heat of the look he gives her.Â
Her cheeks are flushed well before she starts on the wine, toying with the bottle more than drinking as she sits cross legged beside him. Slowly, the excess tension seeps from her shoulders and high alert sinks back into her usual wariness.Â
They pass a long moment in silence that may have been comfortable in other circumstances, as cosy as he imagines one can be settled outside, a roaring fire in the distance, the chatter of the crowd that feels almost like home if he closes his eyes. He would let this go on, on another night. Enjoy it, even. But sheâs sitting too far away, too tense, too clothed.Â
Astarion takes a calculated risk.Â
âI canât believe you were just going to leave me with these idiots.âÂ
She looks down at the bottle of Pink, swirls the contents anxiously. âI waited until the Nightwarden was dead. You had no more need of me; the task was complete and there was an Archdruid to lead you.âÂ
Astarion pauses, bottle almost to his lips, his eyebrows raised. âThe bear? You were going to leave us with the bear? The bear that got himself captured by goblins? That bear?âÂ
She follows his eyeline to the far end of the campfire. Halsin hasnât moved far from the corner heâd tucked himself into, but heâs now sort ofâŠ. Absently bobbing back and forth along with the rhythm of Alfiraâs lute, in what might very generously be considered dancing.Â
Triel turns back to meet his arched eyebrow, unbothered. âMaster Halsin has been Archdruid of the Emerald Grove for a century. He is well versed in the nature of this Shadow Curse, and has been studying the haszak parasites. He is well-suited to leadership; I am not.âÂ
Astarion smiles at that, and canât help a chuckle as he helps himself to another swig of wine. âIâm afraid that isnât up to you, darlingâ everyone else here thinks otherwise. You know how it goes: greatness thrust upon them, et cetera, et cetera.âÂ
She needs a drink after that, an uncharacteristically deep draught of her wine that leaves her gasping for air when she finally surfaces. Astarion finds himself laughing again, as she takes a deep breath, reaches for the medallion around her neck like it will help.Â
âSpeaking of everyone. I remember the druid, I remember our little chat, but whatâs this about Laeâzel? We donât have a problem with our dear Gith raider, do we?âÂ
âNo, no, nothing like that. I was⊠unwell, last night. Feverish. Laeâzel saw it, determined that I had run out of time, andâŠâ She trails off, shifts uncomfortably as she searches for words. Â
âIs Elvish easier, darling?âÂ
She nods. Their morning conversations are paying off; Trielâdraâs elvish is improving. Itâs still stilted, still formal, but it flows more easily. Stiff, but no longer liturgical.Â
âLaeâzel took it upon herself to do what was needed. ExceptâŠâ She sighs, winces. âIt was not just myself. She had decided to kill us all and then herself, end the threat of any of us becoming lithid. I⊠I convinced her to wait.â She looks guilty when she looks up at him, shying further at the look of vexed horror heâs giving her in return.
Astarion rests his face on his fist if only to keep the reflexive outburst in. Sheâs like a skittish animal heâs finally coaxed close, and if he startles her now thereâs no getting her back. He nods, small restrained gestures to encourage her to continue. Yes, of course, the Githyanki had decided to murder them all in their sleepâ nothing alarming about that, of course, of course; do go on.
âIn the morning, I felt myself, again. But I know it cannot last forever. I remembered the way my arm acted of its own accord when we found that first infected body, how I salvaged the tadpole against my will. I thought on what I knew of other parasites, how they may change their hostâs behaviour to suit their own needs. It occurred to me that Laeâzel may not have been able to carry out the last step of her plan. So⊠I thought it best to⊠â She ducks her head, takes another drink, lets the thought trail off without having to elaborate. Then finally, simply, âAs you saw, I could not.â She sits cross legged, focused on her bottle, and briefly her gaze darts up, towards him: nervous. Ashamed.Â
Of the attempt or the failure?Â
âWell,â He smiles, letting out a deliberate sigh. Astarion softens his gaze and holds on her until a flicker of her eyes ensures she sees it. âItâs a good thing I arrived when I did.âÂ
Slowly, carefully, Astarion has been closing the distance between them. Heâs well and truly into her space now, close enough that she has to look up at him, that he can feel the heat radiating off of her living body. âA beating heart is a terrible thing to waste, darling. We arenât all so fortunate.âÂ
Drow are rare above ground, even in a city as packed as The Gate. Sheâs the first heâs really been able to study so closely, and now, curled up together, he can read her all too well. Trielâs expressions reveal little, but her body betrays her. In the dark, the bottomless void of her pupils swallow her pale irises whole, scrounging for even the faintest of light. But here, in the firelight, under a bright moon?Â
âIt would be a shame to lose youâ let alone to yourselfâ so needlessly. And I donât just mean your blood, sweet as it is. I thought we were rather enjoying each otherâs company. In factâŠâ
Astarion canât help the smirk he feels forming. Heâs close enough to see her pupils blown wide, fixed on his, unable to look away even as another flicker of shame passes through her. She stammers something like an apology.Â
Whether at their camp by the Chionthar or the Elfsong, he knows how to make a crowd fall away. To make her feel as though thereâs nothing outside of this, outside of them. He has her.Â
âLovely as this party is, darling, I can think of better ways to spend the evening.âÂ
âOh?âÂ
âPerhaps, once things have died down, we could slip away somewhere. Just the two of us. Make our own entertainment.âÂ
âIââ She stammers, colour rising in her cheeks. He doesnât need the tadpole to imagine the nervous uncertainty in her head as she turns her attention very pointedly back to the bottle of Pink. A wicked smile plays upon his lips despite himself and he waits until she raises it to her own.Â
âOh, and, to be perfectly clear: I do mean sex. With you.âÂ
Triel sputters helplessly as the drink goes down the wrong way. Itâs almost endearing.Â
âYouâll forgive me, I hope, for being direct. Hints donât seem to be working, and while I could play coy, if that better appeals to your Underdark sensibilitiesâŠâ He leans in, tantalizingly close, and she stays frozen. âIt feels like something of a waste of time, all things considered.â A flicker of something unreadable crosses her face, and she nods, ever so slightly. An almost involuntary confession. âIâve been in your head, darling I know what you want. Arkhlavae?â he purrs. âNor.âÂ
Her eyes are wide, shining in the firelight, mesmerised. âRaggath,â she echoes quietly. âSsinssrigg.âÂ
âSsinssrigg. I like the sound of that.â Heâd always imagined Drow to be a harsh language, with all the throaty consonants and hissing sybillants but itâsâŠÂ elegant, from her lips. He can see the roots of Elvish in it, still, however distant. âAnd you were already so eager to die in my arms...âÂ
She swallows hard.Â
Heâs kept his a voice low purr, her replies are barely a whisper. To any onlookers this is a questionably intimate tete-a-tete but he doesnât mind staking his claim where others can see. If it keeps them from sniffing around, all the better.Â
He catches Halsin watching.Â
Thatâs right, Druid, eat your great hairy heart out.Â
The sound of careless footfalls breaks the spell, Trielâdea nearly jumping out of her skin when the herd of baby tieflings approaches in their chaotic glee. âMiss Drow!â The little thief (the particularly audacious one, theyâre all thieves) reaches them first. He can see her parents nearby, never taking their eyes off her. He doubts they ever will again.Â
A pang of something twists in his stomach, but thatâs what the wine is for.Â
Arabella stops before them, rocking excitedly on her heels,as the other tieflings skid to a halt around her. The surly one with the eyepatch is skulking nearby. Â
Triel had been fond of Arabella, and the little girl had glowed from praise from the hero of the hour. Amid her community panicking and despairing, sheâd set out to do something, even if she had been caught. Astarion supposes he has to admire her nerve, if not her skill.Â
âMiss Drow, Miss Alfira wants to see you. Sheâs been looking for you all evening.âÂ
Before Triel can protest, sheâs being helped to her feed by an ebullient swarm of tiny devilspawn, all chattering at once.Â
Thereâs sunmelon, and cheese, andâ
âis it true you lost an EYE? Can I see? Mol, lookâÂ
âZevlor says we have to go to bed soon, can you talk to him for us? Itâs a partyâ
Trielâdra manages a glance over her shoulder as the children pull her away towards the celebration, her eyes meeting his.Â
Itâs second nature now, to reach out, to stroke the thread linking his mind to hers. He smiles at her as he shows her the secluded place in the forest they know from morning hunts where heâll be waiting.Â
And for a moment, before she severs the connection, Astarion feels the heart racing in her chest as if it were his own.Â
Words: 3919
Summary: Act 1- Part 2. The first fight is over. The Tieflings are safe, Halsin is returned, but a war continues inside and it's hard to say who's winning. Astarion's courtroom skills are rusty and Triel trusts dreams except for when she doesn't.
**Content warning for suicidal ideation and attempts at self harm**
In Astarionâs defence, itâs difficult to tell when someone is acting strangely when their baseline is⊠well, Trielâdra.Â
Sheâd been jittery when theyâd reached the Emerald Groveâ not afraid of tieflings, it turns out, just of⊠people. Heâs beginning to get the impressionâ and heâs been in her head, so heâs fairly confident in his assessmentâ that this⊠this party theyâve formed is the first group of new people sheâs actually met. That have been aware of her presence without very abruptly ceasing to be, anyway. Sheâs not sure how to be, hovering around the group like an uneasy shadow, terrifying tieflings as she eavesdrops and then reaches out, well-meaning.Â
All this to say: Trielâdra had been an unnerving mix of quiet and twitchy under the best of circumstances. Itâs impossible to say at the time if something sheâs doing is strange, not with the context of everything else she does. Itâs only after: pieces falling into place too late, tumblers all finally lined up just right, that he sees them for what they were.
(He used to be good at this, he thinks. Evidence. Working backwards from what he has to what heâs missing.)
Exhibit A:Â
âFirst sign of change, and Iâll have to stop that pretty little heart of yours,â Astarion singsonged, playfully morbid. âI am open to suggestions. Knives? Poison? Stranguââ
ââNot poison.â Triel Interrupted. This whole exercise had been a game of hypotheticals, gauging her response. To teasing, to flirtation, to their impending doom, prodding at defences and finding gaps in her armour. Her expression was unreadable, but there was an intensity in her pale eyes.Â
âOh? Are you sure?â His grin curled wider. âI can think of some nightshades that are deliciously fatal.âÂ
âNot to me,â the drow insisted. âI have survived poisoning too many times. You will need something far more potent than nightshade.âÂ
A point of pride for a drow, no doubt. He gave her his best winning smile and changed the subject, smoothed over the dreary what-if. âAlright, darling, I donât doubt your constitution. But this is all worst case scenario. Hopefully it never comes to that, hm?âÂ
She smiled faintly and agreed, but still looked perturbed. He made a mental note to step back from the topic of tentacles.  Â
Exhibit B
It wasnât a secret that she took the rescue of this Archdruid personally. He was to his people what her mother was to hers, as the frantic acolytes descending immediately into reactionary exclusion were to the rest of the drow druids waiting for Triel in their hidden cauldron back home.Â
So sheâd been⊠tense, as they made their way through the goblin stronghold, but sheâd played her part well enough. Acting, subterfuge, these things didnât come naturally to her, but with a bit of encouragement sheâd tried. The goblins were none too swift, not sharp enough to catch the way she winced every time one called her mistress, the hard swallow before she issued a command, the bile she bit back whenever she played in to their view of her as some depraved torturer and pointed her straight to their prisoners, too stupid to notice the loathing in her eyes was all for them.Â
Deception may not be her forte, but stealth was. She was content to breeze past them, let them go about their horrible businessâ the roasted dwarf had given her pause, but sheâd controlled herself, let them be, kept on her way. Sheâd been perfectly content to lure the goblin priestess away to dispatch her quietly.Â
Which is why it should probably have struck him as odd when sheâd reacted as she did to the halfling.Â
As The Drow with whom they were all ostensibly here, sheâd spoken to the woman herself while they waited. It had seemed like a perfectly civil conversation from a distance, unusual only in that Triel had come back empty handed. It wasnât like her to leave a merchant without at least a few tool kits and an assortment of food she found novel.
(Sheâd never seen a lemon before and seems to find them endlessly fascinating. The first time theyâd found one sitting abandoned in a crate, sheâd spent the next long while as they walked puzzling over it, sniffing it, blinking at it like sheâd never seen anything that colour. Gale had saved her before sheâd taken a bite, the spoilsport.)Â
But sheâd come back, jaw tight, eerie silver eyes distant, and said nothing until theyâd rounded a corner and sheâd stopped abruptly. Â
âI⊠I need to take care of something.â And with that, without another word of explanation, Triel had simply melted into the shadows and she was gone.
Then the screaming started.Â
The party had hastened around the corner to find her standing over the body of the dead halfling as her cohorts guarding the door drew weapons.Â
A goblin had gone scurrying across the hall towards a wardrum, one of Trielâs arrows sending him skidding into a bleeding heap before he could summon help, but there were others already alerted by the guards, rushing her.Â
It hadnât been much of a fight, all told, but it had been perplexing.Â
âDo you want to tell us what in all nine hells that was about?â Shadowheart had snapped, a critical eyebrow quirked, as she brushed goblin entrails from her armour.Â
âIâm sorry I did not handle that more discreetly,â Triel had replied, voice soft, eyes darting to the torches dotting the gloomy hall. âItâs too well-lit in here; I should have known I couldnât do my best work.âÂ
âWell,â Gale tried to force a smile as he moved to pick over the dead merchantâs wares, a little too eagerly. âI suppose thereâs nothing else for it now. Might as well see if thereâs anything here we can salvage.âÂ
âLooking for a snack, wizard?âÂ
âYouâre one to talk, vampire.âÂ
Triel had stayed where she was, a small grimace on her face as she nudged the dead halfling with her boot. Astarion had smiled, sidled up to her, close enough to keep his voice low and sultry in her ear.Â
âDarling, if you wanted some of her wares, you needed only say so. A little illusion, a gentle touch, and I could have had anything here in a moment.âÂ
âTheyâre Zhentarim.â She had said in reply, her disdain evident. Heâs still waiting, and she seems surprised when that wasnât a suitable explanation. âI let them live, they go back to their business. Theyâre here selling smokepowder because the goblins do not have any prisoners to sell them.âÂ
Shadowheart sighed, clanking over from the pile of wares to snag anything Gale hadnât yet squirrelled away for lunch. âWhat were you thinking? You know Iâm the one who has to patch you up if you get torn to shreds, right? If we hadnât noticed, you could have been overrun. You could have been killed, and Iâm not hauling your corpse back to camp.âÂ
âIâŠâ Triel had seemed surprised at that, blinking at her for a long moment, shifting uncomfortably under the clericâs steely gaze. It was irritation born from concern, Astarion could tell. Sheâd taken to the drow. âI am sorry to have caused problems.âÂ
Shadowheartâs expression softened as she nudged her shoulder. âJust⊠Warn us next time, alright? No more sneaking off.âÂ
Triel agreed, though Astarion suspected she had no intention of obeying.Â
Exhibit C:Â
It wasnât long after that, rescued cave bear in tow, theyâd come across whatâs-his-face and his gorey little chapel to Loviatar. Heâd seemed harmless enough to their mission, content to stay in his corner and beat himself senseless, completely indifferent to whatever they were up to, but then heâd taken one look at Triel and that had caught his attention. Â
Heâd assumed it was something camp related, initially. She was a drow, so everyone took her at once for leadership, but that hadnât been it.Â
âThat look in your eyes⊠something terrible has happened to you.â He said it with a sympathy that bordered on perverse, eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Astarion has always assumed anyone who called themselves godly is full of shit. That he was looking at Triel and passed right over himself and two centuries of suffering just proved it. Though, he had avoided direct eye contact. The human was clearly unhinged.Â
And with a few brief moments discussing prayerâ which sounded more and more like a propositionâ Triel was braced against the wall as the human took far, far too much enjoyment pummeling her with a mace.Â
Though, she may have done it just to spite him. For all his bluster, he couldnât have been very strong, those bare scarred muscles clearly all for show. Triel had scarcely reacted to each strike. Sheâd barely let out a gasp, even as the scent of her blood filled the air; the human was visibly disappointed.
He and Shadowheart had at least found it entertaining. (The bear, for his part, was audibly distressed all the while, pacing and groaning and just waiting to take a swipe at the Loviatarite if he went too far).Â
âIm not healing that, if youâre going to be getting up to that kind of thing.â Shadowheart had teased, smiling as they left in search of the priestâs colleague and his unhappy victim screaming from down the hall.Â
âWhat kind of thing?â Sheâd replied, dead serious and once again confounding. A drow unfamiliar with sadomasochism, would wonders never cease. âMy head is⊠I am feeling unclear, and prayer has always been my way ofâŠ. Making sense of things? It is not a kind my gods ask for⊠but he seemed quite certain and it felt worth a try.âÂ
Astarion had raised an eyebrow. âAnd was it?âÂ
âNo.â Trielâdra had sighed, and then in one swift movement kicked in a door and shot a goblin torturer through the heart.Â
Exhibit D:Â
Every night since sheâd caught himâ- since he had confessed to his afflictionâ Triel has offered him her throat.Â
Heâd just assumed she enjoyed it. Â
Exhibit E:Â
They had rested before confronting this drow Nightwarden, the last name on Halsinâs list. Astarion hadnât visited her that night.Â
Loathe as he was to pass up Trielâdraâs exquisite vintage, heâd drunk enough goblin blood the day before to tide him over, and he feared that if he overindulged she may withdraw her generosity.Â
Heâd slept that night. He canât remember the last time he slept.Â
Triel always sleeps after he feeds from her. He can feel it, holding her as he drinks, when the twilight state of reverie sinks into something deeper.Â
Heâd felt it himself as he rested that evening. His current project was a sunlit garden. Heâd been visualising it each night since he escaped the crash, since heâd seen the sun again. As his mind wandered he imagined each stitch, each thread, where they would go if he had the time and materials. He could feel them beneath his fingertips. Â
But then it changed, interrupted. Not the mental busywork that he uses to disconnect as he rests, but something new and alien, a dream but not a nightmare of scrabbling at unyielding stone walls or bleeding to death in the street. A visitor. Â
A horrible sound had roused Astarion, finally. He was waking with the gith and the humans.Â
Astarion groaned as he pushed himself up from his nest of cushions, stretching as he poked his head out to survey the others.Â
The irritating shriek and droning was Laeâzel at it again, sharpening her weapons at that blasted wheel. Astarion was amazed she had any steel left, by this point, but it wasnât worth inciting the githâs ire, so he had pinched the bridge of his nose, took a breath and tried to ignore the ringing in his oh so keen ears.Â
The others were milling about the space theyâd secured. Gale was fussing over his breakfast as usual, but Shadowheart and Wyll hovered around, in some excitement.Â
From what he overheard, theyâd all had the same visitor, all of them, the same dream. All exceptâŠÂ
Trielâdraâs tent was empty. She was not hunched in its cramped shade fixing arrows, or fussing over her familiar, or fixated on crushing down whatever questionable moss and weeds she seemed to find everywhere. Most alarmingly, she wasnât over to wish him good morning. Not just him, mind you, she made her rounds morning and night to greet each of them, but still, he was sure he wasnât imagining that she always came to him last in the evening and first in the morning.Â
He was the only other elf and thus the only one awake at dawn, the nights she tranced, but still.Â
Heâd endeared himself to her, is the point. And she was gone.Â
Astarion left his tent, mumbling something about stretching his legs, and finally found her on a stone bench with the idiot bard that had followed them back to their camp. Sheâs laid out flat and heâs standing over her doingâŠ. Something. Whatever it is, suddenly the smell of her blood hits his senses. His nose must have been fooling him, because Triel didnât seem in distress. As Volo worked away, she had been holding herself as though conscious, but still and quiet.Â
(see Exhibit C).Â
The smell of blood was overpowering, and she let out the faintest breath of a strangled scream.Â
Oh, shit.Â
Astarion darted over just in time to watch Trielâdraâs right eyeball pop from its socket and squelch into the goblin camp mud.Â
The bard, icepick still in hand, went as pale as Astarion. His smile quavered and he swallowed hard as Triel painstakingly eased herself to sit, her empty socket weeping blood down her cheek. She turned to Volo to look at him from her remaining eye, expression vacant and lost, voice a hoarse whisper. âDid you get it?âÂ
***Â
âLady of Sorrows shield you from yourself; what were you thinking?â Shadowheart muttered bitterly as she deemed the socket clean enough. âWyll, can you put it in?â Her eyes narrow dangerously at Astarion and Gale beside him, just daring one of them to say anything. Â
âI meanâŠâ Wyll hesitates, his own stone eye shifting. âIâm hardly an expert. It doesnât exactly come out? And neither will this, once itâs in.âÂ
But he seemed of all of them the least squeamish, and knelt across from where Triel sat cross legged, still dazed, her freckles dark like ink spots against her pallor. âThere,â he said, as with a careful hand he slipped the enchanted prosthetic, which Volo had pressed into her hand before fleeing, into place. It was an almost tender gesture, Astarion noted with some annoyance. âGood as new. Adds character, I think.âÂ
She smiled faintly at Wyll, then turned her gaze to the exasperated cleric.Â
âWell? Is it working?â Shadowheart demanded.Â
Astarion raised a hand to get her attention, and she turned to look at him. The new eye is subtly different, a pale blue to her silver. Itâs not terrible, just⊠alien. Wrong. Itâs not a drowâs eye. âHere, darling, how many fingers am I holding up?â He raises four fingers on one hand, three on the other, and beside him, invisible, his mage hand is held open.Â
âTwelve.âÂ
This isnât funny. Thereâs still precious blood spilling down Trielâs blanched face, her expression distant and pained, but the look on Shadowheartâs is priceless. âNo, no,â he says as he reveals the phantom hand. âSheâs right. Not such a bad deal, eh?âÂ
âNo⊠no, I suppose not. If I am more useful this wayâŠâ Triel shakes herself out of her stupor and forces herself to her feet, unsteady. âIâm sorry. I justâŠâ She sighs, hangs her head, ashamed. âI wanted to go home.âÂ
Exhibit F:Â
Nightwarden Minthara was dead, which meant it was time to ransack the room.Â
Halsin, jubilant, had exploded out of bear and into an elf again, hastening back to his grove. Shadowheart looked over the war table as Gale raided bookshelves. Astarion, meanwhile, was helping himself to the Nightwardenâs very, very useful armour. Gorgeous, too. Murderous cultist lunatic she may have been, but the woman had taste.Â
It was also enchanted, mercifully, so the (frankly excessive) number of holes their leader had shot into it would sort themselves out soon enough.Â
And said leader was currently in a corner staring at the floor.
It hadnât been a corner, exactly, as there wasnât a wall so much as a sheer drop into a chasm, but Triel was at the precipice, looking straight down, stock still, whatever fury had possessed her in battle abated.Â
Astarion returned his attention to the task at hand, and tried not to mourn the puddle of blood sunk into the dirt beneath the body. Three arrows, in all, he had to yank free or snap to get the armour off of the dead drow. One through her throat that had undoubtedly done the trick, and then another two Triel had sunk into her for good measure. It was so rare to see a flicker of anything from the ranger that even the brief slip of control had been intriguing.Â
Astarion had a moment to step back and really admire her handiwork as he carefully peeled away his well-worn padded armour and donned the new (and oh, yes: light, durable, thrumming with magicâŠÂ it would do nicely.) He smirked a little, surveying the overkill, an eyebrow raised, and called over to her. âNot like you to get heated, darling. What did she say?âÂ
It had been a brief comment, something snide-sounding in drow, and suddenly Trielâs newly mismatched eyes were all cold fury.Â
Trielâdra didnât respond, didnât so much as twitch a pointed ear, so fixated on the chasm. Not when he calls out to her again, and not when he draws closer. She nearly jumped out of her skin when Astarion placed a hand on her shoulder.Â
âWhatâs so interesting down there?â he asked when she recovered. He could see well enough in the dark, but not like a drow could. Still could, hopefully.Â
âHm? Oh. No, nothing. It is too far even for my eyes. Eye?â She shakes her head, dismissively. âIt feels⊠different,â she says, and from her tone he knows the word she means is wrong. âBut my vision seems unchangedâ I am sorry, were you calling me just now?â She blinks at him, diverted, as though his earlier attempts have only just begun to register.Â
âI was only wondering what it was she said to get you soâŠ. Worked up.â His smirk returns. Itâs a relief not to have to hide his fangs any longer. âSheâs the red-eyed kind, the ones you war with. Some spidery blasphemy against your gods, I take it?âÂ
"Something like that...." She trailed off then inclined her head, puzzled. "You are a High Elf; they are your gods, too."
"Someone ought to have told them that." He didnât bother hiding the disdain he felt, the scoff that slipped out derisive and bitter. They had been travelling together a long while, by then. She tolerated a Sharran, an apostate should have been of little consequence. âI prayed. Every god I could think of for centuries, and nothing. ThoughâŠâ He chuckled to himself, darkly, noticing where her eyes kept darting. It was only upon following the nervous line of her gaze that he noted the spindly legs sprouting from the skull over his sternum. âNever did try this Spider Queen. Anyone who inspires that kind of terror must have some power worth petitioning.âÂ
Beside him, Triel stopped, stock still. Even beneath the leather armour, he could see the rigid tension in the drowâs shoulders. âIf Lolth answered the prayers of slaves,â she said softly, not looking at him, âMenzobarrozan would fall in a day.âÂ
Astarionâs stomach lurched, his body bracing like heâd been struck. It was only a momentary lapse in his composure but he felt it like a missed step. From the way she was blinking at him, sheâd seen itâ the stab of white-hot rage. He stamped down the disgust, reigned his expression into his most alluring smile.Â
Thereâs no other word for what he was, it was the one he used himself, but it stung, hearing it from her, after all heâd told her. Sheâd listened as he confided to her about Cazador, about the horror hunting him, and sheâd pledged her help, that sickening look of sympathy on her face.Â
He supposed this is what he got for letting his guard down. Pity, disdainâ two sides of the same wretched coin.
It didnât matter how pathetic she found him, how she looked down on him, if sheâs willing to help. He needed her. He needed her on side, needed her devoted to him.Â
Wretched or not, a gold piece is a gold piece.Â
Astarion smiled, his finest armour. âWell, I suppose Iâve seen how that ends, havenât I?â He quips, brightly. âToo many legs and cobwebs everywhere. No, no thank you. No tentacles and no spinnerets either, if I have anything to say about it.âÂ
The others seemed content that theyâd found everything of value, and it was time to go. Shadowheart was calling to them from the walkway, Gale flipping through a book heâd found on his way towards the door.Â
Triel kept her voice quiet as they began towards the other and smiled at him, weakly. It didnât reach her eyes. âLolth cares little for her sons; her awful gifts are only for her fiercest daughters. You would not be Eliette. You would be the dead jaluk with the runes carved into his flesh.âÂ
Another hateful twinge threatened Astarionâs smile.Â
His back ached beneath his stolen armour.
Exhibit G:Â
There was a mirror in a room off to one side of the hidden place they had made camp. He found Triel there when it was time to head out, their things all stowed and ready to bolt.Â
Fixating on the change to her appearance, no doubt.Â
Gods, what he wouldnât give for the chance to do the same.Â
But Astarion had smiled, (much better at faking them than she was) and stamped down the rising swell of envy curling in his stomach as he went to retrieve her.Â
âCome along, darling,â he announced as he threw open the door. âTime to make good our escapeââÂ
He startled her again. Perhaps whatever had happened last night hadnât been enough rest, because it was as though she were trancing on her feet, not fretting into the mirror as he had expected, but stood before a puddle of seeping green liquid and broken glass: a phial of Wyvern toxin, smashed beneath her.Â
Astarion raised his eyebrows, gave her a cheeky look that never failed to charm. âSo, how goes the first day with the new eye?âÂ
âPoorly,â she admitted with a cringing smile as she sank to her knees beside the noxious splash of venom, carefully dragging a few arrows through and, with a beckoning wave, inviting him to do the same. âI suppose I am still getting used to it.âÂ
Exhibit H:Â
As they made their way back to their camp in the forest, Trielâdra dismissed her familiar, the silver tabby disappearing with a wisp of grey smoke and an indignant yowl.Â
He didnât know she could do that.Â
Exhibit I:Â Â
Trielâdraâs boots and leather armour were laid out neatly on the bank of the Cinothar.
It's only in hindsight, long after the knife is drawn, that Astarion sees what it had meant.
Something I love about confronting Cazador is how he obviously never processes that Astarion has friends until it's too late.
Petras and Dalyria must have mentioned that Astarion wasn't alone when they met him, but when you read Cazador's journal? He's 100% fixated on Astarion. How Astarion stood in the sun, how Astarion was willing and able to disobey him. And when Astarion shows up, Cazador barely acknowledges the party at all - and sure, that's partly because this is Astarion's moment in the narrative, but Cazador doesn't so much as ask why these random strangers are there! They're not part of his plans, so they don't exist.
And then they immediately save his errant spawn from the ritual and start beating his ass.
Just. What must have been going through Cazador's head when that fight starting turning against him? 'Is that... the Blade of Frontiers? Why is a monster hunter - and is that a cleric? - helping a vampire spawn? An undead? Ah, but they must be treating it as a necessary evil to have a chance to slay me, of course - hold on, why is the cleric healing Astarion? Why does that wizard keep Counterspelling everything I'm casting at Astarion, why waste the spells when I'm not even targeting him? Did... did that druid just cast Daylight on Astarion's weapons? And that brute of a tiefling - that's not just disgust in her eye when she looks at me, it's fury - and she keeps putting herself in front of Astarion, why in the hells would she - she's running right at me- '
I hope that one of the last things Cazador ever knew was the choking realisation that Astarion didn't just come back strong, or free. Astarion came back loved.