Feb 1
This was what I imagined cazador torture chamber would like after the first time seeing astarion shirtless... cuz what do u mean... what is that
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This was what I imagined cazador torture chamber would like after the first time seeing astarion shirtless... cuz what do u mean... what is that
BG3 text posts with some minor characters this time. Sorry about Vellioth. :P
Yo! Not sure if you are accepting requests for Astarion x Reader and what not but if you are, here me out; it's known that it is possible for Astarion to be kidnapped by Cazador when you are fighting at the Inn. So what about if this happened and, to try and further break him and just be a total twat, Cazador sets it up that it seems the reader/Tav has come to save Astarion only to reveal that it was all a charade to break him and drag him to the ritual (could be a shape changer of succubus, whatever you like). Astarion is utter broken, THEN the real Tav comes charging in, tearing apart everything in their way to save Astarion. We have utter angst followed by utter fluff!
Ooh I very much liked this prompt as I've never written from Astarion's POV before so I hope it comes across alright!
TW for kidnapping and slight emotional manipulation
Word Count - 2.5k
Enjoy!
xxx
Astarion shifted his shoulders side-to-side while splaying his fingers, both done in attempt to free himself of the rope binding his wrists.
As he was ushered, his heavy breaths were muffled against the cloth that had been tied around his neck. As it obscured most of his vision, he couldn’t see a damn thing, but he knew exactly where his kidnappers—his so-called ‘brother’ and ‘sister’—were taking him.
Back to his old master.
Astarion had tried to fight the spawn – Gods know he did – despite knowing it was futile. His friends had tried to save him, you had tried so, so hard – he remembers the way you desperately crawled to him, weakly calling out his name before he was dragged away.
When fighting was clearly no use, he tried to convince them just to discuss their options, that surely they could figure out a way to work together to defeat Cazador, but it was all for naught. They thought he deserved this, and, in a way, so did he.
The longer they travelled, the more his struggles eased.
Even with the bag over his head, Astarion could tell when they reached the Szarr palace. The air within was thick with the musty scent of centuries past, a haunting aroma that seemed to seep from the very walls themselves.
Dimly flickering torches lined the uneven, moss-covered bricks, casting feeble, wavering shadows that danced with eerie grace. The stones, slick with moisture, whispered secrets to those who dared listen, their ancient whispers a chilling backdrop to the silence. The floor, uneven and cold, was a mosaic of cracked tiles, their patterns lost to centuries of neglect. Puddles of stagnant water collected in the lowest recesses, reflecting the dim torchlight like dark, unblinking eyes.
“I’m... sorry that it had to come to this,” Leon said. His voice was monotone, making his words sound like a cheap, hollow excuse.
“No, you’re not,” Astarion bluntly replied. “Whatever master wants, master gets. Just a shame we all must get slaughtered in the process, hm?”
Silence was his answer.
Astarion flinched as a door creaked open and a familiar stink filled his nostrils – Leon had brought him to the ‘Kennel’, where he had spent tendays being tortured by Cazador’s cruel and sadistic servant Godey – a vile creature that often haunted his nightmares.
The cloth covering Astarion’s head was ripped off and he was forced to gaze at that familiar, hideous skull.
“If it isn’t the nasty little runaway!” Godey all-too-cheerily announced. “Ah, but you always find your way back to Godey, hmm?”
Astarion grimaced.
“If I had my way, I’d saw off your legs - that’d put a stop to your wandering.”
“As pleasant as that sounds, I’m guessing the master said no?” Astarion said with a little smirk; a mask to hide his fear. “After all, I’m sure he needs all of my blood on the inside for the Mass.”
“But he needs you obedient too,” Godey growled. “And I should cut out that tongue of yours for a start.”
The skeleton brushed his fingertips on the hilt of his dagger, as if he was considering it for a moment.
“That means no barking, no biting, no struggling – a well-behaved little doggie.”
“I’ll never do what he tells me again,” Astarion sneered. “I’d rather die.”
“Oh, you’ll do both! You will do whatever he requires, and if you’re delusional enough to think any of your little friends will come and save you, well...”
As if on cue, the doors swung open behind Godey to reveal... you.
Astarion's eyes met yours, and a torrent of emotions surged through him. His lifeless heart almost fluttered as you bypassed Godey and approached him, a mix of apprehension and joy welling up inside.
Your eyes brimmed with tears as you rushed towards him.
“Astarion, my love...!” you whispered. “I’ve come to save you; I couldn’t bear to be apart from you any longer.”
Astarion extended his arms to embrace you. Your touch felt warm and comforting, and it held him in an embrace that seemed so familiar.
For a moment, he was overcome with joy, believing he had another chance at freedom, that both of you could take down Godey and escape from this wretched place. But as seconds passed, something felt amiss. Your eyes were colder, your words more hollow, and a chilling unease settled in his bones.
“I missed you so much,” you continued, your voice wavering with a hint of deception.
But Astarion noticed the subtle differences in your gestures and expressions, even the way you spoke was... off. He pushed you away and stared into your eyes, searching for the truth.
“Who are you?” He demanded, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and heartbreak.
‘Your’ facade began to crumble. In a flash of darkness, there was a revelation of a true, grotesque form. Its face twisted and contorted into a nightmarish amalgamation of shapes and shadows.
It was a shapeshifter, a creature of dark magic, cunningly disguised as you.
Astarion recoiled, his heart shattering into a million pieces. He realised the cruel trick that had been played on him, his eyes glistening with tears.
“A gift from the master,” Godey said all too smugly. “To remind you that you are not worth saving.”
The shapeshifter, grinning wickedly, vanished into the night, leaving Astarion alone in the darkness, his heart aching with betrayal and sorrow.
“Now,” Godey said, approaching him with a chain. “Be a good little mutt and tie this around your neck, it is time to accept the fate that has been chosen for you.”
The chains felt so heavy in Astarion’s hands that he merely let them slip and pile onto the floor with a heavy clang. He just felt so tired. Of running away, of daring to have hope, of falling in love, only to have it ripped away. Existence was... nothing but a cruel joke.
And Cazador was the one laughing at him.
Godey snarled as he bent to pick the chains up and thrust them back into Astarion’s arms. “Do not disobey! Or do I have to get the knee-splitter out for old time’s sake?”
The vampire wordlessly submitted and allowed himself to be led out of the Kennel and into the corridors of the dungeon.
A heavy, suffocating atmosphere hung in the air, as if the crypt itself held its breath, waiting for something unseen to stir in the shadows. It was a place where the echoes of the past whispered of forgotten sorrows and ancient curses, a realm where the line between the living and the dead blurred into obscurity.
"Astarion...!" a distant voice cried, slicing through the dungeon's oppressive silence. Determined footsteps reverberated against the cold, stone floor, the sound of clanking armour ringing in the eerie stillness.
Godey paused, appearing confused. “What...? Can’t be the shapeshifter again...”
The footsteps edged ever closer, and Godey turned to face these unexpected intruders, forcing Astarion to turn with him.
Gale, Karlach, Shadowheart and... you were rushing down the hallway. As you approached them, the ancient stone walls seemed to tremble in anticipation.
The groups’ menacing sneers faded into incredulous expressions at the scene before them, and an overwhelming shame punched Astarion in the gut at having them see him so... vulnerable. Humiliated.
They reached for their weapons, but your eyes met Astarion’s with a fiery, unyielding gaze. Your face was bloodied, and lips curled as you snarled like a feral animal – a far cry from the innocent but fake show that the shapeshifter had put on only moments before.
“Let him go!” you demand, your grip tightening on your sword, its blade gleaming with an ethereal light.
Godey flinched back, obviously surprised.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, the master needs him,” the skeleton said. “Leave this place and he may grant you enough mercy to let you live.”
“Afraid we can’t do that, bones,” Karlach snarled before turning to you. “Can we please just kill this thing and get our friend out of here?”
“Friend?” Godey scoffed. “This dog doesn’t have friends. Now leave!”
You meet Karlach’s furious gaze, and nod.
"Get back, Astarion!" she hissed, and in a dazzling display of athletics and brute strength, brought down her mace upon Godey, his skull splitting with a sickening crack.
Gale summoned bolts of lightning to dance around him. The damp air crackled with electricity, illuminating the dungeon in an otherworldly glow. All it took was one bolt to strike Godey down until he was nothing more than a pile of dust.
Your eyes remained locked on Astarion as Shadowheart raised her hand, and the shackles that bound him burst apart with a resounding snap. He stumbled slightly; disbelief etched across his face.
“Oh, thank Gods we found you in time,” you sigh in relief as you approach him. “Are you hurt?”
He said nothing. Just... stared at you.
“Can you walk?” you tried, holding out a hand to touch his shoulder. “We need to get you out of here.”
“Don’t touch me!” he winced back, and you instantly retracted your hand.
“I’m sorry,” you said, backing up to give him space. “What’s wrong? What can I do to help you?”
Astarion’s scepticism waned a little; this version of you was a lot more... convincing than the last one. The way your eyes crinkled in distress, those little twitches your fingers did when you were nervous, even your scent was... almost enough to convince him you were the real deal.
Yet, doubt clawed at the edges of his mind like a persistent, haunting whisper.
"You can't be real," Astarion whispered, his voice laced with a soft tremor.
Your eyes welled with frustration and hurt, but your voice remained gentle as you replied, "Astarion, I am as real as the air we’re breathing and the ground we stand on. I'm right here."
Astarion shook his head, his disbelief lingering like a stubborn fog.
"No, this isn't possible," he insisted, his voice rising. "This is another trick, isn’t it?”
“Trick?” Karlach tilted her head.
“Cazador sent you,” Astarion said, his shoulders shaking as he chuckled in disbelief, almost hysterically. “Not one shapeshifter, but five? I mean where... where did he even manage to find you all?”
“Not how I would thank my rescuers, but each to their own, I suppose” Shadowheart said incredulously. “We need to leave, unless you fancy waiting for the cavalry to arrive.”
Karlach bumped the cleric’s shoulder. “Just give him a moment, yeah? He’s obviously a bit... confused.”
“Oh, it’s all as clear as day to me, darling,” the vampire spat, making her flinch. “Put on the act as much as you want, but I will not be going anywhere with you.”
He glanced down at the dust pile beneath his feet and gave it a good kick. “Though I suppose I should thank you for getting rid of him, nasty little thing.”
“That was... Godey, right?” you tentatively asked, and his red eyes flashed back up as you slowly edged forward. “I remember you telling me about him, that night we spent near the underground lake, do you remember? We stared up at the rocks and pretended to point out constellations.”
“How on earth could you... know that?”
When you were close enough, he reached out tentatively, his trembling fingers brushing against your cheek. The warmth he felt was real, but his mind refused to surrender. “You can’t be real,” he repeated, his voice a whisper and laden with desperation.
Part of you wanted to use the tadpole to reach into his mind to convince him you were real, and it would have been the quicker option. But you couldn’t—wouldn't— invade his privacy like that.
A whirlwind of emotions tore through Astarion—love, hope, fear, and an overwhelming sense of longing. He wanted desperately to believe you, to pull you into his arms and never let go. Yet, the scars of his master that etched deep into his soul held him back.
You reached out and gently took Astarion's hands, placing them on your chest, your touch warm and reassuring. "I understand your fear, but you have to trust in us. Trust in the way my heart skips a beat when I look at you. I am real, Astarion. Our love is real."
Tears welled up in his eyes as he finally allowed himself to believe. With a trembling hand, he cupped your face, his thumb wiping away a tear that had escaped your eye. “It’s really you,” he breathed, a mixture of awe and relief in his voice.
You leaned into his hand. “It’s really me.”
“As much as I would love to recite the perfect poem to encapsulate this heartwarming reunion,” Gale said, putting a hand on both your shoulder and Astarions. “I do believe we should make tracks.”
Astarion didn’t even have it in him to make any quips or comebacks, so he merely nodded, allowing you to take his hand as you led the way.
With renewed determination, the group made their escape, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. Fire and lightning clashed with steel, and the dungeon's oppressive darkness was pierced by their resolute will. Together, they left a burning path of retribution in their wake, until they emerged into the moonlit courtyard and didn’t stop until they made it all the way back to camp.
“Woo!” Karlach cheered, turning back momentarily to hold up her middle finger up to the Szarr Palace as it disappeared over the horizon. “Can’t believe we actually managed to pull that off.”
“Neither can I,” Shadowheart deadpanned, her expression softening as she looked at Astarion. “But... I’m glad we did.”
“So am I,” Gale smiled. “This team wouldn’t be the same without your... well, let’s say charm.”
“You have such a way with words, Gale,” Astarion weakly joked. “But... know that I am grateful for you rescuing me, even if it didn’t seem like it at the time.”
“Aw, that’s alright!” Karlach gave him a thumbs up. “You’re with us now, and that’s all that matters.”
“I appreciate that, darling but...” his voice trembled slightly. “Cazador, he’ll... he needs me for the ritual. He will come after me again.”
“I’d like to see him try,” you said, your confident smile betrayed by your eyes as you clutched onto his hand like a lifeline. “He may be a vampire lord, but he doesn’t even have a slither of Karlach’s strength, or Shadowheart’s resolve or Gale’s power. And if all else fails we’ll just throw Lae’zel at him.”
You pause for a moment.
“I know we fucked up tonight but... that won’t happen again, Astarion. We’ll do better. I’ll be better. He... that bastard won’t get you.”
The corners of his lips twitched up into a smile as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze in kind. He felt the warmth of your love wrapping around his dead heart, like a protective cloak. In that moment, Astarion didn’t know what path lay ahead for him, but he knew that Cazador wouldn’t have any say in it, or anyone else for that matter.
His future... belonged to him.
xxx
eh... sorry the ending's a tad cheesy but hope you enjoyed anyhow!
Links to my other Astarion works
Everything's Fine
Restless
Request - Astarion kills everyone in his path to get to you
Request - Astarion tries to save you from kidnappers
Request - Astarion helps you to see that you're beautiful
[Zagreus and Astarion are opposites because Astarion got beaten by a skeleton guy a lot while Zagreus beats a skeleton guy a lot.]
Astarion's time in the tomb
And whilst I am at it, here is a more serious short drabble about Astarion's time in the tomb and the day he finally got out. It was probably not as euphoric as one would expect
Inspired by a post about Astarion and the effects of solitary confinement that I can't find anymore.
It's safe for work and not too graphic, but shows the mental damage quite drastically so continue if you feel safe with that. (Ha, I finally figured out how to make cuts)
Light fell onto the fragments of his consciousness. His mind was a disjointed swirl of thoughts and images that no longer made sense and hadn't found connection for a long time. A scraping of stone on stone accompanied the light and with it came voices. Astarion had heard them too many times. They were never real. Nothing was real. Not the faces in the darkness, not the voices, not the blood dripping from the walls - the blood he dreamt would moisten his tongue, but only drowned him in the end. None of it was real. Yet, the visions were better than hunger and silence. Deafness and blindness. Of course, he wasn't really blind. His eyes could pierce through the darkness. But when everything you saw was gray, you might as well be blind. Astarion had seen them all. Everyone who could possibly open this tomb. From his parents to unknown heroes to Cazador. And every time his fingers reached out with longing they only met rough stone. He knew that the images his brain conjured were not real. He didn't react to them anymore. What could he possibly do even if they were real? He had no voice anymore. Had lost it long ago, somewhere in the dusty darkness to his feet. It had rolled down, and since he couldn't turn around, he couldn't find it again. Of course he had screamed. The memory of himself crying his lungs out was still strangely fresh, like an open wound. He had given up quickly. Just a few months later. There was a pale spot of sunlight that wandered along the edge of his prison at regular intervals. Astarion guessed it happened once a day. Not bright enough to burn himself. (He had tried.) He scratched into the stone that locked him, marking how many times the spot appeared since he had been sealed in here. He made 249 strokes. Then he gave up counting. Gave it up like he had given up everything. The screaming, the scratching, the praying. It was endless. Astarion was dust and ash. Astarion was
Skeleton. A skeleton. Armor rattling, jaw gnawing. Godey... "Come on, get out of there!" Out? He didn't understand the meaning of these words. Didn't understand the feeling of bony fingers pulling at his body. Not … Cazador. Not real. Not - "Are you sucking on your own arm? Pathetic. Come now, boy. I don't have all day." A crypt in twilight. Dusty curtains, body parts too weak to bear his weight. Breaking. Collapsing. Dead rat! Blood - Blood - Blood Forgotten. Forgotten how it tastes. Old. Rancid. Wonderful. The first breath. Unnecessary. Freeing.
Seeing, thinking. Astarion looked down on himself. He was naked. The bite wounds on his arms began to close after he’d drunk the rat’s blood. Flesh and skin closed over the bare bones of his fingertips. "Dress up." It was his old shirt and pants. The clothes he always wore. The clothes that Astarion, the spawn, wore. Maybe he was still in there somewhere. Between the threadbare layers of fabric, embroidered into a line of poetry, as if Astarion had known he would need to store himself somewhere.
Godey pushed him forward, and he followed obediently. Back into the palace. Lamps, floors, paintings. His head began to spin, unable to process all the impressions after such a long time with nothing. "Come on, boy." He stumbled on until they reached a familiar room. Bunk beds and peeling wallpaper. Aurelia was there. When they entered, she gave them a glance. His sister wanted to say something, but the sight of Godey kept her silent. Better that way. Even after all the years Aurelia had been here she still feared the kennels.
"Clean him up." Godey pushed Astarion into the room, where he fell to his knees, unable to balance the shove. He sat there as the skeleton left and closed the door. Aurelia approached cautiously. "So, it's true. He let you come back." Silence. "Astarion?" He wanted to answer. He had to try at least. But his voice seemed to still be left in the tomb. Aurelia sighed, then grabbed him under the arms and pulled him up. "I really don't feel like it, but you heard Godey. I have to wash you." Astarion tried to speak again as he sat in the wooden tub that the spawn used for this purpose, and Aurelia poured water over his hair. He flinched away from her touch, trying to do as much as possible himself. "How long?" "Hm?" They probably were both surprised that he could speak. "How long was I gone?" Aurelia set the bucket aside. "A year." Astarion said nothing, only nodded. "I saw faces. And blood, dripping from the walls. It drowned me." Aurelia exhaled. "You were hallucinating. Pull yourself together, Astarion." He stared at her with wide eyes. "I don't mean it cruelly. But you have to pull yourself together. Cazador expects you to bring him a mark today." Astarion continued to stare at her, but the tiefling woman only handed him the soap. "Here, I think you can do this yourself." Then she rushed out of the room.
The gods truly showed no mercy to him.
You Poor Unfortunate Soul
Summary:
Raphael collects the esoteric, the rare, and the lovely. He has recently come into a spell that lets him take voices. No ripping out tracheas, no bloody messes.
Astarion wants the sun. Doesn't want to get on his back for a dead rat. Wants to be free of Cazador in every way he can be.
The two strike a deal, the voice of a spawn for the sun. And a soul as well. After all, true love's kiss doesn't exist.
A little mermaid inspired fic about Astarion giving up his voice to walk in the sun (AO3 link in replies)
Chapter One: In Pain, In Need
Baldur's Gate smelled like fish guts and cat shit on a hot summer's day, making winter nights a much more pleasant time in the city. That's what Astarion told himself, at least, when he found himself missing it and cursing the cold. His padded doublet offered little protection but, even if it did, he wouldn't be warmed, undead flesh unable to hold onto heat the way the living did. Thus, there was an equal measure of relief and dread when he entered The Blushing Mermaid, the air within much warmer than the air outside.
Astarion's goal this night was to get in and get out. No long flirtations with the shy ones. No, the last thing he wanted was to drag this out. That was why he had chosen this place. Tired, lonely sailors from far away? They would follow him home with a wink and a kiss after months at sea, no one would ever miss them either. As he took a look around at his choice of prey, he sat at the bar and asked, "Have you any good wine?"
"We've got red wine and, uh, white."
"Red then," speaking of, his eyes fell on a table with a lone tiefling. A man with dark skin and one red eye, the other a false eye that was stony grey. His hair was tied in tight and neat cornrows that were framed by his elegant, curved horns. He seemed peaceful, just people-watching as he drank his ale. And there was a noble quality to him, despite the surroundings. His scars told a story of adventure, of experience in combat. And yet they did not greatly age him, he looked 25 if his reckoning of human ages was accurate. In short, he was beautiful. Cazador would be pleased indeed. This man wouldn't earn him a place in the favored spawn room, but Cazador would find no reason to put him in the kennels at the very least. Little wonder then that he strode up to the man as he sipped his disgusting glass of wine, "Well hello there. Is this seat taken?"
The man seemed mildly surprised to have been approached and told Astarion, "Not at all. Please." He gestured for Astarion to have a seat. "I'm Wyll by the way." He then gave a little knightly salute, "The Blade of Avernus at your service."
Astaron wracked his brain for some sort of recognition, some sort of knowledge about him, and came up empty. Never had he heard of this man in the taverns. "I'm sorry darling, I'm afraid I'm a bit behind on my adventuring news."
"Ah, that's alright. I used to have a different title. I earned this one when I was at Elturel. I was there when it was released from the hells and helped the people there."
"Well, aren't you quite the hero, then?" Certainly explained the name. In his experience, most decent tieflings avoided names like The Blade of Avernus. "You simply must tell me more." He leaned forward, sipping his wine once more. Maybe he could get more drinks in this man. "Were you from Elturel? Was the experience as utterly shocking as I've heard?"
"Actually, no, I wasn't even at Elturel when it fell. I was sent into Avernus afterward to hunt a devil."
"Sent in? How?" There was only one way he knew that people got sent to the hells and came back. "Are you a warlock?"
"Was. I was a warlock. I assure you, I am beholden only to the Sword Coast now."
"And you were named The Blade of Avernus after felling your quarry."
"On the contrary, when I arrived at Elturel, I found this was no devil trying to further terrorize the poor people of Elturel, but a tiefling, the same as many of them. A hostage in Zariel's court who was conscripted to fight in the blood war. When Elturel fell, she ran away and hid among them. And when I learned this, I couldn't bring myself to kill her. I had been deceived."
Astarion, feeling this was getting a bit heavy, broke the tension with a giggle, playing the part of a tipsy admirer, "You naughty thing you. All it took for you to disobey your patron was a pretty face?"
Wyll chuckled a bit, just the slightest bit of fluster to his face, "No, no, nothing like that. You see, while she was with the tieflings, she had taken to protecting them. Making sure they survived the hells. There was one child, Mol, despite being injured and small, who tried to protect Karlach. She said she would take my eye if I so much as laid a hand on Karlach. And I knew then, from the child and the look in Karlach's eyes, that I had been deceived. And I paid the price for it that very night."
"Is that how you lost your eye, darling? Tribute to your patron?" He laid a comforting hand on Wyll's, his voice full of sympathy and awe.
"Oh, no, I lost my eye long ago. But that's a story for another day, perhaps. It's a proud moment, to be sure, but not exactly one to be told to charming voiced strangers in a tavern."
Astarion took a look at Wyll's stone eye, then. It seemed to be made of bloodstone, with an adorable heart-shaped pupil carved into it but there was something else there. Something magical. It hit him, that this was a sending stone, no doubt still sending news to his former patron. Ah. well, it wouldn't be the first time he performed in front of an audience. "Well, there's no need for us to remain strangers. Perhaps, after a bit here, we can go to my home for a nightcap. I've always dreamed of being swept off my feet by a hero." Truth be told, Wyll was just his type, a sweet face, but just a bit rugged.
Wyll flustered again, pulling his hand away, "Look, you're lovely, you truly are, but I don't do... that. I'm sorry."
Shit. Shit. He had miscalculated. Most adventurers weren't like this. They were only happy to take what they wanted from Astarion. Why, oh why, did he have to run into a virtuous hero? "Ah, there's no need to apologize, darling. I should have realized you were the chivalrous sort." This would have to be a long game and he'd have to try his luck at a different tavern.
Just as he was about to ask Wyll how long he was staying in Baldur's Gate, there was a crash from the kitchen, some swearing, and a burning smell. A grease fire, no doubt. And before Astarion knew it, he was trapped in the building, the fire burning all around him. Watching as it consumed all in its wake. He should have been outside, watching the scene with the poor sods who were mourning their favorite watering hole. Yet here he was, walking through a burning wreckage, looking for that beautiful fool who had insisted on getting people out. If Wyll perished in this blaze, Astarion wouldn't stop thinking about it. It would be just another death on his tally of sins. So even as the flames licked at him and burned him, he pushed through. His only relief was that he didn't need to breathe.
Eventually, feeling nothing but pure heat on his body and ash falling upon him, he found him. A support beam had fallen on him and the smoke inhalation knocked Wyll out. Astarion pushed on the beam with all his might, his hands catching splinters as he pushed and readjusted and pushed again. Nevertheless, he just barely managed to push it off of the man's leg. He then picked Wyll up and hauled him out of the burning tavern.
But he didn't lay Wyll down at the front for the fists to take care of. No, it wouldn't do for Astarion to be spotted. He snuck to the next alley over instead and sat Wyll down on a crate. He pat Wyll's cheek as he spoke, the hero of Elturel finally taking in some clean air. His eyes fluttered and opened and Astarion knew that the first thing the tiefling saw was him. He coughed and Astarion told him, "Shhh, it's alright, lovely. Don't stress yourself."
Wyll nodded, taking deep breaths as Astarion assured him, "Don't try to yell for the fists, you'll only hurt yourself. I'm going to make a racket and they'll heal you and you'll be good as new but I have to go. Do you understand?"
Wyll nodded, his good eye scanning over Astarion, trying to memorize his face.
"There we go. You'll be alright, darling. Now, I'm going to make that racket and leave you.” And with that, Astarion lifted a discarded milk can and slammed it as hard as he could into the ground, slinking off once it had made an ungodly noise.
Covered in soot and ash, sporting a few minor burns, and with his hands covered in splinters, Astarion was in no state to continue his little hunt. He needed to change and get these damn things out. He just hoped his master would see it as a pause and not a failure.
As he returned to Szarr Palace, he decided to go in from the tower connected to the wall. Climbing up was a bit of a pain with the splinters, but far less terrible than what was in store for him if he got caught. He walked past the half-asleep fists with no issue, the charmed guards merely said, "Welcome home, Master Astarion," as he walked past them. Jumping onto a balcony afterward was practically trivial.
He thought he was home free as he crossed the threshold, walking one, two, three meters away from the balcony doors before he felt a chill and heard Cazador's voice. "You're home early. And what a state you're in."
Astarion flinched as he turned around, "Ah, Master, I assure you this is merely a delay. I just need to clean up and be on my way to catch you a morsel tonight. I know that I shouldn't come home without one but I just wanted to make sure that today's was of good qua-"
Astartion immediately shut his mouth as Cazador grabbed his wrists, the ancient vampire having noticed that Astarion was trying to not gesticulate. He looked at his hands and asked, "What manner of nonsense did you get into, boy?"
Astarion tensed further at that. Of course, Cazador would notice his property had been damaged, however temporarily. "I-I assure you master. I just wanted to ensure that-"
"Cease your prattle!" Cazador commanded as he bent Astarion's wrists, a small whimper coming from the spawn. "Tell me why you have these splinters."
Astarion felt the pull of the command like the pull of a leash upon his brainstem. His eyes glowed in response and he spoke loud and clear. "I pushed a beam away when I was caught in a fire at the Blushing Mermaid. I was with a target there at the time."
"Were you spotted by the flaming fists? Be truthful."
Another pull, his eyes continued to glow, "No."
"And what gave you the audacity to believe you had a right to break the rules, to come back completely emptyhanded? Speak true!"
"I thought I could sneak past you and wanted to change my clothes."
Astarion felt the sharp sting of a back-handed slap then, right across his cheek. Cazador had seen disrespect in his honesty. Astarion's jaw clenched, and the command lifted.
"You little idiot. You cannot ever get anything past me in my home. Not ever. And to think, you were so close to earning the favored spawn room this month. It's as if you throw away every opportunity I give you. Every single time. I do not begrudge you for trying to survive a fire, but I will not tolerate disrespect."
"You're right master, I'm sorry. I should have checked into the flop house and found clothes, I shouldn't have done this to you. I shouldn't have gotten hurt. I promise to be good from now on. I promise." He was tempted to yank his wrist away but knew that if he did at this angle, it would likely snap. "I'll take care of my splinters before going back out. And I'll bring you back the most beautiful virgin I can find in the lower city."
"Oh Astarion, you always did beg so sweetly," Cazador stroked Astarion's cheek gently, "But you'll just have to save that for later. Your actions need to have consequences, lest you grow arrogant again."
Shit, shit. "But Master, I've already injured myself! I've learned my lesson! You don't need to waste Godey's time!"
"Oh, but Astarion, what use are consequences with no follow through, hmm? You'll start to believe every threat is a bluff." And with that, he started to drag Astarion to the kennels. The spawn trying to dig in his heels like a dog dragged on a leash.
Godey was there when they arrived. Of course, he was. Where else would he be? He stopped cleaning his scalpels and watched as Astarion was thrown on the ground like scraps to the dogs. "Here so early, child? It isn't even midnight. No matter, Old Godey is ready to play."
"Stay your hand, Godey. I have something specific in mind for him."
"Oh? Is that so, Master?"
"Indeed. Keep an eye on him as I find the implements. You are free to strike him if he tries to leave."
"Of course, Master. I won't lay a hand on him a moment before."
But that wasn't true, as soon as Cazador was gone, Godey started to run his bony fingers through Astarion's hair. He told him, "You must like playing with Godey, being such a naughty child. What did you do to anger the master this time?"
"I hurt myself in a fire. And then I tried to sneak in to get clean and healed."
"Oh, such a shame that you got in trouble for that, and such a shame you escaped those flames. You would wear scars so prettily."
Astarion instinctually covered his face at that. Oh gods, Godey was going to give Cazador ideas at this rate. The last time that happened, the skeleton ripped his fangs out of his mouth, let them grow back overnight, and yanked them out again for a straight ten-day. He couldn't even remember what he had done, only that Godey had said he should keep his fangs to himself and it had given Cazador the idea.
Speaking of, though, he returned. But he was not baring Rhapsody or some horrific tool. No, he was holding a set of tweezers. The kind a nobleborn lady would use to pluck her eyebrows. And Cazador was holding it while wearing a glove. “I want you to remove the splinters yourself. And then, when you're done, Godey will, shall we say, give you a manicure."
Astarion hardly saw the point in getting rid of the splinters if Godey was going to rip out his claws, each time Godey readjusted the grip would surely cause shooting pain with the shards of wood in his hands. But he wasn't one to make his own life worse, so he reached an open hand out to Cazador.
But as soon as the tweezers touched his hand, the spawn hissed in pain, a rash blooming on his skin. The tweezers were made of silver. Bastard.
Cazador smirked at Astarion's pain, telling him, "Do think on your actions, Astarion." He then looked to Godey, telling him, "I'll come to check on him, come dawn. Have fun, old friend."
Thus was the beginning of Astarion's newest torment. He had been forced to hurt himself before, this was nothing new, but it was no less humiliating and terrible. At first, he tried to be delicate about the process, keeping the tweezers at the very tips on the most shallow splinters, hoping to reduce the burning sensation and hives to his fingers. But Godey gripped his hair and pulled, "Trying to pull one over on Old Godey, eh? Do it properly, child, lest I do it for you."
Astarion grit his teeth and adjusted his grip on the tweezers, more hives blooming as he squeezed and gripped the splinters, perhaps with a little more force than strictly necessary. Some of them needed to be dug out, the burning smell of silver actually piercing his skin faint but present, the tiniest wisps of smoke when they came free. Pain radiated through his hand through the entire process. He wondered if his hands would scar as his back did.
The same thing happened with his other hand. With each pinch, each pull, each squeeze, he shot agony into his palms. By the end of it, his hands were an ugly red color, they felt warm for the first time in 200 years, and they were utterly covered in blisters, itchy and burning. Panting, he threw the tweezers aside, his hands shaking.
Godey kicked Astarion in the gut. "Naughty thing, don't go throwing away the master's heirlooms around like mere stones! Pick it up and put it where it belongs."
"Fuck you, Godey," Astarion managed, despite the wind being knocked out of him. Though it earned him another slap before he picked up the damn tweezers and put them on the table.
"See, was that so hard? Now, give Godey your hand. I want to hear you scream."
Astarion couldn't help but wonder if, despite the fact that he was completely bones, Godey was getting off on this. Either way, he gave Godey his hand and watched as Godey clamped the pliers over his pinky claw. He gently tugged once, twice, trying to build up the dread in Astarion before he blinked out of existence in a flash of red light. What?
He heard a smooth voice then, almost sing-songy. "There now, we wouldn't want those lovely claws of yours to be ripped out, now would we?"
Astarion scrambled to his feet and turned around, seeing a human man just standing there. Cazador wasn't with him, "What is this? Did Cazador decide to put me to work for my transgressions? Did you banish Godey for some privacy?"
The man chuckled darkly and told him, "No, little vampling, nothing so base. I'm not another guest of your master's but a savior. Now, you can come wih me or be a good boy and wait for the skeleton to come back and do your little manicure."
Astarion looked at his blistered and red hands before looking back at the stranger. If this was a setup, then it was certainly an elaborate one. "Fine."
The man snapped his fingers and they were suddenly elsewhere. A dining room laid out with food of all sorts and several goblets. The man told Astarion, "Drink your fill, vampling. I ensured that you have only the finest of blood."
Astarion picked up a goblet and sniffed it. No poison. But this place, "Where have you brought me?"
"This, Mr. Ancunin, is the House of Hope. Where the famished come to feast and the desperate come to deal. And I know you, pretty spawn, are both. Come, drink your fill."
Well, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with the blood on the second sniff, so he took a drink. "Why is this spicy?"
"Why, it's cambion blood of course. I also have incubus and hellhound, even demon. All watered down with tiefling for your palate. Though I also have more mortal fare."
Astarion gripped his goblet lest this strange man take it from him. Though this clearly wasn't a regular human man. "Who and what the hells are you?"
"What an appropriate way to phrase that question. If you'll allow me..." And then, in a spiral of flames, the man became a devil. "I am Raphael, at your service."
Oh gods, a cambion. He should have known. He vaguely wondered if the blood he drank was Raphael's. He drained the goblet and said, "Well, you've wasted your vintage then, devil. I'm not keen to trade one master for another."
"Who said anything about your soul?"
Astarion, having gone to sniff at another goblet of blood, paused and said, "Go on."
"You see, I'm a bit of a collector. I seek the rare and esoteric and I've come into possession of a rather unique spell. I won't bore you with the details, just that it's derived from hag's magic and that you are the perfect test subject for it."
"I'm not hearing an offer."
"Patience, I was just getting to that. In exchange for your cooperation with the spell, I can offer a partial cure to your vampirism."
Astarion simply drank what he determined to be tiefling's blood as he listened. And then, he spoke, "Well then, we should be going over the details of this, shouldn't we?"
Raphael smirked and gestured for Astarion to follow him, "Let's."
Instead of an office as the spawn expected, Raphael led Astarion to a richly furnished boudoir with many chaise lounges and a bathtub that smelled of lavender and mint in the middle. On the far side of the room, he spotted a bed where a skimpily dressed devil that looked remarkably like Raphael lay. "Another client?"
"No, just another part of the House of Hope. Please, sit."
Astarion sat on one of the chaise lounges as Raphael spoke, "I can give you a potion that allows you to walk in sunlight. You would still need to avoid silver lest your allergies act up, still need to slake your thirst, but never would you have to worry about anything more than a sunburn."
"What's the catch? Surely a potion like that would have every vampire lord breaking down your door."
"Nothing gets past you, does it? No, vampire lords don't seek it out. Not because they relish in scampering through the dark like rats but because the sensation of the sun is still there."
Astarion felt what little bit of hope he had crumble to pieces then and there, "So, it doesn't work."
"Ah, that is where you, Strahd, Cazador, and every other vampire misunderstand. The potion negates all the damage from the sun, just not the pain. But what's a little pain when you can take a stroll with a pretty thing on your arm, when you can sniff roses at noon, and when you can hide from your master in plain sight."
Astarion still didn't give an answer, but he did ask, "What does the spell do?"
"It takes voices. Don't worry, your pretty throat will be left unharmed, but the voice that had brought a thousand people to their doom? The giggle that makes virgins fall into a stranger's bed? It would be the perfect display of the spell's use and the perfect addition to my collection."
One thousand. One thousand. He knew the amount of people he had brought to Cazador had been high but never past the hundreds. He suddenly felt a little sick. A thousand pairs of hands had touched him, a thousand mouths had kissed him, and a thousand people had died after having him. But with the sensitivity to sunlight removed, he would never have to do that again. "So all I have to do to ensure my master can't touch me is lose my voice and be uncomfortable while standing outside." And yet, somehow, it sounded too good to be true. "There's more, isn't there?"
"Just two little things. The first is that you must refrain from drinking the blood of thinking creatures for three days. The other is that your voice by itself isn't all I need from you."
"Spit it out, devil."
"The young man you saved today isn't any old tiefling. He was Grand Duke Ravengard's son."
"Don't lie to me. I know that Grand Marshall Ravengard's wife was a human and the Grand Duke doesn't exactly have a pair of horns."
"There's more than one way to make a tiefling. Let's just say that Mizora gave him a bit of a makeover."
"So you're saying he's hells touched."
"Indeed I am."
"I fail to see what my flirting with a prince has to do with any of this."
"I'm saying that he's valuable. Eventually, daddy will succumb to some malady or other as all humans do and little Wyll Ravengard will become Grand Duke Wyll Ravengard."
Astarion finally caught on to what Raphael was implying, "You want me to bring him to you."
"Not physically but yes. Woo, seduce, enrapture him. Wrap him around your little finger and whisper my words into his ear, putting him around mine."
"Bit brazen to steal another devil's warlock, isn't it?"
"On the contrary! Wyll was freed from his contract when Elturel sas spat back out of Avernus. This is simply filling an open position."
"I see, so live in the lap of luxury where Cazador can't touch me at the expense of my voice and some discomfort." There was just one problem, "How do I stop Cazador from compelling me back at night?"
"That's your problem. Steal a ring of mind shielding or tie yourself to your bed. I'm sure you'll think of something, you're a resourceful spawn."
"And if I fail? What's to stop me from running to Athlacka or Kozakura after realizing he only likes the company of maidens?"
"Then the potion incurs fees and I retain ownership of your soul."
"Fair enough."
"Now, don't speak so quickly, Astarion, I have a reputation to uphold. There are certain guarantees I need to decide you've taken serious steps in this endeavor. You need to get him to kiss you in three days."
"Ha! You're joking! I'll have him eating out of my palm by then."
"Not a regular kiss. True love's kiss on his part."
"You're joking, you're joking, that doesn't even exist!"
"Oh come now, where did that bravado go? Do you truly believe that you can't make a man fall in love with you in three days?"
Astarion clenched his jaw and thought about it. Here was an opportunity to get away from Cazador. And he was going to throw it away because a devil wanted him to whisper into some prince's ear? "Where do I sign?"
With a sweep of his hand, Raphael summoned a contract and a quill. Astarion read it and found the terms were laid out as described before signing it.
When it disappeared, Raphael told Astarion, "Now then, let us get to the fun part.” He led Astarion to the bed and had him lie down. The devil who had been there moved and asked, "Shall I go, Master?"
"No, I have need of you Haarlep."
"Oh, I didn't know that spell had a naughty component."
"No, just hold his wrists."
"How sad, he looks like he would be fun to play with."
Astarion freely gave his wrists to what he now knew was an incubus. He told Raphael, "This is going to hurt, isn't it?"
"I have no idea, but we can't risk you clawing my eyes out, now can we?" He straddled Astarion's waist and opened the spawn's mouth to pierce his finger, drawing runes on Astarion's throat with blood while speaking an incantation.
Suddenly, Astarion felt a pulling sensation in his throat, painful, like a fishing hook had been lodged in his larynx and an angler was trying to yank it out. His instinct was to reach for his throat and check that he hadn't been stabbed but Haarlep held firm, eerily smiling down on him. When he looked at Raphael's hands he saw a red rope of light coming from his throat. "Now, speak, sing, do everything you can to get your voice active."
Astarion nodded, saying, "My name is Astarion Ancunin. I am two hundred and forty years old and I was born in Baldur's Gate."
He felt another tug at his throat and once again tried to pull his hands away as he screamed, Haarlep holding on tight. Raphael had pulled on that magical cord and told him, "That's it, little bat, keep going."
"I was a magistrate, once, but am now a vampire spawn, hunting pretty morsels for-"
With another tug Astarion found himself silenced. A scream from that last, savage pull, dying in his throat. Haarlep let go of his hands and Astarion sat up, seeing Raphael holding up a glowing orb like a prized fish. There weren't sounds coming from it, despite what Astarion would assume. And Raphael was looking at it as well, almost amazed that it had worked, "My, isn't that lovely?"
Astarion tried to speak but no words came out. He huffed through his nose and pointed to the voice.
Raphael caught on quickly, telling him, "Oh, it's going behind glass. Protected and safe and labeled in my archive."
Astarion nodded in understanding. Yes, that made sense. Raphael would want to show it off.
Raphael then set aside Astarion's voice in a jewelry box, the magic rope disappearing as he closed it, before pulling a potion bottle out of his nightstand and uncorking it. Going to tilt Astarion's head back, he said, "Drink."
Astarion did not hesitate as the bottle was pressed to his lips. The mixture was warm and oddly fungal tasting. He was surprised that he was able to taste it at all. But as it was downed, he felt... different. Warmer. Though not quite body warm.
"Now, we can't send you out with your hands like that. Your prince charming would think you contagious. Go clean up in my bath."
Astarion nodded once more, getting up and going to dunk his hands in the pool. He found that in an instant, he was energized. All of his aches were gone, his hands were no longer covered in bumps and hives but merely slightly red. Even his minor burns were gone. He also took the opportunity to wash what little remained of the cambion's blood from his throat.
"Your clock starts at sunrise and runs out on the sunset of the third day. Nod if you understand."
Astarion nodded once again.
"Now, I'm going to send you into his path. Just do what you do best." He gestured for Astarion to follow and the spawn obeyed.
As he followed Raphael, Astarion felt as if he had, perhaps, made a mistake. He saw all manner of debtor now that he cared to look. The tiefling woman staring into the boudoir, another woman running around like a dog, and, gods, was that a man cradling and praising a full chamber pot? What was to be his fate if he failed to make Wyll fall in love? The removal of his tongue, his past under Cazador used against him? There was hardly any time to ponder though as they came to a room full of mirrors. "Ah, here we are."
They stood before a portal to Baldur's Gate. It was time to fulfill his mission. "I'll put you in his path, don't worry, just walk in."
So, Astarion did just that. He stepped through the portal, its light not harming him as he stepped into the pre-dawn of Wyrm's Rock, the home of the Grand Duke. Astarion felt rather confident if he was honest. He had saved Wyll, after all, making him fall in love should be easy.
Then the sun began to rise.
Smash or Pass: Godey
Smash!
Pass
Abstain/See Results
OKAY SO
I love how spooky Cazador’s Palace is, dark, bat-filled, eery. Steps seem to echo and every move seems to attract hidden eyes. Everyone could be an enemy. But. Everyone here is more afraid than you are, manic with terror, trembling and pacing. Those who believe in Cazador’s shit believe it so desperately, with only a thin veneer of true trust in it. They *need* this to be true. The multitude of people you see or read about in their journals are desperate to leave, planning, plotting, and ultimately you know. Leon’s daughter was eaten. We killed the ones that came after us. Yes, in self-defense but weren’t they also doing this in self-defense too? They were tortured, isolated, manipulated, by a fucking rat bastard of a man who wanted more power and was willing to kill for it. These people were enslaved and cazador fuckin. I bet he relished in it. I hate him so much. That palace makes me *sick*, which it should. It feels like a facade, like something rotting around you. Worse, it feels like it will take you with it.
And Astarion’s interjections from time to time, about the fuckin kennel, about the dormitories, about the script on the door. It all just. Yeah. It feels horrible. Well done.