Chapter Text
A kind of haze had clouded Astarion's mind the first day, after the crash. He'd survived certain death twice, in the span of mere hours. A blessing. Then a curse. Out of fear, he'd tackled the Drow he’d seen on the ship to the ground, put a knife to her throat- then realized she, and the cleric a few steps behind her, were likely his only chance of escaping things worse than death.
That first night, Cazador haunted the edges of flame-cast shadows, lurked behind each and every tree. Even if he grew wings and learned to fly, Astarion knew he wouldn't reach his master's home again in time to be forgiven. He'd been gone too long already. There wasn't any rest to be found that first night, but when dawn broke, Astarion came to a realization:
He was free.
There hadn't been a whisper of his influence since Astarion had been taken by the Illithid ship. If Cazador could still compel him, he would have walked without rest until he returned to Baldur's Gate. Whatever control he'd had over Astarion's mind, the parasite broke it.
Decades, centuries, he'd dreamed of finally grasping what he now held, even if it came at a price. Now, he hardly knew what to do with himself.
Of course, he wasn't truly free. He, and the new merry band of parasite infested fellows, had a new problem to contend with. So Astarion found himself falling back on what he knew best.
First impressions were a hard thing to shake. Neither Rylfryn nor Shadowheart told him off outright, but they kept their distance when they could. Even after Astarion told them his rather boring story, the lie that he was just a Baldur's Gate magistrate. A city boy out of his depth. They didn't trust him, and their mistrust seemed contagious.
Try as he might, Astarion's pokes and prods, attempts to drop hints and flirtatious invitations were met with eye rolls and snide comments. Or in the case of the Drow, silence. She'd aggravated him in a way he found almost intriguing. Then, two days after the crash while most of the merry band of Illithids-To-Be sat around a campfire, Gale posed a question.
"So what is your story, Rylfryn?" he asked, taking a sip from a silver goblet. "I don't suppose it's all that rude to ask, since we're all getting to know each other, whether we'd like it or not."
She'd stared down at her own goblet, swirling the wine within. They had all witnessed glimpses of each others lives thanks to their parasite, though nothing that could easily be made sense of. And once they all understood what was happening, Rylfryn had said in no uncertain terms, no one was to go digging into her head from then on.
Astarion hadn't expected her to answer at all, given how little of herself she spoke of to begin with.
"Most of my life, I spent in the Underdark," she began. "Then a decade past, I came above ground. I was at a temple, for a short time." Shadowheart eyed her at the mention of a temple, but said nothing. "And after leaving, I took to hunting creatures that lurk in the dark. Made a living off it."
A hunter.
A ranger.
"And just what sort of creatures have you slain?" Lae'zel questioned.
"Worgs, gnolls. Goblins. Sometimes the undead."
"Like those dusty old things we got into a scuffle with today?" Astarion opened his mouth without thinking. "Or something more... exciting?"
Rylfryn's dark eyes looked to him across the fire. "Only animated undead. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting something like a lich or vampire."
Perhaps she'd known from the very start. Astarion had thought his secret safe, since he could walk in the sun, but thinking back on that first night, she'd looked at him with a kind of intensity in her eyes. Something only now he understood as the desire to kill.
In the morning, Rylfryn still offered him breakfast, but gave him a knowing glance when he politely declined. He caught a glimpse of her throat as she turned away from him; her healing spell had all but made the twin fang marks vanish into the rest of her freckles. A small blessing, to keep his secret between only them, even if he did find the idea of leaving a mark on her oddly appealing when he imagined it.
But it was for the best- he could only imagine the shouting such a revelation as his vampirism would bring, and her blood hadn't been enough to keep him from suffering a hangover that morning.
Rylfryn and the others were quick to plan their next move then and there. Conversation turned to debate over where they should seek a cure first: Moonrise, or the Githyanki creche. The cult of the Absolute's source would take them through shadow-cursed land, according to Halsin, unless they traversed the Underdark.
Then there was the creche. If Lae'zel was to be trusted, not only would the Gith there provide a cure, but it was far closer than Moonrise as well. They could avoid the cult of the Absolute altogether, and thanks to a tiefling in the druid's grove, they knew exactly where it was.
Astarion preferred to take his chances with a cult than Gith, but kept his mouth shut on the topic. Rylfryn too seemed rather quiet all of the sudden, lost in thought where she sat on a fallen tree log. He studied her, eyes drifting from the swirling black ink on one side of her face, to the scar across her lips, the patches of pale skin just below, down to her neck and collarbone, and the veins beneath-
Raised voices pulled his attention away from the finer details of Rylfryn's flesh. Someone foolishly brought up the artifact Shadowheart carried; their debate was quickly devolving into an argument. With huff, an angry eye roll, Rylfryn stood and said something to Wyll. He nodded, giving her a pat on the shoulder. She slipped away from the group, wandering out of Astarion's sight.
He wanted to follow her, instinct screaming to chase her down and drink her blood, but he resisted.
The argument continued, mostly between Shadowheart and Lae'zel. Gale spoke up only once, to ask if he could examine the artifact, and was shot down with a resounding, synchronized "No!" from both women.
In the end it was Wyll that cooled the rising tempers. Shadowheart and Lae'zel split from the rest of the group, each going her own way.
"I swear, it's a miracle Rylfryn convinced those two to cooperate in the first place," Wyll sighed.
"Where did she wander off to anyway?" Karlach asked, looking around.
"Gone to speak with Volo, see if he's found anything about a cure himself," Wyll answered. Astarion glanced in that direction, not as subtly as he would have liked. "Did something happen between you two, Astarion?"
If he were a less composed man, he would have jumped out of his skin at that. Instead, Astarion scoffed, rolled his eyes at Wyll, ignored how Karlach and Gale stared in silence, waiting for his answer. "Of course not. I happen to have standards, you know."
Karlach barked out a laugh. "That's what all you rich boys from Baldur's Gate say."
"As I'm sure we've all noticed," Astarion continued, ignoring that comment, "the gloomy little ranger seems to be more gloomy than usual. I'm merely concerned- she does seem to be the one leading us towards a cure."
"If you say so," Wyll said, doubt seeping through his voice. Luckily, he didn't press the subject, allowing Astarion to slip away when he turned to address Karlach and Gale.
Considering just how long it will take for everyone to regroup and focus on the task ahead of them, he has enough time for a hunt. Just something to fill his stomach so the hunger doesn't gnaw at him for the rest of the day. Even if he knows it won't be what he really wants, not when he can smell Rylfryn's blood.
...He can smell her blood.
Astarion is half way to Rylfryn when she feels the sharp point of the ice pick jam its way in between her eye and the wall of its socket. The right side of her head burns with an all new kind of pain as it wiggled. Ryl held her breath, balled her hands into firsts. Then the pick snagged something, pulled, and ripped.
Ryl screamed into the palm of her hand.
Then, she felt the pick retract, pulling something with it that make a slight pop as it left her skull. Not the parasite, but-
"One of my eyes-," she breathed, hitching as she spoke. "I can't- see, Volo."
Volo slipped the ice pick back into his pocket. "Now now, try not to exert yourself," he all but shouted, arms held up in front of him. Everything became a blur around her as she tried to sit up. The pain in her head made her squeeze her eyes shut altogether. "Hold still, while I remedy this- small error."
She could hear distant footfalls as someone ran towards her, the sounds of glass and wood and hard leather swirled together by a shaking hand. Then, a shuddered, "A-ha!"
Into one of her hands, Volo pressed a smooth, almost silky, round object. Not warm, not cold, but softly radiating magic like some kind of enchanted ring. She gripped it tight.
A false eye? "A relic!" he declared. "Better than what you were born with, I guarantee it." Of course he had something like this.
As she tried to open her one remaining eye, the footsteps came closer, and stopped short. Astarion, shouting, "What in the hells do you think you're doing?" There was a tinge of anger to his voice, behind the shock. She wasn’t sure who he was addressing, her or Volo.
Ryl could only stare down at the object in her hand. The eye stared back at her. Had she not held it in her hands, it could very well have been a fleshy orb freshly plucked from another head. Only thin gold lines would have betrayed its true nature.
Volo turned to address Astarion, voice wavering with fear. "Now now," he said quickly. "I wasn't trying to harm her! I was merely trying to assist in your collective parasite problem." As Volo babbled, Ryl turned the prosthetic eye in her hand, and pressed it into the empty socket. Pain and pressure. A horrible sucking sound as the eye popped into place. "Some minor cosmetic damage may have occurred, but not to worry! I have already taken responsibility for the mishap."
Ryl could feel the magic from the eye already forming a connection with her mind. She couldn't see clearly just yet- only muted colors and shadows- but she dropped the hand from her face and turned. Others had joined Astarion. Shadowheart, seeing the blood that trickled down her cheek, rushed to Ryl's side to examine her.
Shadowheart glanced downward, and inhaled sharply. She must have seen Ryl's real eye lying in the dirt. Her hands crackled with necrotic energy, raised towards Volo. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't-" Ryl reached out with a shaking, bloody hand, and pulled Shadowheart's down, away from Volo.
"Don't," Ryl breathed. "Just- get him out of this camp."
A fight, a real fight, that would end with someone dead was the last thing they needed now, even if she herself wanted to use Volo as a punching bag. She should have known better, should have told him to stop the moment he pulled out that ice pick.
No one stopped Volo as he gathered his things and scurried away into the brush, and out of sight.
"Would you care to explain why you let the fool stab out one of your eyes?" Shadowheart snapped, just in time for the others to arrive. The necrotic power in her hands turned to a warm healing spell, but she still hesitated- waited for Ryl to answer her.
"I want it out," Ryl said; the very words she held onto in her mind when Volo made his suggestion. "Whatever it takes."
Though she didn't look satisfied with that answer, Shadowheart lifted her hand to hover just above Ryl's eye. Pain faded into nothing more than a slight headache.
"Well," Astarion started. Ryl's eyes flicked towards him. "Can we please settle on where to go next? Before anyone else loses an eye? Or a head?"
Shadowheart, still beside her, glared at Astarion. Lae'zel, behind him, looked as though she wanted to cut him in two. And the others simply watched, waited for someone else to speak.
Fine. She'd be the one to decide, if no one else would.
"The creche," Rylfryn said, and before objections could come spilling from Shadowheart, "It's closer, and we have an idea of where it is. With Lae'zel, we have a chance of getting in and out without a fight. It's the safest option we have." She prepared to argue. No one said a word. “We’ll leave as soon as we can. Get packing."
For the first time since she'd been upon the Illithid ship, the thought of Labelas crossed her mind. Ryl didn't know if he had a sense of humor, or if he still watched over her, but in her fleeting thoughts, she hoped the one-eyed god found humor in the loss of her own eye. Quietly, to herself, she laughed too.
In an hour, Ryl had full sight with her new prosthetic. And in another, she had all her things packed, ready to travel. Soon enough, the party set out towards the main road. Close to mid day they stopped for water and shade, and Shadowheart checked her eye once more.
Though magical, the eye was just that- an eye. Nothing about her vision seemed worse, or better for that matter. Another light healing spell took care of the bruising that had begun to form. As if nothing had happened at all, Shadowheart had said.
Both on the road, and while resting, Ryl could feel Astarion's eyes on her. Whenever she looked back, tried to meet his gaze, he'd quickly shift his focus elsewhere.
In one of the few moments he wasn't within earshot of her, Wyll came to stand beside her, and asked, "Did you know our little magistrate has been eyeing you since we hit the road?"
Ryl couldn't help but grin. "Oh, I am aware," she sighed. The vampire wasn't as sneaky as he thought.
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but," he paused for an instant. "I think he might be worried about you."
Ryl snorted out a laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. "I doubt that." If Astarion was worried about her for any reason, it was because she'd let him drink her blood, and didn't want to lose out on a future snack. Getting a whiff of her blood probably made him hungry.
Wyll laughed too. "I know how it sounds. But not even Karlach looks that concerned anymore, and, well." He didn't need to say anything else on that subject. Karlach had all but burst into flames over what Volo had done. "What I'm trying to say is, you might just want to tell him you're alright yourself."
"Very well," Ryl said.
In truth, she was avoiding speaking with Astarion directly, much less alone. She hadn't said a word to him since the previous night, afraid of what would come out of his mouth. He had said he would control his hunger, stay away from all of the others, but he had also implied feeding on her more than just once. If he asked for her blood again, Ryl didn't know what she would say to him.
Guilt still gnawed at her, for leaving him alive, for trying to kill him. Had it not been for the parasites in their heads, had she not been shown what was behind his hungry eyes and blood-sucking fangs…
There was still a man, behind all that. Lost and scared just like the rest of them, like her. So if it kept Astarion away from the others, kept him strong to fight against the Illithid parasites, the loss of a little blood seemed trivial now. And despite how unprepared for the wilds Astarion seemed, he was useful in a fight.
They continued down the road, and Ryl fell in line beside Astarion, behind the rest of the party. For a moment, she walked alongside him in silence, unsure of what to say, until: "You haven't been very subtle."
Ryl knew he would act dumb. "My dear, whatever do you mean?"
"You've been watching me since that- incident, this morning," she said, then added, "Wyll's noticed it as well."
Astarion rolled his eyes. "And is he the reason we're now having this delightful conversation?"
"No," she lied. In a hushed tone, to not be overheard by the others, she continued, "I need to know you're not seconds away from ripping someone's throat out."
"You wound me," Astarion huffed, and stopped. "I am, despite what you may believe, not a rabid animal."
He has a right to be angry with her, she supposed. Ryl stopped as well, turned on her heel to face him. "No, but thanks to our little problem, I know what your hunger feels like," she told him. "You gave me your word. If you need blood, then tell me, before you reach that point again."
Astarion fell silent for a moment, then laughed. "You," he said, pointing at her, "have a funny way of showing you care." He kept walking, now that the others ahead of them had stopped to see what was going on. Ryl followed after, then made her way back to the front of the group, handwaving away any questions tossed at her.
Wyll only raised an eyebrow.
Her hushed conversation with Astarion soon became the least of anyone's worries when a red dragon flitted through the sky, landing somewhere close by. Not wasting a moment, Lae'zel took off in a sprint to find the Gith that accompanied it, even when Ryl shouted after her to slow down.
She, and the others, arrived just in time to witness the dragon destroy the bridge and slaughtering members of the Flaming Fist in a single breath. The Gith then turned their eyes to Lae'zel, and Ryl, who caught up as quickly as she could.
Before Lae'zel could speak of their plight, the dragon rider- kith'rak Voss- told them of his own mission. Ryl's blood ran cold as Voss described the weapon he sought.
Polyhedric in shape, inscribed with Githyanki runes. Kith'rak Voss instructed Lae'zel to return to her own creche to spread the word, then join in on the hunt for the artifact.
Ryl didn't know whether to draw her sword, or to flee. Lae'zel's devotion to her own people was far greater than her loyalty to their company. As she spoke to Voss, Ryl held her breath, waited for her to betray the location of the artifact, to hand over Shadowheart.
Lae'zel lied.
She played along with Voss' commands, made no mention of the artifact.
Of course, it wasn't enough. Voss saw right through her, forced the truth from Lae'zel, yet even then she only told him of the Illithid parasites that had infected them. She had been so adamant that a creche held a cure, that Ryl found herself surprised when Voss ordered the Gith under his command to kill them. In his own words: the only cure for them was death.
Kith'rak Voss departed on his dragon in the same moment an arrow lodged itself into Ryl's thigh.
A brutal fight followed, one that ended with the Gith dead, and Ryl's company badly beaten. Lae'zel had taken far too many arrows to still be standing, and a Gith's silver blade had carved open Karlach. Shadowheart tended to the worst of the wounds, but her magic ran dry all too quickly. So, with what little she had, Ryl took over her clerical duties, seeing to the less life-threatening wounds of the others.
She hadn't practiced healing spells on anyone but herself in- years, she realized, as she placed a hand over a small hole in Wyll's shoulder. "Didn't take you for the cleric type," he joked, then winced as his flesh came together.
She tried not to wince. Maybe one day, Ryl thought, she would tell her whole sad story, but a blood-soaked road wasn't the place for it.
"We should turn back for today," she said, instead of giving him an answer. "If that kith'rak circles back we'll all be dragon fodder, and that empty village isn't too far back."
"A wise choice." Wyll slowly rotated his shoulder, testing Ryl's handywork. "And we should hurry, before any more Githyanki come around."
The walk back to the blighted village hurt far more than Ryl had expected it to. Behind the closed doors of a blacksmith's shop, one of the few buildings left standing after the goblins had raided the place, she had just enough time to spread out her bedroll at the top of the stairs before collapsing onto it, exhausted.
In hind sight, she shouldn't have let Labelas cross her mind earlier that day. He did have a sense of humor. For the ten years she'd spent as a ranger, ten years after she left the temple behind, he'd not once shown her what would come to pass.
Knowing it was a dream didn't help. Ryl could still feel her shattered bones, the sharp pain in her chest as she tried to draw breath into blood-filled lungs. Cold surrounded her, sickening green fog obscured the world above.
High up in that fog, impossibly far away, someone screamed in agony.
The first time she had woken from that dream, she too had screamed. Nothing had ever felt more real than lying on uneven stone, feeling her body die. In her panic, she had cast a healing spell, only then to realize she was whole and hale. Her scream had, however, attracted more than enough attention from the gray-cloaked priests.
It never failed to terrify her, even if she no longer woke screaming.
There, in the abandoned smithy, Ryl woke from the same dream with a sharp gasp. Phantom pains lingered in her body. As she sat up, they faded, as if she proved to herself she hadn't shattered. Blessedly, the wounds from the waking world had also ceased to ache. Through the tears in her clothes, Ryl could see her flesh had mended more. Shadowheart must have seen to her while she was unconscious.
"Oh good," an unmistakable voice said from behind her. "You're awake. You were- twitching so much I was afraid you were about to burst into tentacles."
Of all her companions, she didn't expect Astarion to be the one watching her while she slept. She said just as much, and he rolled his eyes. "I drew the short straw when everyone was deciding who gets to watch over the unconscious Drow."
He sounded rather annoyed, superfluously so. Ryl couldn't help but wonder if he had just been safeguarding his next chance at a meal, but shook the thought from her mind. She needed to choose, to look beyond vampire or monster, or put an end to him. And she had already failed to do the latter once already. "Thank you," she said quietly, managing a slight smile. Perhaps in the long run, trusting him would be a mistake, but- something she couldn't quite understand made her want to try.
"Yes, well," Astarion huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, "I hope I've proved my point. That I see people as more than just walking jars of blood."
She loathed the idea of conceding to him. But if she didn't, their bickering would only further distract from their shared goal. "You have," she said plainly. "Made your point, I mean." A deep breath in, out, and she continued, while Astarion looked at her as if she'd turned a shade of bright orange. "My judgment of you was too hasty."
Whether or not that was true, she had yet to decide.
Ryl drew the line at any apologies, but her admission seemed enough for him. It also made him a bit uncomfortable, if she read the way his eyes flickered around the room correctly. "And here I thought we'd be fighting to the death every night before bed," he said with a strained laugh.
Creaking stairs turned both Astarion and Ryl's head; below, Wyll had woken and now made his way up the stairs to them. "Good, you're awake. How do you feel?" he asked.
"Oh just wonderful darling, thank you for asking," Astation interjected with a grin as Ryl opened her mouth to speak. Wyll chuckled.
"Better," Ryl replied. "How's the shoulder?"
Wyll tried to rotate his arm without complaint, but he winced at one particular angle. "Still a bit stiff," he said. "But I've had worse, and thought I'd make myself useful, see if there's anything we can find to eat tonight."
Ryl finally got to her feet, and stretched, finding nothing felt out of sorts. "If you're still in pain, you can stay here, Wyll," she told him. "Astarion and I can go hunting."
He looked from Ryl, to Astarion, then back to Ryl.
"If you insist," he said. "You know where to find me if you need me."
Gathering up her pack and weapons, she pushed open the smithy's doors and strode out into darkness. She didn't wait for him, but Astarion followed after her in silence.
The smell of the cold night air cleared her mind as she walked, until thoughts of monsters, of Illithid parasites, of cultists, faded away. Even with Astarion accompanying her, he was only a minor nuisance, someone who stood in ruined door frames or leaned up against half-standing walls while she picked through crates and baskets for anything edible.
A few handfuls of root vegetables, and a half dozen wax-coated eggs were placed carefully into a basket she carried. If there had been much else in the way of food in this town, it had been devoured by goblins. Ryl hid the half full basket away in the ruins of an apothecary, adding herbs and medicinal plants that had yet to rot away.
"Please tell me digging for scraps isn't what you meant by hunting," Astation sighed. "I thought there'd be more... blood."
"You're free to hunt for your own meal, if you feel the need." Ryl hadn't really needed him to follow after her. But she knew Wyll would have insisted on accompanying her, had she left the smithy on her own.
Rather than wander off, as she thought he would, Astation lingered, brow furrowed just enough that she could almost read his thoughts. He didn't want to hunt, didn't want the blood of a deer or a boar. He wanted her blood.
"But, no," Ryl continued, while Astation remained quiet in thought. "I suppose this is all I'll find for food in the village. Now we hunt for fresh meat."
Astation's lips curled up into a slight grin. "Lead the way, my dear."
Venturing outside of the village, Ryl quickly learned that, vampire though he may be, Astation did not hunt well in the wilderness. All his supernatural senses were useless when he kept stepping on twigs or dry leaves, scaring away prey before Ryl could even hope to draw back an arrow.
No wonder he'd been starving, so far from Baldur's Gate, or any city for that matter. He hunted people. Humans, Elves, Dwarves, didn't go running off at the slightest crack of brush under foot.
Would animal blood even sate his hunger, she wondered.
Sending a wild sow running- one large enough to feed an entire hall of hungry soldiers- was the last straw for Ryl and her already frayed nerves.
"Right," she breathed. "This might be easier for the both of us if you-"
"Sit here and wait while you do the hard work?" Astation interjected.
"Unless you'd rather go hungry tonight," Ryl finished.
With a flourish, he sat down on a fallen log, crossing one leg over the other. "By all means, do go on by yourself. I shant move a muscle."
For the first time since they met, it seemed their gears slotted together.
Hurrying after the wild sow, Ryl left him behind without another word. She could still catch up with the animal, if she hurried.
A cold breeze ruffled Astarion's hair. Mere moments had passed since Rylfryn had vanished into the dark woods, but already he regretted his decision to wait for her. He should have returned to the village. Here, the shadows cast in moonlight seemed to close in around him, with no one to watch his back.
Astarion shivered. All too quickly, paranoia wormed its way back into his head.
When the thrill of drinking Rylfryn's blood had worn away in the morning, thoughts of him, of Cazador finding out what he had done, ate away at him each and every second they could. Alone in the dark, those thoughts consumed him, sending his hand flying to the dagger at his side whenever wind rustled the trees. Astarion knew Cazador had never left Baldur's Gate in all the years he'd served him. And yet he could be just behind him, waiting to wrap a cold hand around Astarion's once more.
A distant shriek nearly sent him running, until he realized it wasn't a human scream he heard. Rylfryn must have caught up with her prey. He waited for the smell of blood to travel on the wind to him, listened for her footsteps.
Rather than blood, however, a wholly different scent assaulted his senses. Bitter, acidic. Had Rylfryn gotten into a fight with a skunk? The awful smell overwhelmed him enough that he nearly missed the sound of approaching steps, behind him.
"Astarion, I presume?"
Astation jumped to his feet, spun around at the sound of a voice speaking his name.
For the second time that day, a crossbow bolt grazed his leg. The fresh wound, as shallow as it was, burned with poison.
A Gur hunter, the source of the stench, quickly reloaded his crossbow. He needed to run. Now. Astarion only took a single step, narrowly avoiding the second bolt, before his grazed leg was too weak to support its own body. While he still stood, Astarion flung the dagger in his hand at the Gur. His aim was off, no doubt thanks to the paralytic poison flowing up through his thigh. The blade embedded itself in the Gur, just above his heart.
Falling into the dirt, Astarion used his one good leg to shove himself as far from the hunter as he could. While the Gur pulled free the dagger, and treated the wound with a potion, Astation scrambled to get as far from him as he could. A futile effort, in the end. As far as he'd pushed himself through the dirt, the Gur caught up to him with only a few strides. He knelt down in front of Astarion.
"You're a lucky bloodsucker, you know," the man began. He no longer held a crossbow, but iron shackles. "Normally I'd kill your kind, but my people in Baldur's Gate need you alive."
A bottomless pit opened up in Astarions chest, swallowing up any hope he had left. He knew. Whatever fallacy of freedom the Illithid parasite had granted, however far he was from Cazador, it didn't matter. He knew.
The Gur locked one iron shackle around his wrist-
"Est praedae mae."
-And froze. Looked down at his chest, wheezing instead of breathing.
Astation followed his gaze. The very tip of a short sword protruded from his chest, red with blood that dripped down to the point of the blade, then onto his white shirt. Rylfryn, behind him, pulled free her blade, shoving the man to the ground with a kick. Unblinking, unmoving, she watched him die, drowning in his own blood.
And when he fell still, her eyes flickered to Astation. If fear and shame were enough to turn him invisible-
"Are you hurt?" Rylfryn asked quietly.
The poison had traveled up his body further, numbing his hips. "Only a scratch, but-" He tried to move his leg, finding it unresponsive. Would she kill him now, too? Her sword arm remained still at her side, grip on the blade loose.
If he couldn't trust her now, he could die. "The bolt he shot at me must have been coated in something. A paralytic."
She dropped to her knees, hovering just short of too close. Rylfryn's open hand spread out over his leg; a warm glow began at her fingertips, spreading out along her pale palm. Familiar words came from her lips: "Vincere est vivere."
He'd overheard Wyll call her a cleric after the battle with the Githyanki, though he'd assumed the comment a joke. Now, Astarion could see traces of it- the way she concentrated, held her free hand to chest, the way she looked at him rather than just his wound. It disgusted him, how she seemed to care.
As if she hadn't held her sword to his throat merely one night past.
Feeling returned to his leg, his hips, and the light of the spell faded. A few more whispered words from her, and the graze on his thigh closed. Not even a hint of a scar remained.
"You've got a bit of a soft side, haven't you?" Astarion sneered.
Rylfryn regarded him with her mismatched eyes. "Does killing a stranger in cold blood, just to save your skin, make me soft?"
It does, actually, when you seemed to want me dead, Astarion wanted to say.
But he merely rolled his eyes, and let out a slight huff. "Yes, yes, thank you ever so much for saving me from being kidnapped and tortured or even possibly murdered. Now would you be a dear and find the key to this in his pockets?" He raised his cuffed wrist, and shook it ever so slightly.
While Rylfryn searched the body, she continued to speak. "I've not known monster hunters like him to take prisoners." A small silver key, pulled from the mans back pocket, was dropped into the palm of his hand. The way she looked at him, Astarion knew she was putting pieces together. "Will there be others?"
He didn't answer her until the cuff came off his wrist. Another second with it on, and he would have snapped, gnawed off his own hand.
"I doubt-" Cazador nearly slipped out from his lips, but Astarion swallowed the name down. "-he'd bother sending just one Gur."
"He?"
"Perhaps it would be best if we did something about that unsightly corpse," Astarion said quickly. "Hell smelled more pleasant than him, and he hasn't started rotting yet."
Bury the body, and leave this horrid corner of the Sword Coast behind, for good. If Cazador had sent the Gur, if he knew where he was- the sooner they moved on, the better. He would never go back. Never.
Rylfryn didn't press her question, though she did eye him curiously for a moment. "To the village, then. There ought to be shovels there."
Half way back to the body they were to bury, the question struck him: what did she want? Up until their merry little band had slaughtered all those goblins and Absolute cultists, Rylfryn had never paid him much mind, no more than she did the others. What had driven her to try and kill him, and why had she stopped herself? Guilt?
What drove her to dig a shallow grave with him? Why kill the Gur?
"That'll be deep enough." Rylfryn's voice pulled Astarion away from his thoughts.
Three feet into the ground went the Gur's body, three feet of dirt piled atop him.
Astarion was exhausted, covered in dirt and sweat and, worst of all, whatever powder the Gur had used to make himself stink in that awful way; a smell so strong it'd put him off drinking the blood of the perfectly good corpse.
He took a moment to rest on the ground, back against an old oak tree. Hunger gnawed at him now, and though he wasn't starved, the night had taken its toll on him. Any strength Rylfryn's blood had granted him had been lost.
She, too, leaned against a thick tree trunk, eyes scanning the woods around them. "I doubt we'll find any game here tonight now," she said, tilting her head to look his way. "Not with the stink of ironvine in the air."
In two long strides, Rylfryn stood over him and offered out her hand. Astarion stood on his own. "A shame, truly. I was looking forward to dinner."
The way Rylfryn grew quiet and still did not go unnoticed.
"Do you need blood?" she asked, voice low. As if someone would overhear her.
Astarion hadn't imagined she would offer her neck to him again, at least not so soon. "Are you offering?"
"I am. But I want something in return, this time."
That intrigued him. "Now what could a ranger want from a vampire like me, besides my head?"
"Who wants you taken back to Baldur's Gate alive?"
Intrigue turned to anger. Before he could think, he snapped back, "Were you eves dropping while that filthy Gur tried to kill me?"
Damn her.
"Yes. I was." Damn her blood. Damn him, for still wanting it all the same. "But he wasn't going to kill you. Who wants you alive in Baldur's Gate?" she asked again.
Cazador would have his head if he gave up his name to a ranger. Especially one likely bold enough to try and hunt him.
"I'm sorry, darling, I'd rather not kiss and tell," he crooned. But what if she was bold enough, not just to hunt him, but to finish the job?
"That's my price," Rylfryn said. "No answer, no blood."
Damn her.
...But two could play at her game, now, couldn't they?
"Cazador," Astarion huffed. "Cazador Szarr."
"And who is he?" Rlfryn took a small step towards him.
"Ah-ah, my dear," Astarion tutted. "You asked who, and I've given you a name. And before you say, 'oh but it's not fair!' perhaps you should choose your words a bit more carefully in the future."
He expected her to argue. Instead, she only gave him a long, cold look before tilting her head away from him. Astarion could hardly contain his hunger; he closed the gap between them and sank his fangs into Rylfryn's throat.
One arm wrapped around her back, hand pressed to the curve of her spine, he tried to spin her around, to pin her to the tree behind him. But with their legs as entangled as they suddenly became, Rylfryn stumbled. Astarion followed her down to the forest floor, only parting with her neck for a moment. Precious drops of blood spilled past his lips, only to be licked up when he could bear to part his teeth from her flesh.
No wine could compare now. No wonder he- any of the spawn- were kept from such delights. If only Rylfryn were some helpless maiden. Astarion pulled away, though he hesitated to climb off of her. Her eyes were fixated on him all the while, even as she moved to sit up. The heart pumping blood under her chest still hammered away, suddenly far louder than it had ever been.
What a time to be unknowable miles from any civilization.
"So?" Rylfryn asked. "Who is he?"
Astarion sneered down at her. "You want to know? Anything more than the name will cost you extra, my dear."
One of her hands reached up to her still-bleeding throat. A whispered spell and the puncture wounds vanished. Color returned to her face, deepening the flush of her cheeks. Her hand slipped away from her throat, and her eyes flickered from him. "Very well."
Astarion leaned in and brushed his lips against her neck, stopping where her pulse felt the strongest. Pressing lips to skin, he kissed her gently once, then again, spreading his lips to taste her before he bit. He raised a hand to her shoulder, and with gentle pressure, laid her down on the ground once more. Beneath him, Rylfryn shuddered while he salivated over her.
When his fangs pierced her throat, a sharp inhale turned into an open mouth gasp. Her blood betrayed her racing heart and rushing adrenaline, flowing ever so quicker into his mouth and down his throat. Astarion pulled back only to watch red run down the pale patches of her skin before licking up every last drop, and biting down once more.
Though muffled by her closed lips, Astarion did not let the whine she made go unnoticed.
He'd been half hard from the moment he tasted her blood, and now that he was drinking from her a second time, the erection felt almost painful. He pulled his teeth from her neck once more, pressing his tongue flat against her neck, licking, then sucking her wounds. The taste of her blood, the warmth of it inside him, made him crave more, and now that he had it, the pleasure felt overwhelming.
Even if he couldn't f*ck her, he needed to take the edge off. One of his own hands slipped between his legs, and Astarion gripped his co*ck. He stifled his own moaning, biting down a third time into her throat. She'd have to wait for her f*cking information- the moment she put a stop to his feeding, he'd be finding a nice, big tree to hide behind so he could make himself come.
Hells, was this what Cazador did every night? Did he have every soul brought to him? How did it feel to f*ck someone as the life was drained out of them?
The thoughts came and went, and the intense pleasure Astarion had felt suddenly turned cold and rotten in his gut. He pulled his fangs from Rylfryn's throat as quick as he could- a bit too quick. In sharp contrast to the small punctures, two gashes had ripped her flesh open. Astarion scrambled back as Rylfryn cursed; she might have said his name as well, but any words she spoke never fully made it though his ears. Not until the wounds on her neck were closed.
"Let's hear it, then," Rylfryn said. He forced his eyes up from her neck, to look into hers.
At a loss for superfluous words, Astarion kept his answer simple. “Cazador is a vampire. And my master.”
“So why-” Rylfryn cut herself short, and sighed. She gave up on the question as soon as she’d begun it, but it wasn’t hard to guess what she’d been about to say. Why did he want Astarion back? Why go to such lengths for a single spawn?
Why, indeed. The simplest answer was the most likely- he’d broken the rules, ran away, even if it hadn’t been his intention to do so. Not only that, but the parasite had severed his connection to Cazador, or at least the part that compelled Astarion to do his bidding. The Gur couldn’t have gotten lucky. Cazador had to know where he was somehow.
“Will there be more like him? Hunters, looking for you,” Rylfryn asked.
Astarion gave her a nod. “I suppose there will be.” It wasn’t in Cazador’s nature to stop, to give up. Astarion could flee to the ends of Toril and beyond, and he’d still be looking over his shoulder, waiting for Cazador to catch him.
