#and is chilling in cazador's dungeon.

[pinacoladamatata]

You are a competent paladin. A Nightwarden. Capable of leading soldiers in battle. A formidable woman. Tricked into being mind controlled via your insatiable curiosity. and your baby sister the theater kid saves your ass from some cultists. Everyday Minthara Baenre wakes up.

[chilljustacat]

Baldur's Gate 3 locations 24/?

[theurgists]

⋆｡‧₊°♱༺ SINNED SOIL ༻♱༉‧₊˚.

astarion ancunin x gn!reader

summary: after a restless night, astarion finds himself seeking comfort. your tent is where he finds it.

warnings: some angst?? a little fluff, not proof-read

a/n: this is my first one-shot for bg3, and i'm lowkey excited?? not as familiar with the game as i'd like to be ( on my first unfinished playthrough ) so bare with me

There’s a nagging in the crevices of the fluid that occupies Astarion’s skull; aside from the tadpole wriggling about - making home directly in his frontal lobe. He tightens his jaw, grinding his teeth together so harshly that he could feel his spine reverberate in the process; a small pinch near his salivary gland. 

This is a recurrence- something he hates dearly with his non-existent soul; thinking. Even though his heart no longer thrummed in his chest, the air was long gone from his lungs, and cold permanently tainting his body, he still had his thoughts.

More often than not, that bothered him severely. No, it tortured him as he lay mindlessly blinking in the darkness of his tent, arms pin-straight by his side, lips pressed together to keep from wobbling slightly. 

He supposes he could cry, albeit having to be silent about it. Astarion’s done it before; in the musky abyss in one of Cazador’s many dungeons underneath his luxurious castle of torment, but it’s difficult tonight. Clenching his left fist, he felt the blood drain from his knuckles as the even ridges of his fingernails indent his frigid palm, the muscle of his tongue darting out between his teeth to graze over chapped lips.

Through the silence that seemed to suffocate him slowly, his pointy ears perked at the constant chirping of crickets and the crackling of the firewood a few feet away from his bedroll. Astarion was coming to realize that those sounds sounded oddly serene; nature. The grass, the moon, the sun. Oh, how warm it had felt on his marble skin. A nice low heat to the teeth-chattering ice that sat dormant in his veins. He could practically bathe in it, arms outstretched toward the big ball of fire in the sky, trickles of light seeping through his pores, heating every fiber of his being.

It basked his figure in a glow so bright and fuzzy that Astarion swore his dead heart actually skipped quite a few beats, a low buzz in his sternum. He cherished it.

It was something he would never utter aloud, his sharp tongue suddenly dulling when he felt his gaze soften during interactions, a subtle but noticeable change in his mood he always tries to mask with his cracking facade. Vulnerability did not look good on him as much as his prized tunics did.

Letting a sigh seep out into the chilled night air through glossy, spit-covered teeth, Astarion shuffled within the comfort of his bedroll, his bones cracking slightly as he rose to his knees slowly. Blinking back the burn developing in his sockets, he lifted an index finger to wipe at his hooded lids, sharp canines puncturing a pillowed bottom lip. 

Secretly, he hoped that no one would be able to tell how stressful he’s been lately, especially you. You could always read people like an open book; a story laid bare before you - cut and dry and easy to decipher. It didn’t take much for you to come to simple conclusions in dire situations of need. Everyone else in your small group could attest to that with blind faith.

That was something that made the pale elf roll his eyes in slight distaste, as if your actions were something that inconvenienced him severely, as if everything you said was something he was supposed to agree with. But, you weren’t like that.

Astarion figured that out under the glow of the moonlight, hidden by thick tree branches and surrounded by the overwhelming smell of dewed grass merely a month ago, back when his attempts to bed you were more than apparent. His brows had furrowed in confusion then, a small pang in his chest as if the knife lodged within the tissue of his heart was dipped in poison. He was confused. For the first time in a while the elf was confused as to why you didn’t take him as you saw fit that night. 

Closing his eyes, Astarion took a wasteful breath, feeling as if it was needed in the moment as his lashes brushed against the blotches of watercolor black, blue and purple that adorned his under eyes, hand reached out to swat away the flap of his tent soon after.

Crimson eyes darted to look through the treelines, a sense of alert flooding through his body as leaves rubbed together, sounding like crumpled parchment as he averted his gaze to Karlach’s back, her nightwear frumpled as she hunched over, sharpening one of the many weapons laid out on the soil next to her; dirty and dull. 

Shuffling past her as quietly as he could, Astarion blew air from between his lips in hopes of adjusting the snowy white coil of hair that blocked his vision, making his way to your tent. A certain hunger arose in him when his pointed ears picked up the sound of your blood flowing through thick veins, sweet like the rolls you’d occasionally bring to the camp from a nearby trader if they had a few.

His throat is dry, the thirst for your blood creeping up on him just like the soft spot for you had after you had confided in him after accidentally bearing witness to the angry scars that littered the expanse of his back, a constant itch to follow the raised skin. He knew you wouldn’t refuse his request to drink from you, having let him sink his teeth into the pulse point of your neck multiple times to keep his hunger at bay. 

Nocturnal animals didn’t satiate his cravings as much as your essence did. It was a pull stronger than he ever thought possible, even if his belly was full - he was not, not until he had your sweet, sweet blood pooling at the tip of his tongue. Instinctively, his upper lip curled, teeth bared before he swiped the muscle of his tongue over them, swallowing the sandpaper that covered his esophagus. 

“‘Starion?” Your small whisper carried in the wind, straight to his ears. 

Within the thin fabric of your tent, he could hear you shuffling about before your head peaked out from the open flap, eyes still ridden with sleep looking up at his towering frame through long lashes. “What are you doing?”

“Restless night.” 

At that, your brows furrowed, warm, clammy palm cupping his; an invitation inside your private space which he accepted without another word.

In the darkness, he could make out the array of worn out pillows covering every inch of the small space, alongside a couple of different items from past journeys and small trinkets that reminded you of your childhood; innocence lost. He figured it was something you were trying to gain back - a sense of control over your dysfunctional life.

Crouching down, his knees ached slightly, palms flat against the ground before making himself as comfortable as he possibly could given thoughts plaguing his mind. With narrowed eyes, he watched as you spun on your bottom to face him, knees knocking with his as you pressed your lips together thinly. 

“I must admit I'm struggling to find peace tonight as well.” Mumbling, your hand raised to smooth over the goosebumps that had found their way to the surface of your arms, raising every individual hair. “Dreams become much too vivid to me now.”

Leaning as far back into the pile of pillows as he could, he could see your eyes, glossy and wide as they locked onto his. “Do tell, darling.” 

His tone is slightly playful, a small inch of concern weaved between his words as his spine stiffened from his position. 

Huffing, your shoulders lifted in a small shrug before falling back into place, ears growing hot from the embarrassment oozing through your pores. You weren’t one to confide in others about your state of distress, especially to those who you deem untrustworthy. 

This was merely a Freudian slip, a loose tongue, but you continued despite everything in you telling you to sew your lips closed with thick thread. 

“There was this… looming sense of dread in my dreams. I was in a field of tall grass, it reminded me of this meadow my father used to take me to when I was ten and one.” Your voice trailed, the scenery of a multitude of flowers and lucious, bright green grass appearing in the forefront of your mind. “I can still smell the manure of the nearby pigpens, but everything was just so bleak. I’m sure I was alone, and even though I somehow knew it wasn’t real, everything else felt like it was. There was a red rose sitting in a bed of white ones, almost as if it was being cushioned just for me.” He could hear the smile in your words, although from the tone of your voice, he could tell that it wasn’t a genuine one. 

“I reached out toward it, and then felt a slight pinch almost as if something poked me.” rubbing the pads of your thumb and index finger together, you stared at them, expecting a trickle of dotted blood to seep from the barely visible wound you had received in the meadow in the crevices of your mind. “It was a thorn, a big one at that. That’s when I woke up, and then I saw your shadow outside…”

The pause that followed was one of comfort, a way for you to know that the vampire before you was listening, grasping onto each word uttered through chapped lips, your warm breath on his face.

Astarion gnawed on his bottom lip gently, careful of his two sharper teeth as his gaze never left your troubled face, a twinge of empathy. “I have those dreams sometimes too. When I let my eyes drift shut, there’s a sort of vulnerability that follows; renders me defenseless.” 

You nodded in the darkness, grasping onto the words that he forced out of his throat like bile, unwanted and already digested. Astarion was a secretive person, for many reasons that were acceptable, drenched in endless pain and suffering. “My skin still burns. It’s all so fresh.” 

Scooting beside him, you cautiously took notice of the way he curled into himself, knees now tucked into his chest as he raised a hand toward his back, sliding it under his shirt to let his fingers ghost over the scars on his back. The muscles in his face contort, a pained expression painting his face, no developing laughter lines, no crows feet at the corners of his eyes. He was forever a little star; his name a memory of a past he can’t recall.

“He can no longer touch you.” You stated firmly, each word spat with venom. It was true as far as you were concerned. You’d never lie to Astarion. You’d never lie to any of your friends about the impending death that loomed over them, the blood that would be on their hands in the following weeks as you continue your trek to Baldur’s Gate. 

“You’d think after being a slave for nearly three centuries that I'd bask in the glory that freedom has to offer me.” A curt, bitter laugh escapes his lips as he throws his hands in the air, “But I-I can’t, and I have no idea why.” 

Twisting your neck just a couple of inches, you stared at the side of his face, bottom lip tucked between your teeth. 

Astarion could hear how loudly your heart thumped in the solace of your ribcage, the blood flowing through your veins, the quiet hum of your throat as you swallowed. And for once - he wills himself to think about life without his affliction, even if just for a second before he could no longer stand to see himself so meek and small, so… helpless.

“It’s the fear he instilled within you. He tormented you your entire existence and it’s not something you can let go of so easily, I un-”

“Please don’t tell me you understand.” His words were nothing above a whisper as he leaned closer, the material of his sleep shirt rubbing against yours before you felt the chill of his skin on your upper arm. 

In those rare moments of genuine words exchanged between the both of you in the safety of each other's company, you had never seen him so fearful. Fearful of becoming a slave for the desires and sexual needs of others  once more, hands forever touching bodies he’d force himself to forget, washing the dirt and grime off of every crevice of himself with tears in his eyes and silent sobs. “I’ll never return to that, to him.”

“I won’t let that happen. You’re more than what he created you to be.”

Hesitantly, you wrapped an arm around his shoulder, causing his spine to grow rigid for the third time it seemed, before he melted under your touch, soft curls tickling the skin under your jaw before he buried his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of lavender and pine wood that always seemed to be glued to you. It wasn’t the first time you’ve touched Astarion like this, in an intimate way, without the premise of sex in the foreground, but this time felt different. 

It was different.

You were more soft than he realized, weren’t you? Astarion thought himself to be nothing concerning a warm-hearted, selfless individual. He was anything but. Bred for destruction and submission, bloodletted countless times through frantic and harsh whips, lashes - anything that could make the smell of his coppery perfume permeate the air.

However, for once in his eternal existence Astarion realized he felt something that had grown foreign to him; love.

Love for you. 

Love for himself. 

And he’d be damned if the sinned soil of this earth took any of that away from him.

[hivemuthur]

Wait Ten Seconds

Okay, a tiny little break from Viktor, as I present you a request for my awesome friend, @aristenfromwarsaw! Thank you for having faith in me to write this, heh. Also, this is my fav screenshot of Astarion and Aristen, her Durge, just look at them :')

spawn!Astarionxfemale!redeemed!DU (fandom: BG3), explicit!

word count: 2,5K

summary: set in act III, after defeating Cazador and Orin. Not specified, but I can imagine them having a date before the doomed day of confronting the absolute and chilling somewhere in Rivington, away from people and the rest of the team :')

author's note: so nervous about publishing this, that I forgot to mention the undeniable blessing by my smut fairy, @rennethen, thank you!

—

She was fidgeting, to the point of Astarion wincing as he brought the wine and plopped down next to her on the blanket. The closer they were to their final goal, the more layers were peeled back, revealing the truth underneath. And Aristen’s truth lay very close to Astarion’s. The parallels were almost uncanny—two powerful creatures, made and shaped by another, more powerful, to be stripped of will and judgment and commit crimes nearly beyond redemption. Both beautiful, nearly deadly so. Both now free, though at a horrific price that included a lot of death, and their friends close to bleeding out.

And Astarion knew. He knew what it was like to swat away that extended hand, the one that carried a promise of eternal power and greatness without limitations. He knew how hard it had been for him when he held his dagger over Cazador’s head, his eyes darting to all his friends, who froze in fear of what he was going to do next. Their questioning faces, minds grinding gears, silently pleading with him not to do it. So he didn’t. And a mixture of relief and grief washed over him as they walked back through the corridors of the musky dungeon, their shirts soaked in blood, grime, and the dusty remnants of undead bodies. The stench was unbearable, nearly as bad as in the temple of Bhaal.

But after that came true reprieve. And suddenly, the price of his freedom felt small. Who needed the sun when he could have her? So he confessed his love and giddiness, and Aristen accepted it—all of it. Living under the stars and figuring out what would come next. If, of course, they survived the Netherbrain.

She kept fisting the blanket and biting the inside of her cheek. So he waited ten seconds before being an absolute freak and licking her face to snap her out of it.

“Wha— Why are you being gross?” She blinked, wiping the spit off her face with the top of her hand. But there was a smile, and Astarion sighed, relieved that such a thing could still take place.

“Copper piece for your thoughts?” he asked, passing her a carafe of Amnian Dessert. She took it wordlessly, their fingers brushing, and Astarion winced at the warmth of her skin. She gulped down three sips and forced herself not to burp.

“I… I feel you already know what I’m thinking about,” she said, offering him a sad smile.

“Humour me. Consider me a half-wit that needs everything spelled out for him.” His hands travelled up her knees to her hips, pulling her to slot between his spread legs. Once a safe space was created between them, Astarion tilted the bottle to her lips, pouring some of the wine down her throat.

She chuckled and shot him a look. “You don’t have to get me drunk if you want something, you know that, right?”

A drop of red streaked from the corner of her mouth, sliding down the side of her throat, and Astarion kissed it away. He purred at the rhythm of her heart, beating for the both of them, before nuzzling his nose into the crook of her shoulder.

“Hmm, I know that. But for this particular something, I feel you might need some liquid courage,” he murmured, entwining his fingers at the small of her back. “What is bothering you, my love?”

“Sometimes… I pray for the Netherbrain to win, so I don’t have to… remember,” she whispered into the silver of his hair, the words bitter on her tongue.

Astarion shifted. His eyes shot up to meet hers, and his hands cupped her neck. Again, with the drumming of that heart. He pressed his thumbs into her larynx, gently, a warning. He gritted his teeth, words balancing on the scale in his head, and asked, “What is more? Love or self-loathing?”

“What?” she croaked, her brows furrowing.

“Which do you feel stronger? The love or the hate?” Astarion’s voice was firm, as though he needed to insist. “And why, of all people, would you be the one beyond redemption?” He waited another ten seconds. No response came, only blinking.

“You get to start over. To be the person you want to be—not what someone else made you to be,” he whispered, his tone dipping dangerously low. Not sultry. It was the same tone he used when he was being honest. The same tone he used when he tried to wince away from an attempt to bite her, all those months back. “As do I. And I want to start over with you. Do you?”

“Oh gods, you know I do,” Aristen breathed finally, her voice inevitably cracking, tears pushing their way through the corners of her eyes. “What if I am, though? Beyond redemption?”

“Am I?” As usual, a precise shot. A rogue instinct took over, and Astarion planted his trap skilfully. He intended to wait another ten seconds, but she was faster.

“No, of course not.” Her warm hands were on his cheeks so fast, thumbs rubbing into the hollows of them, and if Astarion could flush, he would have. He shifted closer, caging her in.

“Then why would you be?” Seeing a thought forming, words already dripping off her tongue, he placed his fingers on her lips. “I will talk, and you will listen. You're no monster. You’ve saved me more times than I can count—” a sound from between his fingers cut him off.

Astarion shifted again, letting a single "but" slip away from her. He wrapped one hand around her waist, while the free palm moved to cover her mouth completely. “You will listen to me now.”

He waited ten seconds, and Aristen nodded, her eyes glued to his. His hand slid to cup her neck instead, their foreheads touching. Cold breath fanned her face as he spoke.

“I come from a life I cannot remember, which in itself proves how unremarkable it was. That life ended, and another began, and that one I remember very well. I remember every torture, every rat I was given, every slap, and every lover I led to their death. And it’s all very harrowing—the way it reminds me I do have a soul,” he confessed on a fabricated breath.

“And then you come. And you undo it all, piece by painful piece. Two centuries of pure shit. In a span of time that is merely a glimpse compared to two hundred years, you manage to defy a god, defeat my jailor, and yet you sit here crying—I wish you would stop; it’s utterly distracting,” he murmured, wiping the tears from her cheek. She allowed a hiccupped chuckle to escape her throat.

“Nothing ever gets undone, not entirely. But we get to rebuild ourselves from the rubble. So I ask again—what is more?” Astarion waited one second. Less than one second.

“Love. Love is more,” she said, nodding, tears streaming down her cheeks as she gave him a kiss full of salt. “Love me,” she pleaded, her hands fisting the frills of his collar, fingers ghosting over the two puncture marks on his neck, and Astarion’s unfabricated breath hitched.

“I do. With all of my eternal undead heart, I do,” he murmured against her lips, his fangs dangerously close to the tender flesh of red, but he was careful. Mouths touched, his tongue doing most of the work—licking, fighting hers for dominance. His hands had already travelled under her skirts, working to rid her of an offensive pair of breeches. He swung her legs to one side to slide them off, fumbling at her ankles as she tried to help but only caused more trouble than if she hadn’t.

While Astarion fumbled with those, she began unlacing his trousers, her breath stuttering at the coolness of his skin. Every inch of Astarion was so beautiful and she had it all memorized so well, she didn’t have to look, but she did, always, nevertheless. And Astarion remembered her as well, but he wasn’t looking. Too busy leaving open-mouthed kisses all the way up her legs, one of his fangs catching on the lace of her skirts in a rush.

Aristen couldn’t help a chuckle, having done her part of undressing him as she pulled him closer by the laces of his pants, now hanging loosely from his fly.

“First she cries, then she laughs me out, the audacity,” he rasped, placing his hands on either side of her waist and meeting her in a kiss. Deep and unhurried, Astarion let his tongue slip between her lips once again, as his hands travelled up her ribcage to cup her breasts through the material

Aristen let out a gasp and quickly unbuttoned her shirt, welcoming his cool touch against the heat of a summer night. Astarion growled at the motion and splayed himself flat on top of her, hooking one of her legs with his knee. The kissing deepened, and soon his mouth travelled with no particular destination, sucking on the pulse point below her ear, ghosting over her collarbone and flicking at each of her nipples.

He pulled himself up to cage her in, gently tracing her jaw and cupping her cheek. Another kiss lasting ten seconds, all tongue and as little teeth as Astarion could do, emotion seeping from it. When his lips left hers, it was only so his mouth could travel to her jaw, throat and sternum. His hands cupped her breasts, and oh, the weight of them, the softness, felt so sweet against his cool skin.

Astarion was very good with both—the words and the body. It was all very much rehearsed and carefully constructed into a self, that would shield his other self from showing. But with Aristen, his other self was slowly crawling out, so he let it. He let himself be desperate and wanting, to meet her unsure, wounded self. As equals.

His thumbs brushed her nipples, causing her spine to arch into the touch. “So needy,” Astarion teased, spitting on one of her breasts to ease the friction and pressing his mouth to the other. The contrast between the callouses of his thumb and softness of his lips made parts of her clench on nothing. She tugged on his hair, scraping his scalp and Astarion hummed into her skin.

The hum evolved into a chuckle, once Aristen released a muffled whimper and it only got worse for her. His lips travelled to the other side, leaving her skin glistening with his spit and exposed. She could feel featherlight kisses being placed all the way from her nipple, down, down to her ribcage, stomach, hip bone, until his mouth reached the crease of her thigh. And there, Astarion waited ten seconds.

Mouth hovering over her core, breath fanning, nose smelling. Then, a kiss, and she gasped. And then, finally, his lips closed around her, tongue teasing, licking into her slit. A gentle suck, to make her breath stutter, only to release her with a wet pop and Aristen whined.

With a ghost of a smile, Astarion’s mouth went back to roam up and down her rib cage, hands trailed down her sides to rest in the creases of her thighs. He then pulled away to sit on the balls of his heels and seeing the look on her face, he just said, “Patience, my love.”

He picked up her leg by the foot and placed a soft kiss at the flat of her ankle. Then, an agonizing lick to her pulse point. And agonizing for both of them, Astarion could add. Then, hot fast kisses all the way down her calf, her thigh, to finally splay himself flat between her legs.

Their eyes locked as he gave her cunt a reverent kiss. Both obscene and loving, as he stared into her soul and Aristen chuckled, trying to chase the flush away from her cheeks.

He licked against her clit, and feeling her body jerk he splayed a flat palm on her stomach to pin her down, the other arm wrapped around her thigh. Working her slowly until her sweet scent filled his nostrils, Astarion slid his fingers down her belly and teased her entrance. Once inside, he curled them, and Aristen moaned, her neck tensing, throat exposed.

Feeling her closing in on her climax, he made a switch. Mouth travelled down to fuck her with his tongue, thumb spreading her slick around the clit. And if this was his last meal, he would die fed. He would also die deaf, as her thighs closed in around his ears, her body tensing and flexing, fingers curling in his hair desperately. Her heels dug into his shoulder blades, and she felt her soul leaving her body, travelling straight into Astarion’s mouth, her voice echoing in the night around them.

Astarion waited ten seconds, just to watch her. To watch her chest rising and falling, to watch her eyes gloss over him, over his cock hanging free, painfully hard. He gave himself a few slow strokes, spreading precum from the tip to the root. Then, he shifted to all fours, reaching out for her hand to guide it between his legs. A warm hand replaced the cold one as she rubbed his tip with her thumb before flicking her wrist down to a long stroke against his length.

“No one touches me like you touch me,” he murmured against her mouth. “Take me and keep me forever,” Astarion said, meaning Take me and love me forever.

“Only if you take me and keep me forever,” she replied, her voice already fucked-out, bedroom eyes staring back into his. With that answer, he removed her hand, kissed her knuckles in gratitude and placed his hips between her legs. He rubbed his cock against her wetness to coat himself in her slick before teasing the entrance. The first few thrusts were shallow and Astarion glued his eyes to her face, watching her mouth fall open wider and wider, before sinking fully inside.

Once buried up to the hilt, he begun to thrust slowly and deeply into her. His movements were unhurried, his pubic bone pressing on her clit, rebuilding the pressure within her. His arms wrapped around her, chests pressed together, mouths touching, exchanging breaths. Her legs encircled his waist to seal the bond. Rocking their bodies toward completion, Astarion whispered, “I love all of you.”

She mouthed his name back to him, voice lost in her throat, as her walls clenched around him, and they reached the peak together. Bodies shook, fingers dug into flesh. He spilled himself inside her, head falling into the crook of her neck. And Astarion waited ten seconds, and then another ten seconds, and another, before sleep took both of them over, entangled, connected by their cores, and their hearts.

[blackjackkent]

OK. Doing as much prep work as I can for the Cazador fight because I remember how much of a pain it was with Hector. Realistically, it's not going to be nearly as hard for Rakha because a) I'm playing on Easy and b) she has two extra party members (and two rodents).

But Cazador's fight is a bitch and a half so I'm not taking any chances. :P

Jaheira is really our top utility resource in the current party, so I had her:

a) blow her sixth level spell on Hero's Feast for extra wisdom check resilience and fear resistance (which also gets us a free lunch spread, huzzah) b) cast Longstrider ritually on everyone in the party, including Boo and Ash c) load up Daylight, which I recall being a fairly critical spell to have access to against Cazzy.

Last time around, I had Hector cast Sanctuary on Astarion and kept him out of the fight, since keeping him alive is paramount; this time no one in the party has access to that, so I had Rakha load up Invisibility and Globe of Invulnerability and we'll see how those work instead.

Here we go!

-----

The final door in the dungeons leads into an extraordinarily large cavern. The chill is somehow even worse here; the place feels like an aura of death is laid across it. The Weave ripples and jitters as if in anxiety across the polished stone surfaces in all directions.

At the center of the room, Cazador waits.

The vampire lord stands on a sigil drawn in the middle of the cavern; Rakha can see the thin, precise lines of magic sizzling under his boots. Lines of power resonate out in all directions, tying the central sigil to six other markings where six shirtless men and women hang suspended in midair... and to one remaining alcove, which is empty.

Rakha can feel the hair on her arms and the back of her neck prickling at the air of violent power in the room. They have arrived at the critical moment; this ritual Cazador means to perform is dangerous indeed. It tugs painfully at her skin like an angry dog at the end of its lead, ready to be unleashed.

He spins at the sound of their footsteps on the enormous stairwell, and smiles cruelly as he spots Astarion at Rakha's side.

"Who stands before us?" he cries. "Is this truly our prodigal son?"

Cazador's voice is high and cold, petulant. The voice of a man accustomed to getting his way in all things. Rakha feels she would have disliked him immediately, even not knowing what he has done to Astarion, to the prisoners in that hallway behind them.

At her side, Astarion flinches at the sound of that voice as if he's been struck. Involuntarily, his head hunches forward, his shoulders rising near his ears.

"Do not slouch before me, boy!" Cazador barks mockingly. "Have you no respect for yourself?"

Astarion's head lifts. His eyes are burning coals of rage, but he says nothing. Rakha can see the way the instinctual deference grips him, beaten into him after two centuries.

Cazador can see it too, and a nasty smile curls his lips. "Look at you," he sneers. "Crawling back after abandoning your family. You should be begging our forgiveness!"

Rakha's eyes are hard now as well - and she, unlike Astarion, has not been kicked by this man until she broke. She realizes, now, the cause of the rage that has been building in her since they entered the dungeons.

This is truly just like the Temple was. A 'father', cold and cruel, welcoming a child back to the 'family.' Thousands upon thousands of deaths. And she could not lash out at Bhaal for the monster that he made of her, but she can punish Cazador for being something nearly as terrible.

"He doesn't owe you *anything*," she snarls, taking a step forward so her shoulder moves a little in front of Astarion's.

Cazador's lip curls disdainfully, looking Rakha up and down. "Have you fallen so far that *this* speaks for you?" he snaps.

Astarion flinches again, then bursts forward, knocking Rakha aside. "I don't need anyone to speak for me!"

"No," Cazador says, and the whipcrack edge of the words stop Astarion's flash of confidence in its tracks. "You always had a gift for words." Again that mocking sneer, and with each syllable, Astarion's shoulders start to hunch up again. "I fondly remember your empty boasting, your tired jokes, your endless prattle--"

"No!" Astarion cries. "Shut up!"

Rakha's jaw sets. There's an unpleasant thumping feeling in her temple that is all too familiar - but it is right that she should be angry here. This is not the beast taking control; this is her. This man is a monster. This man needs to die. This is what Minsc means when he talks about putting his boot to evil. This is what Lae'zel means by attacking with purpose.

I cannot kill Bhaal. But I can kill you. And neither Astarion nor I will be free of what happened to us... but at least you will be dead.

"We're here for justice," she growls. "You're going to pay."

"I will not speak to cattle!" Cazador roars. His voice echoes to the immeasurably high ceiling above them. "This is between me and the boy."

But perhaps Rakha's words have given Astarion some measure of confidence after all, because his head draws back and his eyes go hard. "You son of a bitch," he growls - and leaps forward.

The explosive blast of magic nearly fries the back of Rakha's eyeballs. It's a rippling burst like a cannon shot, flashing outward from the central sigil to the suspended bodies circling it, and then back in again to seize around Astarion's body, freezing him into position, his fist a few inches from Cazador's face.

Cazador smiles slowly, watching as Astarion writhes frantically in the implacable grip of the blood-red energy. "You truly forgot my power," he purrs. "You truly thought our bond as creator and creation was all that stopped you from killing me." His eyes narrow, mocking and cold. "You are weak, my child. You are a small, pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything."

Another blinding flash. The power begins to contract and compress around Astarion, lifting him off the floor. Cazador watches him unblinkingly. "But today... you will finally do something worthwhile. You will burn... and I will ascend!"

With a ripping surge of magic that makes Rakha's teeth ache, Astarion is hurled bodily across the platform and into the empty alcove awaiting him. His armor is torn violently from his body, leaving him shirtless to the waist and revealing a harsh, jagged marking carved into his back - a sigil just like the one carved into the floor in front of him.

He screams, all his confidence gone in favor of primal, desperate terror.

"No! Stop him! And get me out of this!"

Cazador laughs maniacally, spreading his arms out into the magic that is beginning to swirl around him like a whirlwind. "Witness the birth of the Vampire Ascendant!" he howls gleefully. "Ecce dominus!"

[pixel7777]

This Old House - A Bloodweave Fanfic: Ch. 5

See Ch. 1 for work summary and content tags. Read this chapter below the break here or on AO3!

Chapter Summary:

Incident Report: Unidentified Paranormal Phenomena Filed by: Astarion, Gale, and Shadowheart Status: Ongoing Investigation Key Findings: Shadowheart, after a thorough and expert assessment, has declared the Szarr Palace not haunted. The Szarr Palace has responded by… vehemently disagreeing. Standard poltergeist activities observed. Shadowheart remains unimpressed. Gale remains extremely interested. Astarion remains exasperated. Next Steps: 🔲 Determine who or what is haunting the palace. 🔲 Continue debate on the definition of “ghost.” 🔲 If no solution presents itself, consider burning the house down.

Astarion

"There's no ghost," Shadowheart announced with the certainty of someone explaining basic arithmetic to children.

Cold moonlight streamed through the broken windows of Cazador's ballroom, somehow emphasizing the bone-deep chill that permeated the space. Astarion wrapped his arms around himself, not that it helped much.

Astarion snorted. "Oh? So the doors opening on their own, the voices, the apparitions—all that's just our imagination, is it?"

"I don't claim to understand what's happening here," Shadowheart said, turning slowly in place as she surveyed the massive ballroom, its once-opulent features now draped in cobwebs and memories. "But there are no ghosts."

Gale stepped forward, his breath misting in the unnatural cold. "Have you checked the entire palace? The attic contained significant magical residue, and the basement—"

"I've done a thorough sweep of this floor, the lower floor, and the dungeons," Shadowheart cut him off. "I'm a former cleric of Shar and a current cleric of Selune. Detecting undead is rather in my wheelhouse."

As she spoke, her silver ponytail suddenly jerked backward, as if pulled by an invisible hand. Her eyes widened in surprise.

"What was that, then?" Astarion asked, unable to suppress his smirk.

Before Shadowheart could answer, she stumbled forward, pushed by an unseen force. She caught herself and whirled around, hand flying to her holy symbol.

"That," she said through gritted teeth, "is not a ghost."

Astarion burst into laughter. "Are you sure? Because it seems rather ghosty to me."

"Fascinating," Gale murmured, already pulling a small notebook from his pocket. "The manifestation exhibits classic poltergeist behavior, yet you detect no undead presence?"

Shadowheart straightened her armor with a huff. "I came because you asked for my help, and I'm giving it to you. Vampires generally do not leave ghosts—it's just not a thing."

The temperature dropped further, causing even Astarion to shiver. A chandelier above them swayed slightly, though there wasn't a breath of wind.

"Yet something is clearly here," Astarion pointed out.

Shadowheart raised her eyebrows and extended both hands toward him, fingers formed into little pointing gestures. "The only undead I can sense anywhere is—" she wiggled her fingers at him "—this guy."

"So helpful," Astarion drawled. He rolled his eyes as Shadowheart stood her ground, utterly unperturbed by the supernatural chaos unfolding around her.

"Yes, I am actually quite helpful," Shadowheart said, brushing invisible dust from her armor. "By ruling out standard undead activity, we've eliminated a major possibility."

"Oh, what a relief," Astarion replied dryly. "We've narrowed it down to literally anything else in the entire realm of magical oddities."

A moldering book launched itself from a nearby table, narrowly missing Gale's head. He ducked just in time, the heavy tome thudding against the floor behind him.

"Thank you for that contribution," Astarion called out to the empty air. "Most enlightening."

Shadowheart's lips twitched. "You know, I didn't expect to find you playing lord of the manor in Baldur's Gate."

"I'm not playing anything," Astarion snapped. "I'm trying to get rid of this damnable place, not move in."

A vase wobbled violently on a side table before tipping over and shattering. Astarion gave it an exasperated look.

"Was that expensive? I hope it was expensive."

Shadowheart folded her arms. "So what exactly is your plan here? Because inheriting your former master's estate seems... questionable at best."

"Questionable!" Astarion laughed. "I didn't ask for this. Did you think I filled out probate paperwork while we were fighting the Absolute?  It was all settled while I was busy helping you lot save the world."

The temperature plummeted further. Their breath now emerged in dense clouds.

"I rather think—" Gale began before a curtain suddenly wrapped itself around his head. He struggled with it for a moment before freeing himself with a burst of magic. "As I was saying, I rather think someone or something wants your attention."

"It's certainly got a flair for dramatics," Shadowheart observed as a chair slid across the floor unprompted.

Astarion sneered. "Must have learned from its previous owner."

"Speaking of whom," Shadowheart continued, "how did you end up as Cazador's heir anyway? Surely he didn't—"

The air in the center of the room shimmered, cutting her off mid-sentence. Slowly, an image coalesced: Cazador Szarr in all his aristocratic glory, face twisted in rage.

"GET OUT!" the apparition bellowed, its voice reverberating through the ballroom. "GET OUT! GET OUT!"

While Gale jumped back and Shadowheart reached for her weapon, Astarion simply sighed. He marched straight toward the specter, stopping just inches from its incorporeal face.

"No," Astarion said flatly. "Make me."

The apparition flickered, seemingly taken aback.

"And if you want to convince me to do anything you want," Astarion continued, "putting that specific face on will never help your case. I hate that face. Find another one."

The Cazador image wavered, its features contorting with confusion rather than rage.

"That's right," Astarion said, crossing his arms. "I killed the real thing. You don't scare me anymore."

Astarion held his ground as the apparition flickered before him, but the bravado he projected outward didn't quite match what churned inside. He'd spent two centuries cowering before that face—the real version of it, at least—and those weren't habits easily broken.

No, he wasn't being entirely honest with himself. The nightmares still came, especially in those vulnerable moments when he slipped from trance into deeper sleep. He'd startle awake sometimes, convinced he could feel Cazador's grip on his mind again, pulling his strings like a marionette. Gale had literally burned Cazador to dust before his eyes, yet some part of Astarion remained convinced his former master would return.

But this... this pathetic display? This wasn't Cazador. Not really. This was just a cheap imitation, all flash and no substance. The real Cazador would never simply shout and posture—he'd slide under your skin, find your weaknesses, and twist them until you broke. This theatrical phantom couldn't even maintain its form under scrutiny.

As Astarion stared at the wavering image, it suddenly collapsed inward like a snuffed candle, vanishing completely. The ghostly cold dissipated, the room warming several degrees in an instant. The floating objects dropped to the floor, and the unsettling atmosphere that had permeated the palace seemed to retreat.

"Interesting," Gale said, immediately stepping forward to examine the space where the apparition had been. He waved his hands through the air, muttering arcane phrases under his breath. "I've never seen anything quite like this. It's not a standard enchantment or residual magic."

Astarion raised an eyebrow. "A not-ghost with performance anxiety? How novel."

"No, no," Gale said, pulling out a small crystal and holding it up to the light. "This is something far more sophisticated. Look at the way it responded to your direct challenge. That's not pre-programmed behavior—it's dynamic, adaptive."

Shadowheart circled the area slowly. "Something is listening and reacting. Something intelligent."

Gale looked at Astarion with that gleam in his eyes that meant he'd found a new magical puzzle to solve. "It's remarkable. Whatever this is, it recognized you as a threat to its position when you directly challenged it. Then it assessed your confidence and... retreated."

"Well, I am remarkably amazing," Astarion drawled. "A heroic vampire who scoffs in the face of danger. Who wouldn't retreat?"

Astarion caught the way Gale was looking at him—that half-proud, half-hungry expression that always made his dead heart feel strangely full. He decided to capitalize on the moment, tilting his head and flashing a challenging smile.

"What? Impressed by my bravery in the face of supernatural terrors? Or just admiring the view?" Astarion preened slightly, running a hand through his silver-white curls.

Shadowheart made a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh, but Astarion kept his eyes on Gale, who was already moving toward him with that endearing look of determination.

"Both, obviously," Gale said, closing the distance between them.

When Gale reached him, Astarion leaned in eagerly as the wizard's lips met his. The kiss was brief but carried a familiar warmth that never failed to surprise him. Two hundred years of emptiness, and now this—this ridiculous, brilliant wizard who kissed him in haunted ballrooms as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Astarion lingered a moment longer than necessary, partly for the pleasure and partly because he knew Shadowheart was watching. When they separated, he caught her exasperated expression.

"Really? Here? Now?" Shadowheart asked, hands on her hips.

Astarion smirked. "What better place than a haunted mansion for a little romance? Adds a certain... thrill."

Shadowheart shook her head, though Astarion noticed the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth. "Focus, please. Do you actually have a plan for all this?" She gestured broadly at the decaying grandeur around them.

"We do, actually," Gale answered, his hand still resting lightly against Astarion's lower back. "We're planning to make this entire place someone else's problem."

Astarion nodded. "The goal is to change the name of the Szarr lordship—so we never have to hear that wretched name again—and then pass the whole thing on to an 'heir' of sorts."

"Essentially," Gale continued, slipping easily into his professorial tone, "we'll disentangle Astarion from all legal obligations, settle any outstanding debts using whatever valuables we can find here, and transfer ownership to someone willing to take it on."

Shadowheart walked across the ballroom, her boots clicking against the parquet floor. She ran a finger along a dust-covered table and looked back at them.

"That makes a certain amount of sense," she conceded. "But I'm not sure anyone would willingly take this place as is." She glanced upward as a chandelier swayed slightly without any discernible breeze. "Especially with this... unexplained and rather unwelcoming phenomenon lingering about."

Astarion let out a dramatic sigh. Of course Shadowheart was right, which only made it more irritating. The woman had an infuriating talent for stating inconvenient truths.

"Yes, thank you for that brilliant observation," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I hadn't noticed the flying objects and ghostly apparitions might be off-putting to potential buyers."

He stalked across the ballroom, kicking aside a fallen candlestick. "We'll simply have to drive this... phenomenon out. Whatever it is. I refuse to be saddled with this place any longer than necessary."

Astarion gestured at the decaying opulence and rotting corpses around them with distaste. "And I certainly have no interest in assuming the title of 'lord.' From my observations, Baldur's Gate's nobility are almost entirely disgusting creatures with more time and money than sense or decency."

"No argument there," Shadowheart said with a wry smile. "Though I'm not sure the aristocracy of any city fares much better under scrutiny."

Gale cleared his throat, stepping between them with that maddeningly reasonable expression he wore when about to point out something obvious. "While I appreciate the sentiment, I feel compelled to mention that driving something out typically requires knowing what that something is first."

Astarion threw his hands up. "And how are we supposed to figure that out? It's apparently nothing our divine expert—" he gestured at Shadowheart "—can identify, nor does our resident arcane genius—" he moved his hand toward Gale "—seem to have concrete answers."

The frustration bubbling inside him felt uncomfortably similar to the panic he'd experienced facing Cazador's specter yesterday. He'd thought himself free of this place, of everything it represented. Yet here he was, trapped by bureaucracy and haunted by... something.

"What's left, then?" he demanded. "Do we hire an exorcist? Burn the place down? I'm open to suggestions, particularly destructive ones."

Shadowheart tilted her head, a thoughtful look spreading across her face. She tapped her fingers against her armor, considering.

"Actually," she said slowly, "I may know someone who could help."

Astarion crossed his arms, impatience building as he watched Shadowheart's cryptic little smile. "Well? Are you going to enlighten us about this mysterious someone, or shall we stand here exchanging vague pleasantries all day?"

"Someone who specializes in unusual situations," Shadowheart replied with maddening opacity. "That's all I'll say for now. I need to speak with her first."

"Her?" Astarion pounced on the only concrete detail she'd offered. "A name might be useful."

Shadowheart gathered her cloak around her shoulders. "When I've confirmed she's available and willing. No point getting your hopes up prematurely."

"How thoughtful of you," Astarion drawled. "Always concerned with my emotional wellbeing."

"Always," Shadowheart agreed with a sardonic smile. She turned toward the entrance. "I'll send word when I have news."

Astarion watched her go, resisting the childish urge to mimic her parting words under his breath. The moment the massive doors closed behind her, he turned to Gale with an exaggerated grimace.

"That woman," he huffed, pacing across the filthy floor. "Would it kill her to give a straight answer? 'Someone who specializes in unusual situations,'" he mimicked, raising his pitch. "How perfectly unhelpful."

Gale leaned against a dust-covered table, eyes twinkling with amusement. "You know, for someone who spent two centuries being professionally mysterious, you've got remarkably little patience for it in others."

"That's entirely different," Astarion protested. "I was mysterious for survival. She's mysterious because she enjoys tormenting me."

"A worthy pursuit," Gale said solemnly, though his lips twitched with suppressed laughter.

Astarion narrowed his eyes. "Whose side are you on?"

"Yours, of course." Gale pushed off from the table and approached him. "Always yours. Even when you're being unreasonable."

"I'm never unreasonable," Astarion said, knowing full well that he was being precisely that. "I just don't see why everything must be so complicated."

Gale brushed a cobweb from Astarion's shoulder. "The complexity of life is what makes it interesting."

"Says the wizard who gets aroused by incomprehensible magical theories."

"Only the elegant ones," Gale corrected with a grin.

Astarion's irritation began to dissolve despite his best efforts to cling to it. He gestured at the decomposing bodies scattered around the ballroom. "Speaking of complexity, how in the hells are we supposed to get all this... mess out of here? We can hardly show the place with rotting corpses as its primary decorative feature."

To his surprise, Gale's face lit up. "Actually, I have found a solution for that particular problem." He pulled a small copper wire from his component pouch, twisting it between his fingers. "I've been working with several promising students at Blackstaff."

Gale muttered an incantation, the wire glowing briefly between his fingers. "Nikka, we're at the Szarr Palace, and we're ready when you are."

A moment later, a shimmering portal opened in the middle of the ballroom. Through it stepped a young halfling woman with spectacles perched on her nose and her hair pulled back in a practical bun. She wore the gray robes of a Blackstaff apprentice and carried a satchel that clinked with various implements.

"Master Dekarios!" she exclaimed, then froze as she took in their surroundings. Her eyes widened at the scene of carnage, but she quickly schooled her expression.

"This is Nikka Brighthand," Gale said. "A student in search of extra credit. Nikka, this is—"

"Astarion Ancunín," she said, her voice admirably steady despite her obvious shock. "The vampire spawn hero from the Mind Flayer crisis."

Astarion cleared his throat and offered a theatrical bow. "Yes, that's me. Astarion Ancunín, heroic vampire, savior of Baldur's Gate, and now—" he gestured expansively at the decay and destruction around them, "—proud owner of all... this."

The halfling woman adjusted her spectacles, utterly unimpressed by his sarcasm. She simply nodded and turned to examine the nearest corpse with clinical detachment.

"Nikka is one of Blackstaff Tower's most promising students of practical applications," Gale explained. "She's agreed to help us with our little... sanitation problem in exchange for help with her illusion work."

"I've designed an efficient system," Nikka said, already pulling implements from her satchel. "With your permission, I'll go through each room and essentially magically shovel all the remains into a portable hole." She held up a small black piece of cloth that seemed to swallow the light around it. "I'll use prestidigitation to handle the, um, more persistent stains."

Astarion wrinkled his nose. "Squiggly smears, you mean."

"Precisely," she agreed without flinching.

Gale placed a hand on Astarion's shoulder. "Nikka has kindly offered to do this, but we'll need to supervise her work. For safety reasons."

"Supervision?" Astarion frowned. "Sounds dreadfully dull. Watching someone else clean?"

"We can conduct our inventory while we accompany her," Gale said. "And ensure that whatever is happening in the house doesn't end up... well..."

"Eating our magical cleaning service?" Astarion finished for him.

Nikka looked up from her preparations, apparently unbothered by this implication. "I've faced worse in practical exams. Professor Oroluhn once had us clean a laboratory after a failed experiment with oozes." She shrugged. "I still have all my fingers."

Astarion found himself smiling genuinely for the first time since entering the palace. "Is that the standard for success at Blackstaff Tower? Retaining all your digits?"

"For first-years," Nikka replied without missing a beat. "By third year, we're expected to keep all major limbs."

Astarion laughed, a sharp and unexpected sound that echoed through the ballroom. He looked at Gale with raised eyebrows. "I like this one. She might actually survive this place."

"High praise indeed," Gale said with a smile.

Astarion watched with morbid fascination as Nikka unfolded the portable hole with a practiced flick of her wrists. The black disc lay against the parquet floor like an absence rather than an object, a void waiting to be filled. The halfling produced a simple wooden staff that began to glow at one end, then gestured toward the nearest werewolf corpse.

The cadaver slid across the floor as if pulled by invisible strings, tipping headfirst into the hole with a soft thump that seemed impossibly small for the size of the body. Astarion had expected more... squelching.

"Impressive," he admitted, leaning against a relatively clean section of wall. "Usually getting rid of bodies is much more labor-intensive."

Nikka didn't even look up from her work. "I imagine you would know."

Gale choked back a laugh, hastily turning it into a cough when Astarion shot him a glare.

"Shall we continue the inventory while Nikka works?" Gale suggested, pulling a sheaf of papers from his pack. "Just call out anything that looks valuable or interesting."

Astarion sighed dramatically but pushed off the wall. "Fine. Let's see what horrors await in Cazador's little museum of misery."

Room by room, they progressed through the main floor. Gale checking items against some list, Astarion calling out pieces that looked valuable enough to sell, and Nikka following behind like some sort of macabre housemaid—summoning corpses into her portable hole and scouring away bloodstains with efficient flicks of her hands.

To Astarion's surprise, the house didn't interfere. In fact, as they entered the grand dining hall, several chairs seemed to shift aside of their own accord, allowing Nikka easier access to a partially decomposed thrall slumped beneath the table.

"Did you see that?" Astarion hissed to Gale.

"The chairs? Yes. Fascinating," Gale said, already scribbling notes. "The entity seems to be... helping?"

"Or it simply doesn't like rotting corpses in its dining room," Astarion muttered. "At least we share one preference."

As they moved through the east wing, the pattern continued. Doors that had been stuck swung open at their approach. Furniture rearranged itself slightly to clear paths. Once, when Nikka stumbled over an unseen obstacle, a wall sconce briefly brightened, illuminating the hazard.

"Whatever haunts this place must have standards," Astarion observed after a particularly dramatic example where a heavy sideboard had slid two feet to reveal a hidden cache of putrid rats. "It apparently draws the line at festering cadavers."

When they finally approached the staircase leading to the attics, however, the atmosphere shifted. The temperature dropped sharply. The door at the top slammed shut with an emphatic bang.

Gale raised his hand toward the door, murmuring an incantation—only to have every light in the hallway simultaneously dim to near darkness.

"I believe," he said dryly, "that was a 'no.'"

Nikka sagged against the wall, looking exhausted. "I'm out of spell slots anyway. That last batch of thralls in the servants' quarters took everything I had."

Astarion glanced at Gale's enchanted timepiece. "Past midnight already? No wonder our little halfling is fading."

"Tomorrow, then?" Gale suggested.

"Tomorrow," Astarion agreed, eyeing the firmly closed attic door with suspicion. "Perhaps our resident not-a-ghost will be more amenable after a good day's rest."

Astarion watched Nikka fold her portable hole with practiced precision, tucking the seemingly impossible void into her satchel. The halfling's shoulders drooped with exhaustion, and even in the dim light, he could see the dark circles forming under her eyes. Magic always took its toll, especially the practical kind.

"You've done admirably well," he told her, surprised by his own sincerity. "For a student."

"High praise from someone who's lived two centuries," she replied, stifling a yawn.

"Don't get used to it," Astarion said with a smirk. "I'm notoriously difficult to impress."

Gale helped the halfling gather her remaining implements. "We'll send for you tomorrow evening, if that suits? Perhaps start with the lower floors this time."

"Perfect," Nikka said, securing her satchel. "I'll bring extra components. This place requires... more than the standard cleaning spells."

After Gale opened a portal to return Nikka to Blackstaff Tower, Astarion found himself lingering in the entrance hall, gazing down the sweeping staircase. The palace felt different now—less oppressive, somehow. Whether that was due to the removal of decomposing flesh or some shift in the building's mood, he couldn't say.

"Shall we?" Gale extended his hand, and Astarion took it without hesitation.

The night air hit Astarion's face like a blessing as they stepped outside. He breathed deeply, savoring the scents of the city—not exactly pleasant, but infinitely better than the lingering miasma of death they'd spent hours wading through. The stars twinkled overhead, familiar and unchanged despite the tumult of his existence.

"You know what I need?" he announced as they descended toward the Lower City. "Wine. Lots of it. And to watch you eat something in a setting that isn't surrounded by corpses."

Gale laughed, the sound warming something in Astarion's chest. "That can certainly be arranged. The Elfsong's kitchens should be empty by now."

The tavern was still lively when they arrived, with late-night revelers clustered around tables and a bard in the corner massacring what might generously be called a ballad. Astarion caught the eye of the innkeeper, who nodded discreetly. Their arrangement—generous payment for after-hours access to the kitchen—was well established from previous visits.

While Gale rummaged through the pantry, Astarion slipped down to the wine cellar. The lock was barely worth the name; he had it open in seconds. Running his fingers along the dusty bottles, he selected three promising candidates. A rich red from Amn, a pale white from the Moonshae Isles, and—his personal favorite—a blood-red dessert wine from Waterdeep.

When he returned to the kitchen, Gale had already started cooking, his sleeves rolled up as he chopped vegetables with surprising dexterity for a man whose talents lay primarily in blowing things up.

"Wine for the chef," Astarion announced, setting the bottles on the counter and uncorking the white. "Something light while you work?"

Gale accepted the glass with a smile. "Perfect."

Astarion moved behind him, wrapping his arms around Gale's waist and resting his chin on the wizard's shoulder. "What culinary masterpiece are you creating tonight?"

"Nothing fancy," Gale said, leaning back into him slightly. "Just a simple pasta with herbs and a nice-looking cheese."

"Sounds delicious." Astarion pressed his lips to Gale's neck, just below his ear. "You're utterly wasted on me, you know. A wizard who cooks his own meals when he has a vampire companion who can't eat them."

"Not wasted at all," Gale replied, his voice growing slightly unsteady as Astarion's hands began to wander. "I enjoy cooking. And I enjoy you watching me eat even more."

"Is that so?" Astarion murmured, nipping gently at Gale's earlobe. "Then I should ensure tonight's meal is particularly... memorable."

Astarion settled back, content to engage in light flirting while Gale cooked. He poured himself a glass of the blood-red dessert wine, swirling the liquid under his nose, inhaling the rich aroma. His eyes never left Gale, tracking every movement as the wizard efficiently chopped herbs and tossed pasta in a boiling pot.

Once the meal was ready, Gale dished out a generous serving and sat down at the staff's kitchen table. Astarion refilled Gale's glass and joined him, propping his chin on his hand as he watched Gale eat with genuine enthusiasm. The simple domesticity of the moment was strangely comforting, a stark contrast to the horrors of the palace.

As Gale finished his meal, Astarion's gaze grew more intent. He reached out, tracing a finger along Gale's jawline. "You have a bit of sauce..." he murmured, leaning in to lick the corner of Gale's mouth.

Gale chuckled, trying to pull away half-heartedly. "Astarion, not here—"

But Astarion was already sliding under the table, his hands deftly working at Gale's belt. "Shh," he hushed, tugging Gale's pants down to his ankles. "No one's around to see."

Gale's protests were weak, his breath already hitching as Astarion's cool fingers brushed against his thighs. "Astarion, this is... public indecency..."

Astarion grinned, his fangs grazing the sensitive skin of Gale's inner thigh. "Then you should be quiet, shouldn't you?"

He didn't wait for a response. With a swift, practiced motion, he sank his fangs into Gale's thigh. Gale's breath caught, his hands gripping the edge of the table as Astarion drew deeply, the rich taste of Gale's blood flooding his senses. He knew the effect this would have; Gale's body tensed, his arousal immediate and intense.

Astarion took his time, savoring the moment before withdrawing his fangs and licking the wound closed. He looked up at Gale, his eyes gleaming with mischief and desire. "Now, where were we?"

Gale's voice was unsteady, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Astarion, we can't... not here..."

"Really no or only play no?"

Gale bit his lip and flicked his eyes from the swinging door—was all that was between them and the bustling bar—to Astarion, nuzzling at his erection.  "Yes, dammit."

Astarion smirked up at Gale, who rolled his eyes first in annoyance and then back into his head as Astarion took him into his mouth. Gale's play protests dissolved into incoherent murmurs, his body trembling with each skilled motion of Astarion's tongue. The kitchen filled with the sounds of Gale's pleasure, his half-hearted attempts to chide Astarion fading into desperate moans.

Astarion reveled in the sensation, the power of bringing Gale to the edge. He used every trick he knew, every intimate knowledge of Gale's body to drive him wild. Gale's hands found their way into Astarion's hair, gripping tightly as his hips moved in rhythm with Astarion's ministrations.

"Astarion... you're going to get us arrested..." Gale managed to gasp out, even as his body betrayed his words, pushing deeper into Astarion's mouth.

Astarion hummed in response, the vibration sending a shiver through Gale. He redoubled his efforts, determined to make Gale come undone completely. The sounds of Gale's pleasure were all the encouragement he needed, the taste of him, the feel of him—it was intoxicating.

Gale's protests were long forgotten, his body tensing as Astarion relaxed his throat and swallowed him down to the root.  Gale buried his fingers in Astarion's hair and rocked his hips, fucking Astarion's mouth slowly. The kitchen was filled with the sounds of Gale's moans and Astarion's encouraging hums, the clink of glasses and the distant hum of the tavern fading into the background. There was only this moment, only the two of them, lost in each other.

Astarion felt Gale's body tense, the telltale sign that he was close. He didn't let up, his movements becoming more insistent, more demanding. Gale's grip on his hair tightened, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps as he thrust faster.

"Astarion... I can't..." Gale's voice was a ragged whisper, his body trembling on the edge of release.

Astarion knew he had him. With a final, skilled swirl and suck, he pushed Gale over the edge, the wizard's cries of pleasure filling the kitchen as he came undone in Astarion's mouth. Astarion drank it all in, the taste of Gale's release, the sound of his ecstasy, the feel of his body shaking with the force of it.

As Gale's body slowly relaxed, Astarion gently released him, looking up with a satisfied grin. Gale looked down at him, his eyes glazed with pleasure, his breath still coming in ragged gasps.

"You're insane," Gale murmured, his voice hoarse.

Astarion chuckled, climbing out from under the table and settling back into his chair. "And you love it."

Gale shook his head, a weak laugh escaping his lips. "Only you could make me forget where we are..."

Astarion leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Gale's lips. "That's the point, my love. To make you forget everything but this."

Gale's eyes softened, his hand reaching up to cup Astarion's cheek. "You're impossible."

Astarion smiled, his thumb brushing gently against Gale's lips. "And yet, here you are. With me."

Astarion savored the dazed look on Gale's face, feeling smug satisfaction at having reduced the articulate wizard to incoherent mumbling. He always took pride in his ability to shatter Gale's composure, to make that brilliant mind go completely blank with pleasure.

"We should..." Gale gestured vaguely at his disheveled state, still struggling to form complete sentences.

"Yes, we should get you decent before someone walks in and gets an eyeful." Astarion slid back under the table and tugged Gale's pants up, fastening them with deft fingers. "Though the look on their face might be worth it."

Gale swatted his hands away. "You're incorrigible."

"You weren't complaining a minute ago." Astarion rose to his feet and offered Gale his hand. "Come on, let's get you to bed before you collapse. You've had quite an evening."

Gale accepted the help, his legs still unsteady. "Between the house and the... other activities, I'm thoroughly spent."

They gathered their belongings, Astarion making sure to bring the unopened bottle of red wine. No sense leaving perfectly good vintage behind.

The tavern had quieted somewhat, though a few determined drinkers still lingered. The bard had thankfully concluded his musical assault on the patrons' ears. Astarion guided Gale through the common room with a protective arm around his waist, shooting a warning glare at anyone who looked their way for too long.

The stairs proved challenging. Gale stumbled on the third step, and Astarion caught him with a laugh. "Careful, my love. I want you in one piece."

"Your fault entirely," Gale mumbled against his shoulder. "You've drained me in more ways than one."

They half-staggered, half-danced their way up to their room, bumping into walls and stifling laughter like drunken youths. Astarion fumbled with the key, distracted by Gale's lips on his neck.

Finally, the door swung open. They tumbled inside, Astarion kicking it shut behind them. The wine bottle dropped forgotten to the floor as Gale pulled him close, their bodies pressing together with familiar hunger.

Astarion backed Gale toward the bed, his hands already working at the fastenings of the wizard's robes. They fell onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothing, mouths seeking each other in the darkness.

[crenarei]

Blissful Imperfection

Pairing: Astarion x Tav (Entropy)

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Length: 2,024

Tags: Blood Drinking, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Named Tav, Warlock Tav, Non-Binary Tav, First Time (Drinking People Blood), Astarion has 10 charisma

“You knew? You knew I was a vampire and you didn’t say anything?”

They shrugged, “I didn’t think it was important.”

“You didn’t think a vampire spawn in your camp was important,” he repeated.

It was typical that, when gifted the joy of feeling the sun on his skin after 200 years of miserable darkness, Astarion’s new companions would see fit to bring him into the Underdark. The dim glow of fungi glistening with luminescent spores was the only break in the darkness that engulfed them.

Well, that and the campfire that had burned itself into gently simmering embers, a blanket of warmth radiating over sleeping bodies. They slept soundly, as if there was no monster within their midst.

Astarion felt the tell-tale ache in his muscles. It was as if he was coming down with a body flu, but instead of flushed cheeks and sweat, it was a cold, dry pain. His teeth ached. It felt like his gums were pulling back, growing his incisors from the gum line up, reminding him he had perfectly good little weapons to ease his affliction.

It turns out the Underdark was not an easy place for a vampire to acquire blood.

There were only great expanses of caves, so tall and wide no creature could ever see the entire vacant mass of them. He had wished for a single, living soul to stumble across their path earlier that day. Then they’d been attacked by Minotaurs made of made of hulking muscle and had barely escaped alive. When had wishing for anything ever worked out in his favour?

Heading out of camp was more likely to leave him grievously wounded than sated. If he was really lucky he might be able to find a rat. Even the thought of them made him stiffen, bile rising in his throat. There was no point in his freedom if he continued to act as if he were in Cazador’s grasp.

The larger beasts on the surface were better than anything he’d had before; he’d almost felt full for the first time in his life gorged on the blood of a pig. Rats were for dungeons. Rats were for suffering. Rats were for barely staying alive.

His eyes darted to the sleeping figures of his campmates. They were the safest they’d been in days after befriending monstrous, mushroom creatures that offered them some security from the depths of the Underdark. The clueless group didn’t realise they’d never be safe with him around.

First, thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures.

Cazador had four rules for his vampire spawn, and Astarion had broken all but one. A chill swept across his chest, at the idea of breaking the last rule placed upon him. He’d like to think he was experiencing exhilaration, but even he wasn’t so good of a liar to make that feel truthful.

He had not broken Cazador’s rules, they had been broken for him. He grasped his newfound freedom tightly, as if he might have some claim of it, some claim over his life. Truthfully, his freedom had nothing to do with him. It was a precarious, delicate thing handed over by a disgusting parasite.

Feeding on one of his newfound allies… he could make that choice.

He could claim to be hungry and desperate - he was hungry and desperate. He had been hungrier than this, yet he felt less in control of his urges than he had ever been. He could rip out their throats, gorge on their blood, and they might not even be able to stop him. They could all die before they even awoke.

Of course, he wasn’t a filthy, uncontrolled animal. It was worthwhile keeping these people around while he got his bearings. He could abandon them to their heroism when they had fulfilled their usefulness. He wouldn’t kill anyone yet, but a taste?

Renewed with a sense of purpose Astarion considered who would be the safest choice. Wyll looked positively delicious, but a monster hunter wasn’t likely to show mercy. Karlach was out - he didn’t fancy molten blood. Shadowheart and Lae’zel may well kill him in their sleep. Gale was an interesting option, but who knows what that thing in his chest was doing to the rest of his body. That left their dear leader, Entropy.

Entropy wasn’t an easy target. A strange, dusky purple tiefling, they had a disturbed, supernatural energy to them. Astarion didn't know much about warlock magic, but Wyll seemed normal in comparison. Still, there was kindness in them that could be exploitable.

Astarion was a shadow as he approached, lit only by the fading embers of the fire and the glow of spores far above. The perfect predator.

He could feel saliva flood his mouth as he caught a glance of their soft neck. Crouched above them, mouth open, his fangs on full show, he was so close to the meal of a lifetime.

He brushed against Entropy’s shadow. He could feel it, dense, as if it held weight. Something was wrong with it. It reacted like a frightened animal, darting into Entropy’s skin.

Their eyes snapped open.

“Shit.”

They didn’t move. Instead, their black eyes stared up at him blankly. A small frown creased their eyebrows, and their nose wrinkled up into a picture of disgust.

“No, this wasn’t what it looked like, I swear!”

Of course, the weird warlock would have some strange magic shit up its sleeve. He hadn’t thought Entropy would be paranoid enough to lay traps while sleeping.

If he’d been wrong about this, was he also wrong in thinking they wouldn’t hurt him?

“You weren’t about to bite me?” Their tone was soft, as if speaking to a wild animal about to flee.

“Well, yes, but I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed, well, blood.”

Entropy blinked and slowly sat up to a crossed-leg position in front of him. He was tense, poised to escape if they stood up to attack.

“That would have been easier if you made me aware beforehand.”

“Made you aware?” He replied incredulously. “You wanted me to ask? You don’t just tell people you’re a monster!”

“Not usually, but if you were trying to hide your vampirism, might I suggest being more subtle?” Entropy rose from the ground, stepping towards him. He stepped back.

“I was being subtle before your weird shadow ratted me out. You’d have never known.”

Entropy let out a small snort, tilting their head to the side. His eyes fixated on the unobstructed view of their neck.

“You were never subtle. I’ve been aware of your… affliction since the second blood-drained boor we found near our camp.”

The saliva in his mouth dried up instantly.

“You knew? You knew I was a vampire and you didn’t say anything?”

They shrugged, “I didn’t think it was important.”

“You didn’t think a vampire spawn in your camp was important,” he repeated.

“I have no issues with monsters as long as they aren’t attacking me.” They paused, considering. “Of course, you have tried to attack me.”

They went silent, mulling over their next move. Astarion almost expected them to drive a stake through his heart. No sane person would allow a vampire who tried to bite them to walk away unscathed. Of course, no sane person would allow a vampire to hang around their group of tasty blood bags. Gods, he was hungry.

“I agree.” They finally responded.

“You… agree?”

“Yes, you can drink from me.”

Astarion blinked, narrowly preventing himself from rearing back with more obvious surprise. If they could read him so easily he needed to try harder to keep them out of his head. Smoothing his face into the picture of passivity he briefly wondered what they were getting out of this. A fetish? Some strange warlock thing? Maybe they wanted him to owe them. At this point, he’d pay that price.

“Let’s make ourselves more comfortable, shall we?” His face plastered with a seductive smile.

Entropy sat back down on their bedroll. They tucked their wavy, black hair behind their ear, and tilted their head to the side for easy access to their neck. Astarion had never seen such an appetising gesture. Their face was smooth; the only sense they were even slightly uncomfortable was the release of a tense puff of breath as he moved closer.

Astarion knelt on their bedroll with them. He places his arms on their shoulders, securing them in place. They were softer than he expected, weaker. He leaned his head down, lips barely brushing against their neck. He could feel the warmth rising from their skin, the strong beat of their heart pumping blood just under the surface.

“I’ll be gentle.”

“Lia-” Entropy’s response cut into a startled groan as Astarion sank his teeth into them.

Rich, warm blood hit his tongue. He was a man offered a feast after 200 years of starvation. It was absolute decadence. His awareness shifted dreamily, the dark, the damp, the desperation; it was all replaced with the splendour of blood.

His fingers gripped deeply into Entropy’s shoulders, nails leaving moon-print marks in their purple skin. They were lying on their back now, Astarion’s arms boxing them in as his mouth latched to their throat.

Astarion felt a heartbeat flowing through his body for the first time in 200 years. He was alive.

The fog blanket that typically shrouded his mind melted away, replaced with the overwhelming sensation of joy.

Blood pooled against his tongue as it ran down his throat. Mouthfuls and mouthfuls. More than he could contain. He cursed himself for allowing a small amount to dribble out of the corner of his mouth. What a waste.

He wanted to be immersed in it. To crawl inside their neck, bury himself beneath their skin, and be enveloped in the vitality of their blood forever.

A weak voice entered his consciousness. He couldn’t make out what it was saying against the roaring sound of fresh blood pulsing through his veins. It was an annoyance. He tightened his grip on his prey.

The voice came again, more urgent this time. It cut through like a sharp ray of sunshine. Entropy. They were lying flat on their back, hands balled up in his shirt. He was unsure if they were trying to push him away or pull him closer. Their breath was shallower than it should be.

Releasing Entropy took more effort than Astarion would have liked to admit. Every instinct was insisting he dig his teeth in further, rip their throat out and leave them a dried husk. It would be their fault for allowing a vampire’s bite. However, he was interested to see how far their kind heart could take him. How much would they be willing to give?

He released them.

“That… that was amazing,” slipped from his mouth.

Entropy’s robes were hanging off them, hair dishevelled, eyes dilated, breathing hard. An image of them in a similar state after a different activity flashed into his mind. If this was how they reacted to him now, perhaps there would be an opportunity there.

He noticed then, that he was in a similar state. A reflection of his thoughts echoed in Entropy’s eyes. He could have them right then, he was certain of it. Secure their allegiance.

Not now. Entropy had always had an unsettling presence around them, but at that moment they were mirrors of each other. He didn’t want them to see too much, and there was no need to repay this tonight.

“My mind is finally clear, I feel strong, I feel… happy.” As he said the words he realised them to be true. He was light for the first time he could remember; he was reborn.

Entropy’s eyes crinkled into a weak smile, their back straightened, the longing in their face replaced by a gentle calmness. If he hadn’t watched them do it, he would have thought the intensity he’d seen moments ago never existed.

“I’m glad you’re happy.”

The words sounded genuine. He paused unsure, before uttering a farewell and turning to put some space between them. There was more to their little leader than he’d thought. Something horrifically similar to affection stirred in his chest, but he could easily pass it off as his dead heart beating strongly for the first time.

[ghostkingart]

WIP Whenever

still have a bunch to figure out for this AU but I wrote this in the past half hour so have it fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 pairing: Astarion x Valeriy (not originally a DND/BG3 OC so the lore will get wonky, sorry) AU explanation: the nautiloid abduction didn't happen, Astarion is bound to Cazador; he received the task of luring Valeriy in for his master words: 385

“Once again you return to me empty-handed. I am not a patient man, and you know this.” Cazador’s voice was a low hum, calm and, paradoxically, patient-sounding, even though Astarion knew that patience was the last thing on his master’s mind.

“Perhaps if you had informed me that this target would be more difficult to woo than your usual tavern-goer, I would have been more successful.”

Cazador narrowed his eyes at Astarion. Could it be… That he didn’t know?

“The man is blind,” Astarion explained.

Cazador hummed in thought. “How intriguing. In any case, I cannot tell you what I myself don’t know, love. Besides, I don’t see how it makes a difference.”

“It makes all the difference! How do  you expect me to seduce someone who is physically incapable of appreciating my beauty?”

“Don’t sell yourself too short,” Cazador said dismissively. “It’s true, your looks are your biggest asset, but you do have other charms about you. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“Find someone else,” Astarion spat.

Cazador didn’t need to do anything, not to make any sudden movement to sow fear into Astarion. His piercing glare was quite enough. “Watch your tone,” he said in the same monotonous, chilling tone.

Astarion bowed his head.

“Sit down,” Cazador said. Astarion was overwhelmed with the familiar sensation of losing his free will as he walked forward involuntarily. He sat beside Cazador. Seemingly out of nothing but boredom, he laced his fingers in Astarion’s hair and wove through his curls in a mindless, almost tender motion. It might have even been pleasant even if it wasn’t him.

“I suppose it is a bit of an unusually challenging task. Alright. I will concede and allow you more time than usual to bring him in.”

Astarion’s shoulders relaxed.

“But,” Cazador continued.

Astarion had allowed himself to feel relieved too soon. Of course there was a but. Nothing was ever simple with this man.

“If I do not have Valeriy Aksamit in my possession within a fortnight, you’ll find yourself in that dungeon for another year. Do we have a deal?”

The deal was a rather shitty one, but it wasn’t like Astarion had any other choice. “Yes,” he said.

Cazador gently rested his hand on top of Astarion’s head, like one would to a pet. “Good,” he said sweetly.

[razrogue]

WIP Whenever (since I forgot to post yesterday lol)

Tagged by @mightymizora and @omgkalyppso (thanks y'all! 🧡)

Have a snippet of a post-canon Gan & Astarion fic I'm working on:

The platform came to a halt after a few moments and Astarion drew his robe a little tighter across him at the slight chill in the air. He began to walk the hall, passing the few empty cells of their dungeon. It was nothing like Cazador's, only made for instances of brief encounters and a snack or two, with the exception of two rooms. Both were personal areas just for them, rooms they were free to do as they please, no judgment and neither partner could enter if they deemed it so. His room was for more carnal delights, a place to enjoy a person or three, that would never see the light of day again. He'd made one of their trusted spawn in that room after a particularly hedonistic evening with them. But her room? It was practically sterile in comparison.

No obligation tagging: @eeldritchblast @the-eldritch-it-gay @we-staybhaalin @bhaalbaaby @grandmother-goblin and YOU!!!

[skolas-aprilia]

Her eyes find an all-too-familiar face across the ballroom - an aged elven lord in decadent robes, scowling and scrutinizing everything before him like always. It was none other than her uncle, her cruel uncle, Daraven Arvelthian. A chill runs up her spine as his gaze meets hers, and she breaks the eye contact before he could realize who she is, only for her to bump into another man. Another familiar presence, perhaps slightly more welcoming. "Astarion-!" Astarion pulls her closer to him, an arm encircling her waist. "You look worried, darling," he smiles mockingly, though there is a tinge of sympathy there, in his eyes. "Haven't I promised I'd help you deal with him?" Elora lets out a bated breath. "I-I know...," she looks down to the marble floor, pursing her lips. She meets him in the eyes again and his gaze softens. Perhaps there is still a heart within him indeed. "I'm just... not sure I'm ready to face him." He gives her a soft smile, with more gentleness than ever before. "Relax, my dear. I'm sure you will, in time. You helped me face Cazador, after all," he tilts her chin up. "You know that is different," she protests. "Is it?" She sighs in defeat. "Very well," she places a hand on his chest. There is no heartbeat there, and yet she feels as if warmth is radiating from him. Astarion smiles again. "Now let's just enjoy the gala, shall we? The Volta is coming up next, and I would hate to miss it." She cannot help but let out a chuckle. "You really do miss dancing, don't you?" "Clever little bird," he grins, his fangs glinting beneath the chandelier light. "Indulge me, will you?" "Gladly." ------------- A bit of a.. happy ending what-if to my high elf bard PC, Elora Arvelthian (Elora Argyre in original setting), romancing Astarion in Baldur's Gate 3 :")) I'm not sure we'll get to cure him of his vampirism but ya know... I really hope we do get to kill Cazador and well, lead Astarion down a better path. Was previously posted in @cantessa-nea Astarion (c) Larian Studios Baldur's Gate 3 (c) Larian Studios, Wizards of the Coast Forgotten Realms (c) Wizards of the Coast Dungeons and Dragons, 5th Edition (c) Wizards of the Coast

[blackjackkent]

The werewolf fight was not at all challenging, but did remind me of how much I don't enjoy the fight with Cazador coming up. I don't imagine Rakha's going to have as difficult a time with it as Hector did, given she's on easy mode and has two extra people with her, but the whole thing is just a massive pain and I'm way more interested in all the drama that's going to come afterwards. :P

So - a quick short rest and glance around Cazador's office and then we're off to the dungeons.

Rakha didn't like it upstairs much but the dungeon area feels ten times worse. The chill and damp have gone from uncomfortable to oppressive, and the smell of blood is weaker but more ingrained into the very stone.

Side doors lead out onto ominous black abysses with ragged stone walls, hung with (mostly) empty cages.

Astarion and Wyll have a little banter here which is, under the circumstances, rather funny:

"He's in the next room, in fact."

There's really not a ton to find in this area. There's some lore documents in Cazador's bedroom, of course - most of which just reflect his increasing influence in the city and increasing agitation over Astarion's disappearance.

My favorite part was that Boo stopped on this pillow and filled me with joy.

And, as we approach the prisoner conversations coming in the next post, Wyll continues sticking his foot in his mouth for no apparent reason:

I'm going to chalk this up to everyone being terribly on edge in this place, but also Wyll, buddy, please... read the room. XD

[blackjackkent]

Had Hector check out that weird door that Jaheira couldn't get through and it just leads to a passageway to the sewers. Not super clear on what you would do if you came into the palace from that direction because there doesn't seem to be a way to get back up once you're down there, but luckily that doesn't have to be my problem today. XD

Onward to the last door in the dungeons!

More doors!

The doors on the left and right appear to be jail cells; the left is full of children and the right some adults. I think these might be the captured Gur that we promised to try and rescue. The door straight ahead leads to a very large room that looks plot-important so we'll go there last.

Narrator: Approaching the cells, you're met by hollow-eyed faces. There's an almost physical stink of decay and neglect.

"Gods..." Hector mutters. "These poor people..." How long have they been down here? And what's been done to them? He has a sudden sinking feeling that he may not be able to fulfill his promise to the Gur after all; those red eyes say all too much.

"Oh, they're disgusting," Astarion mutters, wrinkling his nose as they approach. "Cazador never fed on wretches like this. How did they get here? What is Cazador doing with them? My brethren spoke nothing of this..."

One of the men in the cell looks sharply towards them as Astarion speaks. Then he steps against the barrier, and those glowing red eyes burn with pain.

"You. I know you..." the man groans hoarsely. "You're the one from the tavern. You smiled... and joked... and got me drunk..."

Astarion goes completely still and his eyes go wide. Hector is sure that, were it possible, he would go even paler than he already is. "You..." he whispers. All the disdain has vanished for a moment; he looks shocked to his core. "No." He takes a step backwards. "You're dead."

"You called me... so many sweet things..." the man says. "My name sounded like a lyric on your tongue..."

"Sebastian..." Astarion answers, and it's as if the word is wrung from him without his consent.

The thrall's eyebrows lift. "You remember me..."

"You were handsome," Astarion says haltingly. "Shy. You'd never been kissed..."

"You taught me how," the thrall says bitterly. "And then you destroyed me."

On the last word, without warning, he surges forward with a roar, shoves an arm through the bars of the door, reaching out to try and grab Astarion, to strike him.

But he can't reach, and slumps against the door, falling to his knees.

"It can't be..." Astarion whispers unsteadily.

(A/N: INCREDIBLY SAD HECTOR FACE happened here. :( )

Hector is feeling a little ill listening to this all play out. The abject cruelty shown by Cazador, the terrible pantomimes Astarion was forced to play out-- the bewildered grief and anger on his companion's face which so often shows such a carefully constructed shell of disdain...

One would think I would be more used, by now, to the terrible things people with power do to those who lack it. I have seen it so much in this city, and among the Absolutists... but every time it feels worse than the last, not better...

"Who is he?" he asks Astarion softly.

Astarion swallows. "It's not just him," he says. His voice is unsteady, just on the edge of trembling. "I know so many of these faces. They're... my conquests. I pursued them, seduced them, then brought them to Cazador. He told us he was feeding on them."

His fists clench at his sides. "But he turned them to spawn," he hisses. "He turned very last one so he'd have souls for this cursed ritual!"

Hector's eyes widen as he looks around, taking in all the faces of these poor broken creatures. Oh, gods... A chill runs through him as he remembers the cell full of children behind him.

"How long...?" Sebastian groans out.

Astarion flinches. "What?"

Sebastion stands, very slowly, returning that fixed gaze to Astarion's face. "How long have I been down here?"

It will be a bad answer, Hector is already sure. He feels himself struggle suddenly with the urge to babble out words of reassurance - we'll save you, we'll kill Cazador, we'll end this whole terrible nightmare of a place - but what reassurance can there be, really, to these people whose lives have already been shattered?

Let Astarion answer.

Astarion's eyes drop to the floor. "One hundred and seventy years," he mutters. "You were one of my first."

Sebastian's shoulders slump. "My friends..." he whispers. "My family. They're... all gone..." His glowing eyes narrow. "You took them from me! You took everything from me!" His voice builds to a desperate roar.

Hector draws back a step, puts a hand to the side - not quite touching Astarion's arm but gesturing him back. [PERSUASION] "We'll set you free," he says firmly.

Sebastian's head twitches slightly, a half-shake. "Free?" he says bitterly. "We'll never be free while that monster lives."

"That's why we're here," Astarion says sharply, eager to turn the subject from his past failures to his present hope of success. "To destroy Cazador."

"You can't," Sebastian says despondently. "It's not possible."

"We'll find a way," says Hector.

"And then?" asks Sebastian, rounding on him. "What happens to us?"

The question gives Hector pause for a moment. It's a valid one, really. His instinct is to tell them to run from this place and never look back - but if Astarion is right, they're spawn now just like him. And Astarion feeds on animals, but can such a crowd of people all be depended to maintain such discipline?

"What do you want to happen?" he asks slowly after a short pause.

Sebastian looks at him with a steadiness that does him credit given the length of his torture. "I don't know. I just don't want to die down here. Please... Whatever you do, just do it quickly. I can't go on waiting..."

Astarion is clearly fighting the urge to look away, but he holds the other man's gaze as he answers. "We'll be back. You have my word."