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papastarion · 28 days

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“A Vampire’s Guide to First Impressions (Vol. 1)”

Part 1 of “From the Personal Collection of Two Spawn”

Summary: Astarion was born wielding the most important tools of his future trade. A pretty face, handsome features, enviable hair, and a quick tongue and mind to match it all. But tools are useless without the tricks needed to wield them effectively. If his years in service of his vampiric master had taught him anything, it was that first impressions were often matters of fate-changing importance.

One such introduction, seemingly just like hundreds of others that had come before it, would prove Cazador Szarr’s words truer than any words had ever been spoken, for better and for worse.

Rating: Teen.

Word Count: 4,101.

Warnings/Tags: Canon typical nonsense, bit of a character study if you squint, canon and OSHA non-compliant.

Characters/Pairings: Astarion, Dalyria, Cazador Szarr, Female half-elf Dark Urge.

Tag List: @kalmiaphlox (shoot me a dm if you’d like to be added!)

[Read on AO3]

“Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through.” — Sylvia Plath.

Jannath Estate, Baldur’s Gate.

1472 DR.

Everything must be perfect.

It always had to be wherever the master was involved.

Anything less would only serve as inspiration for the vampire lord’s already twisted imagination. Gods above and below alike knew that odious man didn’t need to be given any more reason to torment his spawn. And Astarion did not want to know what other knots such an imagination could be tied into after nearly 200 years caught in its tangles and bindings.

Don’t go near any mirrors, lest they note your lack of reflection. Don’t smile with your teeth, for a close-lipped offering is far more tantalizing. Always do as you’re told, just as you are told to do it.

And then there was his favorite, one of the vampire lord’s most precious rules, one so bound to his will that none of his spawn could begin to dream of breaking it:

Thou shall not drink from thinking creatures.

“Straighten your posture.” Dalyria’s impossibly gentle touch smoothed down a crease in Astarion’s doublet—the fine ensemble he was only allowed to wear when their master brought them along to these fêtes was threaded with fine gold sewn on purple silk.

Astarion adjusted his posture just so, hands locked in front of himself, unmoving and as ramrod straight as any of the marble statues that dotted the cityscape outside the stately home. He was as cold as one to the touch, too.

Perfect.

“There you go.”

Certain their master would find no more fault in them than usual, his sister snaked her arm around his, lifting the hem of her dress just so with her other hand, and the pair made to join the party within the doors before them.

Once upon a time, Astarion would have reveled in wearing such clothes every single day.

It didn’t so much as make him smile anymore.

A flop house or a fine estate, it was all the same to him now. The near-to-rags, moth-ridden despite his careful mending by candlelight, that he wore at home or the borrowed outfits reserved only for more public endeavors. All the same. Shackles were shackles, no matter how pretty. A cage was a cage, no matter the purity of the gold bent and shaped to make the bars.

He was still a prisoner, no matter the metal of the bars that caged him or the fineness of wardrobe he donned.

The Jannath estate was a fine house, indeed. It took little time for Astarion to do the math in his head. He had been dead nearly 80 years before the family was ennobled, let alone before this estate was built. His own family had held their station for practically an age in comparison.

He pushed the thought from his mind.

It didn’t matter.

None of it did.

Their merciless master was already mingling, his true nature protected as he exchanged pleasantries with nobles and other patrairs who were better served by hiding his secrets so that he could, in turn, hide theirs. Such was the way of the great and the good of the Gate. Such was the way of nobility.

One sin ignored could cover up a multitude of others.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” Astarion inquired at last, and anyone who knew their true nature would know the question was not so innocent as it sounded when heard from his lips.

“There’s a visiting noblewoman from Neverwinter, here on business with her husband.” Dalyria informed him. “Blonde hair. Tan skin. She’ll be wearing a signet ring with the Neverember’s sigil. The master didn’t give me a name. I assume she’s from an outer branch of the family. Or maybe they just don’t like her.”

“But he gave no name?” Astarion noted, a questioning eyebrow poised at her. “Sounds like someone has something to hide, more like.”

“I believe that’s the polite way of saying it.” Dalyria shrugged as they moved through the crowd together. “Be grateful he gave you a dish, rather than leaving you to the buffet again.” She said as she curtsied to an older man who took a particular interest in her. “Better to be the hunter than the hunted.”

“Only until the roles are reversed, dear sister.” He reminded her, lingering in place as she obliged her would-be suitor, taking his hand and leaving Astarion behind so the well-dressed and witless fool could lead her to the dance floor in the heart of the gaudy and packed ballroom.

The poor man would be dead before dawn, invited back to the Szarr estate for a “more exclusive” party. Given the look he was giving the former physician, it was no less than he deserved. Astarion didn’t give the man’s fate another thought as he moved onward, assuming the role of the hunter.

First impressions often began with the eyes.

This party being a masquerade made that all the easier.

His senses were heightened beyond what anyone in this room could comprehend. In truth, taking the whole of the partygoers wouldn’t be any more difficult than fish in a barrel for three vampires, even if the two spawn that made up the sum were barely functional beasts of burden, rather than proper hunters like their lord and master.

Living heartbeats created a melody in Astarion’s ears, the blood in their veins rushing to keep the tempo.

It made his stomach churn.

He accepted a crystal piece of stemware from a passing caterer. The woman bowed politely before passing him by, expressionless. The wine would taste bitter on his tongue, no matter how fine the vintage. It had taken years of practice and even more bouts of punishment for Astarion to master the ability to drink it without spitting it right back out into the glass.

“Aren’t you a fine looking thing?”

Astarion shied away from the man’s touch. Any other night, he would have withered away inside while keeping his exterior composure inviting and alluring until the man took him to bed. But there was only one mark he needed to hit tonight.

No additional numbers, just her. Whoever she was.

“Don’t be like that, pet.”

There was a thick whiff of alcohol on his breath.

The man practically reeked of new money. Astarion couldn’t decide what was more unfortunate: the pungency of the proverbial stench, or that its false gilding was still more palatable than the gutterfare he was more familiar with. He did his best to hide a sneer, thankful for the peacock-themed mask his master had chosen for him to wear tonight.

No doubt it was intended as a slight, but Astarion wore it with as much pride as possible.

“Gods, I think I could cut myself on that nose.” His index finger grazed the bridge of Astarion’s nose just so, before Astarion stepped back.

“Charming.” He sighed, putting everything into his disinterested performance.

No eye contact. Rigid shoulders. Creating distance. Everything he was taught not to do when securing a meal for his master.

“Gavin, where are you?”

With the voice’s beckoning amongst the masked parade, the half-balding man swore, cursing his bad luck before removing himself with a last lascivious look toward the vampire spawn. Astarion took the lucky break and ran with it, retreating to the nearest wall to better survey the room. He perched himself next to a carved column, repeating Dalyria’s brief description to himself as he tried to put the near-miss from his mind.

No doubt that man would have said it was a retreat to lick wounds.

But Astarion knew better.

He shook his head, refocusing.

There were plenty of blonde halos about the room. Some he could identify as Baldurian patrairs he had encountered at other events. Others he could not give name or rank to. Gold masks of jackals. Black half-moon masks. Phantoms. Fools. The cast was expansive as it was elusive.

All the better for him and Dalyria to blend in amongst their numbers.

His gaze lingered on one particular woman. She was trapped in a passionless dance with a man well over two-heads taller than her, on the opposite end of the room from Astarion. She looked one more waltz away from taking the pearls hanging around her neck and strangling herself with them.

Tan skin that glowed, adorned by a royal blue gown of draping fabrics that was as simple as it was stunning.

Could she be the one he was looking for?

If it were her, she was one of the more beautiful marks his eyes had been set upon. The mask she wore to obscure the top half of her face did nothing to diminish her looks. Though her mask was mousy—perhaps meant to be a civet or a ferret of some sort—such a word would do nothing to describe her.

She was striking, especially with those dark-bright eyes. Her hair was the same color as spun gold, interlaced with the faintest threads in hues that danced somewhere between the faintest pink and orange all done up in intricate braids that spoke to her northern heritage.

An air of naivety and sadness hung above her like swords ready to put her out of her misery at any moment. Everything about her spoke to a sense of doom that she carried for far longer than his master had even known of her existence.

Perhaps her ending tonight would be one of mercy. A mercy killing at the fangs of a vampire. The irony was almost as bitter as the unwelcome wine tasted on his tongue.

When their eyes met from their opposing ends of the room, he poured everything into the geniality of his look. He made sure she felt like she was the only other person in the room, in the city, in his eyes. He held her gaze until she was spun about by her partner, until they could meet again.

Throughout the night, he made sure their eyes would meet again and again by being in the right place at the right time. She would flinch away first each time, blushing. And Astarion would be there again the next time she looked for him.

As the ballroom spun in its rhythm, Astarion made their every interaction match the rest of the room’s dance. When the tall man who was with her—her husband, Astarion didn’t doubt—finally left her side to mingle amongst the rest of the festivities, she began to withdraw more and more from the throngs of the gala altogether.

By the stroke of midnight, Astarion knew he had to act.

Instead of a wallflower, she was quickly proving herself to be a shrinking violet. He lost sight of her when the tempo of the night shifted, instead falling into his master’s sightlines.

No words were exchanged. The orders were always the same. And failure was not tolerated.

His master’s gaze shifted effortlessly back to the conversation he carried with an easy smile.

Astarion had grown familiar with his intended’s scent among the cacophony of smells in the room. Dried herbs of different providence mixed with a perfumed lavender smell. When his eyes could not find her, he turned to his nose.

Her trail led him to one of the hallways outside the main ballroom. Given the fact that the night’s event was being hosted within, no one occupied these halls, and so the only light was the moonlight pouring in through the windows that kept their vigil at different intervals running the length of the hall. Her perfumed trail…was confused, lingering in strange places and in trails only a vampire could scent out.

Astarion decided to hazard a detour out onto one of the house’s vacant, rose-adorned balconies. His quarry could wait. The older half of the night still lay ahead of them.

Another night in a sea of endless nights.

He surveyed the garden below for a moment before closing his eyes. Behind the safety of his eyelids, he could pretend that he was back in the home he could no longer remember. He wondered: had his own home sported a garden like this?

He thought he could almost remember one. Meticulously cared for, much more practical than simply aesthetic like this one.

The beginnings of the memory dissipated into the mire of his mind with the feeling of a blade of a dagger pressing into his throat, accompanied by the strong air of lavender perfume.

Her.

“Well, well. I didn’t expect such a gentlewoman to be wielding such a ferocious weapon.” Astarion mused, unfazed by the admittedly expensive looking weapon currently addressing his neck. “If you let me go, I’ll show you mine. After all, you did show me yours.”

If anything, Astarion was impressed. He hadn’t expected her to be able to give him the slip. She was practically showing off, getting the jump on him like this. He hadn’t even noticed her approach.

He couldn’t help an all too genuine a smirk, comfortable with the gestures in knowing that she would not see it.

His eyes caught the Neverember signet ring Dalyria had mentioned poised on one of the fingers wrapped around the hilt of her dagger.

He had made no mistake.

This was her.

Not that he doubted himself, but it was nice to have practical confirmation beyond his instincts. And yet she was even more of an enigma now than she had been before. What sort of woman of gentle birth knew how to handle a weapon so effectively, or how to sneak up on a bespoke monster, for that matter?

“You know, typical convention would be to give me your name.” The woman’s voice bore a northern accent, further confirming her identity.

It sent a thrill up his spine.

Astarion chuckled coolly. “But where’s the fun in that?” He teased before conceding. “I suppose it is only proper, you’re right. You can call me Astarion.”

The woman pressed her dagger further against his skin. “Astarion. Tell me why you’ve been watching me or it’ll find a new home in your…very prominent…jugular.”

Astarion all but purred. “Cheeky thing, aren’t you?” He held his hands up innocently. “I assure you, I didn’t mean to cause alarm. You’ll find it rather silly when I tell you, I fear.”

His would-be assailant said nothing.

“It’s just that…I’ve attended hundreds of these things in my life, worn more of these ridiculous masks than I care to count. But I’ve never seen someone so stunningly singular in my life.”

He played the part of the aware and weary patriar perfectly, in his own humble estimation. It seemed to work well enough on her, judging by the fact that his neck still remained in tact.

“Funny. For being so singular, it sounds like you’ve said those words before.” She shot back.

At that, Astarion’s smile widened, now genuinely delighted. “Very good.” He lauded. “I’d dare say this isn’t your first soiree, either. Or your first time wielding that gorgeous blade.”

Slowly, the woman in the murine mask backed away from him, wary but allowing him a chance to earn her trust with the lowering of her dagger.

“I’m a magistrate on the High Council, so I’m afraid I’m rather too well-versed at using honey-speech.” He supplied, turning to face her with a polite bow. “Of course, I should have known it wouldn’t work on you. That was my mistake. I apologize.”

“What do you want?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” He said, presenting it as a plain and simple conclusion. “You seemed rather relieved when that man left you earlier.”

“My husband?” Her heavy sigh confirmed more of his suppositions about her and her situation. “No doubt sampling the other delights on offer. After all, we’re only in the city for one night, and it would be a shame to waste it.”

“And you?”

Her eyes lit up, some life restored in them as she studied him—surely trying to gauge his sincerity, or lack thereof. “Me?” She hid her incredulity behind a practiced, sauve tone.

“Surely he doesn’t expect you not to do the same?” Astarion raised an eyebrow. “With your looks, I’m sure you could have your pick of the litter. And I’m sure it’s no less than you deserve. Or him, for that matter.”

Those priceless eyes of hers widened, red-stained lips parting in the faintest betrayal of her surprise. Her cheeks, left exposed by her half-mask, revealed her reddened cheeks. She looked away quickly, clearing her throat, unable to meet her gaze.

“It would be more trouble than it’s worth.” She said at last.

Astarion would have laughed had her meaning not struck a chord in his motionless heart. “For him or you?”

Her lips pulled together, terse.

Ah.

He thought for a moment. He felt trapped, suddenly, stuck somewhere between the duty he knew he couldn’t avoid without certainty of retribution and the twinge of kinship he felt within the look on her face. He couldn’t pity her, because that would mean he pitied himself, that he was pitiable.

Decisively, he restored the cadence of their conversation. “It’s his loss.” Astarion told her. “I hope you realize that.”

She couldn’t help but look back to him again.

With a trained hand, Astarion brought his thumb to her chin, closing the distance between them. “Perhaps it’s for the best. Anyone you deigned to lavish attention upon tonight would still come second to you.” He lowered his voice, and he could tell by the glint in her eye that its song was almost hypnotic to her.

They were both starving animals, weren’t they? Their appetites may vary one to the other, but they were both nothing but beasts consumed by ravenously empty bellies.

“He has no idea how lucky he is.” Astarion said softly as he lowered his gaze down to her lips.

Her breath quivered when he teased them with his own, teasing him with its warmth.

His physicality was all mechanical. He knew just how to touch someone to electrify them, just as he knew how to look across a room and make someone feel superfluously special. This was where his worth lied, as his master so loved to remind him.

Constantly.

Oft accompanied with a lash or rod.

Before he could seal their kiss, and her fate, Astarion caught the sound of approaching footsteps. Before he could see their intruder, he pulled away from her, careful to preserve this woman’s honor, even if her life would remain in danger so long as she remained in his sights.

Astarion’s expression soured as his earlier assailant walked right back into his life.

“There you are, my beauty.” He crooned. “So sorry about the interruption earlier.” The man clapped his white-glows hands together, laughing shakily. “Where were we?”

“Nowhere.” Astarion bristled.

Astarion was used to grabby hands, but that didn’t mean he had grown to like their touch. Especially on the rare nights when they weren’t attached to a body he had to take back to his master. Those rarer nights brought him as close as he could get to fighting back.

And tonight, the only body required was the one next to his.

“I think he’d prefer it if you left.” The Neverwintian woman stood beside Astarion, resolute, even daring to step in front of him.

The man’s words slurred as he took advantage of her newly made distance to put himself between her and Astarion, waving her off before grabbing onto Astarion’s lapels. “Mind your business, pet. You’ll have your turn if you behave yourself.”

The next thing Astarion knew after turning about and trying to get the man off of him, his prey was becoming a predator once more.

The woman pushed her weight into the man, using his own miscalculation against him and sending him toppling from the balcony without hesitation. He fell to the garden below, bones snapping as the full weight of his frame hit the ground.

He didn’t have the chance to cry out before his faculties sent the message to his brain that he was, in fact, dead on impact.

Astarion couldn’t hide his shock before it spread across his face like paint splattered on a canvas, only recovering once he managed to gauge her own reaction. Like another layer of skin, hidden underneath the gilded peacock mask he wore, his trained façade slipped back into place.

“Oh, gods.” She covered her mouth with a glove hand, her complexion draining nearly to match his pallor.

“You killed him…” Astarion whispered, head snapping back in her direction once he confirmed the man’s state.

For me.

The words died on Astarion’s lips before his voice could give them life.

“I…I…” She shook her head.

She couldn’t say she didn’t mean to. She absolutely had. Gone was the confidence with which she had handled him. Now she wasn’t just some starving animal, she was also a frightened one.

“It’s alright. This will be our little secret.” He assured her, squeezing the hand she had been holding to her lips, trying to refocus her. “In fact, I’d say I owe you. One good turn deserves another, after all.”

The decision was made before he realized it. One made in a snap, on an instinct. But one he followed through on all the same as one planned out for months.

She wouldn’t be the first mark he had let get away. However, unlike the rest of them, she wasn’t from the city. She could get away, so long as she and her husband didn’t dally. His master couldn’t follow where she went, not without raising too much suspicion.

“Now, let’s go, shall we? Unsolved murders in Baldur’s Gate are a copper a dozen, but we won't remain free of suspicion if we linger here.”

Not to mention the fact that Petras would be coming to collect the body in no time, surely. He needed her seeing that and discovering his condition as much as he needed to take a walk in the light of day. Which was to say that neither one entailed anything good for him, though the latter was tempting when the shadows grew too dark and choking.

“It’s not often someone so inclines me to say it, but, thank you.” Astarion bade, still holding her hand as they approached the ballroom doors. “And if you’re ever back in the Gate, perhaps we could meet up for a bite?” He winked slyly.

His jest’s double meaning was lost on her, but it certainly made him smile. No matter how many times he used it.

If she was ever back in the city, no doubt she would quickly be on Cazador’s list again.

“I just killed someone.” She all but whispered, clearly still in the throes of shock.

“You just saved me from that man and his clearly unwanted intentions.” He pressed a kiss to her hand. “Let’s not dwell on the negatives, hm? Besides, he was clearly drunk. I’m sure the Fists will assume he was a victim of his own inebriation before they ever even think of foul play.”

“I…”

He quieted her. “Chin up. I suggest you find that husband of yours and tell him you’re not feeling well. Get out of here as soon as possible, yes?”

She just kept staring back down the hall.

Astarion tempered his bubbling annoyance. “Nod.” He coached.

Finally, she complied, slight as her nod was.

“That’s a girl. I’ll slip in once I know you’ve made your exit.” He let go of her hand at last. “I do so hope we’ll meet again, my lady.”

It was a pretty lie, once he allowed himself a moment to indulge in. He believed he would remember her beyond this night. It would be hard to forget her after such a stellar first impression, his noble murderess.

The woman studied him for a moment longer before pulling her fur wrap tighter around her shoulders, as if bundling up to brave the ballroom beyond the doors.

Later, when he made his own return, he knew his master’s displeasure immediately. Red eyes filled with cold hate the instant they set themselves upon his spawn. Astarion knew what awaited him upon their return to the Szarr ancestral home.

Somewhere, amidst the bloody haze of the beating that followed her exit from that night and his life, he realized he never got her name.

But at least the memory of her, lacking as it was in name, would linger on far after his master left him in another broken, beaten, and bloody mess of himself.

#Astarion #Durgestarion #bg3 #Durge #Sable #From the Personal Collection of Two Spawn #from the writing desk

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