Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It was just another summer night in Baldur's Gate. Just another hunt. Unfortunately for Astarion, it was one he was going to come home empty handed from. Again .

He winced to himself at what the master was going to do to him this time as he desperately looked for forgettable stragglers in the sewers. But Master had forbade them from checking the usual dens for prey, not with a serial killer prowling the city for over a tenday.

It wasn’t for their safety of course. No matter how a crossing of paths went, it’d be too likely to draw attention to whatever unlucky spawn got caught up in it or worse, what they are.

If only that bloody detective or the Fists could just catch the annoying bastard already. The vampire hissed to himself in frustration. He wasn’t even under the city anymore, what with Violet and Petras forcing him out farther. He could only hope they’d come up as short as he did.

There was a voice in the echoes that caught his attention and his hopes, but with frustration he realized he recognized one. A thieves’ guild member, which means they were likely all off limits.

Astarion muttered a swear under his breath, sure he wouldn’t be heard over some rat’s infernal squeaking. He’d be lucky if he was forced to swallow another of those fucking things for the night’s efforts. Gods below, when was the last time he ate? A day ago, maybe two?

The guild member warned their companion not to spilt up, but the stranger didn’t listen in favor of the rat’s incessant noise. There was a gasp. And the hurried splashes of a chase.

Astarion let himself follow it, and when he was nearly on them he smelled blood. Old blood to be fair, with a richness to the cloying scent of its spoiling that beast blood rarely carried. It made his mouth water, but the Master’s orders were as clear as the rules: He deserved nothing less than “fresh” victims, and the blood of the dead were as barred to his spawns as the living’s were.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t see what this fuss was about.

He found the source of the old blood. The hobgoblin whose voice he had recognized, Crane, had his face split in two. And from the smell of it he’d been this way for some time now. 

Which meant whoever was talking wasn’t with the guild after all, Astarion realized with a grin. They might be someone nobody would look into if they went missing. He stayed on the prowl.

There was a cave entrance up ahead, with a curtain of skulls and bones. An annoying little noise-maker he heard at least two someones set off already, so he was still on their trail. 

He quietly slipped through with his careful touch, and was rewarded with the sound of a sharp blade cracking through a skull and a bouquet of fresh blood. The hunger in his gut yearned for it, but the Master would know if he had so much of a taste. He always knew if they try to stray.

Astarion still risked a glance to see who the attacker was to see if the victim might be in any condition to steal away, even if they’d fall far short of Master’s standards.

The latter option died quickly with the wet sound of a dying breath. But there was a rustling of clothes, a weedy light lilt and a deeper grunt. Two attackers?

A more familiar scent made itself known, to his chagrin. At least one of them had too much “fun” in this little hunt of theirs, though they weren’t of a conventional breed. So the sound of cloth might be a bit more scandalous than a mere bit of looting, and the Master may refuse them too.

Astarion got close enough he could make them out, and it was his fault for hoping at all. A dragonborn in sleeveless sorcerer garb was holding the knife, and some manner of hideous goblin was at their side quietly apologizing to his partner for their “frustration”, so to speak.

Leon had tried bringing in a dragonborn once, and none of them were willing to make that mistake again. “Too rare” in a city like Baldur’s Gate, they’re all too distinct for it to be unnoticed. 

Had it been anyone else, Master would have had Godey “correct” them, but nooo, Leon’s too good for that. If Astarion brought one home, who knows how long he’d be left screaming. He certainly wasn’t going to risk how much worse any flavor of scrawny gaudy goblin would turn out.

Astarion’s disappointment over wasted time must have made him sloppy, because the scaled beast of a man spun on their heel. The vampire knew he’d have the superior dark vision here, but with those burning red eyes trained on him he wasn’t sure how much it mattered.

In a blink the goblin was gone, leaving him with only one target to worry about. One with a weapon ready and primed to lunge at him with a crazed grin of sharp teeth.

He wasn’t fed enough for this. Astarion could get away, without a doubt, but not unscathed and all that would mean was hastening his empty handed return to his master while injured .

A part of him would rather die. But that part was so easily stolen from him at his Master’s whims and left to suffer Godey’s for hells knows how long.

But there is another option, if corpses are this particular freak’s fancy. One Astarion is much better versed in, as he set himself ready to dodge.

“Well aren’t you a gorgeous thing?” Astarion teased with one of his better-received coy looks.

The dragonborn was too set on his blood to pay it much mind, but he weaved around their charging form smoothly enough to successfully trip them instead. The pale blur careened into the wall of the cave’s mouth, and despite its larger size Astarion was able to pin them to it.

“Now there’s no need to be hasty, darling.” He crooned to them but got nothing but a growl. “I’m not adverse to helping you with your “problem” you know, if your stiff can’t get to the rigor part of their mortis fast enough for you.”

At this lack of distance even his preferred perfume mix couldn’t hide the obvious results of his nature, to his typical disdain. But catching that slight whiff of decay was enough to make the white dragonborn’s pupils dilate with interest and their thrashing against his pin slowed.

It cocked its head at him and managed to roll enough to face him, the curve of the cave wall sparing them both the indignity of addressing how much taller the bloodsoaked dragonborn was. Tail caught between its legs so he needn’t worry about that appendage tripping him in retaliation.

Using the mask of a rake to spare a glance to assess if there were other weapons to worry about, he couldn’t help but notice the lack of evidence for the frustration he smelled. Given the size of this brute he doubted they were of the fairer sex. Either dragonborn are built very differently than most other people or there may be some truth to the old jests about “reptile dysfunction”.

“Can we be civil about this, or will we need to see about slitting that pretty little neck of yours?” He purred as he focused back on their face, with what should have been a decent enough smolder.

The dragonborn grinned back like Astarion had just told a joke, and if that wasn’t enough to set the vampire on the defensive, being thrown off with a solid shove certainly was. He didn’t even have a chance to get his footing before it threw itself at him.

It struck him in the face with the open palm of the unarmed claw. His fangs sank into the soft flesh of the dragonborn’s wrist, right before the metal bracers, and he tasted blood.

Real blood, for the first time in his life. He couldn’t hope to focus with that iron sweetness on his tongue, the distant sting from the impact and a sensation like electricity needling through him.

Astarion felt the other claw dig into his hair and he only half wondered about the knife it had held when it instead kept him in place, refusing him the chance to stop drinking. As if he would if he could.

“Easier to be “civil” if you’re off the hunt too, isn’t it?” it asked in a surprisingly sweet deep tone, cradling his head like this was no different from holding a bottle to a babe. “Wasn’t expecting to find your kind around here. Guess there was truth to the rumors about a coven in Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion couldn’t answer, he couldn’t even keep them from pulling him off when they deemed he’d had enough and nearly tripped over his feet when he stumbled back to make some space.

“That’s better. Are vampire eyes supposed to glow when you’re hungry, poor thing?”

The elf brought up a hand to graze his lips, both to check for any leftovers and to try to rub away the sting of that rough treatment. But he couldn’t even bring himself to mind it.

His mind felt clearer than he could ever remember. And his master- Cazador’s pull, just… wasn’t there anymore. He took a deep breath and for the first time in well over 200 years it was like he could well and truly feel it.

He felt free . Or close enough to it to actually be happy over something, anything, for the first time in over 200 years.

Was this why they weren’t allowed to drink thinking blood? No- No, there must be something else at work. His eyes stuck to the dragonborn, looking for a clue to what but he didn’t even know what he should be looking for. Sorcerer’s robes could mean they’re like Leon, but as a certain asshole was sooooo happy to throw in everyone’s faces, that doesn’t narrow their magic down.

Despite that setback Astarion couldn’t get himself to stop smiling, and the murderer in front of him looked like he was patiently waiting for an actual answer now that it was sure he wasn’t a threat to them.

“I wouldn’t know.” Astarion managed after he tried to get some control of himself to save what little face he could. “I’ve never known a time when my siblings’ eyes didn’t.”

“And you can’t know your own either.” The dragonborn surmised with a somber look as it took a seat on the bloodied, filthy earth across from him. “So now that we’re both “civil”, what are you looking for all the way out here, little vampire? Poor place to find a John, Jane, or Jo.”

“I-... Master felt peckish but didn’t want us on the streets with a serial killer causing a ruckus.” Astarion admitted and gave them a cocky grin, “Don’t suppose that’d be you?”

The dragonborn gave a deep knowing chuff before dissolving into a cackle, burning red eyes asking what exactly this “little” vampire was going to do about it. The elf smirked back like that was a joke he’d be happy to keep their little secret.

“Can’t be treating very well, letting you out like this anyway.” The dragonborn’s eyes lingered on Astarion’s shoulder, and looking for himself he caught how the gold threadwork was wearing thin again. An easy fix, but getting the thread for it was another story, Astarion noted with a grimace.

“What good is treating a puppet like it deserves anything better?” Astarion sneered with a growl.

The dragonborn clicked its tongue in disapproval. “What a waste. Loyalty through forced control and nothing but is hardly any worth having at all. Even my lot knows that much.”

“And what “lot” would that be?” The vampire asked warily, and the killer’s grin spoke volumes.

“Does this “puppet” have a name if he’d like to find out?”

“You first, darling.” Astarion let his own false-smile show teeth in half-meant warning.

The dragonborn gave an askance look to the side but allowed themselves to follow common courtesy, “I’m best known as The Dark Urge these days.”

Astarion let himself give a slight snort, but The Dark Urge left their bloodied knife in their lap and held up their hands like they understood the reflex but that was the best they had to give.

“Astarion Ancunin, more or less.”

“Doesn’t sound like a “puppet’s” name to me.” The Dark Urge smirked and Astarion’s brows raised at the strange jibe.

“I’d return the compliment, but we both know that wouldn’t be true.”

“ I prefer to think of myself as a weapon.” The Dark Urge puffed their chest with the air of a jest. Though that could just be how they were.

“You know, I was getting something of that impression,” Astarion teased back as he glanced from the fresh corpse, to the bone-curtain, to the rest of this killer’s den.

A smattering of trophies lined a back wall, though even as ignorant as Cazador kept them it was common enough knowledge this latest bloody cut along the lower city left the victims in place. 

What was a bare table on the right side of the room quickly had the latest sap’s corpse casually draped on it, The Dark Urge sparing it a genuine quick once over and nicking an animal charm, a token, another dagger, and a letter for their troubles. 

Then all of their attention was back onto Astarion, who was keenly aware of what the stakes now were. He could’ve outrun them when they were less on edge, made the scramble back “home” intact, but that wasn’t enough anymore.

Not if freedom was on the table. Not if Cazador was truly out of his head.

He needed to find out how it happened and how to keep it.

Which would be made easier if he gave this person reasons to want to keep him around and keep him from being forced back home. He just needed to keep following his well honed-instincts.

Get them hooked, make them loyal, use them to get everything he needs to be free. To be safe.

There was a bedroll far against the left wall, which was less than ideal but might just serve his purposes. If he read things right.

They’re less riled, less feral, but they held a tension which fell in line with that sort of thwarted desire. Their eyes on him, full attention. The earlier attempt at interest worked, clumsy as it was.

“So, what does our “big bad serial killer” want with me? We are in your “lair”,” he asked as he looked his latest target top to bottom with a knowing smirk and a cock of his head. “Taking me up on the offer, or are we still in a “leave no witnesses” sort of mood?”

The Dark Urge gave a shallow snort and the bright reds of their neck started to crawl higher into their face. So that was just blood showing through where their scales are at their most flexible. And he thought he was considered “pale”.

What a delicious and adorable little quirk. As little choice as he might have had with these circumstances he could have done far worse for his first dragonborn.

“I’m not an animal, and I’d hardly consider you a “witness” if there’s no one you could tell,” his prey chided with a playful click of their tongue. Their eyes were less so. “I don’t need pity .”

“And you’ll find I’m not one to offer it. Only a bit of fun.” He said with a tilt of his head like a viper’s readjustment and a smile showing a bit more fang than he’d risk with a typical target.

“More fun than a good hunt?” they challenged, but they had a look to them like they knew he’d never had one of those. Like it was that obvious he’d never so much as tasted blood like theirs before. Did they know what their blood could do?

“Having a little death figuratively can be just as enjoyable in my experiences,” he shot back with a toothy smirk he hoped conveyed an assumed lack of success in their own efforts there.

He almost hoped he failed or the bark of a laugh they gave would be a lot more insulting. But they were still smiling, eyes darkly glazed with barely hidden interest in his offer.

He tried to guide them to the bedroll, but despite their earlier claim against being an “animal” it looked like the floor was more their fancy. Catching his disappointment they purred into his ear, “I’ve only got the one here. Can’t go making a mess of it too early.”

An acceptable enough excuse so he shrugged it off. It wasn’t like he hadn’t gone without before.

When was the last time he had anything better than the floor? Much less a good, real bed for a matter of minutes at best .

Getting to business proved they were far from “conventional”, but despite their visible unease with that level of exposure he didn’t let it give him any pause as he got them on the ground. 

That seemed to please them well enough, from the sigh of relief his lack of questions drew from them. Wasn’t the only way he proved “pleasing” either, but for him even learning a new type of body on the fly might as well have been automatic. Instinctive. Hardly worth thinking about.

The clarity he was experiencing as he explored them made it more enjoyable than most of his other conquests, but not enough to feel any better than those others. 

Their scales were a new texture to adapt to, though tiefling spines were close. They were warm in a very living way but a fair bit cooler than nearly everyone who had ever touched him before, ignoring his sire and siblings of course. 

But the pulse made it easy to keep from lingering on those memories. It just helped this “experience” make a new disgusting notch for itself in the back of his mind. Something new to possibly haunt him the next time he has to get on his back to survive.

In some ways that disgust was just as amplified, so the two really should cancel out to being similar levels of shit. But it didn’t. The hints of frost were bracing, they let him take the lead and when they did touch him it was like they held something… precious, instead of a toy to abuse. 

They barely so much as scratched him. Not that they let him bite them either, they were quick to rule a second feeding off the table. He couldn’t blame them with how hungry he still was.

Maybe the loathing he was feeling this time was because this one wasn’t for Cazador.

It was a new type of exchanging pleasures for him, but the results were hopefully the same. Paying for his meal, for his freedom, for their devotion should he play his cards right.

That’s all any form of “love” was, when beauty is the only thing you have worth taking.

It was almost a relief when he thought exhaustion had finally overtaken them, but a set of claws catching his wrist stole that away.

“Really, love? Are you that insatiable, or just scared I’m running off?”

They shook off what dregs of sleep were beckoning them, in favor of rummaging through their discarded bag with their free hand. “Hmm, took care of me, take care of you. Only right.”

Not if their idea of “reciprocation” would involve this thing’s teeth near his anything it wouldn’t!

But no, despite that immediate fear, what they were looking for was merely a few bottles of clean water, a sponge, and soap. He hadn’t expected someone who chose to hide in a sewer to bother with such basics, but far be it from him to complain.

“Does’all water hurt, or just when it moves? Vampires, I mean.” They asked as they tried to overcome the exhaustion slurring their tongue.

That sort of consideration did take him aback. Enough he felt the best choice was to reassure them that it wouldn’t, despite the lie. Their option would hurt less than doing it himself, no matter how hard he’s tried, so it was easy enough to hide and making the offer is a good sign. 

“Sssorry, can’t make you smell like ‘less boring tea party ag’in.” They mumbled when they let their head rest on his shoulder.

“And here I thought you were just trying to enjoy the smell of death on me more.” He teased to hide his displeasure at their eye for detail and lackluster description.

They gave a pleased content hum, basking in it as they spoke, but rocked their head in place like a shake. “Is your body. Should smell how you want it.”

“Being the way that upsets the general public least is also a plus. But I am rather proud of my work there. It took me quite a while to find a mix of smells this good at what I need.”

“Sh’me, but tru’. A’ways gotta worry ‘bout how others see you.” The sleepy beast sighed as they continued their work. “‘Nother reason to want them all gone.”

He knew better than to push something that ominous. And despite the sting of contact, the attention itself was almost nice. Until the other man made contact with the scar on his back.

It wasn’t even that it hurt more there. More like having it exposed to someone else, someone new, so clearly was making it itch like it was only carved yesterday. 

They didn’t ask him anything, but he felt the sponge trace parts of it too clearly to be incidental. He got the feeling they were trying to return the favor for how he respected their own body, but this was tempting them to speak.

He didn’t even get the chance to offer returning the favor when they finished, as they gestured for him to take the bedroll when they moved on to cleaning themselves. The less he had to touch them the better, but the refusal did inspire some worry of if his performance was subpar.

Best not to dwell on that. He’s still intact and they aren’t acting like a danger to him just yet.

Feigning a trance was easy enough to ensure the murderer wasn’t about to turn on him. Even another elf might struggle to catch it, so a dragonborn shouldn’t have been any wiser.

He caught the scent of sulfur and old rot along with a new pair of footsteps out of nowhere. Likely the small disappearing goblin from before, from the weight of soles on the bloodied dirt.

“He’s not dead, ser?” the reedier voice asked with disappointment.

“What does it matter?”

“His master will come looking for him soon enough.”

“Being dead or alive wouldn’t change that, Fel.” The dragonborn’s voice was more alert now. An edge of annoyance. Like Cazador’s condensation when any fool dared risk talking back. “If they wanted to keep their “pet” so badly, they should’ve treated him better before letting him loose.”

“And you suppose you could do better, my lord?”

“I “played” with him, I washed him, I fed him,” The Dark Urge said with a playful lilt, the hint of a dangerous truth to what it implied. “He’s got a good hunger and I like his spark. We’ll just need to see how well he kills and if he’s interested in what we can offer him.”

“I… Suppose your Father might permit you to keep him. If he’s just a pet,” the snivelly voice conceded. Astarion focused on maintaining the illusion of rest despite the rage in his chest.

“He’s better with his hands than you are, Sceleritas. If he’s half as good with a scalpel he’ll be fucking up far fewer of my corpses,” The Dark Urge said with an audible sneer. “Besides, there’s more going on here.”

That was made harder when a pull on the bedroll made him roll onto his front, and something pulled his shirt up to show his scar. But he held fast and kept quiet so he could keep listening. 

“Do you know what this is?” The Dark Urge asked, and their attendant gave a cheery thoughtful hum to himself as he looked over Cazador’s poem.

“Aside from proof this soul’s been claimed quite thoroughly already, master?”

“ No ! What does it mean?” The Dark Urge snarled at them and earned a weak apology. “Find me answers, before you come to me again. Do I make myself clear, Butler ?”

“As a fresh eye, my lord! I’ll find all there is to know about this artistic bit of scarification,” the Butler eagerly agreed, though their voice got softer. “It may take me some time, if this is whose work I suspect. Should I find any parts that seem immediately vital to you, or the other lord tries sticking his unworthy nose where it doesn’t belong again, may I return with word early?”

“Fine. As long as you get them,” The Dark Urge grumbled, and Astarion’s shirt was put back into place. “Preferably before I snap the carver’s neck. The spawns are one thing, but we don’t need a Vampire Lord using them to steal my kills.”

“Of course , Master! I’ll be sure it’s done so I won’t risk missing that wonderous sight.”

When the source of the sulfur vanished he felt a hand hover over him, not quite touching but driving his instinct to snap at it wild. “Sorry if you heard all of that. I don’t know how trances work.”

Astarion knew better than take bait that obvious. He stayed as he was until the hand pulled away without so much as a light touch and footfalls sounded like their owner found a different spot to take their own rest.

With that smell this ugly little lickspittle from before was far from a normal goblin, and for this person to be able to order them around they had to be something worse. That “something” might be what set him “free”. Even if that was a familiar of some sort, he’s never heard of one like this.

He wasn’t sure if he should be grateful he managed to get them possessive already. Not a great sign for this target’s stability, so this could turn messy dangerously fast. But, as much as it made him want to tear their throat out while he had the chance, playing “pet” may work for him.

Play this wannabe “master” against Cazador and he’s got himself a handy not-so-little meat shield. Whatever caught their eye about his poem could be to his benefit too, if it wasn’t jealousy egging them on. He had already guessed it may have been written in Kozakuran or something.

Why else would he have oh-so specifically demanded they all stay ignorant of it? If everything else of value in that damned castle was based on it, it’d follow his favorite scrawl would be too.

He’ll stick with this lunatic until he gets all the answers and power he needs. Second Cazador’s through, he’ll slit the dragonborn’s neck so nobody will need to know who or what he is.

Then he’ll be free to finally do as he pleases. Maybe only as “free” as any damned vampire could hope to be, between their limits and the grating hunger, but what could matter past that?

Having even the dream of escape made it all too tempting to let himself drift into a real trance. Trying to find any memories before his turning, before his hell , to let himself have a ghost of what living had felt like.

It didn’t work. It never did, but most nights he hadn’t bothered. Closest he could find was the night he made the greatest mistake of his tortured existence and hissed mockeries.

A fuzzy, weak, awful series of sensations drifted to the surface more than a true memory of substance.

Nights of careful study, making sure his act would be spotless. Meticulous forgeries, deliberate manipulations, making sure the right words reached powerful ears, tomes upon tomes of law.

They were right, he shouldn’t’ve ever left home as early as he did-

He couldn’t think of a single place that could have been “home” to him besides Baldur’s Gate.

He couldn’t put a face for who “they” even were anymore. Friends? Family? Peers? Busybodies?

He tried to find a thread that might untangle that, a shred that something in his life had ever been better than pure shit. Begging his brain for even a glance of a mirror so he could know what his own face looked like again, no matter how out of date it was, could have been enough.

So of course that was asking for too fucking much.

Hearing his would-be “master” stir snapped him from what passed for his trance. And it had still been one of his better ones, fruitless as it was. He didn’t get caught up in a memory with Cazador for a change. Not “painless”, but it might be the closest thing he could get to it.

The dragonborn’s body cracked and popped as they worked out the kinks the stone floor had so graciously given them, and he looked half surprised to see Astarion still there. He covered it up quickly enough with a sharp grin with sharper teeth.

“You that interested in seeing what “my lot” is then, Astarion ?” The Dark Urge preened and chucked a mass of fabric at Astarion. A cloak from the look of it. “Wear that and my people will give you less trouble than a typical new recruit. Plus, it’s got some pretty fun perks on its own.”

Nepotism with a touch of visible claiming it is then. At least the color wasn’t terrible and the weight felt good as it clipped onto his padded armor. Couldn’t guess what the “perk” was though.

“How “fun” can they be if you’re willing to part with it so easily?” Astarion challenged, and the dragonborn cocked its head up like they wanted to stress how they were looking down at him.

“Very, but I’m not the best person suited for it. Hiding’s not my speed.”

“But evading the Fists is,” Astarion pointed out with a bouncing finger and a sarcastic drawl.

“Damn right.” He chuckled back with a bloodthirsty smirk. “You’ll see what I mean on both fronts if any of my people can’t take a bloody hint,” he said like he was excitedly expecting them not to.

He pitched them as having a truer “loyalty” than thralls, but also enjoys open disobedience?

They must all be mad.

Navigating their way from the outskirts to the “undercity” proper only reaffirmed that whatever they were, they weren’t with any guilds he’d been privy to. But he was getting a sick suspicion about what sort of mad dog had him leashed.

More built-out sewage systems gave way to cave walls and ruins again before The Dark Urge stopped on a stone circle before a carved stone door.

“Is this where your “test” is?” Astarion asked, trying his hardest to avoid uttering the ever-petulant words “are we there yet” verbatim but with as much frustration to them.

“For the chaft I suppose it is,” The Dark Urge answered as he plucked a skull from the skeleton of some unlucky soul with as much nonchalance as if it were an apple from a market stall. 

Even gave it the same needless attempt at “shining”, before he turned on his heel to present it to Astarion. And dropped it dead center of the innermost stone medallion with a clatter.

One lined with freshly redone droplets chasing each other in an all too familiar symbol. One no one sane ever wanted to see. All Astarion’s “companion” did was put a skull in its rightful place.

The Bhaalist stood proud, only taking a step forward to stand above the skull finishing his god’s icon. As if his burning red gaze was the very same as what Dread Lord Bhaal, the Lord of Murder’s very own would be, as he watched the vampire with an outstretched hand.

Astarion swallowed his surprise and accepted this twisted invitation like it was to dance at a ball.

No matter what The Dark Urge thought, he couldn’t afford to leave until he knew for sure what made Cazador’s hold on him wane.

It seemed pleased at the acceptance, blood creeping up into its face again as that near-constant grin widened. It also was quick to lead him towards the door, with a quick nod of its head up to bring the handless corpses that had been strung up above them to his attention.

No points for guessing where the fresh blood had come from.

“Do you have proof of your faith to our lord?” an elderly woman’s voice creaked from the stone.

“I am still the Dirge of the Unholy Assassins made manifest, Mara.” The Dark Urge growled with a flash of a curved red blade, like this was an expected annoyance but they were no less tired of the song and dance of “ritual”. “One day you won’t survive being reminded of this.”

“Of course, Dark Urge.” It hissed like it was also used to this exchange. “Walk in Blood.”

The self-proclaimed Unholy Assassin looked back at Astarion and made a show of rolling their eyes as she spoke before offering him the presented corridor. With what they clearly knew about vampirism, it was likely to make sure he would be included with that invitation.

“As if I could walk any other way,” Astarion replied with his own exaggerated shrug and got a chuckle for the effort.

And it was an effort. Every undead bone in his body, every instinct, every shred of good sense he had left screamed at him to turn tail and run anywhere else. But good sense clearly couldn’t be trusted right now given that he bedded a Bhaalist and somehow survived to kiss and tell.

They hadn’t even gotten down all the cursed stairs before The Dark Urge sniffed the air and gave a deep long-suffering sigh. Didn’t even say a word about what before lifting one hand to make sure Astarion paused and readied the other to snap. Astarion didn’t need to ask why.

The area ahead was primed for an ambush, and if they were dealing with Bhaalists of course the “lot” would be murder-mad.

A snap from the dragonborn’s fingers called blood red lightning to come down on some of their would be attackers, and similar veins of electricity crackled along their scales to prime the next spell.

“If they’re smart, that will be enough “proof” for the guard dogs.” The sorcerer grumbled and let the storm winds that kicked at their feet launch them ahead. Astarion caught hushed awed whispers once the screaming from pain stopped.

He half expected them to try attacking him anyway as he followed after the Bhaalist, but it looked like there was some sort of strange loyalty to the white dragonborn after all.

The dragonborn’s tongue clicked like they had half-hoped to still get a fight. Instead they got to enjoy even more stairs and cloying darkness. The air stunk with rot the further they went, and to make matters worse, the path was lined with talking statues giving out history lessons .

Astarion’s eyes caught the tell-tale seams of pressure plates as they approached the bridge to Bhaal’s temple, but the warning he gave for it was quietly dismissed.

“Not a trap,” the Dark Urge corrected as they turned to face him, walking backwards with the swagger of someone who thought of this as their home rather than a place of worship. And one after another they deliberately stepped on every plate and tripwire they could. ““Walk in Blood.””

Beaming at the vampire like the smug showoff they were, they held their arms outstretched as if to embrace the flows of blood that sprang with every trigger. “My niece’s idea, she fancies herself an “artist” where bloodshed is involved,” they said with proud eyes but a disapproving sneer.

It was all real, most from obviously ill animals that made it smell nearly as rancid as the vermin he’d lived on his entire vampiric existence, but the sheer amount of it all nearly had Astarion drooling.

The Dark Urge’s face fell with concern at Astarion’s pained grimace from trying to keep some dignity intact. He tried to ignore it as he strode past them, hoping it wouldn’t all smell this strongly.

Some clamoring behind the temple’s doors gave way to stone screaming against itself as the heavy rock split for them. Well, for “The Dark Urge” and the meaningless plus one.

The smell of rot and spoiled blood only got worse, and looking from a ledge it was like this mausoleum to what should be a faith that was dead and gone was literally built on the blood of the city itself. A leather glove tried touching him and his blade found a neck before he could even recognize he did it.

The second it did the hand gripping his blade nearly completely vanished from sight. He could only barely make out the edges of himself.

Glancing to where his “host” stood, they stared where he stood with a flushed red glow of delight. He heard their heart flicker at the sight of his violence. Their eyes immediately dropped to the corpse and he tried to put some distance between him and the evidence.

And he noticed they weren’t just gawking at his work. They were looking for signs of footsteps, tiny pebbles he’d knock aside or crush, dust he’d kick up, even traces of blood on his boots. Because even though he could barely see himself they didn’t lose track of him for long.

So there was no point in panicking. This wasn’t helping any escape, not that he could risk that just yet, and what’s a little bit of murder among Bhaalists?

Astarion had to keep playing along. He couldn’t afford to lose his head like that, or he’d lose it for good.

“I take it, this is what you were looking forward to seeing?” he asked as he sidled up, nearly behind them. The invisibility spell didn’t last long, and he could see himself again before they could answer.

“What do you think?” they asked breathlessly. It really doesn’t take much to rile this nut up.

Astarion felt a little stupid for only catching it now. The panache they were trying to give to this whole endeavor, the constant invitations, their face falling on the bridge.

They were trying to impress him, like being bed by him wasn’t enough to prove to them he was sufficiently “wooed” as one would a suitor. Like a street dog trying to urge a new stray to join its pack. Which wouldn’t make sense if they knew they had essentially stolen his leash. 

It didn’t help him figure out what they did, but it was one less thing they could use against him if- when things went south.

“I’m certainly seeing the appeal,” he replied with a more self assured grin. Letting his blade dance between his fingers, he glanced up at them, “So, does it do that on a good hit or a kill?”

“Every kill.” They answered eagerly. “Not bad for getting out of a bind, but I’m not one for the “finesse” that really makes those seconds shine.”

“And obviously a spell would give you away.”

“Breaks it early even if the noise didn’t.” The sorcerer nodded with a chuckle. “Or the, well, everything about my kind of magic. You can’t really hide a storm like mine under a cloak.” 

“Good to know. I’ve dabbled in some magic tricks myself, you know,” Astarion admitted.

“Hmm, those would be more like a wizard’s, wouldn’t they?” They asked and he gave a nod, “Fun. Most of us don’t bother with their scrolls, but I could keep an eye out for them for you.”

“Well aren’t you sweet?” he teased and tried to keep his smile from tensing at catching murmurs from the other Bhaalists milling about.

Catching his discomfort, his host gestured for him to follow them to the altar at the heart of the temple, and then down the stairs past it. 

That set of doors opened silently without question for a change, and while the blood was still thick enough he half wondered if he even needed to drink it. Otherwise it looked… like a bedroom.

Who in the Hells would want to have a real, honest to gods’ four poster bed, in a miserable, filthy place like this?! Much less actually get it down here ? But there it was, decked to the nines with Bhaalist detailing that definitely got somebody killed, and there was even a matching mahogany wardrobe!

The dragonborn snickering at his expense made him well aware he needed to retrieve his jaw, and he pouted up at them. “Well excuse me for being surprised to see something that’s not another bloody rock .” Pausing to glance at a real wooden desk, he was gobsmacked again.

Hearing more of their laughter he didn’t even look at them as he asked the room, “ Why ?”

“Just because my private quarters are in the temple doesn’t mean I can’t try to keep it a bit…” They hummed with a waggle of their head while looking for the word. “Hmmm. Homely?”

Astarion blinked for two beats before the weight of that sunk in. “Private quarters? Down here?”

“Father insisted.” They sighed with a hint of frustration. “With how my older siblings turned out, he wanted to keep me close as soon as I was ready to… carry on His work.”

He can’t tell if they’re talking about a religious “Father” or if this was a family affair.

Astarion nearly made a joke when that sulfur smell from before came back. The goblin who brought it was positively giddy, up until it saw Astarion. He could narrow down the exact moment it recognized the cloak he was made to wear by how quickly its discontentment turned into a true hate, with quite the horror in its eyes.

“What is it, Butler?” The Dark Urge spat with a cold tense indifference. Sparing Astarion a glance they made themselves relax and with a dismissive wave gave basic introductions for “Scelaritas Fel” and the vampire. 

That wasn’t a name worth remembering if Astarion didn’t have to, and the spiteful butler seemed to recognize their mutual dissatisfaction with how specifically its frown seemed to deepen.

“I heard you were home early, Master, so I needed to make sure all your needs were being met,” the butler said with an almost proper half bow, trying to ignore the perceived interloper.

“The only thing I “need” is what I sent you for,” The Dark Urge said with a cold edge of a threat. “Do you have it for me already?”

Fel blinked up at his “Master” with an edge of fear and a disturbing amount of eager anticipation. “Not quite yet ser, I only have the loosest of translations, and it’s not one where that is of any value without at least the full set.” The butler gave Astarion a scornful look over before addressing him. “Do you know how many are marked like you? Where they are? Anything ?”

“Excuse you, I won’t be addressed like that by the help !” Astarion snarled back.

“And I shan’t act like I have any need to respect one so far beneath my Master.” Fel replied with a cruel sneer. 

“Oh, I wasn’t “beneath” anyone,” Astarion needled back in hopes of assailing the goblin’s misapplied pride and got an agreeing deep chuckle from the “Master” in question.

“Paying service to the Spawn of Lord Bhaal himself is the least something like you can do when such a higher being takes interest,” The goblin growled back. “You don’t deserve the blessing of their presence, much less this… attention .” He shook his head as the last word dripped with disgust.

Astarion’s jaw set at a partial confirmation of what sort of “Father” would make his host so revered. Anxiety gnawed his gut worse than the hunger all of the blood around him inspired.

He drank the blood of a God . Diluted, and maybe his “divinity” was a tad deluded at this point, but there was no denying his strength. That’s what it took to break him free from Cazador’s clutches.

How long does blood stay in his system? How much time could he have between feedings until the energy he drew from it ran its course and he’d be little more than a puppet again?

How could he hide how vital feeding from them was if this Bhaalspawn’s clueless in their own role in his freedom? He has to hide it, otherwise they’ll know how desperate things are for him.

They’d know he couldn’t afford to refuse anything they could possibly want in exchange for it. Sure, they’re playing nice for now , but they might think they “have” to. Like he does when winning over a target.

He couldn’t afford to be on the receiving end of whatever would come when the social games ended. Not with anyone. He’s seen what people become in the dark, but definitely not a Bhaalspawn.

Oh hells, how is he supposed to kill something like this if they start getting possessive?!

“I had asked you a question, vampire spawn.” The butler said mockingly. “That scar on your back reads like part of a set. To find out what it says, I need the full transcription.”

“Seven. Cazador Szaar makes sure there’s always seven of us,” Astarion numbly replied, and his lack of vitriol made the dragonborn’s glare at their butler darken. “We all know we have one,” he said with a sigh and gave a weak wry grin, “but we rarely look at each others’ backs without stabbing them in one way or the other. Can’t trust anyone to take the time to read them for us.”

“If they’re anything like you, I doubt that they could,” Fel scoffed.

The dragonborn closed their eyes silently as if to better grasp their temper as they took to checking a longsword from a mostly conventional trophy rack.

Slowly their eyes opened and looked only at Astarion with a skeptical smirk that felt like a “Is this thing being serious?” They shook their head to themselves and Astarion went tense the second he noticed how deep that frustration went. How quickly it wanted to turn rotten.

One second the goblin-butler was tittering its “concerns” over keeping his personal business personal, the next its head’s sudden and brutal divorce from its neck forced him into silence.

Astarion felt a laugh bubble up from his chest, partly from how the moron obviously didn’t see it coming, but part was also nerves. He didn’t know the history here, didn’t know if that “butler” had been a “favorite” once or not. But he does know monsters that can make a kill that quickly, that casually and towards one of their “own” couldn’t be trusted.

The dragonborn’s face looked pained for a moment as they watched his face like a hawk. They tried to play it off with a somber smirk and a vague wave to the corpse’s body. “Give him time.”

“I know it’s supposed to “heal all wounds”, but in this case I think that’s a tad generous.” Astarion retorted with a scowl at the dismissive scaled bipedal beast.

But then its fingers twitched.

Any further sass and snark caught on his teeth as the butler’s headless body pushed itself off the ground. The empty neck twisted as if looking for its occupant, but with a series of wet cracks and the tells of magic the head was restored like The Dark Urge’s attack hadn’t happened.

The only thing it was missing was its hat, which stayed where its former “head” had been, and in this case it was easily retrieved.

“What in the hells?”

“The “hells” are quite right.” The butler scoffed as he brushed off some dust from his cap, tracing a finger along the snake skeleton sitting on its brim to check every bone was present and in place.

“Excuse me? Is that all you have to say for casually coming back from the dead?!”

“The only way for a Butler to die is if we are not of use to our Master.” The… goblin(?) scoffed as it used a grungy handkerchief to get rid of the evidence of its decapitation left on its neck with an air of fond frustration. “An extra set of hands,” Fel spat at him with murder in the lickspittle’s eyes, “Is nowhere near enough to make my services redundant for Our Master. It’s a Butler’s job to keep an eye on the lesser staff. And you’ll find I’m one hell of a butler.”

“I don’t need any “staff”, like some toddy wizard,” the Bhaalspawn snarled back. “I want blades , who can cut the crap and anything else they damn well please. So do your job.”

The Butler took a deep bow and faded in a red haze. The Bhaalspawn cautiously watched Astarion’s face.

“Sorry I wasn’t more upfront about… that ,” the Bhaalspawn said, like “that” was something to feel guilty about. With a sigh they continued, “That’s where I get my name from. His temper, or whims, whatever you’d call these “Dark Urge”s of mine. I am His dagger.” They gave a sad smile and held out a palm, where the blood red dagger they had shown off at the door materialized with what Astarion could now see was His Father’s symbol set above the grip.

Astarion nodded maybe a bit too quickly as he kept his eyes on that blade. “Well, it’s hardly like I would have been upfront about my own condition had that been an option.” With a nervous laugh he blinked. “So, that “niece” of yours… would be from your “Father’s” side I take it?”

The Bhaalspawn gave a weak laugh back. “Saervok’s daughter, it only gets messier from there. Her blood’s diluted, but she’s my sweet little sister by faith if not by direct blood.”

“Would have been a bit much to hope that she could have been the secret love child of our so-called Grand Duke wouldn’t it?” Astarion said jokingly before taking a deep breath.

“I did mention Father wasn’t thrilled about how my older siblings turned out.” They rolled their eyes but their eyes stayed wary when they looked back at Astarion. “So, do you still wish to stay? We won’t hold your hunger against you. If you can draw blood here, it’s your right to it.”

“Tempting,” Astarion crooned teasingly and forced a hooded leer. “Does that include yours?”

They breathed like he took a weight from their shoulders and some of that worried guilt left their burning eyes to leave something far more playful in its place. Astarion noticed their tail nearly wagged, like they were forcing themselves to stay “professional” here. “All you have to do is ask.”

“We are in your bedroom right now, aren’t we?” Astarion teased again and the Bhaalspawn swallowed like they somehow weren’t prepared for that. “I suppose that’s something to keep in mind for… Hmm, later then?”

The Bhaalspawn nodded but their lingering eyes proved Astarion’s purpose had succeeded. Showing interest in spite of their parentage was encouraging their own interest in him.

He sauntered out, prouder than a peacock, and like the Bhaalspawn said the other Bhaalists barely gave him a second glance once they saw his cloak. No fuss over the life he took.

It wouldn’t do to be reckless like that again though. But he couldn’t go unprotected either as he tried to get himself accustomed to his new space. The ruined city seemed as much Bhaal’s domain as the temple did, like it was made to house thousands instead of these dregs of dying faith.

A green wavy blade caught his eye and with none the wiser made its way into his pocket. Sharing the same engraving of Bhaal on its hilt that the Bhaalspawn’s did might help further in a place like this. There was a note near it about it being to help possible recruits prove themselves, along with a set of red boots that seemed to have an enchantment on them. Best take them too.

Might help him play the part if being a Bhaalspawn’s bedmate wasn’t enough protection for him. Or protection from him if worse came to worse. As everything in his life seemed to.

—-

Astarion was familiar with the dangers of weathervane moods like this Bhaalspawn’s. Loathe as he was to admit, that familiarity did not translate to skill navigating them with his former Master.

This didn’t mean he couldn’t try to get ahead of them for his “current” one, but this demi-god was so much stranger than the vampire who made him. It was too easy for them to bounce from accepting his advances to being literally thrown off. 

It wasn’t like the Bhaalspawn was uninterested and humoring his newest “pet”, far from it with how eager he was, but so often he would enjoy the sight of him without so much as a pawing.

He wasn’t sure if he should be complaining about that. The absence wasn’t unpleasant but all the uncertainty it inspired definitely was.

Another night was playing much the same way. One second he was “earning his keep”, the next the back of his head hit a wall that if not for his healing speed would have left him very sore if not outright concussed. And that fucking fickle fiend looked at the hand that shoved him away with something close to shock like Astarion had nearly burned him.

The Bhaalist swallowed and looked Astarion over with a guarded appraisal. As if he’d be able to put on whatever mask this lunatic was looking for when he changed tunes on a needle’s head.

There was a lack of recognition, but from being lost in thought or not finding what he hoped for, Astarion couldn’t know. The dragonborn snapped a claw which ushered in a new “playmate”. That rarely boded well at home, but if this was a “rival” he could play it off. Confidence was very sexy.

Not that the half-orc wasn’t. Sexy and smitten by the draconic young buck, though that wasn’t terribly uncommon in this cult. Astarion tried not to let that visibly rattle him, he didn’t need a mirror to know he was the fairer catch. If this is a technique thing, he’d just have to outdo them.

The Bhaalspawn pulled her in for a deep violent kiss, one she eagerly accepted for just a moment of keeping his attention. Until she wasn’t and a muffled scream was strangled between them before the Bhaalspawn pulled them apart.

The Bhaalspawn had blood on his teeth, idly cleaning them with his tongue, and he swallowed again but had much more substance behind it. And his “partner” held a hand to her mouth to help keep in the blood that kept threatening to pour from whatever that spawn did and making a mess.

More blood than a simple cut or missing tooth. A missing tongue , however, could fit rather well.

Again the Bhaalspawn’s eyes were only on him, barely blinking at the woman’s whines of pain, distress, and something distinctly less negative like he was using her to pose a question more than having it be a mere warning shot.

Astarion tried to stay as neutral as he could until he could know what the question was. The threat part was obvious: This could have been him. He could have handled it, the hunk of muscle would have grown back as assuredly as any skein of flayed skin, but he definitely didn’t want to.

And despite being the easier victim, the Bhaalspawn didn’t use him for this bloody whim.

Maybe that was it, one of his idle nothings did tease about biting back. Maybe this was a challenge, showing Astarion the results of “not holding back” to see if he’d roll over and take it.

But rather than stay purely on the backfoot, Astarion sauntered over to the poor girl. Her eyes pools of confusion and fear with the sheen of arousal. That breed of masochist also wasn’t uncommon in this particular hell, and fairly explained why she wasn’t lashing out or running.

Never mind how rarely he or his siblings tried those things once the inevitable finally sunk in, but he didn’t want to risk pitying her by considering she could be anything close to the same.

Still, he raised a hand to her cheek, a mimic of a lover’s caress with just as many teeth lying in wait, and kept eye contact with the Bhaalspawn as he pulled her in for a kiss she accepted just as eagerly as the Bhaalspawn’s. 

The contradiction made her heart spike nearly as much as being called for did, though it was starting to struggle, and him drinking from a kiss alone sounded like it did wonders for both other parties. He certainly got more than enough as the high of humanoid blood sank into his long dead bones. Almost enough to make up for how many other lips flicked through his sickened memory.

The Bhaalspawn had looked mildly shocked before a bright grin grew like an opening wound.

Her limbs began to tremble when the exsanguination proved too much, but even he could hold her up easily enough to provide a decent scene. The Bhaalspawn beckoned him to hand her over to take her away. Astarion didn’t bother to check what he planned to do with the poor thing.

They did have something like healers down here. Healing with the intent to bleed more or cause more bleeding in the future, but it could be something. As long as he didn’t ask he wouldn’t know.

“That is one way to make sure a lady can’t kiss and tell,” Astarion started casually to break the silence like he wasn’t terrified by how easily he could be treated the same. But showing any of that fear would make it that much more likely to happen. What with his “pretty screams”.

The Bhaalspawn’s cruel smirk made it clear something in his facade was lackluster. “Not a fan of Loviatar?”

“Oh, I enjoy The Maiden of Pain’s games plenty when I’m on the right side of them.”

The fire in dragonborn’s eyes danced at a partial acceptance. “And which side would that be? She adores me from every angle of it, and it’s hard not to return her favor. Her and Father are well aligned in many ways.”

“I’ve noticed,” Astarion replied with a glance at some of the torture devices this monster treated like toys. “I thought Bane was more her personal fancy,” he pondered idly and made himself give a sleazy playful grin. “Do the “dead three” share more than just a pithy title these days?”

The Bhaalspawn barked a laugh, lesser chuckles shaking his shoulders as he shook his grinning head with a shrug. “Who’s to say? Either way she’s the closest I’ve known to a mother’s love.”

“Oh those had better be in wildly inappropriate ways, darling.”

“Obviously. She is rather far from conventional maternity.” The Bhaalspawn paced a circle around him like a predator gauging a newcomer. “Tell me, which is the “right” side to you?”

“The one in control, of course.” Astarion replied smoothly, hoping to all hells and these twisted gods that phrasing it as appealing to Bane wouldn’t cause the offense shrinking from pain would.

“So holding the knife or watching it swing are more your speed?”

“Holding the body works too, if the knife knows what it’s doing,” Astarion half-lied. He did enjoy it more than the last alternative, he just needed to keep his options open here. To earn some trust.

“We can work with that.” The Bhaalspawn’s grin straightened as he looked more thoughtful with sharp assessing eyes. “So that art on your back wasn’t your idea of a good time, I take it?”

Astarion tensed but kept quiet, holding his tongue as the Bhaalspawn’s gaze searched him for weakness. Or maybe more hidden scars.

“What was it like?”

“I don’t care to remember, if it’s all the same to you,” Astarion sneered and winced at himself for making a sore point so disgustingly obvious.

“Mind showing me sometime instead?” The Bhaalspawn asked as he tilted his head up, just to look down on Astarion more.

“Excuse me?!” Astarion’s voice dropped lower than he should have let it. But if the alternative would treat him as an exposed showpiece around a brute like this-

“You’ll have your pick of knives or other tools. I have an image in mind, but ink never sits right on me. Carving it into my canvas never occurred to me, so you may have that honor if you’d like,” the Bhaalspawn offered with a devilish glint in his eyes. 

Astarion’s racing thoughts didn’t even get to finish considering the horrors that could be done to him. He was lost for words just trying to tell what the angle was. The Bhaalspawn was just watching, waiting for a response with a softer smile, but it… didn’t feel like a trap.

It did feel like he was insane, but that wasn’t new information. It was just… more thoroughly than previously suspected and expected. No wonder Loviatar was a fan of this particular lunatic.

“Tonight?” Astarion asked with his best smolder, and the dragonborn practically seemed to glow as some of the red of their neck crawled up between white scales in excitement.

“Why should time matter down here?” the dragonborn teased back with too many teeth to read as playful no matter the tone. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Astarion gestured a hand to where he knew the beast’s bedchambers were, so he wouldn’t risk being a victim of an implicit “So don’t keep me waiting” like many times with Cazador.

His hands would be steady enough. The masochist wants to be hurt, he can’t be reading that wrong. Astarion can handle this sort of “play”. Even if he can’t be all there to do it. Simple as sex.

The knife he was given in the lack of any requests was the Bhaalspawn’s own Bloodthirst. Astarion shouldn’t have been surprised to hear the intended image was the amulet on the blade’s circular guard. He was more surprised that unlike the one on the Stillmaker, the Bhaalspawn could pop theirs out to make it easier to translate onto their… canvas.

He had wondered what Cazador felt when crafting his “poem”, but he was sure this was very different. Cazador didn’t need to worry about being lashed out at if he had done it “wrong”. But navigating the dragonborn had a challenge he and his siblings hadn’t had. Aside from Aurelia. Hers was the only one not a smooth “blank” slate to deface, with her tiefling spines and gnarls.

The mass of scales would have refused most cuts skin wouldn’t, so he used a bit of charcoal to see which ones could be removed and ideally fit his “master’s” goals. They seemed generally symmetrical enough so a shape as “simple” as a skull should be easy to keep even. 

If Astarion’s own was the inspiration, the body of the piece shouldn’t go down far enough for the chaotic small scales of their lower back to cause problems. The large sharp ones along their spine, normally well justified, would be some annoyance, but it wasn’t like he could just say “no”.

The Bhaalspawn gave a pleased hiss, practically a purr, when the first scale on their shoulder blade was peeled back, and Astarion forgot just how intoxicating good blood smelled this close. Not that he's smelled any nearly as sweet as this Bhaalspawn's. Maybe it's instinctive due to the power it contains? Vampires are nothing if not power thirsty bastards.

Would someone be able to survive what he had gone through without the cursed gift of a vampire’s regeneration?

“We might need to space this out for you to heal. Can’t have you bleeding too much.” Astarion warned as he peeled back the match to the first. What would become a skull’s eye sockets.

There was an annoyed grumble but an acceptance, with a vague complaint-parison to inkwork again, so Astarion had covered his bases for the night. As he worked it grew harder to tell what red was blood and what was their skin showing through scales too pale to keep their own color.

If he paused for too long to check, the dragonborn’s otherwise lazily wagging tail would curl around his leg like a reminder he couldn’t leave. It’d drift higher the longer he stopped contact, relaxing only at his fingers, cleaning cloth, or blade gracing its owner’s back.

It was easier to think of it like pulling stitches for replacement or repairs than a body. But the sounds his “subject” were making made what they were like in actual sex seem tame.

“Stay quiet, or I’ll need to make “revisions”.” Cazador’s threat left his lips like a reflex, and the body under them shook like it laughed. Like they might scream just to experience that for fun .

He thought he should be enjoying work this bloody, harming another like he had been harmed with such hateful joy, but it mostly felt… tedious. Tedious and wasteful with all the blood he couldn’t drink, and he was comfortable in thinking he didn’t need to lick anything to gain favor.

“Aren’t you going to indulge?” the dragonborn asked between barely better hushed groans, jostling Astarion out of his thoughts with how dangerously close they were to each other.

“Work before pleasure, darling,” Astarion huffed, hoping a haughty air would help keep his mask. “But I will take that as an invitation.”

“Hmmm, payment, more like.” The Bhaalspawn cooed dreamily like this was a massage . With any other mortal he’d chalk it up to bloodloss but this beast’s heart was still strong and steady. The easiest tell this was registering as any injury to this thing was the tail going slack over time. 

It was the lack of adrenaline that fights or hunts gave him that left this wetwork feeling hollow. No chemicals, or whatever his undead body used in their stead, to give him the illusion of feeling something . This was just the pressure of expectations with a fountain of temptation before him.

The skull and some upper drops were “done” when the cold body under his hands started to seem sluggish enough to warrant calling it off. There was a spark in the masochist’s eyes when he saw what was done in a mirror, and Astarion felt a weight lift. He should be safe for now.

“I can’t imagine how much harder yours still were. To make a wound that could scar a vampire,” the Bhaalspawn murmured more to themselves than to him. “This might not even last a shedding, and it still took so much blood, effort, and time.”

Astarion’s hand instinctively curled, ready to act as claws if he needed to, but he held his tongue. He didn’t need pity, didn’t want it. It’d been too long for that. So why should he be getting any now?

The lunatic didn’t seem to notice Astarion’s glower, staying all smiles. Smiles that grew more lascivious with a crooked finger and silent reminder that all that blood didn’t need to go to waste. He wasn’t sure if it was this thing’s equivalent to “genuine” flirting or trying to demean him.

“Cute, clever, quick, and crafty,” the Bhaalspawn said in a laugh. “You really are the complete package, aren’t you?”

“I’d prefer you focus on that first part,” Astarion purred back to try concealing his growing sneer.

“Obviously, you would. You’ll get away with more from being underestimated. But I’m not going to let you trick me about what you’re worth,” the brute teased back like he meant it kindly. “If all you were was a pretty face, you would’ve been dust by now.” The sharpness of burning red eyes and razor teeth in a crocodile’s smile kept that from sounding like praise rather than a threat.

Astarion felt his mask slip, but some exaggerated shock of their accusation came back in place easily and amused them both enough.

It was… disquieting to be seen by a monster like this. One violence came so easily to, but not towards him. Not intentionally anyway, not to a degree that would have been more… normal.

He kept waiting for them to slip, genuinely , not a little shove to spare him a worse urge. Because that would make things with them less terrifying than they already were.

He wasn’t sure what he’d do if they didn’t.

—-

It was a simple test. Small enough to take the chance, once he was sure the Bhaalspawn was hooked. Didn’t make it any less daunting. But he needed to know.

It wasn’t like he stopped drinking blood at all, that could leave them suspicious. He wasn’t sure how they felt about not being fed on at all for the past three days, but he also didn’t care.

Three days was all it took for the familiar grip of Cazador to sink in. Astarion might have been able to fight it off had he expected it. But, despite it being the point of this exercise… he hadn’t.

Cazador cracked his neck, a silent ridicule of his “terrible posture”, as if ANY of his siblings were honestly any better! Aside from maybe Yousen, but he suspected that was mostly because the gnome had to fight for every scrap of height he could get in hopes of being picked on less.

Cazador snorted at seeing the Bhaalspawn’s bedspread, but at least Astarion knew they have a bed. Aurelia and Petras had run a bet over an age ago over whether a coffin or bedspread was the Master’s preference. Astarion’s painted leather vest was still on the line if it wasn’t the coffin.

No, that hadn’t been Petras, had it? It was another sister back then, before Dal, a halfling or something else that could practically look Yousen in the eye, he tried not to remember names when any were… discarded. Petras had been her replacement, when her loss was made official.

Aurelia never listened to him when he laid the blame on Cazador. Convinced the poor girl had just got caught in the sun, but how would she have been that sloppy - but honestly it didn’t matter.

It was just easier to be in his head than pay attention to what his body was made to do. At least this time it seemed to be violence. Not that Cazador had ever been much good at using him right for it.

Cazador’s blade soared through a bhaalist’s throat as easily as the air, and the only part that mattered to Astarion was that it wasn’t the Bhaalspawn. His “Master” didn’t even notice the trick of the Deathstalker mantle, immediately switching to using a firebolt and robbing it of its benefits.

There was the quiet fear Cazador might be trying to get him killed when an insulted Bhaalist’s arrow smashed through his kneecap in retaliation, but with all the wrong turns in the twists of the undercity he was making he seemed more genuinely lost trying to force Astarion to come home. The fear didn’t pass when the white scales of the Bhaalspawn stood out in the shadows, approaching as cold and steady as death itself.

Seeing Cazador’s glowing red eyes ironically made their posture less murderous, so Astarion hadn’t completely fumbled his experiment. Just… every other part of it that mattered.

The Bhaalspawn conveyed something to a Deathdealer that got them looking cocky. Idiot honestly tried rushing the Vampire Lord’s puppet, and Cazador’s refusal to remember exactly how different this puppet’s reach was than his own had been the only thing that spared them.

Which they immediately wasted by trying to grapple the repossessed spawn, getting behind him and using his arm like a crude useless muzzle. Astarion’s gut flipped as Cazador made him drink the blood anyway despite the hypocrite’s so-called rules. But that was all it did, and the dealer’s neck snapped easily enough under Cazador’s stolen hands.

There really wasn’t any doubt what initially broke the master’s hold. And now the Bhaalspawn was going to be made aware of it too. Watching Cazador snarl curses at them with his mouth didn’t seem to be enough to make the pieces connect for them yet. Just enough to make them understand who he wasn’t.

“You will pay for your insolence soon enough, my boy. Was there any rule you hadn’t broken without me to keep watch over you?” Cazador hissed to him and he heard the Bhaalspawn begin to crackle from a cantrip he couldn’t even begin to guess without some line of sight.

Astarion had expected to feel the strange sting of lightning, knowing Cazador wouldn’t bother to brace his body. But no, the Bhaalspawn chose to retrace their steps from their first encounter, this time with the benefits of surprise and experience. 

Cazador hadn’t the clue the dragonborn was “special” to anyone, much less Astarion, so it was easy for them to slip out of his line of sight. He might not even have noticed one was a dragonborn before and they made good use of it. Less sloppy than their first “spat” on their end, no urge to rob them of their unique grace, before the only wrist Astarion had ever been allowed to drink from was forced on him again. And he was no less grateful for it.

Showing them that gratitude would be akin to snapping a cold iron shackle around his neck.

“What happened to you?” The Bhaalspawn asked with more worry than the anger that Astarion had expected. “Why was the glow back, was A’sid’s blood not enough?”

“That was my “Master” calling, so obviously not!” Astarion seethed at them as he made sure his body was really his own, watching for any signs of delay as he tested his hands. He tried to ignore niggling fears in the back of his mind of what would happen if he or Cazador grew resistant to Bhaal’s influence from overexposure, but for now it worked just as it had before.

The Bhaalspawn was speechless and he could see them putting the broken pieces of his life together enough to really see what a bleak picture it was. He barely heard them when they found words again. “He literally makes you his puppet? It’s not just orders you can’t refuse?”

“If the mood strikes him,” Astarion sneered dismissively. “It’s weaker if his concentration slips, unless he’s been faking that by just “letting” us speak for ourselves when using a group of us at once.”

The Bhaalspawn, this monster, looked at him with a quiet sadness. An unwanted sympathy, like it thought the child of a God who quite literally worshiped its sire could ever understand him. It made his stomach roil and his teeth crave a less consensual bite.

“Is there anything-” the Bhaalspawn began and made the mistake of reaching for Astarion’s hand, and he was still holding a blade when he made a swipe at it with a hateful snarl.

“ Don’t. Touch. Me. ”

Other Bhaalists murmured vile things to themselves and each other with some readying of blades as their God’s “mOsT BeLoVeD” offspring watched the blood drip from their hand. Astarion braced himself for the worst, recognizing this may have been pushing too far.

But the Bhaalspawn held their good hand up to call them off. Its eyes just holding that same disgusting pity that made Astarion want to gouge their eyes out just to make it stop.

A snap of their claws with a point back to the temple ordered the crowd away, leaving Astarion in the discarded city alone. The Bhaalspawn didn’t look back at him as they called over their shoulder. “As long as your mind is yours, you are still welcome here. I’ll be heading out for the day if you’d like my room to yourself.”

Their followers didn’t seem as agreeable, but none were stupid enough to speak out against their decree. He didn’t risk taking them up on that offer until he could make out their pale figure heading out. Nobody tried to stop them, and when he reached their quarters he found a wine bottle’s worth of blood. The Bhaalspawn’s blood.

He swallowed and left it alone as he tried to keep himself from considering the worst possible messages that could mean. The worst being that they knew how easily they could blackmail him.

There was a storm somewhere in the city above, but aside from the odd echo of strange thunder and torrents of fresh red spill-off it was hard to tell this far down. He didn’t need to question the color, not if the Bhaalspawn had run off to kill something as a means of venting.

Three days later he started to realize he should have. The bottle kept him out of his master’s hands, but he was getting a sense of how much blood was needed to keep him free. It would last him over a tenday, but past that if the Bhaalspawn still hadn’t returned he’d be doomed.

There was no way he could kill Cazador the way he was. He improved his spells as much as he was able, kept himself as sharp as sparring and killing Bhaalists willing to pick that fight would let him, but he’d be alone and Cazador wouldn’t be . There wasn’t a soul in this hell who’d be willing to aid him without their demi-god’s demand for it.

He split the bottle among smaller flasks, with an illusion over them in hopes he could at least get them past Godey. Going home while he was ahead, while he had an advantage to use before he would need to give up and make a mad dash for as far from Baldur’s Gate as he possibly could to live like a fugitive in the vague hope distance could protect him, felt like his better option.

If he was lucky he’d either find an opening and end Cazador’s threat once and for all or get killed in the attempt. Maybe use his “freedom” to go out into the sunlight himself when his failure made itself obvious to leave some new sucker to take his place in whatever “set” Cazador had made.

If he wasn’t, could it really be that much worse than anything else Cazador had done to him? … Well, yes probably, but that would still be better than tolerating being treated like this any longer.

Maybe he’d find the remains of his trump card along the way, if they hadn’t just abandoned him.

Slipping back up topside wasn’t any trouble, grateful for the cover of night. Basilisk Gate was as calm as it ever was, so that ruled out The Dark Urge having gone on another killing spree.

Passing by the Stormshore Tabernacle, the overhyped temple to nearly every God the locals could think to worship, almost made him laugh. It took two centuries , after all of his failed prayers to get some sort of aid from any God, to finally get something like an answer.

It wasn’t even one of his own. Not that there were many gods of any pantheons who’d so much as tolerate the undead, but how easily the Seldarine turned its back on him still stung. It wasn’t his fault it’d take a good elf a century to get their attention. And he’d never been a “good” elf.

He just focused on letting his feet carry him by instinct. Past the Elfsong Tavern quick enough to not risk being caught by any siblings on the hunt, past Sorcerous Sundries and the magic lighting its windows rather than candle-light. Right up to the lower city central wall. 

Slipping by the guards on its skeleton crew as he climbed to the top came naturally to him. He didn’t want to bother with the ones Cazador kept enthralled in case they’d cause a fuss over his absence.

He heard the tell-tale click of the back door recognizing him as he approached.

Astarion tried to ignore the crawling in his chest begging him to turn around. But if it had reacted to him, and it wasn’t a spell triggered by any spawn’s approach, he’d already been found out.

Gods’ forbid he get the chance to indulge in something he can actually do well outside of the bedroom and let him break into his own house properly .

“Home” was as it had been as it was before he left. Like every other time he saw it past its quarter-century “uplifts” that never failed to not lighten the atmosphere of this hell hole at all.

Violet gave him a cruel grin from ear to ear as she jerked her head to the dorms- well, the kennel, instead of giving him an actual greeting for being the first familiar soul to see him.

“Nice to see you too “ sister ”, you can pretend to have missed me you know,” he drawled with a roll of his eyes, lowering his posture to a more comfortable fighting position. One she raised a brow at before pretending to hide a laugh behind her hand.

“And risk being dragged into whatever you’re going to get for your game of hooky?” she said with a mirthless grin that couldn’t hide the fear in her eyes. “Not. A. Chance. “Brother”, dear.” Her head tilted side to side with each word like a charmed snake.

The last tilt took his attention to the curtain that hid the kennel and other “personal spaces” from guests invited to Cazador’s pointless gestures of grandeur for the rest of the “Great and the Good” of Baldur’s Gate. It was torn, terribly so. And he smelled blood.

The Bhaalspawn’s blood, he noted with rising dread. They had come here? Were they stupid ?!

“Master found something fun while you were gone.” Violet teased as she misread the way his pupils dilated at the smell. “Delivered itself right to him, it was a riot ! I don’t think Godey’s killed it yet, Master’s being real particular about it. You’ve got to see it, Astarion, it’s disgusting !” She beamed, the closest she could ever come to being pleasant company, with the fear of retribution fading in favor of old habits to provide a strong united front in front of the mortal staff.

“Are we talking like a bugbear shagging an ogress sort of depravity, or just a pig pen?” he replied as smoothly as he made his way to it, letting a similar cruel smirk grace his features.

“Oh no you don’t, you need to see it!” she said with a laugh. “No fair trying to make me talk.”

“But you love it so much, how could I deny you?” he retorted and she pouted back.

“Nowhere near as much as you do, Astar. Who doesn’t enjoy a bit of gab that isn’t a spoil sport?”

She stopped walking beside him before he reached the hidden door to their torture chamber. The smell only grew stronger. He risked opening the door despite every instinct, and the fresh sweetness of their blood nearly made him frenzy. But the dragonborn was nowhere to be seen.

Cazador had actually bothered to be in the kennel in person , Godey at the ready with some pliers holding a spine or claw still dripping fresh. And three strangers.

Two were Sharrans of all things, he didn’t need to see Shar’s symbol on their armors to know that. One was a drow under her helm, the other was young. Possibly a half-elf? Harder to tell there, but she had a wound on her hand that was open yet old and smelled of cursed blood.

The third should have been his Bhaalspawn judging by its own blood-scent. But it couldn’t be.

That thing had more in common with an 8 foot tall quasit than a dragonborn, and even that was a stretch. Six limbs minus the long limp tail, spikes erupting from leathery skin, and a mouth that he couldn’t begin to make sense of past off of its teeth. He could barely make out glazed eyes.

He didn’t know if the gaps in its flesh around its “hands” and “ankles” were natural to it or further proof of the abuse it had already gone through. Astarion couldn’t even tell what color it was before all this blood, but it definitely wasn’t snow white like his Bhaalspawn. The most recent spike Godey pried seemed to have come from near its head, but that was already trying to grow back.

“Where have you been, boy ?” Cazador immediately scolded and his presence forced Astarion to take a knee in submission. It was too early to risk swigging any of the blood he brought.

“I- I was captured by Bhaalists, they caught me under the city-”

“Don’t lie to me, you ungrateful child,” Cazador commanded.

“I seduced the highest ranking cultist I could to stay mobile, but they got… possessive, before I could return. I don’t know what they did to me,” Astarion lied despite the fog building in his mind. “There were too many for me to escape. You- you saw the maze they lived in down there, Master! Before whatever it was they kept doing to me kicked in again.”

Cazador’s eyes burned with the promise of a veritable parade of punishment to come to him. But the drow took his attention away.

“The Lady of Sorrows can only do so much out here, Szarr. If you don’t think you can tame this monstrosity, we’ll gladly bring it into Her dark embrace the next time it wakes.”

Cazador glared at her instead, and the half-elf ended up unfortunately caught in the crossfire and clung to herself on reflex. Pushing her armor against herself tight enough it made a very inhuman stressed squeak. The poor girl went paler than his hair when both superiors turned their tense attention to her.

The drow acted first and plucked a tiny shadow of a mouse from her charge as it tried to escape the armor that risked crushing it. Her disappointment in the young Sharran was palpable, as was the girl’s terror for the beast’s life. The drow rubbed a thumb across its struggling head in a mockery of affection before she started to squeeze .

The poor girl looked near tears but couldn’t manage to so much as beg for its life from her fear. It would have served her right to watch it die like that if she was so incapable of fighting for it.

But Cazador held a hand out to the drow with a cruel, promising grin that was enough to convince her to give him the honors. Astarion saw where that was going well before the puny thing was tossed at him instead, still screaming and scrambling for any hope of survival against these impossible odds as he caught it to keep its claws away from his face.

“The least we can do is show our appreciation when our guests come bearing gifts.” Cazador taunted. “Consider that your “reward” for getting home on your own. Eat .”

Her eyes were begging him for mercy so strongly it was actually tempting to eat rodent for once. But no, even though he felt the compulsion in the order it washed over him instead of pulling him in its current. He made space in the front of his armor for the critter to crawl into with a well learned ease. It must have been her pet for some time now.

It took four strides for Cazador to get close enough for the back of his hand to whip across his face, hard enough to draw blood as his lip crossed his fang and send him to the ground from his forced kneel. The beast was lucky he landed on his side.

The other half-dead beast was luckier there was new blood in the air, as what passed for eyes became alert. And immediately latched onto him.

Unluckily for Astarion, he didn’t have the chance to get to his feet much less get out of its way as it lunged for him. Two arms caught him as the other two flew wild to its sides, claws out and with enough strength behind it that Godey’s skull was flung off his spine. The tail made quick work of splitting the rest of the animated skeleton in two, but the beast didn’t seem to have intended to.

Its eyes were already trained on the door and ready to move. Cazador tried using a spell to force it to stop, but it shrugged it off like he had only yelled at a storm. The elder Sharran seemed content to watch, as the younger reached out her scarred hand futility as if she honestly thought that was all it would take to get her little pet back. Stupid girl was lucky she didn’t lose the limb.

He heard the elder say “Shadowheart” like it was both a name and command, and the girl’s eyes darkened with resolve. When his beast made for the exit she was sure to be quick at its heels, leaving both his “master” and hers behind as the brute tore through the night.

It didn’t care about “petty” things like “gravity” or “pain” apparently, seeing little issue in leaping from THE TOP OF THE BLOODY DIVIDING WALL to the closest lower city rooftops. Which would have been fine if it carelessly careening to its death wouldn’t have included Astarion.

But at this rate it was and two daggers sitting pretty in its chest wasn’t enough for him to fix that.

The Sharran Cleric kept trying petty cantrips to try and slow his abductor, but with her aim he wouldn’t be surprised if the only hit she was going to land at this rate would smite her “precious” squeaker and nothing else.

She did annoy it enough to make it change direction when it reached Wyrm’s Crossing, just shy of the Rock. To make it leap off one of the overlooks to take its chances with the Chionthar river below.

Which again, would have been fine if it was on its own. Maybe it could swim. Because it was definitely not a vampire, so that would be a little less like falling into a river of acid .

Astarion fought against the beast harder as the wind rushed by. “Let go already! Are you trying to get me killed?! Are you even in there, you damned Bhaalspawn!?”

It reacted to that, eyes half intelligent when they snapped down to him, making him fear its jaws soon doing the same. A free claw reached out enough to catch a stone support so it could slow them both and readjust so it could jump to a boat heading up river aided by an enchanted sail.

The sailors didn’t stand a chance against whatever the Bhaalspawn became. It heaved over their corpses when its bloody work was done in the vessel’s quarters, and finally saw fit enough to let its grip on Astarion slacken. 

As soon as he could he took a drink from the bottled Bhaalblood so Cazador wouldn’t be able to use his eyes to guess where he was stolen to this time. If he was lucky, maybe they’d assume this monster killed him so they wouldn’t even bother looking for him.

He heard the soft tap of a feather fall-aided landing from the boat’s deck, and sighed. It had to be the cleric. Sparing a glance around him did give one reassurance.

This wasn’t a fishing vessel. Or if it was once, the Zhents quickly changed that. So, not a good start with the Black Network if they found out about this “incident”. Buuut, where the Zhentarim goes gold or goods were sure to be found. At least they could rule out slaves this time.

He tried to brush aside a thick curtain to see out a porthole, to judge how much of the night was gone, and bit down a scream as the sun scorched his hand to near ashes in moments. Pulling back his cracked limb he was startled by how quickly his body began to repair itself. A benefit of drinking well perhaps. The brute’s attention snapped to him, and Astarion froze in fear.

But it didn’t get aggressive. It just watched his hand fill in the parts the sun so cruelly burned away. He supposed he was almost lucky it got him to shelter in time and the mobility that this one had was to their mutual benefit for now.

Seemingly unaware there was another soul onboard, the beast let itself fall to its knees after Astarion’s hand was deemed “fixed”. With one deep, ragged, wet growl of relief a rupture of blood consumed it, and left his bloody snow-scaled dragonborn collapsed on the floor.

Astarion could barely hear their heartbeat once the rush wore off. But in this state, they didn’t appear to have open wounds. Shame he didn’t have a conventional health potion on him to help.

He let a hand rest against their throat to check its pulse manually, and the Dark Urge leaned its head into his touch like his undead chill could ever be something to desire on its own.

Then he remembered how much of a freak they were and gave a soft amused huff. A soft squeak from his chest reminded him the cleric wouldn’t be staying on the deck for much longer.

But he had a bargaining chip. A squeaky, scratchy, smelly, and by all gods annoying, bargaining chip.

“Well if it isn’t the little cleric. Stubborn thing, aren’t you?” he taunted as he heard her trying to sneak down the boat’s stairs. “But I don’t think you’re doing this for your goddess. What’s this adorable little monster got to do with her?”

The half-elf glared at him best she could, looking more like a freshly bathed kitten despite not having a drop of water on her. “My Lady’s not one to care about what others think. If Bhaal’s grip on his Slayer is slipping, he only has himself to blame.”

That was the Slayer? He should have guessed that much, why wouldn’t one of Bhaal’s offspring be able to act as His avatar? Especially one that was supposedly His Golden Child.

“Unless they’re not thinking about her enough, you mean. She cares a lot about that.” He pressed with a cruel grin, and plucked the squirming morsel from his armor. “This “distraction” for instance.” The small black lump managed to squeeze its head out from his fist and eagerly squeaked at seeing its person. But Astarion didn’t let its escape go any further than that.

From the look on her face he might as well have been holding her heart. It would break just as easily as the rodent’s fragile bones.

“This was what you were really hoping to catch, weren’t you?” he asked with a mockery of kindness, one that infuriated her until he added enough pressure to remind her of the risks. Its distress kept her from lashing out. 

A bright flare of magic from the hole in her hand made her hiss in agony, and her eyes did linger on the dragonborn she likely hadn’t seen before for a moment. But whatever her curse beckoned couldn’t pull her worries from her pet’s life.

“What do you want?” she spat.

“Merely a trade. You fix what you did to my pet, and I’ll return yours as unharmed as I got them.” He flicked his empty hand towards the barely conscious Bhaalspawn. “And I suspect it’d be in the best interests of all of us if you “failed” to find our little brute after they leapt into the river.”

The Sharran’s mouth was a thin tense line that betrayed part of her limitations. “I… we were paid to grant Lady Shar’s blessings to it. To see if it could be taken from its God and put to better purposes than mindless slaughter. I can heal the physical damage, but even I don’t get permitted the memories She protects while I act on Her behalf without Her consent.”

Astarion clicked his tongue in annoyance and allowed a short squeeze to see if that changed her answer. 

Her mace reverberated with the radiance of a hypocrite, even if the Nightsinger’s preferred methods would be a mite ineffective against a shadow-bound undead like him. “If you don’t let him go, I’ll make sure you won’t need to worry about “eternity” anymore, Vampire.” She hissed and almost managed to be intimidating despite her terminal case of babyface. 

A deep growl behind him and a torrent of ice that made her scream reminded them both the demi-god wasn’t completely gone just yet. Astarion was startled, half worried they were striking out blind, and their fiery eyes had thin catlike pupils he’d noticed when their urges took over.

The white dragonborn heaved, spitting out some blood from a mouth wound that their ice aggravated, and struggled to raise their head. They only managed enough to get a clear look at Astarion. And their pupils widened with an echo of recollection, enough to make them relax back to the bloody floor.

Astarion looked back at the frosted cleric and put himself between her and The Dark Urge in case they started getting snappy again and scared her off for good. “Do what you can to heal them, and I’ll consider us even. If they remember you, I’ll do what I can to make sure they’re “forgiving”. Fair?”

Rubbing her extremities in an effort to reduce the stinging cold, she gave a frustrated nod and a glare like she didn’t expect him to keep his word. She really should know better, that made dashing her shred of hope all the more tempting. But his word was worth more than that.

She kneeled beside his Bhaalspawn, her magic like a comforting shadow even without being the subject of it. Crawling voids danced along their form, erasing injuries he couldn’t begin to see but heard their success with how much easier their breathing got.

She hadn’t completely finished when her little pet managed to get a good tooth into the pad of a finger and he nearly dropped it in reflex. He flicked his hand her way instead, technically giving her back her “precious” beast early and she clung to it like a treasure.

A treasure named Nibbles from her inane babbling, like the cross between a sick joke and that fucking clown who’d been making the outercity annoying every year for… Gods, was it a decade yet? Two? Surely there must be laws against clowns living that long. Nature can’t be this cruel.

He half expected her to try using light magic on him again, to escape if not to try to kill him to drag the Bhaalspawn back to her superior, now that he tossed aside his upper hand like an impulsive idiot. But she didn’t. With “Nibbles” content nuzzling into her braid on her shoulder, she kept mending his Dark Urge until all damage was done. Their pulse was strong and steady.

Astarion leaned down to try shaking their shoulder with a quiet thanks to the girl, to see if that would be enough to get them awake and aware. The Bhaalspawn groaned at the contact, but it was groggy, not pained, which gave him some hope.

The burning red eyes that looked up at him were wider than they had been before. Brighter.

Dumber, he concluded. Less alert or appraising than The Dark Urge he’d been accustomed to.

“A-starion?” They mumbled like they weren’t completely sure that was his name, and their voice wasn’t as deep as he was used to. Huskier, androgynous, almost like they’d forgotten how to put on their “old” voice. He gave a reassuring nod, and their brow still furrowed. “What happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me, darling. What were you thinking?”

The dragonborn blinked, and their whole face crumbled as they tried to remember. Something broke when they couldn’t find it, numbly staring at their bloodied hands. “I… Don’t remember? I can’t- What’s my name?”

The Sharran gave a sigh, “Don’t worry about it, that’s fairly normal for this sort of magic. Sometimes my friend teases me for remembering her name better than any of my own. Other times it leaves both of us drawing blanks until the job’s done.” 

She turned to Astarion with a somber look like she half-wanted to apologize, but seeing his face left her cold and staring at him with disturbed wide eyes.

Why wouldn’t he be smiling? This was better than anything he could have hoped for.

He has the keys to his freedom back, and just look at them! Clueless, but they remember him . All his hard work had paid off. He has them hooked, loyal, and now they’re nearly a blank slate.

Maybe those pesky memories would creep back in over time, but he should be able to keep himself a priority easily enough. Enough to get them hanging on his every word, instead of him trying to desperately balance himself against the divine loose cannon’s “urges”.

“Don’t you worry, my dear. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

He didn’t notice he was clenching a hand too tightly until he felt it break skin. It’d heal before he’d lose any blood, but it was a reminder. He’s nearly lost the only hope he’d had in two hundred years. He couldn’t afford to let them run off like that again, no matter what their motives were.

All he had to do was keep this blade close until the opportunity presented itself. Prepare himself.

He’d bide his time, before bringing the fight to his master. That was the only way he’d be able to win.

He had to kill him. Running wouldn’t ever be enough. He couldn’t live in hiding, forever jumping at shadows.

That was the only way he’d finally be free.