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slothquisitor · 9 months ago

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What Moves in the Dark: Chapter Three

A Post-Campaign Baldur's Gate 3 eldritch horror AU.

Chapter Summary: Liv enlists Astarion's help to solve the mystery of the blood disease. Of course, he's less than thrilled about it.

Read from the beginning.

Also on AO3.

In the days that follow Iona’s death, Liv and Kharis don’t talk much. It’s not that there’s anything wrong between them, but more that there just simply isn’t anything to say. They’re both sorry, they both feel responsible, and they both keep the shop going in their quiet steady way. Liv waits, granting them both time and space, but she watches to see if Kharis ever does what he promised. He never tells anyone about the blood though she does catch him toying with the vials, watching the way the blood branches and reaches.

But Liv has spent far too much of her life waiting and hoping for other people to do the right thing, so she intends to take matters into her own hands.

The night is the same as any other: Kharis bids her goodnight at his usual time, and she goes about closing the shop up for the evening. But when she flips the sign to closed, she leaves the door unlocked. It’s been a tenday since Astarion was here, and she’s expecting him back tonight. She already knows that he’ll be frustrated with her at the lack of progress on his particular problem, but she hopes it won’t matter once she shows him the blood.

She’s out of all other ideas, and he’s one of the heroes who had saved the city from a mind flayer invasion, so the chances he can help her feel pretty high. Still, she’s not exactly looking forward to telling him his problem hasn’t been her priority, and she rehearses the conversation in her head as she works.

About an hour after the sun sets, the bell over the door cheerily announces his arrival. The last time he was here, he was dressed casually, his clothes finely made if a little threadbare. Tonight, he’s dressed in light, expensive-looking armor and armed to the teeth.

“Expecting trouble in my humble shop?” she asks by way of greeting.

“Well hello to you too,” he replies with a hint of admonishment. “Our little meeting is not the only thing on my to-do list for tonight.”

“Oh?”

“I got a job.” There’s a hint of pride as he says it. “It’s murder. Government sanctioned.”

The glee startles an uncomfortable laugh out of her. “Should I be concerned?”

He shakes his head. “There’s some Bhaalists still on the loose. I’ve been contracted to bring them to justice or whatever it is the Fist do these days. I don’t really care. I get to drain them dry and deliver them to the Constable.”

It makes a certain sort of sense. He’s a vampire after all, so he would need to eat. Murder cultists seem like a fairly solid choice. “I was going to ask about your diet, actually, but now I think you’ve answered my question.”

“Well, I do aim to be proactive, darling.” He says, leaning toward her conspiratorily. He claps his hands. “Now, how have you fared this past tenday? Any progress on a cure for my condition?”

Oh, right to it then? Shit. “Unfortunately, no. I haven’t had quite as much time as I would have liked to devote to it-”

His face falls into something that looks like disappointment before very quickly twisting into disdain. “Well, what exactly have you been doing then? This shop can’t get that busy. Honestly, I debated coming back here at all, but you seemed quite capable. Shows me.”

She almost tells him about Iona then and there. Almost tells him that his problem isn’t the only one in the whole damn world, just to smack the contemptuous look off his face. But she doesn’t because she needs his help.

“It’s not that I don’t want to work on your problem, but something more pressing has come up. There’s something I need you to see.” She beckons him into the workroom. She can hear him sputtering a bit behind her, his frustration palpable. But he does follow, so she walks over to the lead-lined safe where Kharis has been keeping the vials of blood.

“This had better be worth my time,” he says, a hand on his hip and still standing in the doorway.

“Remember that blood disease I mentioned?”

“....Yes?”

She pulls the vials from the safe. “I didn’t tell you everything.” She turns and sets the vials down in front of him on the workbench. The blood inside the vials presses up against the glass wall, as if they are desperate to touch, to reach each other.

Astarion’s brow furrows. “What in the hells is that?” he asks, approaching the bench, already bent down to look at the vials more closely.

“Blood I pulled from two separate people.”

He looks up at her, all annoyance and exasperation gone. “I know blood, and it doesn’t do this.”

“The first Kharis pulled from a boy who had died, and the second I pulled a woman just a few days ago,” Liv replies.

“Where’s the woman? What did she have to say?” Astarion asks, carefully shifting the vials around, watching the way the blood branches and reaches for the other.

“She died. We couldn’t help her.”

He looks up at her, there’s understanding in his crimson gaze and something that looks like regret. “I’m sorry.”

“This is why I haven’t made more headway on your problem. Last time you were here, only Alfran had died, but we had several people complaining of the same symptoms. Kharis convinced his mother to let us do an autopsy. When we cut him open, his blood grew out of him. We thought it was a one-off, whatever it was that killed him. But then Iona…”

“You think it’s spreading?”

She’s so relieved to see he understands. “Yes, and I’m hoping you can help me.”

“Help you with what exactly?”

“Help me figure it out…you solved the mind flayer problem, defeated a giant brain…I thought you’d help me with this.”

His answering laugh isn’t comforting. “Darling, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I think you’re misunderstanding my role in all of that.”

Is he really refusing to help? Can’t he see what a big fucking deal this is? “You were part of the group that stopped the mind flayer invasion, right?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“You’re a hero. Isn’t this what you do ?”

He stands there, staring at her as if she’s someone he’s never seen before. “I…it’s not…” he fumbles with a series of beginnings, shifting uncomfortably. “It wasn’t like we just knew what we were doing from the outset…there was a lot of stumbling around.”

She doesn’t see what the problem is. “Okay. Let’s stumble around together then. Something is infecting people’s blood and killing them, and I’m going to try to do something about it. I hoped that you would want to help too.”

“And what about my problem? You agreed to help me first; I gave you my blood.”

Is he being serious right now? “People are dying…right now. You…You’re immortal, right?”

“Well, yes, of course.”

“Great. Then what’s the rush? Look, Astarion, I want to help you, and I will help you. But people are dying, and I need to solve this first. Will you help me or not?”

He’s staring at her with a look of utter disbelief on his face. There’s something here she’s missing, she’s sure of it, but she doesn’t know what that might be. Eventually, he rolls his eyes. “I suppose that if you have my help then you’ll be available to solve my problem sooner.”

Good enough. “Thank you.” She means it. The last few days have felt…heavy. Utterly devoid of hope. They’d taken blood from every other person who had come to see them with similar symptoms to Alfran and Iona, but nothing had been odd about their blood. They had no answers, and she simply kept replaying the night Iona’s sons had brought her in, filtering through what other things they might have tried. Something, anything that might have changed the outcome.

He nods and waves her gratitude away. “So, where do you propose we start?”

Liv picks up a vial and holds it out to him. “Besides all of the…weird movement. Neither Kharis nor I can find something strange about this blood. But you mentioned last time we spoke that you can smell blood. Could you smell this?”

He takes the vial from her hand, grimacing. “It’s not going to…leap out at me the second I take the lid off, is it?”

She shakes her head. “No, it doesn’t move very quickly. But…don’t touch it? And definitely don’t drink it.”

“The thought hadn’t even entered my mind.” He says with disgust as he pulls the lid off the vial, and takes a big whiff of it as if it were a glass of wine and not a vial of weird, moving blood. His face immediately twists in disgust. “Oh, gods, that’s terrible.” He replaces the lid.

“Not like normal blood?”

He hands the vial back to her. “Not at all. It’s…utterly rank. Gods, it…lingers. You really can’t smell anything?”

“No.”

“Ugh.” He gags and begins to pace away from her.

Well, this is at least something. “If you’re going to retch, please do it in the basin.”

He turns and glares at her. “I’m fine.” But he is somehow even paler than before.

“Have you ever encountered blood like this before?” Liv asks.

“Once..but it was different. A drow woman...but even her blood didn’t smell that bad. This is…far worse.” He pauses, suddenly thoughtful. “Except…there was a man a few days ago at the Blade and Stars. He smelled like this…”

“Really?” It’s the closest thing they’ve got to a lead. Maybe if they can find this man, he can tell them where he’s been, what he came into contact with that would have done this. If they can find the source, perhaps she can find a cure. “Do you think we might be able to find him again?”

Astarion looks at her in confusion. “I suppose?”

“We could go see if he’s at The Blade and Stars. Then maybe we could get some more information.”

Astarion sighs and looks less than enthused with the turn his even has taken. “Well, why the hells not?”

***

Astarion is utterly confounded by the woman who walks beside him through the dark streets of the Lower City. He’s still not sure why he agreed to join her little investigation, only that the way she had looked at him, the way she’d casually called him a hero, it had reminded him of how everyone had looked at Tavren. When he’d first met Tavren, he’d hated the way they so quickly handed out help and hope as if those were things that could exist in this cruel world. At first, Astarion had disapproved of Tavren’s kindness, and of the solemn promises they’d made to every person with a sad story they met. But then, Tavern had always kept their promises, and later, Astarion had realized that hope they inspired in others, the brightness that lit up their eyes…they’d earned every bit of that.

Astarion has never wanted to be the reason for that sort of hope, but then Liv had looked at him with that same hope. She’d called him a hero. And it had felt…good. He’s not sure there are many people in the world who would look at a vampire and call them a hero, but she had. He’s not sure why, but some part of him wants to be whatever she’s seen in him.

“So, are you from Baldur’s Gate?” he asks. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer, but they’ve been walking in silence long enough that it’s making his fingers twitch.

She glances at him, a soft smile on her lips as if he’s being amusing. “Born and raised. You?”

“If I’ve ever lived anywhere else, I don’t remember it.” And then when she looks confused he explains, “I don’t remember much about my life before I was turned.”

“Is that typical for someone who becomes a vampire spawn?”

He shifts a little uncomfortably, eyes fixed ahead. “No, I believe my experience was rather singular.”

“I’m sorry.”

He scoffs and glances back at her. “Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.”

If his reaction catches her off guard, she’s infuriatingly good at hiding it. “That just seems really hard. To become something else and then lose who you were…” Her words are soft, there’s a gentle quality to them he can’t stand. It feels too much like pity.

“I didn’t lose anything,” he retorts, suddenly defensive, unwilling to admit any potential weakness. The words are harsher than he intends, but he doesn’t apologize.

“Well, it sounds like you wouldn’t remember if you did, would you?” she says. There’s a hint of challenge in her gaze and a frank sort of appraisal. He’s suddenly very sorry he broke the silence at all.

Thankfully, they’ve nearly arrived at The Blade and Stars. “So, what’s your grand plan once we arrive?”

“Well, how close do you need to be to people to smell their blood?”

No one’s ever asked him this. It takes him a moment to consider. “Not terribly near, though the scents get muddied in a place as busy as a tavern. Now that I’ve had a solid whiff of the blood, I doubt I’ll be able to be in the same room without identifying it. Thank you for that by the way.”

She shrugs. “It’s not as if I knew it would smell bad. Does everyone’s blood smell different?”

“Most people smell the same or close enough to the same. It’s only when I drink their blood that I can really parse the nuances, but people do taste very different.”

“So if you had some of my blood, for example, would you be able to recognize it as mine if you encountered it again?” she asks. The question is so earnest, she’s doing that thing where she’s thinking out loud, working something out.

The opening is too easy, he can’t resist taking it. “Darling, are you inviting me for a bite?”

Her cheeks immediately redden as she realizes the implications of what she’s asked, but that’s the only tell. “Not at all. Just academic curiosity.”

“Mmmm. Pity.”

They’ve arrived at The Blade and Stars and Liv has opened the door to the bustling tavern. Music and laughter pour out into the street like starlight. “But you didn’t answer the question.”

“You never answered mine,” he replies as he steps around her to get inside.

“Grab a drink, make the rounds, let me know if you recognize the man?”

He presses past her to the bar to order and smirks at her while they wait for the barkeep to turn his attention to them. It’s crowded tonight up near the bar, and she gets edged out by a man leaning over to talk to a friend and nearly pushed into him. He expects her to tell the man off, but instead, she just steps closer to him and seems like she’s trying to take up less space. He leans down close, so she’ll be the only one who might hear. “Yes, I’d recognize it.”

He’s not really sure why he’s flirting with her, just that it’s instinctive, easy. He’s pretty sure he’s going to regret it if she flirts back at all, but so far she hasn’t. She just keeps blushing prettily and ignoring his jabs. It’s delightful.

When their drinks do arrive, wine for him and a Mermaid Whiskey for her, she glances about the place, avoiding an elbow as someone pushes around them. “I’m going to go find a quiet table if there is one to be found. Come find me after you’ve made your rounds?”

“Sure,” he replies and watches her wend her way through the crowd. For someone who seems so self-assured, she moves through a crowd rather meekly. As if she can’t stand to be in anyone’s way, inconvenience anyone. She’s an enigma he can’t quite puzzle out. But that’s not why he’s here. He takes his drink and works the room, this is at least, familiar territory. It’s something he knows how to do and do it well. But after a half hour of flirting and making acquaintances throughout the bar, he sits down at her table.

“Not a whiff of any strange blood.”

She sighs. “That…is disappointing.” She’s hardly touched her drink, but she keeps toying with the glass as if she needs something to do with her hands.

He drains what’s left of his drink. “So…what now? Do you expect to traipse around to every bar and tavern in the city looking for him?”

“I mean…maybe? He’s the only lead we have. Everyone else with this condition is dead…and well, I sort of thought if we questioned him that we might be able to find whatever it is they all had in common. Track the source.”

He laughs. That’s her grand plan? Nothing else. “Oh…you’re being serious. That’s it?”

“I mean we could also walk you through every crowded place we can find to see if someone else’s blood just randomly smells awful.”

“I’m not a fucking bloodhound,” he snaps.

She doesn’t rise to his level. If anything, she’s calmer when she replies. “Alright then, do you have a better idea?”

He wants to tell her this whole thing is ridiculous, but that blood in those jars scared him. The way they reached for each other, the way it had shifted and moved. Something is very, very wrong in Baldur’s Gate. “The Wide is still busy, right after sunset. We could meet there tomorrow, walk the crowds, see if anyone turns up?”

She looks around the bar like she doesn’t want to leave. Like she could through sheer will alone pinpoint someone in this place to help. She sighs, her shoulders sagging a bit. “Yeah, alright. Tomorrow.” She stands up, and so he follows.

“I’ll walk you home.”

She glances at him, surprised. “It’s alright. Stay if you’d like.”

He gestures to his armor. “I have a job to do, remember? It’s practically on the way. While I could avoid you the whole way there, it would be annoying.”

She laughs, the first genuine laugh he’s managed to coax from her all evening. “Alright then.”

Together, they leave the tavern and begin retracing their steps back towards the shop. “So, where does one find Bhaalists in Baldur’s Gate?”

“The sewers, mainly.”

“Charming.”

“Quite. The Netherbrain was kept below the city, so we spent quite a bit of time wandering the sewers in order to track it down,” he explains.

“I’ve lived here my whole life, and it’s still hard to imagine that it happened at all. Even though I saw it with my own eyes.”

“You’d be surprised what’s lurking in the dark shadows of this city. Bhaalists, hags, there was even an undead mummy lord we killed,” Astarion laughs. It sounds so ridiculous strung together like that.

“Really?” she asks, but she looks properly impressed, and some part of him wants to go on and keep telling her about the adventures he’s had, the good deeds done. If only to keep that look in her eyes.

He’s about to go on bragging when out of the corner of his eye, he catches movement in the shadows. Someone is following them. He notes it but keeps talking as if he hasn’t noticed. “Tavren never met a lost cause they weren’t desperate to right.” The shadow moves closer, and when it lunges out of the dark, he’s ready, even as it goes right for Liv.

He darts forward, knocking the blade aiming right for her away while using one arm to press her behind him. As he turns, three more figures emerge from the dark. They are all armed with serrated knives and murderous glares. The one who had aimed for Liv steps forward with a smile. “My Lord Bhaal will rejoice when I offer up your soul to him.”

He’s a little impressed. He must have really left an impression on the last Bhaalists he’d tangled with for them to come seeking him. “Well, it seems as though I won’t have to go wandering the sewers tonight after all,” Astarion says, unsheathing his daggers. He glances Liv’s direction. “You aren’t one of those wizards who doesn’t know any actually useful spells, are you?”

She immediately backs up away from him, and for a moment he’s worried she’s going to abandon him, and make a run for it, but instead, she just glares at him. “Why don’t you find out?” A tiny mote of flame snakes its way through the street, stopping in the middle of the group of Bhaalists.

And then the world explodes in flame.

He’s lucky that he’s able to dodge out of the way of the fireball. The Bhaalists are not, and he hears their screams, smells their burnt flesh. As the flames dissipate, he rushes in, daggers drawn, taking advantage of their surprise and cutting one of them down. He hears more than sees the Bhaalist leaping for him, teeth bared, and he braces for the blow, and readies himself to slip away. But the collision never comes. Instead, a bolt of magic arcs through him, and the man lies dead, but still convulsing on the ground.

There are two Bhaalists left, and now he’s sure Liv can handle herself he turns his attention to the one that had jumped out at them first. Not only will he not have to spend his evening stalking the sewers for Bhaalists, but he’ll also get to eat tonight. He’s not starving, yet. But he doesn’t encounter nearly the same number of criminals and vagrants to feed from, so he takes the blood where he can get it these days.

He lunges for the man’s throat, sinking his fangs into the soft flesh and burying a dagger into his heart. The man fights for a moment and then goes limp, and Astarion drinks, and drinks, and drinks. The blood is warm and fresh and spiked with a heady mix of adrenaline and fear. It fills up a void within him, the empty chasm where his hunger lives. He can feel the man slipping away, and it’s nice to not care about that, to drain him dry, to feel the last vestiges of life slipping away. Perhaps it makes him a monster to enjoy it, but he does. But, all too soon, the blood runs dry and then Astarion lets go of the man and the body collapses to the cobblestones with a sickening thud.

It is only then that he lifts his eyes to where Liv stands. The last Bhaalist is dead, Liv has seen to that with some other fire spell from the smell of things. She stands up the street a bit, breathing hard, eyes filled with alarm as she stares at him, at the destruction they’ve wrought. She abruptly looks away from him, and he realizes how this must look. He’s just drained a man dry without a thought. He wipes his mouth with the back of his glove, and it comes away stained with blood.

He must look properly like a monster to her. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

Liv has gone pale, her gaze fixed on the cobblestones. He doesn’t dare step forward. “My apologies, you are in fact a useful wizard. You’re alright?”

It takes her a moment to respond, a moment to look back at him. He sees the hard set of her jaw as she straightens. “Of course. I’m fine. You?”

“Despite your best attempts to light me aflame,” he accuses.

He expects a joke or a quip from her, but instead, she glances at the alleyway, as if she might dart into it. She doesn’t and slowly brings her gaze back to him. “What now?”

He sighs. “Now, I need to alert the Fist so they can clean this up. Or you can. I don’t much care.”

“I’ll go,” she volunteers immediately and is already walking up the street as quickly as she can. She’s clearly eager to get away from him. He sighs and then bends to pick the pockets of each one of the Bhaalists for gold or weapons or anything else of use.

It would have probably been polite to have warned her first or waited now that the bodies are dead and cooling. Even once his companions had known about his condition, he still remembers the strained looks that had been leveled his way the first few times he’d drained an enemy in battle. But Liv had looked truly distraught, and that’s a disappointment because he’d rather preferred when she’d thought of him as a hero.

He doesn’t expect her to come back, but she does. She looks steadier when she returns too, less pale, but still not talkative. The bureaucratic red tape of it all only takes about twenty minutes to sort out because these Fists are aware of his contract with Davella. Four Bhaalists are worth a good amount of gold, but that’s something he’ll have to take care of another night.

When the Fists finally release them, he steps as close to Liv as he dares. She’s been quiet since returning with the Fists, almost as if she’d retreated into herself. She’s barely looking at him, and he curses his stupidity. He doesn’t want to apologize though, he won’t apologize for what he is.

“Let’s get you home.”

“It’s alright. I can manage.”

“And what if any other Bhaalists leap out from the shadows, hmm?”

“Seemed to me that they were here for you,” she says. The words are strained.

“True. I’ve got a contract on them, fifty or gold a piece. Half is yours if you want it.”

Somehow, she manages to look even more alarmed at the mention of money. “No. It’s yours.”

“And you helped. You killed two of them. That entitles you to half.” Even if she hadn’t dealt the final blow to two of them, she’d still deserve half. Tavern had taught him that much.

She hugs herself, gaze set straight ahead. “I don’t want it.”

Her reluctance makes no sense to him. She stops in front of The Shadowed Quill and takes out her keys. She seems like she’s in a hurry to get inside. He doesn’t stop her. He’s pretty sure that whatever this is…whatever they were doing, it’s over now. He reminds himself that he shouldn’t care. He didn’t really want to be doing this anyway.

With the door open, she pauses at the threshold and looks back at him. Well, she's not quite looking at him, but close enough. “Tomorrow night at the Wide?”

He stares at her dumbfounded for a moment but recovers quickly. “See you there.”

And then she closes the door and disappears into the darkness of the shop without so much as a goodbye. He stays there an extra moment, though he’s not sure what he expects. Out of the corner of his eye, there’s movement, a figure receding in the darkened alleyway across from the shop. He approaches the space cautiously, on silent feet, but whatever was there, whatever was watching, it’s gone now.

He’s alone.

#astarion #astaron x tav #astarion bg3 #bg3 astarion #tavstarion #bg 3 fanfic #what moves in the dark #astarion is being a little shit here #and liv is having exactly none of it #we love that for them #baldur's gate 3 #astarion x liv #slothquisitorwrites

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sovengardeswag · 5 months ago

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You Poor Unfortunate Soul

Summary:

Raphael collects the esoteric, the rare, and the lovely. He has recently come into a spell that lets him take voices. No ripping out tracheas, no bloody messes.

Astarion wants the sun. Doesn't want to get on his back for a dead rat. Wants to be free of Cazador in every way he can be.

The two strike a deal, the voice of a spawn for the sun. And a soul as well. After all, true love's kiss doesn't exist.

A little mermaid inspired fic about Astarion giving up his voice to walk in the sun (AO3 link in replies)

Chapter One: In Pain, In Need

Baldur's Gate smelled like fish guts and cat shit on a hot summer's day, making winter nights a much more pleasant time in the city. That's what Astarion told himself, at least, when he found himself missing it and cursing the cold. His padded doublet offered little protection but, even if it did, he wouldn't be warmed, undead flesh unable to hold onto heat the way the living did. Thus, there was an equal measure of relief and dread when he entered The Blushing Mermaid, the air within much warmer than the air outside.

Astarion's goal this night was to get in and get out. No long flirtations with the shy ones. No, the last thing he wanted was to drag this out. That was why he had chosen this place. Tired, lonely sailors from far away? They would follow him home with a wink and a kiss after months at sea, no one would ever miss them either. As he took a look around at his choice of prey, he sat at the bar and asked, "Have you any good wine?"

"We've got red wine and, uh, white."

"Red then," speaking of, his eyes fell on a table with a lone tiefling. A man with dark skin and one red eye, the other a false eye that was stony grey. His hair was tied in tight and neat cornrows that were framed by his elegant, curved horns. He seemed peaceful, just people-watching as he drank his ale. And there was a noble quality to him, despite the surroundings. His scars told a story of adventure, of experience in combat. And yet they did not greatly age him, he looked 25 if his reckoning of human ages was accurate. In short, he was beautiful. Cazador would be pleased indeed. This man wouldn't earn him a place in the favored spawn room, but Cazador would find no reason to put him in the kennels at the very least. Little wonder then that he strode up to the man as he sipped his disgusting glass of wine, "Well hello there. Is this seat taken?"

The man seemed mildly surprised to have been approached and told Astarion, "Not at all. Please." He gestured for Astarion to have a seat. "I'm Wyll by the way." He then gave a little knightly salute, "The Blade of Avernus at your service."

Astaron wracked his brain for some sort of recognition, some sort of knowledge about him, and came up empty. Never had he heard of this man in the taverns. "I'm sorry darling, I'm afraid I'm a bit behind on my adventuring news."

"Ah, that's alright. I used to have a different title. I earned this one when I was at Elturel. I was there when it was released from the hells and helped the people there."

"Well, aren't you quite the hero, then?" Certainly explained the name. In his experience, most decent tieflings avoided names like The Blade of Avernus. "You simply must tell me more." He leaned forward, sipping his wine once more. Maybe he could get more drinks in this man. "Were you from Elturel? Was the experience as utterly shocking as I've heard?"

"Actually, no, I wasn't even at Elturel when it fell. I was sent into Avernus afterward to hunt a devil."

"Sent in? How?" There was only one way he knew that people got sent to the hells and came back. "Are you a warlock?"

"Was. I was a warlock. I assure you, I am beholden only to the Sword Coast now."

"And you were named The Blade of Avernus after felling your quarry."

"On the contrary, when I arrived at Elturel, I found this was no devil trying to further terrorize the poor people of Elturel, but a tiefling, the same as many of them. A hostage in Zariel's court who was conscripted to fight in the blood war. When Elturel fell, she ran away and hid among them. And when I learned this, I couldn't bring myself to kill her. I had been deceived."

Astarion, feeling this was getting a bit heavy, broke the tension with a giggle, playing the part of a tipsy admirer, "You naughty thing you. All it took for you to disobey your patron was a pretty face?"

Wyll chuckled a bit, just the slightest bit of fluster to his face, "No, no, nothing like that. You see, while she was with the tieflings, she had taken to protecting them. Making sure they survived the hells. There was one child, Mol, despite being injured and small, who tried to protect Karlach. She said she would take my eye if I so much as laid a hand on Karlach. And I knew then, from the child and the look in Karlach's eyes, that I had been deceived. And I paid the price for it that very night."

"Is that how you lost your eye, darling? Tribute to your patron?" He laid a comforting hand on Wyll's, his voice full of sympathy and awe.

"Oh, no, I lost my eye long ago. But that's a story for another day, perhaps. It's a proud moment, to be sure, but not exactly one to be told to charming voiced strangers in a tavern."

Astarion took a look at Wyll's stone eye, then. It seemed to be made of bloodstone, with an adorable heart-shaped pupil carved into it but there was something else there. Something magical. It hit him, that this was a sending stone, no doubt still sending news to his former patron. Ah. well, it wouldn't be the first time he performed in front of an audience. "Well, there's no need for us to remain strangers. Perhaps, after a bit here, we can go to my home for a nightcap. I've always dreamed of being swept off my feet by a hero." Truth be told, Wyll was just his type, a sweet face, but just a bit rugged.

Wyll flustered again, pulling his hand away, "Look, you're lovely, you truly are, but I don't do... that. I'm sorry."

Shit. Shit. He had miscalculated. Most adventurers weren't like this. They were only happy to take what they wanted from Astarion. Why, oh why, did he have to run into a virtuous hero? "Ah, there's no need to apologize, darling. I should have realized you were the chivalrous sort." This would have to be a long game and he'd have to try his luck at a different tavern.

Just as he was about to ask Wyll how long he was staying in Baldur's Gate, there was a crash from the kitchen, some swearing, and a burning smell. A grease fire, no doubt. And before Astarion knew it, he was trapped in the building, the fire burning all around him. Watching as it consumed all in its wake. He should have been outside, watching the scene with the poor sods who were mourning their favorite watering hole. Yet here he was, walking through a burning wreckage, looking for that beautiful fool who had insisted on getting people out. If Wyll perished in this blaze, Astarion wouldn't stop thinking about it. It would be just another death on his tally of sins. So even as the flames licked at him and burned him, he pushed through. His only relief was that he didn't need to breathe.

Eventually, feeling nothing but pure heat on his body and ash falling upon him, he found him. A support beam had fallen on him and the smoke inhalation knocked Wyll out. Astarion pushed on the beam with all his might, his hands catching splinters as he pushed and readjusted and pushed again. Nevertheless, he just barely managed to push it off of the man's leg. He then picked Wyll up and hauled him out of the burning tavern.

But he didn't lay Wyll down at the front for the fists to take care of. No, it wouldn't do for Astarion to be spotted. He snuck to the next alley over instead and sat Wyll down on a crate. He pat Wyll's cheek as he spoke, the hero of Elturel finally taking in some clean air. His eyes fluttered and opened and Astarion knew that the first thing the tiefling saw was him. He coughed and Astarion told him, "Shhh, it's alright, lovely. Don't stress yourself."

Wyll nodded, taking deep breaths as Astarion assured him, "Don't try to yell for the fists, you'll only hurt yourself. I'm going to make a racket and they'll heal you and you'll be good as new but I have to go. Do you understand?"

Wyll nodded, his good eye scanning over Astarion, trying to memorize his face.

"There we go. You'll be alright, darling. Now, I'm going to make that racket and leave you.” And with that, Astarion lifted a discarded milk can and slammed it as hard as he could into the ground, slinking off once it had made an ungodly noise.

Covered in soot and ash, sporting a few minor burns, and with his hands covered in splinters, Astarion was in no state to continue his little hunt. He needed to change and get these damn things out. He just hoped his master would see it as a pause and not a failure.

As he returned to Szarr Palace, he decided to go in from the tower connected to the wall. Climbing up was a bit of a pain with the splinters, but far less terrible than what was in store for him if he got caught. He walked past the half-asleep fists with no issue, the charmed guards merely said, "Welcome home, Master Astarion," as he walked past them. Jumping onto a balcony afterward was practically trivial.

He thought he was home free as he crossed the threshold, walking one, two, three meters away from the balcony doors before he felt a chill and heard Cazador's voice. "You're home early. And what a state you're in."

Astarion flinched as he turned around, "Ah, Master, I assure you this is merely a delay. I just need to clean up and be on my way to catch you a morsel tonight. I know that I shouldn't come home without one but I just wanted to make sure that today's was of good qua-"

Astartion immediately shut his mouth as Cazador grabbed his wrists, the ancient vampire having noticed that Astarion was trying to not gesticulate. He looked at his hands and asked, "What manner of nonsense did you get into, boy?"

Astarion tensed further at that. Of course, Cazador would notice his property had been damaged, however temporarily. "I-I assure you master. I just wanted to ensure that-"

"Cease your prattle!" Cazador commanded as he bent Astarion's wrists, a small whimper coming from the spawn. "Tell me why you have these splinters."

Astarion felt the pull of the command like the pull of a leash upon his brainstem. His eyes glowed in response and he spoke loud and clear. "I pushed a beam away when I was caught in a fire at the Blushing Mermaid. I was with a target there at the time."

"Were you spotted by the flaming fists? Be truthful."

Another pull, his eyes continued to glow, "No."

"And what gave you the audacity to believe you had a right to break the rules, to come back completely emptyhanded? Speak true!"

"I thought I could sneak past you and wanted to change my clothes."

Astarion felt the sharp sting of a back-handed slap then, right across his cheek. Cazador had seen disrespect in his honesty. Astarion's jaw clenched, and the command lifted.

"You little idiot. You cannot ever get anything past me in my home. Not ever. And to think, you were so close to earning the favored spawn room this month. It's as if you throw away every opportunity I give you. Every single time. I do not begrudge you for trying to survive a fire, but I will not tolerate disrespect."

"You're right master, I'm sorry. I should have checked into the flop house and found clothes, I shouldn't have done this to you. I shouldn't have gotten hurt. I promise to be good from now on. I promise." He was tempted to yank his wrist away but knew that if he did at this angle, it would likely snap. "I'll take care of my splinters before going back out. And I'll bring you back the most beautiful virgin I can find in the lower city."

"Oh Astarion, you always did beg so sweetly," Cazador stroked Astarion's cheek gently, "But you'll just have to save that for later. Your actions need to have consequences, lest you grow arrogant again."

Shit, shit. "But Master, I've already injured myself! I've learned my lesson! You don't need to waste Godey's time!"

"Oh, but Astarion, what use are consequences with no follow through, hmm? You'll start to believe every threat is a bluff." And with that, he started to drag Astarion to the kennels. The spawn trying to dig in his heels like a dog dragged on a leash.

Godey was there when they arrived. Of course, he was. Where else would he be? He stopped cleaning his scalpels and watched as Astarion was thrown on the ground like scraps to the dogs. "Here so early, child? It isn't even midnight. No matter, Old Godey is ready to play."

"Stay your hand, Godey. I have something specific in mind for him."

"Oh? Is that so, Master?"

"Indeed. Keep an eye on him as I find the implements. You are free to strike him if he tries to leave."

"Of course, Master. I won't lay a hand on him a moment before."

But that wasn't true, as soon as Cazador was gone, Godey started to run his bony fingers through Astarion's hair. He told him, "You must like playing with Godey, being such a naughty child. What did you do to anger the master this time?"

"I hurt myself in a fire. And then I tried to sneak in to get clean and healed."

"Oh, such a shame that you got in trouble for that, and such a shame you escaped those flames. You would wear scars so prettily."

Astarion instinctually covered his face at that. Oh gods, Godey was going to give Cazador ideas at this rate. The last time that happened, the skeleton ripped his fangs out of his mouth, let them grow back overnight, and yanked them out again for a straight ten-day. He couldn't even remember what he had done, only that Godey had said he should keep his fangs to himself and it had given Cazador the idea.

Speaking of, though, he returned. But he was not baring Rhapsody or some horrific tool. No, he was holding a set of tweezers. The kind a nobleborn lady would use to pluck her eyebrows. And Cazador was holding it while wearing a glove. “I want you to remove the splinters yourself. And then, when you're done, Godey will, shall we say, give you a manicure."

Astarion hardly saw the point in getting rid of the splinters if Godey was going to rip out his claws, each time Godey readjusted the grip would surely cause shooting pain with the shards of wood in his hands. But he wasn't one to make his own life worse, so he reached an open hand out to Cazador.

But as soon as the tweezers touched his hand, the spawn hissed in pain, a rash blooming on his skin. The tweezers were made of silver. Bastard.

Cazador smirked at Astarion's pain, telling him, "Do think on your actions, Astarion." He then looked to Godey, telling him, "I'll come to check on him, come dawn. Have fun, old friend."

Thus was the beginning of Astarion's newest torment. He had been forced to hurt himself before, this was nothing new, but it was no less humiliating and terrible. At first, he tried to be delicate about the process, keeping the tweezers at the very tips on the most shallow splinters, hoping to reduce the burning sensation and hives to his fingers. But Godey gripped his hair and pulled, "Trying to pull one over on Old Godey, eh? Do it properly, child, lest I do it for you."

Astarion grit his teeth and adjusted his grip on the tweezers, more hives blooming as he squeezed and gripped the splinters, perhaps with a little more force than strictly necessary. Some of them needed to be dug out, the burning smell of silver actually piercing his skin faint but present, the tiniest wisps of smoke when they came free. Pain radiated through his hand through the entire process. He wondered if his hands would scar as his back did.

The same thing happened with his other hand. With each pinch, each pull, each squeeze, he shot agony into his palms. By the end of it, his hands were an ugly red color, they felt warm for the first time in 200 years, and they were utterly covered in blisters, itchy and burning. Panting, he threw the tweezers aside, his hands shaking.

Godey kicked Astarion in the gut. "Naughty thing, don't go throwing away the master's heirlooms around like mere stones! Pick it up and put it where it belongs."

"Fuck you, Godey," Astarion managed, despite the wind being knocked out of him. Though it earned him another slap before he picked up the damn tweezers and put them on the table.

"See, was that so hard? Now, give Godey your hand. I want to hear you scream."

Astarion couldn't help but wonder if, despite the fact that he was completely bones, Godey was getting off on this. Either way, he gave Godey his hand and watched as Godey clamped the pliers over his pinky claw. He gently tugged once, twice, trying to build up the dread in Astarion before he blinked out of existence in a flash of red light. What?

He heard a smooth voice then, almost sing-songy. "There now, we wouldn't want those lovely claws of yours to be ripped out, now would we?"

Astarion scrambled to his feet and turned around, seeing a human man just standing there. Cazador wasn't with him, "What is this? Did Cazador decide to put me to work for my transgressions? Did you banish Godey for some privacy?"

The man chuckled darkly and told him, "No, little vampling, nothing so base. I'm not another guest of your master's but a savior. Now, you can come wih me or be a good boy and wait for the skeleton to come back and do your little manicure."

Astarion looked at his blistered and red hands before looking back at the stranger. If this was a setup, then it was certainly an elaborate one. "Fine."

The man snapped his fingers and they were suddenly elsewhere. A dining room laid out with food of all sorts and several goblets. The man told Astarion, "Drink your fill, vampling. I ensured that you have only the finest of blood."

Astarion picked up a goblet and sniffed it. No poison. But this place, "Where have you brought me?"

"This, Mr. Ancunin, is the House of Hope. Where the famished come to feast and the desperate come to deal. And I know you, pretty spawn, are both. Come, drink your fill."

Well, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with the blood on the second sniff, so he took a drink. "Why is this spicy?"

"Why, it's cambion blood of course. I also have incubus and hellhound, even demon. All watered down with tiefling for your palate. Though I also have more mortal fare."

Astarion gripped his goblet lest this strange man take it from him. Though this clearly wasn't a regular human man. "Who and what the hells are you?"

"What an appropriate way to phrase that question. If you'll allow me..." And then, in a spiral of flames, the man became a devil. "I am Raphael, at your service."

Oh gods, a cambion. He should have known. He vaguely wondered if the blood he drank was Raphael's. He drained the goblet and said, "Well, you've wasted your vintage then, devil. I'm not keen to trade one master for another."

"Who said anything about your soul?"

Astarion, having gone to sniff at another goblet of blood, paused and said, "Go on."

"You see, I'm a bit of a collector. I seek the rare and esoteric and I've come into possession of a rather unique spell. I won't bore you with the details, just that it's derived from hag's magic and that you are the perfect test subject for it."

"I'm not hearing an offer."

"Patience, I was just getting to that. In exchange for your cooperation with the spell, I can offer a partial cure to your vampirism."

Astarion simply drank what he determined to be tiefling's blood as he listened. And then, he spoke, "Well then, we should be going over the details of this, shouldn't we?"

Raphael smirked and gestured for Astarion to follow him, "Let's."

Instead of an office as the spawn expected, Raphael led Astarion to a richly furnished boudoir with many chaise lounges and a bathtub that smelled of lavender and mint in the middle. On the far side of the room, he spotted a bed where a skimpily dressed devil that looked remarkably like Raphael lay. "Another client?"

"No, just another part of the House of Hope. Please, sit."

Astarion sat on one of the chaise lounges as Raphael spoke, "I can give you a potion that allows you to walk in sunlight. You would still need to avoid silver lest your allergies act up, still need to slake your thirst, but never would you have to worry about anything more than a sunburn."

"What's the catch? Surely a potion like that would have every vampire lord breaking down your door."

"Nothing gets past you, does it? No, vampire lords don't seek it out. Not because they relish in scampering through the dark like rats but because the sensation of the sun is still there."

Astarion felt what little bit of hope he had crumble to pieces then and there, "So, it doesn't work."

"Ah, that is where you, Strahd, Cazador, and every other vampire misunderstand. The potion negates all the damage from the sun, just not the pain. But what's a little pain when you can take a stroll with a pretty thing on your arm, when you can sniff roses at noon, and when you can hide from your master in plain sight."

Astarion still didn't give an answer, but he did ask, "What does the spell do?"

"It takes voices. Don't worry, your pretty throat will be left unharmed, but the voice that had brought a thousand people to their doom? The giggle that makes virgins fall into a stranger's bed? It would be the perfect display of the spell's use and the perfect addition to my collection."

One thousand. One thousand. He knew the amount of people he had brought to Cazador had been high but never past the hundreds. He suddenly felt a little sick. A thousand pairs of hands had touched him, a thousand mouths had kissed him, and a thousand people had died after having him. But with the sensitivity to sunlight removed, he would never have to do that again. "So all I have to do to ensure my master can't touch me is lose my voice and be uncomfortable while standing outside." And yet, somehow, it sounded too good to be true. "There's more, isn't there?"

"Just two little things. The first is that you must refrain from drinking the blood of thinking creatures for three days. The other is that your voice by itself isn't all I need from you."

"Spit it out, devil."

"The young man you saved today isn't any old tiefling. He was Grand Duke Ravengard's son."

"Don't lie to me. I know that Grand Marshall Ravengard's wife was a human and the Grand Duke doesn't exactly have a pair of horns."

"There's more than one way to make a tiefling. Let's just say that Mizora gave him a bit of a makeover."

"So you're saying he's hells touched."

"Indeed I am."

"I fail to see what my flirting with a prince has to do with any of this."

"I'm saying that he's valuable. Eventually, daddy will succumb to some malady or other as all humans do and little Wyll Ravengard will become Grand Duke Wyll Ravengard."

Astarion finally caught on to what Raphael was implying, "You want me to bring him to you."

"Not physically but yes. Woo, seduce, enrapture him. Wrap him around your little finger and whisper my words into his ear, putting him around mine."

"Bit brazen to steal another devil's warlock, isn't it?"

"On the contrary! Wyll was freed from his contract when Elturel sas spat back out of Avernus. This is simply filling an open position."

"I see, so live in the lap of luxury where Cazador can't touch me at the expense of my voice and some discomfort." There was just one problem, "How do I stop Cazador from compelling me back at night?"

"That's your problem. Steal a ring of mind shielding or tie yourself to your bed. I'm sure you'll think of something, you're a resourceful spawn."

"And if I fail? What's to stop me from running to Athlacka or Kozakura after realizing he only likes the company of maidens?"

"Then the potion incurs fees and I retain ownership of your soul."

"Fair enough."

"Now, don't speak so quickly, Astarion, I have a reputation to uphold. There are certain guarantees I need to decide you've taken serious steps in this endeavor. You need to get him to kiss you in three days."

"Ha! You're joking! I'll have him eating out of my palm by then."

"Not a regular kiss. True love's kiss on his part."

"You're joking, you're joking, that doesn't even exist!"

"Oh come now, where did that bravado go? Do you truly believe that you can't make a man fall in love with you in three days?"

Astarion clenched his jaw and thought about it. Here was an opportunity to get away from Cazador. And he was going to throw it away because a devil wanted him to whisper into some prince's ear? "Where do I sign?"

With a sweep of his hand, Raphael summoned a contract and a quill. Astarion read it and found the terms were laid out as described before signing it.

When it disappeared, Raphael told Astarion, "Now then, let us get to the fun part.” He led Astarion to the bed and had him lie down. The devil who had been there moved and asked, "Shall I go, Master?"

"No, I have need of you Haarlep."

"Oh, I didn't know that spell had a naughty component."

"No, just hold his wrists."

"How sad, he looks like he would be fun to play with."

Astarion freely gave his wrists to what he now knew was an incubus. He told Raphael, "This is going to hurt, isn't it?"

"I have no idea, but we can't risk you clawing my eyes out, now can we?" He straddled Astarion's waist and opened the spawn's mouth to pierce his finger, drawing runes on Astarion's throat with blood while speaking an incantation.

Suddenly, Astarion felt a pulling sensation in his throat, painful, like a fishing hook had been lodged in his larynx and an angler was trying to yank it out. His instinct was to reach for his throat and check that he hadn't been stabbed but Haarlep held firm, eerily smiling down on him. When he looked at Raphael's hands he saw a red rope of light coming from his throat. "Now, speak, sing, do everything you can to get your voice active."

Astarion nodded, saying, "My name is Astarion Ancunin. I am two hundred and forty years old and I was born in Baldur's Gate."

He felt another tug at his throat and once again tried to pull his hands away as he screamed, Haarlep holding on tight. Raphael had pulled on that magical cord and told him, "That's it, little bat, keep going."

"I was a magistrate, once, but am now a vampire spawn, hunting pretty morsels for-"

With another tug Astarion found himself silenced. A scream from that last, savage pull, dying in his throat. Haarlep let go of his hands and Astarion sat up, seeing Raphael holding up a glowing orb like a prized fish. There weren't sounds coming from it, despite what Astarion would assume. And Raphael was looking at it as well, almost amazed that it had worked, "My, isn't that lovely?"

Astarion tried to speak but no words came out. He huffed through his nose and pointed to the voice.

Raphael caught on quickly, telling him, "Oh, it's going behind glass. Protected and safe and labeled in my archive."

Astarion nodded in understanding. Yes, that made sense. Raphael would want to show it off.

Raphael then set aside Astarion's voice in a jewelry box, the magic rope disappearing as he closed it, before pulling a potion bottle out of his nightstand and uncorking it. Going to tilt Astarion's head back, he said, "Drink."

Astarion did not hesitate as the bottle was pressed to his lips. The mixture was warm and oddly fungal tasting. He was surprised that he was able to taste it at all. But as it was downed, he felt... different. Warmer. Though not quite body warm.

"Now, we can't send you out with your hands like that. Your prince charming would think you contagious. Go clean up in my bath."

Astarion nodded once more, getting up and going to dunk his hands in the pool. He found that in an instant, he was energized. All of his aches were gone, his hands were no longer covered in bumps and hives but merely slightly red. Even his minor burns were gone. He also took the opportunity to wash what little remained of the cambion's blood from his throat.

"Your clock starts at sunrise and runs out on the sunset of the third day. Nod if you understand."

Astarion nodded once again.

"Now, I'm going to send you into his path. Just do what you do best." He gestured for Astarion to follow and the spawn obeyed.

As he followed Raphael, Astarion felt as if he had, perhaps, made a mistake. He saw all manner of debtor now that he cared to look. The tiefling woman staring into the boudoir, another woman running around like a dog, and, gods, was that a man cradling and praising a full chamber pot? What was to be his fate if he failed to make Wyll fall in love? The removal of his tongue, his past under Cazador used against him? There was hardly any time to ponder though as they came to a room full of mirrors. "Ah, here we are."

They stood before a portal to Baldur's Gate. It was time to fulfill his mission. "I'll put you in his path, don't worry, just walk in."

So, Astarion did just that. He stepped through the portal, its light not harming him as he stepped into the pre-dawn of Wyrm's Rock, the home of the Grand Duke. Astarion felt rather confident if he was honest. He had saved Wyll, after all, making him fall in love should be easy.

Then the sun began to rise.

#baldur's gate 3 #fanfiction #bloodpact #wyllstarion #Astarion #wyll ravengard #raphael bg3 #cazador szarr #bg3 godey #sam writes #sam speaks

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