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mjwiththefangs · 4 months ago

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Trickery & Daggers - Chapter 9

In which we tackle arachnophobia. Also on AO3 Masterlist Word count: 4859 Warnings: Biting, arachnophobia, vomiting, knife play

“ ‘Vampire spawn, although weaker than the Lords that spawned them, have incredible strength and powers including spider climb. These combined with their affinity with shadows make them a dangerous adversary to face alone.’ Hm, well, fancy that, the little warlock was right.” Astarion reads aloud with a hum. “It would seem that Bastard kept us all starved for more reasons than we knew.”

The bitterness lances through him, twisting with renewed fury and loathing for the one that turned him and tormented him all these years. So far, the book has been insightful. Not only in teaching him new things about himself, but about other undead also. He had been hoping to find something - anything - to use against Cazador, though so far it's only reiterated what he already knows. Sunlight, silver, a stake through the heart.

He was amused to discover that lesser zombies will not be hostile if you smell like a corpse. It seems to be unknown if the same is true for greater zombies, being that they only seem to occur alongside necromancers.

He leafs through the pages, skimming more text and paragraphs on vampires, until he turns another page and raises one brow, curiosity bubbling within him.

Dhampirs.

“They’re real?” He murmurs to himself, half-believingly.

‘Often referred to as half-vampires, these creatures are not always the result of a union between a Vampire and a Mortal. ‘

Now there’s something interesting. He’s assumed dhampirs are such a rarity due to the nigh-impossibiltiy of their conception. But maybe they’re not such an impossibility after all.

‘Documented instances of dhampiric existence are confirmed but not limited to macabre bargains, necromantic influences and encounters with abstruse immortals.’

He reads further, torn between amusement and a grimace when he finds that parasites can trigger this transformation through the host indulging its hunger. Well, these tadpoles suddenly have a few more complications or potential consequences. That will make their removal certainly interesting.

Surely, being a vampire, he’s the only one of the group who is guaranteed to be safe of dhampiric transformation. Although, according to the next page, most studies show that while still sensitive, and in most cases weakened, they can walk in the daylight. Most of the time. The text seems to suggest that it can vary on an individual basis, what traits or powers a dhampir will share with a vampire.

‘ Typically, dhampirs can integrate and blend in better than their shadow-sworn kin. ‘

“Ugh, what an obnoxious way of putting it.” Astarion rolls his eyes and instead returns to reading on what makes such a creature. “... ‘Reincarnation of a vampiric lord ancestor ‘ ? Oh dear, Strahd himself may yet walk among us!” He laughs to himself and then he instantly becomes more sombre, the fun lost, when his eyes fall to the next known cause of transformation.

‘Tragedy interrupted the transformation into an immortal.’

He stares accusively at the words for a long moment. His jaw clenches. He snaps the book shut.

Astarion decides he can read more later.

“The sign says Moonhaven.”

“Well, the goblins were calling it Bogrot.”

The jovial chatter between Wyll and Karlach drifts in through the broken doorway of the apothecary.

“There’s a hatch over here. Shall we go down?” Morgana calls, peering over the counter top to the elf flipping through what appears to be a ledger.

“Hm? Ah. Yes, it sounds like the owner had something hidden in a basement.” He says thoughtfully. Her own curiosity piqued now, she nods, and opens the hatch, descending down the ladder into the dank and stale room below, thankful for her inherited darkvision as she scans around her.

Astarions boots step noiselessly down the ladder behind her, signalling his arrival. He stalks into the room, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“Ugh. It reeks of undead down here.”

Morgana only hums in agreement. They both search the room, examining books, rummaging through drawers, patting down shelves, until Astarion makes an excited noise and something clunks and drags across the floor behind the bookcase.

“A secret door.”

“How cliche.” Morgana says dryly, and he giggles.

Through the doorway, they find themselves in a cavernous opening, with sunlight leaking through the ceiling, and the thick smell of decay lingering about the coffins.

Undead.

They exchange a quick glance. Astarion flips his daggers in his hands and crouches low, Morgana’s magic hums to life in her palms, and she takes aim, and nods.

…

It doesn't take them long, going one by one through each coffin and eliminating the hostile skeletons in each one. Morgana checks all the remains, looting any valuables, while Astarion brushes any remaining bone dust from his clothes with apparent disdain.

She can hear him muttering under his breath and rolls her eyes, hiding her smile, and wanders deeper into the cavern, halting when she spots something catching the light.

“Astarion! Over here.”

When he joins her, she gestures to the shining surface. It takes them longer than either would like to admit to realise they’re looking into a mirror.

“I keep forgetting your reflection just disappears.” He clicks his tongue.

She shrugs, scanning the silvery surface. “Honestly it’s rather pleasant to not be the only individual without one.”

Before he can retort, a presence surges to life within the glass surface, a featureless mask, its hollow voice echoing out.

“Speak thy na-me.”

Morgana lifts her chin, thinking, and slowly answers “Morgana.”

“I do not kno-w this name. Tell me, are thee an ally of my ma-ster?”

She grimaces and purses her lips.

How about this…

“I know your master, Ilyn Toth.” She’d found a journal in the other room and quickly skimmed it. He was a former Red Wizard, although he only spoke of ‘Bringing her back.’

“Ha. Clever little Warlock.” Astarion mutters his approval and she smirks to herself, pleased.

“Fin-ally. If thee could see any-thing in me, what would it be?”

Morgana pauses, folding her arms across her chest. What would she want to see in this mirror?

“...I'd see myself free of this worm.”

“You se-ek to surv-ive.” The voice in the mirror seems pleased with her answer, and without much more to say, it dissipates, allowing the pair access to what appears to be a lab.

Morgana lifts her chin in wonder, eyeing the large aquatic-looking skeleton hanging from the ceiling and glancing over the various apparatus and discarded, long rotten body parts, now mere bones, littered about the space.

“What is all th-”

She squawks indignantly, suddenly jerked back and flails her arms to keep balance. The warlock whirls on the vampire, incredulous, only for him to level her with an unimpressed stare.

“Traps.” He deadpans, pointing, without looking, right where Morgana was about to step. Her face burns briefly with a flash of embarrassment, but she clears her throat, regains her footing and mutters a thanks.

She can feel his smug eyes on her as she carefully steps around the room, minding her footing this time, and approaches a locked gate.

Her brows lower into a frown. There’s something magic in there; very old, and very powerful. Grasping at the bars, she tugs.

It doesn’t budge.

She clicks her tongue in annoyance. Turning, she reaches into her pockets, fishing out a lockpick and pin. A huff sounds over her shoulder.

“You can’t pick a lock.”

Morgana just rolls her eyes, carefully poking around in the lock with the tools. Unblinking, she mutters back “I can pick a pocket, can’t I?”

“Yes, and you didn’t notice your own pocket getting picked by yours truly.” Astarion counters. “Just move over and let me do it before-”

The tool snaps, a loud click echoing through the room.

Morgana sheepishly turns her head up to him, Astarion glaring firmly at her. Relenting, she shuffles over without a word and he swoops down, peering into the lock and then immediately scoffs.

“You’ve jammed the lock, darling.”

“You… can’t unjam it?” She asks meekly.

He rises back to his feet, hands on his hips, exasperated. “No. I can’t. It's one thing to break a tool, it's another to break the damn lock in such a distinctly unhelpful manner.” He flaps his arms. “Now we can’t get in there and find what treasure they might have been hiding.”

“You’re incredibly petulant, you know that?” She says dryly, earning another glare. If he were a cat, his tail would be lashing in silent fury. “Look, maybe i can just blast the door,”

“No. It’s trapped. You really are no good at spotting these things, are you?”

She throws her head back at his mocking tone, swallowing her own irritation, when she spots something.

“Hey…”

The vampire ignores her, skulking away already.

“Astarion?”

He stops with a stomp. “What?”

“Did you read that book? The one I gave you?”

She can feel his intense gaze on her, puzzling over her. In her peripheral, he follows her gaze and looks up. The bars reach almost to the high ceilings, but there, near the top, there is a gap.

“What are you thinking?” He asks, releasing a long sigh.

“Can you spider climb?”

“Ugh, this again-”

“Astarion have you even tried?” She levels him with a firm stare and he falters.

“Well, no-”

“Are you hungry?”

He freezes. Slowly meeting her eyes with some lingering trepidation.

He really is like a cat.

“Do you think you could do it if you feed?”

His eyes dart to the barely-healed marks on her neck and she ignores the zip that his heated look sends up her spine.

The vampire pauses, considering. “I would be willing to try it.” He says slowly, a silent question in his words.

Oh. She had expected this, of course. But somehow, it still makes her flush.

She swallows.

“You… You can feed on me, if you like.”

His gaze darkens. He steps closer.

Bergamot.

“If you’re sure, darling.” His voice is low and rough.

Rosemary.

She nods, resisting the urge to bite her lip. He taps a finger under her chin, tilting her face and leaning down.

Brandy.

“Use your words.” His breath ghosts over her skin.

“Yes.” she whispers, and then his lips brush against her throat, hesitating for a heartbeat, allowing her this moment to change her mind. She holds still, only tipping her head to give him easier access.

He hums his approval, gentle hands brushing her hair away, and then she gasps as his fangs sink into her neck, arms gripping her tight.

Like the first time, it’s like ice, chilling and then numbing. Then it feels like she's floating. Her hands wind into his embroidered doublet, holding tight in an attempt to keep herself grounded while his arms snake around and hold her tightly, pressing her body against his and winding his fist into her violet locks.

It feels… nice. Intimate, maybe.

She hears a soft groaning noise from her companion. Then a small moan. Heat sparks through her, even as her fingers start to grow cold.

He’s been starving for years, she reminds herself, firmly, Of course he’ll enjoy a fresh meal. Although the thought of being meal did nothing for the heat rising to her cheeks.

He drinks deeply, pulling her lifeblood into himself, savouring each mouthful, and right as her knees begin to go weak, he draws himself back.

Those intense rubies bore into her, his face still so close. He drags his tongue over the wound, chasing the last drops of her blood, a final pleased groan escaping him, and a soft breathy whine leaves her lips unbidden.

He looks more alive; there is a faint colour to his cheeks and the tips of his ears are tinted pink. He almost looks like he could be blushing.

They stay that way for perhaps a moment too long, his arms slow as they release her, moving to her shoulders in an attempt to steady her. The whole time his eyes don't leave hers.

He must be able to hear the erratic beat of her heart, she’s sure, and maybe she’s a little mortified. It is Morgana who looks away first, mumbling under her breath about the trail of red from the corner of his mouth.

The vampire suddenly recoils back, as though uncomfortable with her proximity. His tongue darts out to lick up the stray line of blood and the tips of his ears flush a deeper pink.

“I-” He clears his throat, regaining his composure, “thank you.”

His attention pointedly turns to the wall, doubt still etched on his features.

She watches him, wryly, trying to calm her racing pulse and quickly knocks back a healing potion, and gestures with the same hand towards the wall.

“Well?”

He pouts - actually pouts at her - his mouth twisting into a grimace. “Are we sure spawn can just - walk on walls?”

“Oh for the love of-” Morgana sighs deeply, one hand now cupping her neck and again waves the bottle as she speaks. “If it fails, I promise to catch you, ok?”

One silver brow quirks up, and while he clearly still has his doubts, he resigns himself and tentatively places one foot on the wall.

Then the other.

She watches his face morph with surprise, and notes just how round his eyes are when he’s not frowning or flirting. It doesn’t take him long to get the hang of it, some excitement lighting his features as he scurries up the surface, over the bars and deftly snatches something from a pedestal on the other side.

He returns moments later, hopping down in front of her and brandishing an aged ugly book. She cocks her head.

“Can I see that?”

Reluctantly, he hands it over.

Malevolent magic oozes from the book, two large amethyst eyes on the cover boring into her soul, the wide gaping mouth with its uneven teeth appearing like a trapped scream. The book does not open. But the magic from it resonates in the air. She can feel its putrid pull, back out of the basement and not too far away.

“There’s some sort of key nearby…” She mumbles, tracing her fingers over the leathery cover.

Astarion straightens beside her.

“Well. We better go find it then.”

“There’s something down there?” Wyll peers over the edge of the well, eyeing the depths quizzically. “Are you sure?”

Honestly, no, she wants to answer, but she can feel that chill touch of magic, the traces luring her down into the well.

Her lips purse in thought.

“Try throwing a gold piece down, we'll soon know what's at the bottom then.” She reasons. Astarion makes a disgruntled noise behind her.

“A copper piece.” She amends. Karlach snickers.

Wyll, good-natured as always, acquiesces in her request.

The coin clinks down the well and makes a distinct thump shortly after.

“It’s empty.” Wyll exclaims, “and not deep either.”

They all look to her, and Morgana peers over the edge, noting iron rungs in the stone bricks. Steeling herself, she tugs her sleeves over her hands, swings her legs over the edge, and begins the climb down.

It is dank and dark in the bottom of the well, the sounds of skittering in the distance make her skin crawl, but the magic pull is stronger here. Once again, she is grateful for her darkvision.

And quickly remembers that at least one of her companions may not be able to see in the dark.

“Wyll,” she keeps her voice low, quiet, wary of the sounds echoing around them, “can you see alright?”

By the tentative steps he takes to crouch beside her, she would wager that, no, he can't.

“Not as far as the rest of you, but I shall manage.” He responds.

Karlach and Astarion come to crouch beside them, opposite in their countenance, Astarion’s stealth barely undermined by the soft glow of Karlachs engine.

“Stay close” Morgana tells him, the group steadily working their way into the cave as she follows the tug of necromancy and insatiable curiosity.

She’s so absorbed in tracing the magic, not taking note of her surroundings, barring the chittering noises sending shivers up her spine, that she stumbles and her foot catches in a strange cocoon.

It’s only then, Wyll diving to help her, Astarion drawing his bow and Karlach brandishing her axe, that she notices the cobwebs surrounding them.

Panic begins to swell in her chest, and she tugs her foot while Wyll slices through the cocoon.

Skittering sounds close in around them, the group staying tightly together. A shadow moves along the wall and Morgana swallows a shriek.

Her leg finally free, she scrambles to her feet, hands crackling with power, but Wyll grasps her wrist. “The light will attract them.” He whispers, raising his rapier, then turns his head, concentrating, relying on his hearing over his limited vision.

“Let’s just find this key, and hurry up and get out of here.” Astarion hisses.

Morgana nods vehemently, squashing her magic down and tempering her impulse.

Karlach hangs back, axe at the ready, maintaining steady breaths in an attempt to keep her flames down. They inevitably have to squash a couple of ettercaps, Astarion and Morgana hanging back with arrows and suppressed Eldritch Blasts, Wyll fighting alongside Karlach in her flamed fury, cleaving through them, and the few larger spiders that inevitably draw near.

It seems for a moment as though no more are coming.

Until skittering noises rush close and Morgana almost screams.

If not for the cool hand clapped over her mouth, and yanking her back into the shadows, out of sight. Her heart hammers in her chest, the worm suddenly squirming and Astarion’s voice whispers into her mind at the time as her back is flattened against him.

“Keep. Still.”

She does. She doesn’t dare to move. Fear spikes through her and she holds her breath.

Slowly, slowly, the sounds fade, and Astarion releases her, and she gasps, her hands trembling. She whirls to face him, and his eyes drop down. Confused, her own eyes follow to the blade in her trembling hand.

It’s the first time she’s unsheathed her dagger since waking up on the beach.

She drops it as though it burns her.

They both stare at the ornate dagger for a moment, before she snatches it up and quickly re-sheaths it.

“Th… Thank you.” She says. She brushes herself off, avoiding looking at the vampire, even as his questioning eyes linger, instead scanning for their two horned companions, spotting them a little ways away, wiping off their weapons.

She waves them over.

“I don’t think it's far now. Let’s just get this over with.”

They follow behind her as she follows the trail. Around a corner, she spots it; a pulsing purple gem, seeping with necromancy.

But then, just above it, her eyes land on the largest spider she’s ever seen in her life, and all of its many eyes land on her.

“♐︎◆︎♍︎🙵♓︎■︎♑︎ ♒︎♏︎●︎●︎⬧︎!” She swears in sylvan, and unleashes an eldritch blast.

The arachnid matriarch is dead. It must be. Morgana has unloaded three more blasts to its foetid corpse, and when she’s finally certain the bug is definitely dead, she spins on her heels, trips, and unceremoniously heaves, emptying her stomach's contents.

“Ugh, charming…”

Without looking, she flips off the grimacing vampire.

“You doing ok over there, soldier?”

Morgana retches again, unable to answer Karlach right away, hands now braced on her knees. The warmth from Karlachs hands hovers just over back, offering what little comfort she can without burning her.

Coughing and gagging, Morgana takes a deep breath, filling her lungs, and finally straightens herself up.

“Thanks Karlach, I just -” She gulps down another deep breath, this time reaching for her water skin, “I just really hate spiders.”

Wyll guffaws a laugh and quickly covers it with a cough, though his expression still shines with thinly-veiled amusement. Karlach grins.

“Well! Let’s get out of here and get you some fresh air, eh!”

She nods her agreement, noting that the purple gem is no longer on the floor, but she can still sense its power looming from the pale elf innocuously dusting himself off and with a minute shake of her head, she trails after Karlach towards the exit.

The fresh air does wonders for Morgana’s lingering nausea. Not so much for the clammy uncomfortable feeling of her padded armour sticking to her skin. She wrinkles her nose in distaste.

“Have we searched all the buildings here?” She asks aloud, turning her head to Karlach.

“There’s a few older houses over here, they had some new-looking chests in them.”

They both turn their heads expectantly to Astarion. Morgana’s mouth twitches into a sly grin.

“You did say that I can't pick a lock earlier.”

He scowls. “Fine! But if there’s anything valuable, I want the first pick.”

She chuckles and nods, and so that's how Astarion ends up lockpicking several trunks and chests, making unimpressed quips about how a few had nothing of value, finally stalking off with a huff to find Wyll when he’s done.

Morgana and Karlach rummage through the chests. She picks a plain looking trunk, and unceremoniously upturns it, emptying its contents, when a flash of violet catches her eye. The half-elf pauses. The trunk did seem new, and it had been sealed, and there’s no musty smell emanating from the garment when she picks it up and examines it.

“... Hey, Karlach?”

“Hm?” The tiefling’s head pops up.

“The area is clear now, right? We can take a break?”

“We cleared out goblins yesterday and now with those beasties today, i don’t see why not -”

“Good. Keep watch for me for a moment.” Morgana interrupts and quickly strips herself of her padded armour, yanking it over her head and discarding it, ignoring the fresh air on her clammy skin and squirms into the new item, tugging it down.

“Holy shit. Your tits look great in that!” Karlach exclaims and Morgana bursts out laughing, smoothing her hands over the corset-esque top and flushing at the sight of her rather ample cleavage.

“Hells, they don't look too showy, do they?” She laughs nervously.

Karlach beams at her. “If you've got it, may as well show it off! Though I have to wonder where you've been hiding them!”

Morgana flushes, laughing awkwardly. The garment really does emphasise her assets. She was already somewhat well-endowed, and now,

“I look like I’m displaying goods for sale…”

“You look great!” Karlach chortles, “Now come on, Wyll will have lunch ready!”

…

Their lunch should have been uneventful. Or at least, it would have been not for their unwelcome visitor.

“A devil?! It's bad enough we have worms in our heads, and now there’s a devil after us?!” Astarion splutters.

“You can’t trust a word he says -” Karlach starts, ferociously.

“There is no good to come of dealing with a devil!” Wyll asserts.

“Let’s just get back to the others,” Morgana reasons, gathering up their things, and ushering them back to camp.

The whole way, both Wyll and Karlach urge caution with Raphael, the newly acquainted devil in question, each recounting their own less-than-stellar experiences with devils and fiends.

She allows the pair to take charge in recounting the meeting when they reunite with the rest of their camp. Although first, Lae’zel assess Morgana’s new clothes with the exacting opinion she’s come to expect.

“This outfit offers no protection. You may not wield a sword, but you still join us in battle.” The warrior assesses, “Although. It certainly adds to your charm. You look… nice.”

Morgana is briefly taken aback. Regardless, she thanks the warrior, who merely nods her reply and briskly adds that she expects Morgana to join her in weapons training soon, to which Morgana insists she will practise in preparation.

After today, having to temper her powers to minimise discovery, perhaps she does need to be able to use her weapon when magic is out of the question.

On that note, the warlock glances around, noting her companions in deep discussion regarding the devil. All barring one.

She knows where to find him, because despite his stealth, he still has the gem on his person and she can follow the magic emanating from it.

The vampire is sitting beside the river, just on the bank, away from the camp. She approaches him quietly, and when he briefly acknowledges her presence without asking her to leave, she sits beside him.

They stay in silence for a while, and she wonders when he changed into his camp clothes, watching him observe the river flowing by.

The half-elf speaks first.

“So, you might be needing a creepy skin-bound book to go with that eerie jewel in your pocket.”

His mouth quirks up, amused. “I don’t know what you mean, darling. This is a perfectly good eerie jewel all on its own, don’t you agree?” He produces the amethyst with a flourish, side-eyeing her, and with a flick of his dexterous wrist, it disappears again.

She shakes her head with a smile. “You seemed interested in it, so I left it in your tent on my way by. Just. Be careful. Necromancy is powerful stuff.”

He scoffs, waving her off. “Oh please, darling, it might have something helpful for an undead like myself. I’d be a fool to pass up that kind of power.”

She just shrugs, turning back to the river.

After another beat, she asks him, “Will you spar with me?”

“Teach you a few little tricks, you mean?” He says suggestively.

“Honestly, you are such a flirt.”

“Only with you, you sweet, generous thing.” His silken admission ignites a spark under her skin, and he smirks knowingly.

In a blink, he rises with all the grace and skill of a practised performer, flicking a dagger free from his waist. Morgana rises to her own feet, inelegantly, and fidgets with her rings, blinking up at Astarion.

Pointedly, he looks at her still-sheathed blade at her hip.

“Nach tarraing thu d’airm?” [Will you not draw your weapon?]

She bites her lip. She swallows. Her eyes dart away.

“Could I borrow one of yours? Mas e do thoil e?” [please?]

Astarion hums, considering and tilting his chin. “Alright,” he concedes, “dèan gàire orm an uairsin. Carson nach cleachd thu am biodag?” [Humor me then. Why don't you use the dagger?]

He tosses his blade to her, and she stumbles to catch it, having been mentally translating his Elvish question. He comes at her quickly, swinging a blade with careful precision, and she jerks backwards, thrusting the borrowed blade up with both hands to defend.

The vampire clicks his tongue, effortlessly batting her away, and holding his own under her chin.

Just how many times is he going to get a knife to my throat?

He’s watching her expectantly.

She swallows and her throat bobs against the tip of the blade as she does. She licks her lips, readying the words. She speaks slowly, disjointed.

“B’ e a’ chiad mharbhadh a bh’ agam. Rinn mi na bha agam ri dhèanamh.” [It was my first kill. I did what I had to.]

Keen red eyes blink with interest.

“Your pronunciation is awful, darling.” He sighs dramatically, “and your form is simply terrible. A bheil fios agad eadhon mar a chumas tu lann?” [Do you even know how to hold a blade?]

Shame colours her cheeks. “No.” She mutters, momentarily deflating. Then she stands up straighter and squares her shoulders, determined.

“Sin as coireach gu bheil mi ag iarraidh ort teagasg dhomh.” [That’s why I’m asking you to teach me.]

“Better.” His fangs catch the light with his grin. He raises his hand, demonstrating. “Like this, darling.”

He gives her a moment, watching how those silver eyes scrutinise his hold, his grip, and then she mimics him. She nods. He rushes her again, but this time, she manages to deflect. It’s sloppy, he notes, but with a bit more practice, she can parry effectively.

“Tha thu nad neach-ionnsachaidh luath.” [You’re a fast learner.]

Her face lights up at his praise. She’s actually enjoying herself. Elvish is much easier to speak when she doesn’t have the time to think about it, she discovers. As for wielding a dagger, it takes concentration, and practice, and by the end of their little training session, she’s more capable of defending herself. And speaking more naturally in Elvish. A double lesson.

Despite how much skin she has exposed, his blade has not touched her skin once, though, she supposes, Astarion is just that skilled with a blade. It was intentional that he didn't catch or nick her.

She hands his dagger back to him, chest heaving as she catches her breath. He gives her that signature smirk, taking it back with a thanks.

“You never mentioned that you can speak silvan.”

Oh?

“I didn’t.” She answers levelly.

“How is it that a little half-human like yourself is fully fluent in silvan, but not elvish?” He folds his arms, tilting his head with curiosity.

Morgana laughs breathily. “Fae stuff.”

“Well darling, you shall simply have to tell me more next time we have one of these little… study sessions.”

She smiles filled with mirth and amusement. “It’s a date.”

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