[ Just when he thought his day couldn’t get any stranger…
First, there had been the nautiloid. Then, his plunge from the sky, which had inexplicably not ended with his viscera splattered liberally across a nameless beach.
And now there’s… this. Whatever this is. Astarion had made it out of the sealed metal chamber quickly enough once he figured out how to use the device buzzing away in his hand, but this new space offers no more answers than the last. The sprawling underground vault of steel and smooth-carved, too-uniform tile seems to stretch out in all directions, just as alien as the mindflayer ship—though fortunately less fleshy. Unnatural white light glares down from the ceiling and every few meters there are glowing signs, marked with unfamiliar symbols and arrows pointing in different directions.
Astarion, his supply of shock and awe having already been exhausted for the day, manages a put-upon sigh. ]
I don’t suppose any of these point towards Baldur’s Gate?
[ Between his embroidered doublet, pointed ears, and red eyes, Astarion looks utterly out of place as he stands there in the middle of the station. Still, he does make some attempt not to look completely lost.
One word he recognizes on the signs? Exit. Without another word, he begins to move in the indicated direction. With any luck, he can at least make it out of this bewildering subterranean vault—and, he thinks with relish, back into the sunlight once more. ]
ii. don’tcha know that you’re toxic
[ Astarion knows something is off about the tea the second he approaches the table—mostly because he finds himself actually wanting to drink it. For a man of his particular appetites, that’s a strange feeling indeed. He eyes the cups warily, wondering if a charm might be at play.
There’s also the matter of finding this little tableaux in the middle of a poison garden. Naturally, Astarion had recognized several of the deadlier varieties of flora on his way in.
When he sees someone else come upon the spot, however, he keeps this information to himself. Instead, he gestures to the table in front of them. ]
Quite the charming little scene we’ve stumbled across, isn’t it? [ he remarks, favoring them with an easy smile. ] Though tea isn’t really my drink.
[ Maybe it’s this person’s, though. If they want to indulge and give him a firsthand demonstration of this “tea’s” potency? Astarion certainly isn’t going to stop them. ]
iii. a drop of blood
[ Astarion has a fairly good idea of what to expect when he takes the leftward path through the greenhouse. The smell of blood is thick around these plants and he hasn’t missed that they seem rather sharper and more excitable than your typical garden residents. Still, he’d been hoping that his own cold dead blood wouldn’t appeal to their carnivorous sensibilities. It would be a useful little place to have to himself: a garden full of twisting, thorny vines hostile to everyone except him—but alas, it’s not to be. It isn’t long before he has to swat away a tooth-lined tendril or two, apparently unbothered by their would-be prey’s undead nature. ]
Really, [ Astarion hisses, glancing between the plant and a fresh cut on his forearm. ] Would a little bit of solidarity be too much to ask?
[ After all, it seems rather gauche for blood drinkers to feed on each other, doesn’t it? ]
iv. a drop of ego
[ After his disappointment with the greenhouse’s leftward path, Astarion tries his luck with the right. The words “BEAUTIFUL DEADLIES” on the sign gives him hope that the flowers on display might lend themselves well to poison-brewing. Still, if these are poisonous varieties, they’re certainly bigger than anything he’s ever seen in Faerûn.
And then come the whispers. At first, Astarion thinks they must be coming from someone on the path with him, but no sooner than he’s turned to face them in one direction does he hear fresh murmurs from another.
”Blood drinker,” they whisper. ”Child-snatcher. His master is looking for him, isn’t he? Poor thing. Poor slave. Poor spawn.”
Astarion feels his cold blood run colder. Where is it coming from? And more importantly—
His eyes snap to whoever else might be on the trail with him, too rattled to completely conceal the intensity in his gaze. Can they hear it, too? ]
Astarion Ancunín | Baldur's Gate 3
i. arrival
[ Just when he thought his day couldn’t get any stranger…
First, there had been the nautiloid. Then, his plunge from the sky, which had inexplicably not ended with his viscera splattered liberally across a nameless beach.
And now there’s… this. Whatever this is. Astarion had made it out of the sealed metal chamber quickly enough once he figured out how to use the device buzzing away in his hand, but this new space offers no more answers than the last. The sprawling underground vault of steel and smooth-carved, too-uniform tile seems to stretch out in all directions, just as alien as the mindflayer ship—though fortunately less fleshy. Unnatural white light glares down from the ceiling and every few meters there are glowing signs, marked with unfamiliar symbols and arrows pointing in different directions.
Astarion, his supply of shock and awe having already been exhausted for the day, manages a put-upon sigh. ]
I don’t suppose any of these point towards Baldur’s Gate?
[ Between his embroidered doublet, pointed ears, and red eyes, Astarion looks utterly out of place as he stands there in the middle of the station. Still, he does make some attempt not to look completely lost.
One word he recognizes on the signs? Exit. Without another word, he begins to move in the indicated direction. With any luck, he can at least make it out of this bewildering subterranean vault—and, he thinks with relish, back into the sunlight once more. ]
ii. don’tcha know that you’re toxic
[ Astarion knows something is off about the tea the second he approaches the table—mostly because he finds himself actually wanting to drink it. For a man of his particular appetites, that’s a strange feeling indeed. He eyes the cups warily, wondering if a charm might be at play.
There’s also the matter of finding this little tableaux in the middle of a poison garden. Naturally, Astarion had recognized several of the deadlier varieties of flora on his way in.
When he sees someone else come upon the spot, however, he keeps this information to himself. Instead, he gestures to the table in front of them. ]
Quite the charming little scene we’ve stumbled across, isn’t it? [ he remarks, favoring them with an easy smile. ] Though tea isn’t really my drink.
[ Maybe it’s this person’s, though. If they want to indulge and give him a firsthand demonstration of this “tea’s” potency? Astarion certainly isn’t going to stop them. ]
iii. a drop of blood
[ Astarion has a fairly good idea of what to expect when he takes the leftward path through the greenhouse. The smell of blood is thick around these plants and he hasn’t missed that they seem rather sharper and more excitable than your typical garden residents. Still, he’d been hoping that his own cold dead blood wouldn’t appeal to their carnivorous sensibilities. It would be a useful little place to have to himself: a garden full of twisting, thorny vines hostile to everyone except him—but alas, it’s not to be. It isn’t long before he has to swat away a tooth-lined tendril or two, apparently unbothered by their would-be prey’s undead nature. ]
Really, [ Astarion hisses, glancing between the plant and a fresh cut on his forearm. ] Would a little bit of solidarity be too much to ask?
[ After all, it seems rather gauche for blood drinkers to feed on each other, doesn’t it? ]
iv. a drop of ego
[ After his disappointment with the greenhouse’s leftward path, Astarion tries his luck with the right. The words “BEAUTIFUL DEADLIES” on the sign gives him hope that the flowers on display might lend themselves well to poison-brewing. Still, if these are poisonous varieties, they’re certainly bigger than anything he’s ever seen in Faerûn.
And then come the whispers. At first, Astarion thinks they must be coming from someone on the path with him, but no sooner than he’s turned to face them in one direction does he hear fresh murmurs from another.
”Blood drinker,” they whisper. ”Child-snatcher. His master is looking for him, isn’t he? Poor thing. Poor slave. Poor spawn.”
Astarion feels his cold blood run colder. Where is it coming from? And more importantly—
His eyes snap to whoever else might be on the trail with him, too rattled to completely conceal the intensity in his gaze. Can they hear it, too? ]