[open] my little misbegotten, you're quite a stubborn bud

[vampires_pawn]

WHO: Astarion and YOU! (plus closed starters for Molly, Vanessa, and potentially others)
WHAT: Astarion reaps an angry witch's vengeance in the form of several weeks of psychic torture, culminating in a final confrontation. Plus some other catch-all threads!
WHERE: Around the city
WHEN: November
WARNINGS: Physical and psychological torture, references to past abuse, hallucinations, panic, suicidal ideation.

i. we will plant brambles in your bed (greenhouse)

[ Astarion knows, theoretically, that anyone could show up in this place; more often than not, it’s not a comforting thought. At least, he tells himself, it’s not very likely that anyone he actually knows will end up here. The city pulls in only a handful of new captives each month, from such diverse lands and realms that the chance of Astarion seeing anyone else from the Sword Coast, much less someone from Baldur’s Gate must be vanishingly small.

(That it might be one incomparably dreadful vampire lord in particular is even more infinitesimal.)

That’s not to say he doesn’t keep an eye out, if not necessarily for anyone he knows, then at least for someone useful. And as it turns out, when Astarion does finally catch a glimpse of someone familiar, it’s someone who fulfills both categories—someone he’d met only briefly, aboard the same illithid ship that had freed him from his master’s control. ]

Shadowheart?

[ He stares incredulously at the figure standing a ways away outside the greenhouse. It’s the same dour face, the same foreboding armor and even more foreboding mace on her back, facing the glass door with a distant expression. She doesn’t seem to have heard Astarion, not judging by the way she slips into the building without any acknowledgment of him at all. Either that or he’d made an even worse first impression on her all those weeks ago than he’d thought.

Regardless, he’s not going to just let her disappear into this city without a trace. He chases after her, towards the greenhouse entrance. ]

Shadowheart! Slow down for gods’ sake!

[ The last time he’d seen Shadowheart, they’d both survived an impossible fall after having illithid worms shoved into their skulls. She’d told him they needed to find a healer—and then he’d woken up here. Had she found one, he wonders? Or had she at least learned what the little maggots even are? He steps into the greenhouse just as he sees the cleric disappearing past the thorned foliage down the leftward path, just a few meters ahead of him. By all rights, unless she’d broken into a dead sprint or cast a hasty invisibility spell, she should be right there when he turns the corner. But as he steps among the curling vines, there’s no figure there waiting for him—nor any sign of anyone having been there at all. ]

Shadowh—ow!

[ He remembers, belatedly, the kind of plants that inhabit this part of the greenhouse. An opportunistic vine snags a wrist, thorns digging in and drawing blood. Astarion wrenches his arm away, eyes still casting around as he searches for the wayward cleric. ]

ii. you won’t know what will hit you next (around the city, cw: panic, allusions to sex trafficking)

[ He doesn’t see Shadowheart again after that. Which is just as well, because he very quickly comes to find that he has plenty of reason not to trust his senses.

The visions start small. So small, they’re easy to dismiss. A flash of familiarity as he passes someone on the street, that evaporates just as quickly upon a second glance. A whisper that makes him turn his head, only to find no one there. Sometimes, he thinks he hears his name. Sometimes, he thinks he hears laughter. He can never quite pinpoint the source, but then, this city has already shown its penchant for little tricks. He does his best to ignore the mysterious signs, loath to give this place the satisfaction of unnerving him.

Yet, as the month wears on, the visions become more frequent—and more intense. He begins to recognize those flashes of faces—faces from taverns, alleyways, brothels. The faces of those he lured to Cazador, faces that leer or glare or sob, and then are gone the second Astarion looks again. During these times, one might notice Astarion staring at them wide-eyed, as if he’s seen a ghost. Worse still are those times he thinks he sees Cazador himself. Those times, he looks as if he’s seen something far, far worse.

And still, the sightings escalate. Eventually, they are no longer mere flashes of faces—they are full-bodied apparitions.

A former victim stands on the street corner, eyes locked with his in an accusing stare. A gaggle of bloodied children follow him for several blocks, apparently unseen by anyone else. One morning, he wakes to a corpse in bed beside him, weeping.

He avoids sleep where he can help it after that.

Sometimes, the figures are silent. Sometimes, they confront him. They don’t seem to be able to actually touch him, thank the gods, but they can get in his space, scream and threaten and accuse. When it all gets to be too much, one might even catch sight of Astarion screaming back. ]

And if you hadn’t been such a fucking fool, maybe you’d still be alive! [ His teeth are bared, but his eyes are pained, anguished. ] At least you got your pleasure in the end, didn’t you?

[ Of course, when the visions take the shape of Cazador, it’s another matter entirely. At those times, one might see Astarion freeze in place, eyes fixed with inutterable dread on the approach of some invisible figure. Sometimes, he maintains enough control of himself to run, and afterwards one might find him hiding in the shadowiest corner or closet he can find, eyes wide, breathing hard.

At other times, his legs fail him. His knees hit the ground and he kneels there, trembling, before his master. ]

iii. just close your eyes and count to ten (around the city, cw: torture)

[ The pain follows the same pattern: starting small and easy to ignore, and rapidly escalating in severity. At first, it’s just an occasional headache or the slightest irritation prickling at the scars on his back—annoying, but nothing Astarion hasn’t dealt with before.

It’s about the time the visions worsen that the pain does, too. The scars begin to ache in a way they haven’t done in decades, and the headaches build until they’re nauseating, and then until they’re blinding. Astarion begins to hide from the sunlight he so loves, trying to avoid setting them off. It doesn’t help. One can find him in dark rooms and corners, a tight grimace of pain on his face, fingers rubbing circles against his temples.

At other times, it’s not his head that hurts, but his cold, dead heart. Most of the time, it’s simply an ache, not dissimilar to the one in his skull. Later in the month, though, it’s something far more dire: the feeling of a fist curling around his heart and squeezing. Astarion hasn’t needed to breathe in centuries, but now he coughs and gasps, clutching at his chest as smooth, slender fingers crush the un-life from his heart.

Sometimes, the pain lasts for just a few seconds. Sometimes, it lasts for far longer. The worse it becomes along with the visions, the more time Astarion spends locked in his room, as if he can hide from whatever force has decided to make him its plaything. Maybe it doesn’t help—maybe the pain is just as bad and maybe the visions just as terrifying, but at least here, there’s no one to see it. No one to take advantage of it. Still, sometimes it can’t be helped. He has to leave sometimes, even if just to restock on blood, and it’s then that he seems to suffer worst of all.

He’s in a smaller store when it happens for the first time. He’s searching the aisles, trying to move quickly and purposefully to finish this errand, eyes darting and alert for any signs of his spectral tormentors. His vigilance doesn’t save him. One moment, he is in the City, with its buildings of glass and steel and its strange, buzzing white lights—

And the next, he feels his face press against cold, rough stone as a knee digs hard into the small of his back. There’s an all-too-familiar weight pressing against him, an all-too-familiar whisper in his ear. ’Hold still now, boy. You only make it worse for yourself when you struggle.’

There is no time to brace, no time to cry out. The blade presses down, cold at first and then erupting into agonizing heat as Cazador drives it into his flesh. His master sighs, in ecstasy or contempt, Astarion can’t tell, and Astarion chokes back the screams in his throat, wishing that the bastard would just tell him not to scream, he wouldn’t scream if Cazador just told him not to, and then he wouldn’t have to start over, again and again and again.

Astarion can feel every slow, excruciating whorl, every jagged angle and flourish. He is already on his stomach, immobilized by Cazador’s command. It makes no sense that he can still feel another body, a million realms away in an impossible city, collapsing to the floor, that he can feel it writhing against cold tile even as he lies obedient and still under Cazador’s blade, his master carving poetry into his back.

And yet, all the same: back in the city, his body still moves, driven by some long ingrained instinct to survive. To flee. To hide. Drags itself blindly across the floor until it finds a corner and cannot drag itself any further, then curls up as tightly as it can so as to remain unseen. There it stays as Astarion’s mind remains trapped within the memory, eyes screwed shut tight, one hand pressing hard into his mouth to stifle his own screams. Screaming only ever made it worse. ]

iv. the gardener's coming to collect (closed to Vanessa, cw: suicidal ideation)

[ It goes on for weeks: the pain. The visions. The nightmares. Astarion wishes he could believe that it was just another of the city's tricks. He wishes he could believe that it would stop. But he knows better. He knows what this is.

When Cazador finally appears to give him his orders, he can't even find it in himself to be surprised.

It happens after he's woken from another nightmare, another night spent starving and mad and still inside a stone coffin. He'd rolled out of bed. Stepped into the common room. And there his master was, waiting for him.

"Oh, Astarion," his master tuts. "You really thought you'd gotten away, didn't you? Such an ungrateful child..."

Astarion says nothing. All the terror, all the pain of the past several weeks and now, all he can feel is cold, bleak resignation. His master goes on.

"These past few weeks have disabused you of that notion, have they not?" Cazador glides closer. A spectral hand is laid on Astarion's shoulder and it takes everything in him not to flinch. "Never forget: you are mine. Even here, even now." Astarion can hear the smile in his master's voice. "But I am nothing if not merciful. Even to a wretch like you."

The hand lifts from his shoulder and resettles atop his head. Suddenly, Astarion is no longer in his room. He is moving swiftly through city streets, guided by an unseen hand, one that leads him to an sprawling labyrinth of a building, and then down, down, through long dark corridors flanked by dead machines. And then, just as suddenly, he is back in his room, his master still standing over him.

"You will meet me there and seek penance for your transgression. Show me contrition, and I may forgive you yet." His master leans in, his next words no more than a hiss in Astarion's ear. "Do not keep me waiting."

And then Astarion is alone in his room once more.

Despite his master's final warning, Astarion finds that, for several minutes, he can't move all. He simply stands and stares into the darkness, feeling the freedom he's only just tasted slipping away from him, feels the heavy black cage of the past two centuries bearing down on him once more. For one mad moment, he thinks of escape. He doesn't need a weapon; this city has plenty of high spires and towers, and a vampire spawn like him needs nothing but a high enough fall to end his undeath.

But he knows just as surely as anyone else here: it won't last. And more surely than that: whatever punishment Cazador has in store for him, he can make it so, so much worse if Astarion defies him now. He is already making it worse for himself, standing here waiting. He cannot think. He cannot mourn. All he can do is obey.

And do he does. He makes his way out of his room and onto the streets, following the vision from before and feeling... nothing. Nothing at all. His feet seem to move of their own accord and he falls back into the same thoughtless obedience he's known for centuries.

How foolish of him, to think that he'd ever escaped. ]

Comments

[vampires_pawn]

[ Astarion's head stays resting on his hands as he watches the show, amusement showing plainly on his face. He's not taking this seriously, not at all; it's a game to him, one where his main interest is in seeing how well Molly plays. Yet, there's something else Molly might glimpse beneath that glib curiosity: an air of uneasy distraction there in the way that Astarion's gaze drifts just ever so slightly off in the act's less showy moments. Something else is preoccupying his thoughts—and it isn't anything good.

Even so, he manages a wry chuckle when Molly pulls the Death card. An undead blood-drinker with death in his past? How shocking. ]

Come now, [ he teases, a flash of fangs in his grin. ] You hardly earn any points for stating the obvious. Even if we weren't to take it literally—something's always ending, isn't it?

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai considers that information; he really has very little to go on here, but there seem to be two distinct possibilities emerging. Either someone is inflicting this on Astarion and getting better at it over time, or his earlier 'episodes' had been unrelated hallucinations and this is not an escalation but something new. ]

Well, that sounds like fun.

[ Sarcasm drips from the final word. The wheels in Nikolai's head are turning. Another man might have offered sympathetic words or reassurances that it will all turn out alright, but Nikolai is not that man. He prefers to search for explanations and solutions rather than dole out platitudes. ]

You shouldn't tax yourself with it now, but I wonder if there are any common factors between those episodes and this. Even something simple, like a sound, a smell, or a certain time of day.

[ It's not much to go on, but any factor could be a hint in unraveling how such an attack had been possible. He thinks about telling Astarion that he'll begin investigating if this Cazador fellow has turned up here, but ultimately decides against it. Best not to give what might turn out to be false hope. If he does manage to discover the man, he can tell Astarion about it after the fucker's dead. ]

You're very welcome.

[ Nikolai looks entirely unfazed by Astarion eagerly downing an entire bag of blood. The smell of it does unsettle him a little, but Nikolai has an excellent poker face. And the truth is, it only perturbs him because of the familiarity. He can't help wondering how much blood he'd drunk as the monster. Much more than could fit in two little bags like that, judging by how much of it he was usually covered in when he woke up. ]

That is what it means, more or less. They're only myths, in my world.

[ Which is not to say that Ravka doesn't have its share of real monsters. Some made by merzost - the volcra, the nichevo’ya - and some made by science - the khergud and Grisha under the influence of jurda parem. Then, of course, there's the demon that currently resides inside Nikolai. No one even has a name for whatever it might be. ]

I've always loved meeting myths. And I'm quite fond of disobedient rule-breakers.

[ Nikolai smiles at Astarion, warm and easy. He still feels shaken from what he'd witnessed, but he is nothing if not resilient. ]

I would ask if you're alright, but I think we both know that would be a stupid question. So instead, allow me ask, would you like me to leave you alone now? Or would it be alright if I stayed with you a little longer?

[ Perhaps it is irrational, but Nikolai can't help worrying that if he excuses himself, Astarion's torture will resume, and the blame will partly be on him for leaving. ]

I swear not to ask too many questions about vampires, if I do.

[ He lays a hand over his heart, as if making a solemn vow. ]

[mollymocks]

All I can impart is what the cards show me.

[ The return is unruffled, even if a bit of wryness flashes briefly through his expression. Not much to go off, there, other than that take it literally bit. Something Astarion is expecting him to already know? Curious, but more things to tuck away for later. As for the rest of it...

It would be child's play to pull any one card out of the deck he likes. Some cheeky commentary on their current predicament or a nod towards the restless energy radiating through every inch of the elf across from him. But something makes Molly pause. Too easy, too predictable. This calls for something else.

Let fake take it, then. And when he pulls the next card, even Molly isn't certain what it's going to be until it's set down. ]

The present is The Soldier. [ And it comes with a slightly arched eyebrow, part amusement part something else. It might be easy to guess why, the card depicts Molly himself, perched on one foot atop a sword blade hovering over a battlefield. Upside-down, though, with the name of the card printed below his own head. ]

Authority, rigidity. You, sir, feel like you've been pushed into a particular role. There may have been something ending, but you're beholden to whoever you think you should be now.

[ Maybe a slightly odd claim to make for a man so glibly rakish, but Molly can think he sees the edges of it. He'd know, after all, what hedonism can cover.

Or maybe he's completely off and Astarion will laugh at him. Either way, really. ]

iv}{ my little misbegotten

[matermali]

( cw; all the above + scorpion talk )

[ While the corridor she guides him down may seem to stretch on endlessly, eventually he will reach a fork in the path where he can turn down the left hallway. The electrical room is well known to her by now, as is the security room at the end of the right path. There she waits with only her whispers and shadows for company until Astarion is summoned. This space is easy for her to control; there are no windows, the walls are thick, and the mall is not exactly a hive of activity, not after the horrors it once trapped so much of the populace with. Figments of their worst nightmares had haunted them for days while they sought escape, and killed them, killed them, killed them–

So it makes her little better, but she knows herself to be a monster. This isn't an honorable tactic. Honor is not her concern as much as keeping hers safe, and in certain cases, that is enough cause to commit any atrocity. It doesn’t mean that she enjoys torture; it only haunts her, hurts her. If she had her way, she could eradicate the threat quickly, without torment, and her loved ones would then be safer. But the captor of this city has tied her hands. More than once, now.

It won't be the first time she'll have been involved with imprisoning and torturing a vampire, only this time she's to be the one wielding the whip before offering the apple.

The visions that had been haunting Astarion were of his own making, not hers. She had only been certain he hadn't forgotten about them, even if she herself had lost so many of the details once she returned to the waking world. Many, but not all, and that pain has built to weigh on her chest. Vanessa has never been naive enough to think that revenge would lighten one’s heart.

But this is a vampire, and he had hurt Peter. It could have been worse. For the minutes that Vanessa had raced to his apartment and her blood had become ice, she had wondered if she would even find Peter when she got there, or if she was once again too late to save a loved one from being corrupted and lost. She will never forget how they took Mina or how she died as their pawn. She will never forget all the years that they hunted and tormented her. Peter has his own demons, and he has suffered enough, which she has been so determined to alleviate. There is no one better than her to help him. At times she has wondered if it is the purpose of her being here. ...And then this crude thing dares to encroach on her territory and threaten what little good she can create?

Perhaps some of it has been for spite.

Vampires can't be trusted beyond the commands of their master and such things don't seem to be so different in his world. So now he will tell her such things as that, and he will tell her truthfully, and she will discern if he will continue to be a threat or not.

Once Astarion turns the corner to head toward the dim electrical room that carries a faint hum, Vanessa will stand from the other end of the hall to follow. Beyond her whispers, the shadow of a scorpion reaches him first. It stretches just behind with a creeping hiss and tail poised to obscure any vision of her, should he think to look toward the sound. Click, click, echoes the sharp impact of her heels on concrete–they tap along with the scorpion’s crawl, hunting from behind its shadow. This is one of the rare times that she doesn’t bother with her usual form of quiet stalking.

As soon as he’s inside the room, the scorpion melts into the shadows that shift beneath the buzzing flicker of the fluorescent lights, leaving Vanessa standing in the doorway to observe him with a silent once-over. Whatever he was expecting to see, there is no more illusion. Only a dark-haired woman with a pale gaze. ]

cw: references to slavery and sexual abuse

[vampires_pawn]

[ Of course he hears the footsteps following behind him. 200 years have taught him well. How many times during those long centuries had he listened for his master’s tread? In the kennels, the dormitories, the pleasure chambers, praying selfishly every time that he'd pass him by, that Cazador would choose another spawn to torment that night. He'd know the man's footsteps anywhere.

And he knows these ones do not belong to him.

He turns his head—surely that much can be overlooked, in light of his other transgressions?—but what he sees does not make sense: the shadow of a massive scorpion, claws raised and tail poised to strike, following behind him. It is a sight several magnitudes less frightening than Cazador would have been, but it is much more bewildering. Cazador never needed to rely on beasts or illusions to subdue his spawn. Why bother when he could already command total, unthinking obedience with but a word? Dread coils tighter in Astarion's stomach. His master was always at his worst when he was feeling creative.

He keeps walking, eyes now locked straight ahead, until he reaches the room appointed by his master. It is, as far as Astarion can see, empty. Cazador is not there waiting for him, only the same dead machines from the vision slumbering under a thick layer of dust. Astarion has made it this far with his composure intact, but now he feels himself start to tremble. What a perfect scene his master had drawn him to: a room full of obsolete, broken tools, and Astarion about to join them. Loathing flares in his chest. He hates this. Not just the helplessness, not just the torment and despair, but the waiting. Waiting through the nightmares, the visions, and the pain, waiting for his master to finally appear and just end it already. Torture him. Crush him. Make him a slave once more. Anything but leaving him with this stupid, futile hope that it might end any differently.

Yet, when Astarion finally works up the nerve to turn around and face his punishment, it's not the sight of his master that greets him. Instead, a raven-haired woman he doesn't know stands in the room's threshold, haloed by fluorescent light.

He stares, uncomprehending. Part of him wants to urge her to run. 'Fool. Idiot. Do you know what Cazador will do if he finds you here with me? What he'll do to both of us?' But he dare not. If Cazador had drawn this woman here for his own purposes, then any word of warning will be taken as subversion. And, of course, there is another possibility: that this woman is not another victim of Cazador's, but one of his devotees. Possibly even a guest. Astarion can assume nothing, not when the slightest misstep could spell new and ever-more-inventive punishment.

So he watches her without a word, as blank and silent as any of the other used-up machines lining the wall. Only the slightest tremor running through his hands gives any impression of life at all. ]

[aceslow]

Okay. Fine.

[ Does he believe that Astarion doesn't have a habit of B&Es? Not particularly, or at least he doesn't believe that Astarion hasn't used it for anything untoward. But Kim doesn't particularly care either, not when this little skill of his can help smooth over their current predicament. ]

The longest sewing needle ought to do the trick. [ He yanks at Astarion a little as he gets up and out of bed, gesturing for the other man to come with him as he plods a little unsteadily towards the sewing kit, his muscles groaning in protest, the little nicks and cuts he had sustained reminding Kim that he ought to give them a good clean, a good bandage. It's going to be difficult with just the one hand. He snags the sewing kit and places it on his desk, flicking it open to reveal a tidy collection of needles, thread, thimbles, shears, measuring tape and pins. He rifles through them with one hand until he finds what he's looking for, raises its container to his lips, and slides it out with his teeth. ]

Here. A number five glover model. This is meant for hand-sewing leather - [ a painstaking task that Kim himself had undergone with the wrong equipment in his youth, desperate to deck his jacket out in all sorts of patches, labouring away without the right needle or thimble and absolutely butchering his fingers in the process ] - so it ought to be sturdy enough for your purposes.

[ He looks up at Astarion, consideringly. ]

If this doesn't work, we're taking a saw to it. After you change out of those things. You're a little tall, but... some of them should fit.

[ He's got some trousers he still needs to hem, some oversized shirts he likes to sleep in. Astarion won't look very good in them, but at least he won't stink of blood anymore. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ It's amazing how much difference a bit of blood makes. Astarion can already feel vitality returning to his drained body, the phantom pain fading from his back. He straightens up some and rolls his shoulders, taking stock of himself for any injuries, but aside from a knee bruised in the process of collapsing to the floor, his body bears no lingering marks from the attack. It's disconcerting, but certainly preferable to the alternative.

Maybe it's the blood or maybe it's the nature of Nikolai's flattery, but Astarion actually manages to return a smile at his words. ]

Then I dare say you'll like me quite a lot. I might not have been able to disobey back on my own plane, but here? I like to think I've been making up for lost time.

[ Even now, Astarion can't say that he regrets breaking Cazador's rules. Maybe his master will find ways to make him regret it, but for the moment, Astarion wouldn't trade this fleeting freedom for anything. Not even this latest round of torture has taken that from him. ]

After everything you've done? Stay as long as you'd like. [ Already, he's sounding more like his usual charming self, but as he braces a hand against the wall to stand, there's still a certain tentativeness to his movements, like he's not sure he won't be forced to the floor again. Perhaps his willingness to let Nikolai stay isn't entirely selfless. ]

Though, I hope you won't mind if we walk and talk. I didn't come here just to make a scene, despite appearances.

[ Yes, Astarion just been forced to relive a horribly painful memory of physical torture. Yes, he fully intends to complete his grocery-shopping anyway. It's amazing what a motivator spite can be. ]

[vampires_pawn]

Of course, [ Astarion says, all smiles, as he settles back to wait for Molly to pull the next card. His eyes move to the tiefling's hands, observing intently for any palmed cards or concealed passes—less out of any real interest to expose Molly and more out of a kind of professional curiosity—but when the next card is pulled, it really does look like a genuinely random take. Astarion watches with interest as the card is laid out on the table—and can't help but laugh in surprise when he sees that Molly himself features in this one. ]

My, my. Did you make these yourself? [ His tone is still teasing, but there's a note of admiration there as well. That's a level of detail most people wouldn't bother with. Astarion is genuinely impressed. Though, he's about to say, he certainly wouldn't call himself a soldier, at any point in his life—

And then Molly keeps talking. It's all still drivel, of course. The reading could apply to anyone; for who hasn't been made to play one role or another in this life? Yet, there's a glint of something in Astarion's eyes at that first word—authority—a flash where the smile on his face looks more like a grimace.

He recovers quickly, but his voice isn't quite as mirthful as before. ]

On the contrary, I've never been freer. [ A smile, hard-edged. ] But don't let that discourage you, darling. Let's see what the future holds, shall we?

[thefreak]

( Eddie knows a thing or two about running. He'll insist it's all he's good at, even though evidence shows to the contrary -- that when the going gets tough, he's not afraid to put everything on the line for the greater good.

When Astarion runs, Eddie isn't sure what to make of that reaction. On the one hand, he's grateful that he hasn't had to witness yet another person succumb to the bone-crunching fate that he's seen twice. Without the music, though, if Eddie doesn't track Astarion down, will it just get worse until it does happen?

Maybe Vecna is trying to punch a gate into this world. Perhaps the bats chewing him to death allowed him to latch onto Eddie, but why not use Eddie's mind instead of this stranger? It's not like Eddie lacks guilt he could feed off of.

Too many questions that need answering. So, while Eddie would have normally left Astarion alone, he needs to get to the bottom of this. He runs in the direction where Astarion bolted, but by the time he gets there, Astarion has already found his hiding place. He frowns, looking around to try and find a trace of him, but is only met with darkness. )

Hello? Where'd you run off to?

[vampires_pawn]

[ Astarion follows, rather disgruntled at being tugged along, though it's not like there's much alternative with the short chain linking each manacle. Somehow, he gets the sense that Kim isn't the sort to have thieves' tools on hand, but as it turns out, the supplied alternative is familiar to Astarion all the same: a sewing kit, and quite a comprehensive one at that. Astarion gazes at it with something between surprise and envy. It's a shame his hands are literally tied at the moment—otherwise, he'd pocket the kit in an instant.

Ah, well. Another day, maybe. He takes the proffered needle, assessing it with a glance. It's no lock-pick, but it should still serve his purposes well enough. ]

I'm quite sure that won't be necessary, [ Astarion says disdainfully, ] But thank you for the additional motivation.

[ As much as he himself would love to be rid of this awful costume, he doesn't relish the thought of trying to remove it while cuffed to another person. All the more reason to make sure he takes care of these manacles himself. ]

Come along, then, [ he sighs impatiently, tugging them back towards the bed, where he perches on the edge and motions for Kim to do the same. He lays their linked hands between them. In truth, Astarion has never seen manacles like these before and for a few moments, he simply examines them, trying to understand their construction. The metal is thinner and lighter than what he's accustomed to, and the opening mechanism much less obvious: a tiny key way, which Astarion is pleased to discover is drilled into the cuff attached to his unwilling compatriot's wrist. That will make reaching it much easier. ]

Lay your wrist here, like this. Good. Don't move.

[ With his free hand, he angles the needle into the key way and begins to explore, searching for slides, pins, or levers. As strange as these manacles may be, there are only so many ways to build a lock, and Astarion likes to think he knows them all.

Which is why it's so mystifying when he can't find any of them. He feels around with the needle, searching for a structure of any kind, but all he finds are the edges of the key way and the flat metal on the other side of the cuffs. It's as if there are no internal mechanisms at all, as if the key way is nothing but a decoy. And maybe it is. After a few minutes of fiddling, Astarion withdraws the needle and begins to turn the handcuffs over again, frowning fiercely as he searches for another opening. He feels a bit of hope when he finds what seems to be an aperture for a double lock, but more exploratory prodding reveals the same results as the first: it's as if the cuffs have been simply welded into place around their wrists, with no actual mechanism to unlock them at all. ]

Blasted things, [ he hisses, brow furrowed in concentration. ] There's nothing inside! Nothing I can find, anyway.

[ Judging by the way Astarion keeps turning his wrist—and by extension, Kim's own—this way and that looking for another key way, he isn't ready to give up just yet. Or maybe he's just stalling the part where he might need a stranger's help to undress... ]

[mollymocks]

[ He's watching carefully enough through half-lidded eyes that he can catch that momentary expression, but Molly simply hums to himself and carries on. Question and answer period can come after the performance is complete, and Astarion is right that they have one left to go.

This card is twinned images of the same woman in blue, one leaning over a tome and the other leaned in like she's imparting a secret. The secretive one is the upright, and below is written, THE RUMOR. ]

Finally, The Rumor. Guile, improvisation, and wisdom. Whatever comes next for you, darling, you're going to be quite clever about it. You already have what you need, you just need to put it all together in interesting ways.

[ He tips his head at that, making a show of considering the whole picture. ]

However free you are now, things are going to improve, yeah? You're going to make them better, and you already know it.

[vampires_pawn]

[ And there it is. That last little bit of flattery, sweetening the lies as they go down—not that Astarion doesn't savor it, just a bit. ]

I hardly need a deck of cards to tell me that, [ he says, preening. ] I am terribly clever.

[ Of course, cleverness means nothing without the power to leverage it. And power... Astarion hasn't had a taste of it in two centuries. Yet, there's a chance for things to be different here, now that he's no longer Cazador's puppet—even though, as he's learned in recent weeks, the rulers of this place are perfectly capable of pulling his strings when they so choose.

It's a nice thought, though, isn't it? As if freedom could be assured by something as simple as a deck of pretty cards. ]

Well, [ he says, regarding the spread before him with the facade of an amused smile, ] as much as I love hearing about my inevitable triumph over adversity, I must admit: I was hoping to learn a bit more about you as well. [ His eyes flick up to Molly, curious and considering, as if he's another card in play. ] You've already learned so much about me, after all.

[matermali]

[ The sight of a vampire so subdued is not entirely new to her, but death was always to swiftly follow. Now, to kill him here would only send him out of her grasp, ever warier and likely full of inquiries for others. How he is right now is just right if she’s going to make any progress. He was correct, as it was already clear that she had no more reason to try and strike any more fear within him—the scorpion was introduction, not intimidation.

Just an omen in the form of a woman.

While she feels mostly certain that he'll be compliant, Vanessa knows she can't be too careful with these night creatures. The moment after one had once seemed to be ‘cured’ of the affliction, it had quickly been reduced to snapping teeth and cries for the Devil’s whore. That one had never stopped talking, even if he had said nothing useful. This one is so far stricken silent, which is fine with her for the moment.

Astarion may suddenly notice a stronger scent when she pierces her thumb with a small knife, and she watches him in her periphery while working on the other side of the doorframe. There is no effort to make her blood scorpion sigil as detailed as she might have when at home. All that really matters is the power of command within the blood, and her blood is old—far older than he or any mere vampire. Her blood is prophecy.

Vanessa remains quiet until she's nearly done, continuing to consider him while she speaks with a voice low and grating. The following question is sincere, despite the oddness of it. ]

Do you prefer poetry or music?

[mollymocks]

Did I.

[ That gets a decided dry eyebrow lift, as if they're not both perfectly aware of just how much of that Molly pulled directly out of his ass. Still, if Astarion wants to play, what can Molly do but indulge him? Fair is fair, after all. Even if he hasn't even charged his usual fee.

But he just spreads his arms out at his sides, palms lifted. ]

Well then. What do you want to know?

[vampires_pawn]

[ Astarion remains unmoving when the woman draws the knife. Indeed, the only surprise he feels is that she'd gotten her hands on a weapon in this place at all, however paltry. It would be laughable for her to try and oppose a vampire lord with such a blade. Significantly less so to use it on an unresistant vampire spawn. Yet, the knife doesn't seem to me meant for Astarion or his master. Instead, the woman uses it to prick her own thumb and then, slowly and methodically, begins to smear her blood on the door frame.

The scent should be familiar to Astarion and yet, there's something different about hers. The smell is stronger, sweeter, almost intoxicating. Hunger gnaws at Astarion's stomach, savage and desperate, though he's more well-fed than he has been in centuries. His fists curl at his sides, fingernails digging into his palms. This is a test. It has to be. That must be why the woman is here—to see if Astarion can still follow Cazador's first rule in spite of whatever enchantment's been laid upon her blood.

He forces his gaze to the ground, less out of any humility or contrition and more so to resist the sudden, tantalizing visions of sinking his fangs into her neck.

The question she asks only adds fuel to his fevered paranoia. This woman is in-league with Cazador—Cazador, who'd been so amused by the discovery of the poems Astarion had stitched into his clothing that he'd amused himself further by carving his own poetry into Astarion's back. Even bloodless, Astarion feels his face burn. ]

Poetry. [ Even now, even after what Cazador had done with it. He says it quietly, to conceal the traitorous defiance that might otherwise threaten to slip into his voice. ] But he already knows that.

[ His gaze flicks up towards the woman and he wonders what she's been promised. Power? Pleasure? Eternal life? He thinks, briefly, hatefully, that whatever Cazador has in store for her, she'll deserve it. After all, there is only one thing lower than being an unwilling pawn to a man like Cazador—and that is to be a willing one. ]

Will the master be joining us tonight? [ His voice is still quiet, resigned. Yet there's the slightest curl of his lip, contemptuous, when he says he next words. ] Or has he sent you to play confessor?

[matermali]

[ She had hoped that he would pick poetry, but not for any reason other than her understanding of how sad people usually prefer poetry. She is one of them. It does help her assess one of the shades of his character.

Any bit of defiance he shows is somewhat of a relief, in truth. She isn't certain what she would have done if he was already weeping on the ground and unable to communicate by the time she appeared. There is still time for that to happen, but Vanessa hasn't come here to torment him. Not any longer; so long as he does not force her hand. ]

Will you sit?

[ Nothing he remarks on is given any visible attention, but she does note them. She has yet to discover if this Cazador is any better or worse than the 'Master' she has already been forced to deal with.

Vanessa would have included a chair, but he could have broken it and turned it into a weapon against her even with her barrier on the other side of the door. Instead, she gestures to the floor where he's standing.

In good faith, she'll kneel first with a graceful sweep of her skirts just on the other side of the door. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ For the first time since Astarion has entered this place, uncertainty flickers across his face. The woman is inviting him to sit, as if they're settling down for tea and genteel conversation rather than awaiting the arrival of their sadistic master.

Is this... another test? Astarion's gaze darts uneasily around the room, as if searching for whoever is watching. A test implies a right answer. Sitting before his master's arrival would have been taken for disrespect back at the house, but if this woman is acting in Cazador's stead, he might be expected to obey anyway. He stands for another beat, brow furrowed—and then, finally, does what feels safest and imitates her own position, kneeling on the bare floor.

If the woman isn't going to answer his questions, then there's no use wasting his breath. Astarion simply kneels there and waits, jaw clenched, for whatever penance comes next, be it at the woman's hands, Cazador's—or, if his master's powers truly are unchanged by this place, by his own. ]

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

Pssh. 'Everything I've done'? It was hardly a sacrifice, getting the chance to talk to an intriguing stranger. One of my favorite pastimes, in fact.

[ It's an obvious distortion of the truth; it had been awful, kneeling there and witnessing every second of Astarion's agony, powerless to do anything. But Nikolai presents this re-writing of history to Astarion: an offer. His own inclination is to immediately minimize the seriousness of any terrible thing that might have happened to him. If Astarion wants to play the game of denial, Nikolai is indicating that he will follow along without missing a beat.

He gets to his feet, scooping up the little ball he'd given Astarion in the hopes of grounding him and tucking it away in an inner pocket of his jacket without comment. Nikolai stays close - not enough to smother, he hopes, but near enough that he has some chance of catching Astarion if he were to collapse again. ]

I hope it's not too brazen to offer, but if this Cazador is here, I hope you'll consider me an ally against him.

[ Nikolai stays by Astarion's side as they move through the store, giving a fluid sort of shrug as he explains: ]

You see, I happen to hate bullies and slavers and tyrants of all sorts.

[ In his own world, Nikolai's ability to act against such people has always been somewhat constrained by his status. Kings may have a great deal of power, but they also have limitations. Here, none of that applies, and for once Nikolai and the monster that's mostly dormant inside him are in complete agreement: some people just deserve to be torn to pieces. ]

[matermali]

[ It's unfortunate what Vanessa is able to deduce in these few moments alone. She is apt at spotting the details that most work to hide, with unblinking eyes that can unmask near anyone with a look. She can’t recall most of the terrors that his psyche summoned, but Cazador is the only name that stuck, as well as that fear. Observing him now, considering his remarks to her so far, she wouldn’t need any of that to understand what type of man, or rather vampire, that Astarion’s master is. The type that would be quite unlucky to meet her, even if he didn't seek the end of days.

She has no desire to be mistaken for one of his worshippers, but allowing Astarion to talk himself in a circle has given her enough context to finally speak once more. With one hand pressed to her chest, she recites a poem in a voice that rasps out the words with careful starts and stops. ]

After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –
The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’
And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?

[ There is no hurry as she speaks, taking care with each line while gesturing in his direction. ]

The Feet, mechanical, go round –
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone –

[ The huskiness of her voice then softens with her hush, and her head tips while she lets her hand settle back to rest politely her lap. ]

This is the Hour of Lead –
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

[ Then silence. ]

cw: referenced self-harm

[vampires_pawn]

[ It's strange. So many times, Astarion has wished, fervently, desperately, never to see his master again. He'd envisioned Cazador, taken by a sudden fit of madness, stepping blithely out the door of his manor on a bright, sunny day, crumbling to ashes and blowing away in the wind, leaving not even a trace to bury or burn. How sweet it would be never to see his sneering face ever again, not even in death.

Now, though, Astarion finds himself wishing with weary impatience that his master would show himself and put an end to this little charade already. Between the exhaustion and the fear, the heady, disorienting smell of the woman's perfumed blood, he is finding it more and more difficult to hold himself together. At any moment, he feels as if he may just fall apart into his component neuroses and terrors and hungers, broken before his master even arrives. The thought galls him. And so Astarion fights to maintain some semblance of composure, fights not to so much as shiver despite the cold dread gripping his heart.

He still flinches when the woman begins to speak. As tense as he is, it is several lines before he finally realizes she is reciting poetry.

He almost laughs, not out of any joy or mirth, but at the sheer, bitter absurdity of it. A poem about pain—a flowered threat of what's to come.

This is the Hour of Lead–
Remembered, if outlived.

And he will outlive it. In there lies the tragedy. ]

Just tell me what he wants. [ It's said through grit teeth, trying to hold back anger and despair and so much more. He thrusts a hand out, palm up, demanding something. He's looking straight at the woman now, hunger be damned. ] Tell me what I need to do.

[ The knife. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ Rewriting of history or not, it's a revision Astarion is all-too-happy to accept. ]

True, [ he muses, feigning consideration. ] Then let's say that I'm allowing you to stay just because I like you. Much simpler that way.

[ He twists the cap off of the second blood bag and brings it to his lips, as casually as if it were a wineskin. He still can't quite believe that this is something he can just do here, especially in the company of another living person. No wonder Cazador is incensed; all those centuries of brutal discipline and subjugation, poured down the drain in a matter of weeks.

At Nikolai's offer, Astarion almost laughs, and his face does something strange, twisting into a hard half-grimace, half-smile. Oh yes, he likes Nikolai—likes his charm and his constancy and his broad-mindedness—but he can already tell, too, that that heroic streak will get him killed. ]

It is brazen. Not that I don't appreciate the thought, but I'm fairly sure a decent portion of Cazador's diet consisted of would-be heroes who felt similarly. And those he merely killed were the lucky ones.

[ The facade of a smile slips from Astarion's face. ]

And if he's here physically, then he can't die, anyway. None of us can.

[matermali]

I thought you liked poetry.

[ Despite the possible tease, his tragic assumption on her meaning is actually quite apt for precisely what she’s saying. She has brought his past back to haunt him, but he is the one trapping himself with it, if he hadn't already. Now that she’s here, she can help point him in a different direction. Escape that way, to the devil you don’t know. She will be certain he knows by the end of this meeting that Cazador is not the one he ought to worry about.

He seems to have no love for his master beyond the loyalty inspired by trauma, so there should be no manner of affection keeping him in service to a vampire who isn’t here and may never be. Vanessa, however, is right here in front of him. ]

The pains brought on by horrors made intimate can be so sharp that they can seem to cut out everything but a numb heart and cracked bones.

[ Her hands fold carefully over her lap, bandaged thumb hidden. ]

You attend your own funeral, but was it yesterday, or centuries ago? How many times now? Control is lost, direction is forgotten—memory is then, and now, and then, and then, and now. This numbness may as well be home, where past is present.

[ While she speaks, there is an undercurrent of tension in her tone, with a glance cast down to her bandaged thumb toward the middle stanza. Only a moment, and eyes like ice are once more on him. ]

Such memories can never be forgotten, but they need not trap you. From pain, to trance, to release. You can fill the emptiness with more pain and more memories, until there is no more room for anything else and you are soon consumed.

[ As she glances him over one more time, her head tilts with a slight dip of her chin. ]

Or you can embrace hope. Hope for a better release—another chance.

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai politely pretends not to notice Astarion drinking the second bag of blood. His mind is a hurricane of questions. What would happen if Astarion didn't get enough blood to drink? Did he have to have a certain amount to stay alive per day? Per week? Did he also drink water or only blood? Would the blood of any animal do, or were there limitations - mammals only, that kind of thing?

But he'd promised not to pry and so he won't. He'll just have to do a little research of his own later on. ]

Oh, I think you misunderstand me.

[ Nikolai can see the discomfort in that half-smile. How many would-be heroes had Astarion see killed, tortured, or turned? Had some of them been his friends, his family? It certainly doesn't seem like a warning to be dismissed lightly. All traces of levity slip from Nikolai's face, leaving him looking grave. ]

I didn't offer to be a savior. Just an ally. I do believe that Cazador is every bit as dangerous as you say. You would certainly know better than I would. But please, don't let the blond hair and the pretty face fool you. I'm not hero material.

[ He says it without flourish or fanfare, but with cold certainty. He is not like Alina. He can pretend to the people that he's their bright-eyed heroic storybook king, full of virtue and goodness. But it's a mask, just like all the others. ]

Heroes have honor. They fight fair, and believe that justice will naturally prevail. I know what the world is, and I'm not afraid to fight dirty.

[ Even if Cazador can't be killed here, even if they're hopelessly outmatched, there must be a way. There is always a way. It's a philosophy that Nikolai clings to, in more matters than just this one. ]

Just... keep it in mind, is all I am asking.

[vampires_pawn]

Oh, the usual getting-to-know-you fare: your hopes, your dreams, what you were doing before all of this...

[ He gestures lazily at their surroundings, indicating the city at large, before his eyes meet Molly's once more. ]

Though, if you're looking for a more particular line of questioning, I must admit, there is something I've been wondering ever since our last, ah, ill-fated meeting. [ His gaze wanders, coming to settle on the tiefling's tattooed neck. In spite of all the chaos of that hour, he can still remember the hot, stinging pain on his tongue, the sour taste filling his mouth. And since then, Astarion's bewilderment has only grown. After all, he's had the opportunity to taste others' blood now; he knows that whatever is in Molly's can't be normal.

He leans forward, eyes glinting with curiosity. ]

What exactly is wrong with your blood? Is it magic? A curse? I must say, it gave me quite a shock during our little bout.

[ As indelicately phrased as ever. Still, there's no malice in Astarion's tone; in fact, he seems quite eager to learn more. Perhaps he has his own reasons for being so inquisitive about something that might prove poisonous to vampires... ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ She continues to go on about pain, about suffering and numbness, as if she knows the first fucking thing about any of it. If she is trying to illuminate Astarion, it is not working. Hounded by fear and desperation, his vision has narrowed until all he can hear is mockery. Threats.

But perhaps he doesn't miss her meaning entire. He understands that if she is threatening him with further pain—pain that will multiply and echo again and again until he is swallowed whole—she is also offering a way out. This, at least, he expected. That's what Cazador had promised, isn't it? A path towards forgiveness.

The woman will not be rushed through her lecture, that much is clear. So Astarion withdraws his hand and settles back onto his knees, expression tight with mingled impatience and anxiety. Now that he's hearing what he expects to hear—or thinks he is, at any rate—the fire has gone out of his voice once more. ]

I'm listening.