Chapter Text
Winter is a double edged sword to a spawn like Astarion. The nights are longer, taverns and brothels are bustling and cozy, and everyone's drunk enough through the endless festivals that easy prey is never more than a step away.
And yet the crypt and everywhere else in the damn city is colder than a hags tits. It's hard to look effortless when you need to clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering. Astarion morphs into a glaring, prowling cat, hunched over with his hands shoved in his pits whenever it's cold enough to snow.
He can’t believe how empty the streets are at this hour. He’d already gotten himself kicked out of near every tavern and brothel since he started hunting. Too much booze, not enough foresight to realize how fickle of a temper innkeeps have on nights like this.
With a blizzard on the horizon, everyone found a place to bunker down. Which means Astarion's, once again, gone and screwed himself out of prey.
He's been skulking for hours, and only found a drunk bum in a ditch, half buried in snow, a gaggle of kobolds harassing a fat, old guard, and a handful of freezing street walkers that look a breath away from death's door.
The pickings are slim, but there's a cage floating in a well waiting for Astarion if he comes back with someone unsatisfactory. Master is looking for something exceptional for the holidays. An aching tremble runs through Astarion, and he hugs himself tighter.
Halfway down the block, Astarion notices a small temple with a lantern lit in its window. Two women stand outside, bickering. The wind sweeps down the street in a whistling howl, stirring up powdery snow.
Astarion's breath catches in his throat. He can't believe his luck. If he can manage both of them, perhaps he'd get his master’s favor. He straightens his posture, pretending the biting wind doesn't cut straight through his doublet, and creeps along the shadows towards them.
As he gets closer, Astarion picks up their argument.
That half-elf is sure the spitfire. She stomps her foot and rolls her eyes at the tall, red tiefling. "-I could've gotten that bed for us, but you were just... Taking your time!" The girl wraps her scarf around her face, shielding herself.
"Aw, c'mon, do you really want to share a crummy cot in a room with twelve other people?" The tiefling catches the end of the girl’s braid, and toys with it. "It's alright, these universal temples are always empty. We’ll have the entire chapel to ourselves." She winks, pressing a kiss to the ends of her hair.
Her cheeks darken under her scarf. "And give the priests a private show? I think not. There has to be some other tavern, or hells even a brothel, we could stay at."
"Now a brothel, that's loads of fun!" The tiefling shivers, pulling her thin cloak around her dingy leather armor. "Or on second thought, you're being silly and it's cold, let's just stay in the temple, please? It's right here!"
"I'll find us somewhere else, trust me." The girl tugs on the tiefling's arm, trying to get her to follow down the street, but the tiefling marches towards the temple, dragging the girl along with her. "It's a weak, faithless-" The girl flinches, and cries out, grasping her hand.
Astarion swoops in, catching her before she crumples in the snow. "Are you alright?" He slathers on the concern extra thick, holding her through the pain. Stare seeping into her jade eyes as he helps her up.
The girl groans, and shakes her hand. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Just a phantom pain, nothing more." She lets Astarion's touch linger a moment before shuffling to the tiefling's side. "Who're you?" she asks, eyeing him up and down. She tugs her scarf up further.
"My name's Astarion, charmed to meet you. Both of you." He grabs the tiefling's hand, relishing in the touch of her warm skin to his. Who's to say he can't enjoy his prey? He has to restrain his smirk of glee. They're both rather naive. In different ways.
Astarion will stab his dagger into and pry apart any weakness he can find. "I found myself getting lost in this storm on my way home. I fear I'm at a loss, though. I should know the names of people as enchanting as the two of you."
The girl, predictably, rolls her eyes, but the tiefling at least smiles. Lets out a chuckle when Astarion kisses the back of her hand. "The name's Karlach. We're drinking buddies, in the same pickle. That storm can't be too far away now, but my pal here who’s stubborn about staying at this temple."
"I cannot agree more. Fret not, I do know a very nice place we could stay, it's not too far away. Plenty warm. And plenty more privacy than any old temple.” Astarion restrains a shiver, wind ruffling his curls
The girl scoffs. "We're not going to some secondary location with a man we've just met, thank you very much." She crosses her arms.
"Stop being so stubborn," Karlach gives the girl a playful shove. “If you won't, I’ll go off without you.” She leans down to whisper in her ears. Nothing Astarion can't also hear. "He's cute, yeah? A third could be fun."
"Mmmm..." The girl dips her face down into her scarf. "I think not. Where'd he even come from? I mean, he's handsome, but a bit of a creep."
Astarion smiles, not rolling his eyes. It’s the white hair, everyone thinks he's an albino drow. Or maybe they can intuit the danger. The people who call him a creep usually can.
"Shadowheart," She suddenly extends her hand to Astarion. "We'll see. We can at least walk that way, find somewhere else to stay except this temple. I can sense something off about it. I can't shake the feeling something awful will happen if we stay here."
Karlach winds her arms around Astarion and Shadowheart. “Great, we have a plan, let's get a move on. How far away is this place?”
“No more than a ten minute walk. A perfect amount of time to get to know each other, I’d say.” Astarion melts against Karlach. He peers around her to Shadowheart. “And there's a tavern or two around that might be able to squeeze you in between the dozen others crammed in the communal bed.”
Shadowheart rolls her eyes. “We’ll see, Astarion.”
Out of nowhere, a soft voice chimes from the entryway of the temple. "I’d advise against that. The storm is almost upon us."
As if by magic, a short tiefling materializes. He wears thick, black robes, hood shrouding his face. "The universal temple does not judge your faith, or lack of. We welcome all who need aid in times of need." There's a melodic nature to the priest's voice.
A soothing, slimy ear worm.
Shadowheart clenches her injured hand, furrowing her brow deep as another wave of swearing pain courses through her. “No thanks, we have other plans.”
“That is unwise. Even if you brave the snow, you’re already hypothermic,” he takes her hand in his, sliding off her gloves. Her skin is chapped and red. “See? You will not survive, even for five minutes, when the storm arrives. I insist you put your bias aside and seek refuge.”
Astarion tries to get a glimpse under the priest's hood. He freezes when their eyes meet. His gaze is unsettlingly similar to his master's. His eyes peek out from the darkness, like the glint of a dagger. Paralysis seizes Astarion, unable to budge or speak until the priest turns his attention elsewhere.
In Astarion’s opinion, he’s far beyond “creep”.
“I insist you all stay. I am High Priest Dirge, the sole caretaker of this temple. There’s a public bed for use. No one else is here, however, so it's all yours for the taking.”
Dawn will be in seven hours, Astarion has such little time to waste. “Tempting offer, but we’ll be on our way.” Astarion peels off his fleece lined gloves and shoves them onto Shadowheart’s hands. “There, nice and toasty, now shall we get a move on?” The cold immediately nips at his fingers, but Astarion sucks it up.
“Pish posh, there's a free empty bed!” Karlach jostles Astarion and Shadowheart. “C'mon, we can stick around at least until that storm passes. A temple's not the worst place to hunker down. Free food, ya know?”
“Excuse us, for a moment.”Astarion flashes the priest a smile, before pulling Karlach and Shadowheart away into a huddle. “My abode is truly not that far away, we can make it in five if we run,” he whispers.
“We can't outrun a storm, are you nuts? Please, I just want to get out of this cold,” Karlach begs.
“It's not safe. A temple, with a lantern lit, but no one inside?” Shadowheart shakes her head. “This has to be some kind of trap. If we go in there, who knows what will happen.”
“Hey but there's three of us. If we watch each others backs, not too much can go wrong.”
“No, I'm with Shadowheart on this one. There's something seriously messed up with that priest. We need to leave, now.”
“An unwise decision.”
They hardly have time to look back at the priest before snow pummels down the street in a thick wall, whiting out Astarion’s vision. He stumbles, slipping from Karlach’s grasp.
He can’t get his damn feet underneath him. The street’s like a wind tunnel. He tries grasping, for anyone he could drag away without notice. All it takes is one wrong step, and Astarion falls on his knees, hard.
He fumbles blindly through the snow, and wraps his fingers around a leg.
Astarion looks up to find the Dirge, hood blown down, and fighting against his own robe flapping, overtaken by the storm.
He's a completely and utterly average looking tiefling. Blue skin, like he's been standing outside too long, a heart shaped face with a smattering of freckles, and even a tail that reflexively wraps around Astarion’s wrist when he makes contact.
Master would say he’s a waste of oxygen, because of this and that. Flaws only he sees or cares about. Astarion knows his master’s preferences. He'd like those two girls. But Dirge? Astarion would be flayed if he brought that back. Still though, Astarion finds himself drawn to his looks. He doesn't know why. There’s just something pinchable about his face. Maybe a lingering preference he’s forgotten about.
There’s quite a bit Astarion has forgotten about his type.
There's a lot Astarion has forgotten about himself.
Just above the howling, Astarion can hear crashing. He glances up. Massive icicles shake on the eaves of the temples, before dislodging, falling down one by one. Through the blanket of white, Astarion catches a flash of red, and Shadowheart's braid whipping around until another icicle soars down right over her, turning on its side. Being downwind, Astarion is immediately hit with the smell of fresh, hot blood.
Dirge yanks Astarion by his doublet, out of the path of an icicle that shatters on the cobble stone, right where Astarion had just been. The priest assists Astarion back to his feet. “Lean against me, I’m sturdier than I look,” he instructs.
A bolt of pain goes through Astarion’s ankle, but he grits his teeth through it as he allows Dirge to help him. That body of his is lithe, small with stringy muscles. Being a full head shorter than Astarion, it’s a mystery as to how Dirge hobbles them into the entrance of the temple, just as Karlach carries in Shadowheart, who bears an oozing headwound.
Dirge fights against the storm to get the doors close, but isn't strong enough to battle the blizzard, and isn't large enough to throw his weight either.
Karlach sets Shadowheart on the floor next to Astarion, and hauls both the doors close with a grunt.
A few moments pass in silence as everyone catches their breath and wits. Astarion sits up, and shakes the snow out of his curls. Damn his luck! Damn it all! His simmering temper threatens to spill over, but Astarion rubs his knuckles deep into his temples instead.
He doesn't have a backup plan for this. Storms can last for days, and if he doesn’t return with his prey, not to mention his blasted ankle aches and throbs now! He can drug them, maybe. Or take a strength potion and knock them out. But now that means going up against “High Priest Dirge”.
Astarion swallows thickly. He doesn't like his odds against a cleric like that. It's always the unassuming ones who randomly have absurd powers. With his luck, the priest will end up being an avatar of Lethander or whatnot.
Though, at least he's doing better than Shadowheart. She's damaged good, and the smell of her blood makes Astarion want to cry. It'd be so easy to get a lick in!
“I suppose the Gods have spoken then.” Dirge peels himself off the door, brushing off snow. “Worry not, I’ll care for you all while you shelter here.”
The main hall of the temple is meager. Off to one side of the worship area is a meager kitchen hall, a hearth, and cellar. The other side leads to a bed and another hearth, with thick curtains hung to partition it off.
Behind the pulpit and pillars, the chimney of a metal furnace heats the rest of the temple.
Dirge turns to Karlach. “Child, get her to the sleeping chamber. We'll tend to her injuries.”
Karlach holds Shadowheart with care as she shivers violently, eyelids drooping. She meets eyes with Astarion, and nods. “Yeah, sure, no problem. I'll make sure she's right as rain again.”
Shadowheart only mumbles in response.
Astarion limps to the hearth. He shucks his doublet, tossing it over a chair. He groans as he holds his hand over the radiating, stinging warmth. It seeps deep into his cold, undead bones.
Each lick of flame and crack of firewood triggers that deep, inescapable primal fear that haunts him. The ways to kill Astarion now are few. But fire is one Astarion fears the most. What could be a more painful way to go? A nice decapitation or stake to the heart seem much swifter, in one had to choose.
Dirge removes his robes as he walks up behind Astarion. “You shouldn't be on your feet, you’re hurt too.”
“Oh please, it’s a rolled ankle. I’ll live, no healing necessary.” As though a simple healing spell wouldn't melt his flesh off. The last thing Astarion needs right now is pissing off some cleric in a holy house. Though, this house doesn’t feel too holy. It’s barely making Astarion ache, and there’s nary an icon in sight.
Astarion eyes the priest up and down. He’s dressed plainly in a long tunic and hosiery. All a little too unassuming. It's funny, for someone who seems to bend the Gods favor, Astarion doesn't feel much power coming from Dirge.
Dirge grabs a small satchel of herbs and a roll of bandages. “Then, allow me to at least wrap your ankle.”
“Fine.” Astarion rolls his eyes. Priests. Even the creepy ones are pushy about healing and health, as if someone else’s body is their business. Astarion toes off his boots, rolls down his sock, and leans against the table. “Only because you won't leave me alone otherwise. I know how you priests operate. I don’t need the nagging.”
Dirge kneels, a sight that warms Astarion, and tends to his ankle.
Astarion flinches at first, yanking his leg away. But Dirge persists, wrapping herbs tightly. Astarion gives an experimental shake, before fixing his sock and slipping his boot back on. “I… suppose that feels better. But I’m not giving you any tithe for it!”
Dirge laughs. “I wasn’t expecting you to. So few come by this old place these days. I wasn’t going to be by today, other duties, but I felt compelled.” He grabs a poker, and removes a kettle from above the fire. “A priest’s intuition is just as important as the words of the Gods.”
Astarion keeps his ears perked as Dirge walks around behind him. “Lucky us. We could have soldiered through fine enough,” he drawls.
“No, that is the type of storm that gets you lost and buried. There are few who can navigate, let alone survive whiteout conditions so severe. Though.” Tin cans clink together as Dirge rummages around.
“Yes, and you swooping in was divinely ordained?” Astarion remarks dryly.
“No. I knew some unfortunate souls would get stranded. Lost and stumbling through the snow. Many souls are lost each winter. Do you not think that hypothermia is such a needless death?”
Astarion snorts. “More like pathetic. Only idiots freeze to death.” He walks up behind the priest, but his legs get swatted by his tail. “But I don't fear it because if it weren't for your temple, us three would be at my dwelling, fucking our brains out. But no, now we’re stuck here, listening to you preach at us.”
Dirge turns around, two cups in hand. “I doubt that.” He brushes past Astarion. “We can debate the odds of your survivability until after I've tended to the infirmed one.”
Astarion snoops as soon as he sees Dirge's tail disappear behind the curtains. The shelves hold dozens of meticulously labeled herbs, spices, and medicines. As he turns away, something glimmering catches his eyes. A jar that seems out of place.
Marshmallow root. The jar is almost empty. Astarion's takes a sniff, and crinkles his nose. The smell is familiar, but certainly not marshmallow.
Astarion finds where most of the contents of the jar went when he peeks in the kettle. But mostly he smells chamomile and hibiscus from the tea.
“What are you up to…” Astarion mutters, and chews a piece of the supposed marshmallow. He spits it into the fire, and starts warming his hands when he spots Dirge emerging from the bedroom.
“The tiefling will watch over her and warm her core up,” Dirge informs him as he brushes by again. He prepares two more cups of tea, and settles down at the table. He motions towards the other chair. “Please. You seem to have a lot on your mind.”
Astarion pretends as if he didn't hear Dirge for a few moments, before sharply taking a seat. “Do I? You’re the one out here alone because of some religious compulsion.”
Dirge takes his time before replying. He ties his hair back, and takes a long sip, which throws Astarion for a loop. “I happened to get into a disagreement with my sister, and needed time away. I've found peace and solitude helping the needy." Dirge lays a hand in Astarion’s arm, holding his gaze.
"Sounds lonely," Astarion comments.
“Often, those who are lost and astray see those at peace like a still lake.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Dirge doesn't respond, but instead continues drinking his tea.
Astarion can't quite shake this unnerving feeling Dirge gives him. He's so placid. Happy, nor sad, nor angry.
On the outside.
Yet there’s a thrumming energy Astarion doesn't recognize oozing from Dirge’s hand. "People come and go, yet you're here, helping the ungrateful masses." He picks up his own cup, swirling the tea inside. The scent of chamomile wafts up.
Dirge's smile is alluring and repulsive, like the cloying flesh of overripe fruit. "It's alright. I meet plenty of people. Travelers, the impoverished, the lost. Some only stay a moment, some remain here for a time. But in the end, they leave, and someone else takes their place. Like you, a lost soul seeking refuge. How long will you stay, I wonder."
A shiver runs up Astarion's spine as he pushes a smile on. He bats his lashes and leans across the table. "I have places to be, but I could let myself be convinced to stay a while." This close, Astarion can notice healed scars on Dirge's face. Faint scratches around his eyes and mouth. "If you make it worth my time."
Dirge laughs again, scratchy and warm. "I believe I can, but somehow, I don't think you'll be receptive to my sermon."
"I do enjoy being a godless heathen. Perhaps I could do some proselytizing of my own."
Dirge gives Astarion's arm a squeeze. "I often see you wandering around these streets at night. Looking for something, someone." Dirge slips his hand down to grasp Astarion's. "There's a spot for you at my temple too."
“Is that why you put so much valerian root in this tea?” Astarion leans across the table, leering. “I’m flattered, really, that you’d go through so much effort. But it’s not going to have the effect you think it’s going to.” As emphasis, Astarion knocks back the tea like a shot, trying not to taste the sickening herbal flavor. “I think your little plan has been foiled.”
“Oh, you poor, sweet thing.” Dirge breaks out into a grin, straining across his face. “It's not the valerian you need to worry about.”