[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]

[ Well, at least that's some assurance that they won't be stuck this way indefinitely, even if sawing through the cuffs doesn't work. Still, knowing this may well be a punishment for biting someone doesn't exactly fill Astarion with confidence. Is this going to happen every time he feeds? And how long will he spend chained to his new acquaintance before the city's rulers decide he's been suitably chastened?

It's just as well that Kim seems unconvinced by his story; if they're stuck like this for too long, it'll soon become apparent that "whatever he got into last night" was much worse than a drunken scuffle. ]

We're going to go shopping? Like this? [ Astarion rattles the chain connecting them. He may recognize the necessity of finding proper tools for the job, but that doesn't mean he isn't going to complain about it. He scoffs. ] What will the neighbors say?

[ Really, it's going to be humiliating either way and his costume isn't that bloody. He follows along, sulking, as Kim pulls out a few shapeless garments for him. ]

Darling, I assure you: you haven't seen anything like me before. [ The words are suggestive, but Astarion's tone is dry. He really isn't looking forward to this part—not least because of the logistical challenges he anticipates in undressing and dressing again while chained to another person.

He'll just have to figure it out. He thinks for a moment, then starts tugging Kim back towards the sewing kit. ]

I'll have to borrow your shears, [ he says matter-of-factly. ] It'll be easier to cut my way out of this damned thing than to try and peel it off with you in the way.

[vampires_pawn]

[ Resilience is one word for it. Conditioning might be another. For 200 years, Astarion has endured every torture Cazador's depraved imagination could conjure and more often than not, still be expected to go out and hunt the following night so long as he was able to walk. Suffering and fear were never impediments to his charm—they were the drive behind it. Be charming enough and he could keep Cazador fed. Content. And most importantly, not as inclined to amuse himself with Astarion the following day.

There is no guarantee his master is here and even if he is, Astarion no longer knows what might stay his hand. But there is another reward being dangled before him now, one that is perhaps even more precious than a single day's reprieve from his master's wrath:

An ally. And a powerful one at that. Of course Astarion will do what he can to show himself to be worth the man's help. ]

That's reality for you, isn't it? It doesn't sound too much different from Baldur's Gate, truth be told. It was easy for a man like Cazador to thrive there.

[ His expression darkens on that last thought, his gaze low. But that flash of bitterness is shuttered away soon enough. He adds, primly: ] I don't have much firsthand knowledge on the rest of Faerûn; I'm afraid I'm not the most well-traveled. [ A wry smile. ] But tell me: what does one deem a "mystical animal" in the kingdom of Ravka?

[vampires_pawn]

I'm fine, [ Astarion says on instinct, and it's true, isn't it? He has no new wounds or scars, hasn't been dragged back into miserable servitude—what more proof could he need that the vision of Cazador hadn't been real? He tells himself this and yet still, his voice is terse when he speaks to the boy. He cannot let his guard down, not until he knows for sure. ]

What did you see back there? [ he demands. ] Tell me exactly.

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai nods; he understands Astarion's meaning. He might not know the specifics, but he is very aware of how the conditions of a place - its social hierarchy, its economic structures, its culture and religious institutions - could act as a catalyst for suffering. He'd grown up seeing it in action in Ravka; he's spent his entire adult life trying to find ways to change those conditions. It would never eliminate evil men like Cazador, he knows, but hopefully he could make it at least a little harder for them to flourish. ]

Maybe you weren't before. But how many people from Baldur's Gate can say that they've visited a whole other world? You've probably traveled further than the rest of all of them combined, now.

[ Nikolai matches the wry smile, because of course none of them had chosen to travel here, and how could the distance they've gone from their homelands even be measured? ]

Well, there are stories of a handful, but only one I've ever seen with my own two eyes. Rusalye. The sea whip.

[ Nikolai allows himself a dramatic pause here, the corner of his mouth curved into a smile. He can't help but feel a certain rosy nostalgia, thinking back to hunting the beast. In terms of years, it wasn't even that long ago, but he'd been a different person, then. Younger, more daring, more naive, more hopeful. ]

It was a gigantic white serpent that lived in the waters of the Bone Road, a cluster of small islands far to the north of Ravka. The folktales said it was a prince who had been cursed to live in the body of a monster.

[ Somehow, his brain never made the connection until now. Nikolai can't help it: he laughs. ]

Terribly cliché, isn't it?

[ He shakes his head sadly, as if he were not himself a king cursed to transform into a terrifying monster every night. Somewhere in the universe, he thinks, Zoya would be rolling her eyes at him. ]

The stories said that it lured girls out to the water with its song and then dragged them under the waves to be its bride, only to wail and weep when they starved to death. But I have to say, having seen the thing up close myself, it wasn't about to seduce anyone. It was just an animal. A dangerous, powerful wild animal with about seven rows of teeth and a foul temper.

[thefreak]

( Eddie knows this song and dance all too well: say one thing but really mean another, and hope the other person doesn't notice just how much he's really suffering. He's always been an excellent actor, and he understands all too well how that could be a survival tactic.

Besides, it wouldn't be all that productive to argue that point. Maybe if Eddie tells Astarion his side of things and why seeing the man frozen in the street had caused terror to claw at his throat, he'll get a clearer picture of what he witnessed. It's all he can hope for at this point. )

You were just...you were frozen there. I'd seen that kind of thing before. This girl I knew back home, she was in my trailer, I couldn't move her, couldn't wake her up, and then... ( He cringes as the memory of a sound -- of cracking bones -- draws out an embarrassing wailing sound, and he claps a hand over his mouth. )

I couldn't let that happen to you, okay? I thought the thing that killed her had gotten to you.

[vampires_pawn]

That's it? Just me "frozen there?" [ The words are sharp and yet, there's a slight easing of tension in Astarion's shoulders, even as he frowns. He may not fully understand what kind of creature the boy is describing, but one thing is clear; it isn't Cazador. ]

Well, while I appreciate the concern, as you can see, I'm very much awake and mobile. [ He motions to himself in a gesture far more flippant than he feels. Privately, he can't help but be a little disconcerted and not just because of what he himself had seen. It's that someone else had seen him in that moment—and that he'd evidently looked so distressed that the immediate assumption had been that he was in some kind of mortal peril. It leaves him feeling horribly exposed for a moment. ]

It was nothing, [ Astarion says brusquely. ] Just another of the city's little tricks. Anyway, even if I were facing some terrible, petrifying monster, I hardly see how knowing my favorite song would help. [ And then, acerbically. ] Or were you just trying to comfort me in my last moments?

pls forgive! the holidays swallowed my plotting brain

[matermali]

[ In her experience, the answer could often be the same. ]

Yes, that is often how it is in other cities. But not this one.

[ Having learned enough about Cazador's threat level and this vampire's immediate inclinations, she'll push further back onto her heels with fine fabric bunched in her grip before slowly standing back up. The smoothing of her skirts is the barest flick, though she doesn't break her stare for it or any other movement.

Then she's still; considering. Is the poor thing inconvenienced? ]

You made a grave mistake in a realm not your own, and such things I am only too happy to understand, yet in this, you chose someone who is quite treasured.

[ A tipping of her chin partners with her squint. ]

Not by your Cazador, of course... You believe that he could have any power here? He sounds like nothing but a pitiful little creature unable to spot the bigger monster until he's already half-consumed. You would do well not to follow in those footsteps.

no worries, the holidays are a lot!

[vampires_pawn]

[ When the woman rises to her feet, only Astarion's eyes move with her, holding her gaze, while the rest of him remains kneeling on the floor, tense and expectant. Expectant of what, he's not sure anymore. The woman hasn't followed the script he expected, but however ghastly a spectacle it may have been, her divergence from it is no relief to him. Instead, it only leaves him even more on tenterhooks, unsure of the rules, the stakes, or even the game they're playing anymore—sure only that he's already lost.

She says he's made a grave mistake, and that, he already knows as well. But it's only when she says he'd chosen someone treasured that true comprehension slowly begins to dawn. ]

The boy I fed from—you're... You've done all this because of him?

[ Astarion barely even remembers the boy–only his blood and that first, intoxicating taste of wholeness it had granted him. What else was there to even remember? The boy had been catatonic, a blank slate. Astarion hadn't even been sure if he was a real person at all. And yet, he'd been treasured—treasured by something that had worn Cazador's image like a mask, dragged Astarion through hours upon hours of his worst torments, and now tosses the guise aside as something pitiful. As if she hadn't used it to bring Astarion to his very knees.

Now, he finally rises to his feet, and there he stands, wound as tight as a bowstring and yet perfectly still. He wants to run. He wants to tear the woman's lying throat out. He wants to sink into the Hells themselves and then deeper still to where no living thing will ever lay their blasted, considering eyes upon him ever again.


But it is far from the first time Astarion has had to swallow such feelings. He stares at the woman, motionless. ]

What are you? [ he asks. And then: ] What do you want?

[matermali]

[ —because of him?

The disbelief is understandable, how could a creature like Astarion understand that sort of loyalty when not brought on by fear or necessity? But the bitterness burns through and into her skin, shivering underneath her shoulders to creep up and back out through bared teeth in a hushed growl—not a human's, but something Other.

Her voice is colder than the chill of her gaze. Something too old to have a single name stirs behind the frigid stare, tap-tapping at the frosted ice. ]

I want you to understand that the only reason you are being granted any leniency now is because you did not inflict more harm upon him.

[ While she has been taking it easy on the vampire given the true depth of her fury, no matter what he thinks of it, she is loathe to use methods related to the likes of Cazador ever again. It is beneath her.

Her voice softens with the whisper. ]

Can you follow, Astarion? Keep up. Think on the poem.

[ Her gaze on him now could be slightly mesmerizing for some, especially the supernatural sort of beings, but then it isn't anything like a spell or even something she controls. It's merely her will—merely its presence. It doesn't want anything but his awareness.

Pay attention. ]

I am willing to grant you a reprieve if you are willing to better control your urges in the future.

[vampires_pawn]

[ She does not tell him what she is, but the low, inhuman growl that winds itself around her words and the cold authority of her gaze are answer enough. She may detest Cazador's methods, yet, to Astarion, there is little difference in the way her will settles over him. He finds that he cannot turn away. The buzzing lights and broken machines, the chill of that small, airless room, the entire, accursed city—all of it seems to fade into the background, forgotten and unimportant. All that matters now are the woman's words and that frozen, inescapable glare.

Astarion's shoulders slump. He thinks on the poem. He thinks of great pain and of centuries before and of mechanical footsteps, going round and round and round. She thinks she is offering him hope—a way to break the cycle. But all Astarion sees is the same looping path that there's always been: obey, and be spared his master's wrath—until she changes the rules. Until she has other use of him. Until she gets bored. She offers him a different hand—perhaps it's even a more merciful one—but it's still the same old chain. ]

I won't do it again, [ Astarion says, and hates himself immediately for it. ] I... I can control myself.

[ It hadn't even been about hunger when he'd bitten the boy, not really. Oh, yes, Astarion had been hungry when he'd done it—starving, truly. But he's been starving for the past 200 years. What was one more night on top of it? No, what he'd done had been a test. The only real reason Astarion had bitten the boy was because he'd needed to prove to himself that he could.

Instead, all that's been proven to him, yet again, is that freedom only comes from power. Power that, right now, belongs solely to the entity before him. ]

[thefreak]

( Eddie looks taken aback by the sudden shift in demeanor. Just moments ago, Astarion looked like he had been consumed by fright, and now...this? He would probably have been hurt if he hadn't recognized it as a likely defense mechanism. He remembers lashing out at his uncle Wayne before the pair had reached a mutual understanding.

He sighs and holds his hands up in what he hopes is a placating manner. Eddie had once been the scared animal, backed into a corner, ready to strike. He doesn't want to see how vicious Astarion could be with reversed roles. )

Fuck this city, ( he remarks, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, looking beyond exhausted now that the initial adrenaline has worn off. ) It's, um. That was how you escape from his dream prison world. With music. But not just any song; it has to be something you have a deep emotional connection with.

[aceslow]

Fine. They should do the job well. And, let's see... [ He takes the shears from out of his kit, then a container of safety pins. He grabs the shirt he had chosen for Astarion and cuts a straight line through it, leaving the side where Astarion is cuffed to him open. ] It won't be worth sewing together, but we can at least pin it back together. The trousers, I trust that you can handle. The dirt and blood, you can just use a whore's bath for.

[ Kim thinks for a moment, then removes his glasses again, setting them on the counter. It's a display of trust to be sure, but Kim doesn't feel as though he's truly in danger right now; Astarion would have bigger problems on his hands having to drag a corpse along behind him, and besides, if he's to get into a greater scuffle it will only be a greater trial for him. ]

There. I'm far-sighted. [ It's as much of an explanation as Astarion is going to get out of him. But true to his word, Astarion's face soon becomes a vague blob before him without his glasses; the closer something is to him, the more difficult it is for him to see, and he can barely make the man out like this. Though he's true to his word in other ways too -- for all of Astarion's pomp, Kim has dealt with enough bodies in his life for Astarion's to be just another lot. Even so, he doesn't appreciate the thought of being naked in front of someone else either - his lean torso running to a slight paunch as he hit his fourties, the scars, the birthmarks, the utter lack of an ass - so he'll grant Astarion the same luxury. ]

And if we're going to be spending the rest of the day like this, then I may as well have your name. Mine is Kim -- Kim Kitsuragi. [ The way he says it is formal, polite, as though he's not currently in his pajamas, tied to a stranger. Strange bedfellows indeed. ]

[vampires_pawn]

Hmm. Fortunately, it wasn't your monster on the streets tonight. If it were, I think I'd be quite done for.

[ Astarion is sure he doesn't have a favorite song, much less one with which he has a "deep emotional connection." He's not a bard, for Gods' sake. He sighs, and for a moment, his expression mirrors Eddie's: strained exhaustion, after that initial, brief burst of terror. But then his gaze hardens once more and he looks away, affecting annoyance. ]

That's what I get for wandering this place after dark, I suppose, [ he mutters. Then, he looks back at Eddie. ] I'm going back inside, before there are any other surprises. You'd be wise to do the same.

[vampires_pawn]

[ Astarion takes the newly cut-open shirt and the trousers, laying them off to the side for now, and then the shears. It's going to look ridiculous, he knows, stumbling around in a pinned-together shirt while handcuffed to another person—but, he supposes, perhaps slightly less ridiculous than doing so in a torn and bloodied cat costume.

Kim's removal of his spectacles gets only a brief glance from Astarion and a raised eyebrow as he prepares to cut himself out of his clothes. ]

Hmm. Convenient.

[ It's hard to tell how much vision the man might have without his glasses, but it doesn't really matter. Astarion isn't squeamish, and the man won't be seeing anything that thousands of others haven't seen already; he'll just have the rare good fortune of getting to keep his life afterwards.

It's with this thought that Astarion begins to cut away at his costume, starting at the neck. Last night, it had been impossible to remove, almost a second skin. Now, it's no different from any other fabric, the cheap material parting readily under the shears' blades. Astarion must admit, there's a sense of vindictive satisfaction in cutting apart the city's handiwork like this, despite the circumstances. If only the shackles were as easy to destroy. ]

Astarion, [ he replies as he eases the shears down his sleeve. ] I fear we're going to know each other quite well by the end of this.

[ Grudging as he may be to admit it, Kim doesn't seem like the worst person to spend a day shackled to. At least he's being level-headed about all of this, and his unflinching pragmatism makes the whole ordeal slightly less awkward than if he were of a more prudish persuasion.

Astarion cuts through the fabric all the way down to his shackled wrist and then makes a few more cuts around the collar for good measure. That done, he's able to wriggle out of the top portion of the costume, followed by the lower half, and then kick the clinging fabric off entirely. Fortunately, the city's rulers had the decency to leave with him with his underclothes on under all that. Astarion takes a moment to look himself over. There are a few new bruises and scrapes from his ordeal at the Halloween party, but nothing too concerning, and not even that much blood. Most of that had ended up soaked up by his costume, now lying in a heap on Kim's apartment floor. The man can have the thing burned for all Astarion cares.

Now free of his costume, Astarion finds a washcloth and moves towards the sink. It's not his first time having what Kim calls a "whore's bath," but he's never taken one while attached to another person. He glances over at the other man, considers for a moment—and then snatches up a bar of soap from beside the sink. Kim will probably smell that he's taken it if he can't already see it, but oh well. If Astarion is going to have to walk around shackled and in pinned-together clothes, he's going to at least smell halfway decent while he does it.

It takes him a bit longer than usual to scrub and wipe away the blood and dirt with only one hand free, but he gets there eventually. Now mostly clean and smelling somewhat fresh, he begins to dress in the loose-fitting garments Kim had picked out for him. The trousers, of course, are easy enough to put on, even one-handed. The shirt, with its safety pin fasteners, is rather more difficult—especially since Astarion hasn't actually encountered safety pins before. He gives a little huff of frustration, then nudges Kim. ]

Be a dear and put your spectacles back on, won't you? I need you for something.

[ Once Kim has his glasses back on, Astarion will show him what to do. ]

Pinch the fabric together like so, [ he demonstrates, ] and don't move. The last thing I need is to be stuck in another set of blood-stained clothes.

[thefreak]

( Eddie opens his mouth to object -- everyone has to have one song that would save them even if they're not into music -- but before he can, Astarion begins to excuse himself, and Eddie thinks it wiser to let him go. They've both been out of sorts tonight, and Eddie could use some sleep, assuming he can get even a few hours before the start of the new day. )

Yeah, well. You and me both, apparently. ( He sighs as he looks around, almost expecting to see some kind of ghost stalking them at their most vulnerable. ) You're gonna be okay, then? I'm not gonna find you out here tomorrow?

[vampires_pawn]

[ At the question, Astarion's face falls—and then he scowls, the venom returning to his voice. ]

I don't see how that's any of your concern. You think just because of what you saw tonight, you have any say over what I do next?

[ Perhaps that isn't what Eddie meant, but it's what Astarion hears—someone trying to control him, to hold him to account. All the defiance that had dissolved away in the face of his master suddenly comes spilling back out, cruel and angry. He steps forward, fangs bared in a sneer. ]

You're not my keeper—you're just a scared little boy jumping at shadows. You couldn't even save anyone in your own realm and yet you think you'd be any help here?

[ The boy thinks he can help Astarion, but all he's done is made everything worse. By being there to see it. By making it feel real.

Sick with his own bitterness, Astarion begins to turn away, back towards the main road and the towering buildings beyond. But before he does, he gives the boy one last glance. ]

If you do see me again tomorrow night, do us both a favor and leave me the Hells alone. I have enough monsters of my own to worry about without adding yours to the list.

[thefreak]

( Eddie suddenly feels small, like he's been transported back to Hawkins and is under the accusatory stare of Principal Higgins, who's been looking for any excuse to expel him. He shrinks in on himself, every hint of feeling like he had done a good deed by checking in on Astarion diminishing into nothing until all he's left with is a loneliness so thick it threatens to choke him.

Then, all at once, he's overwhelmed by a thought: that he fucking hates this place. That loneliness is replaced by a fit of anger, not at Astarion, though he's the only one here that he can lash out at right now. )

Well, fine, see if I fucking care. Don't come crying to me then if Vecna or some other fucking asshole rears his ugly head, I'm sure you can take care of yourself just fine.

( He's so preoccupied with his own anger that Eddie hasn't even noticed the fangs that Astarion possesses, not that he would have been able to put any pieces of the puzzle that is Astarion together. He flips Astarion the finger, not that the gesture probably means anything to him, but it makes Eddie feel better.

Unable to come up with any better sendoff, he turns heel and stalks back off to his apartment, still stewing by the time he slips in through the door. As he collapses onto his bed, he knows there's no point in trying to sleep, but that doesn't stop him from trying. )

[matermali]

[ I won't do it again.

Her eyelids droop with a gaze that drifts down low as half a memory returns. She hadn't been able to clearly recollect it on her own, but that was the phrase Morpheus claimed she had said toward the end of her ritual, just before it was interrupted. Again and again, in different languages, as though begging.

Teeth nearly grinding, she sets her jaw and returns her pale gaze to where he now sits. These things have hunted and tormented her for so many years... They took so much from her. She does not hate them all by right of existence, but they deserve nothing more than her pity at best. So she reminds herself before again finding her words with a softer lilt. ]

I will know if you do not. Loathe to us both, we are connected until you can prove to be trustworthy by your own credit. I do not think such a concept impossible, though I have no cause to spare hope any such change.

[ But nothing is impossible. She knows that much. ]

I understand that you must drink blood to live.

[ And she suspects that hers smells particularly appealing, if he's anything like the vampires of her world. The barrier is a caution that she would have been foolish not to place, but this much distance should be just fine in any case. ]

While it may not cater to your finer tastes, I have seen blood available for you to take without needing to harm a soul. There is no reason you cannot gain what you need from that. ...If you do somehow find someone who would willingly give you their blood, I would know who.

[ Such a concept wouldn't overly surprise her. She's seen darker trade through London's underground, though she can't expect it to be commonplace here with such a limited pool of potential victims. ]

[aceslow]

[ Kim is the same as he always is as Astarion washes up, stalwart, stoic, pragmatic. In this, he's just allowing Astarion the luxury of at least pretending he's alone, allowing himself in turn to recede into his own head, going through the checklist of things they have to try, going through every little everyday task that he's going to have to sort out while handcuffed to a stranger. It's fortunate that neither himself nor Astarion seem to be particularly shackled by the bonds of modesty, especially with Astarion's reflexive flirtatiousness (a clear affectation, and not one the man seems to disguise), and that they are both men. Sexual desire aside, he can imagine any woman shackled to him would have greater compunctions with the way things are going. ]

Ah. Yes. [ He puts his glasses back on, his eyes magnified by the thick lenses, and blinks a couple times as Astarion's form comes back into clarity. He pinches at the fabric as instructed, smoothing out the flaps of fabric between his fingers. ] I suppose that's better than having it flapping about. [ He gives a sniff. ] And you don't smell like blood anymore, so that's an improvement.

[ There's still the faint scent of it, a coppery tang that smacks against his soft palate, caught in the gentle steam of hot water, but it's not nearly as objectionable. It does mean he's caught in wondering about whose blood it was, but perhaps he'll discover that later.

Once Astarion's through, he deigns to leave his own sleeping shirt on (an oversized t-shirt; not respectable, but it will do), but fumbles one-handed into undergarments and a pair of trousers, not bothering to tell Astarion to look away despite his relative nudity. There's not much to look at anyway, just a pair of knobby legs taut with stringy muscle, only his shins faintly dusted with hair. ]

My vehicle came here not long ago. We'll take that anywhere we need to go. It'll beat the hell out of walking like this. You can call anyone you need to call on the way, if you need to let them know you're okay.

[ Kim hasn't called anyone to discuss his unfortunate situation and doesn't intend to, but perhaps Astarion is more sociable than him. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ It feels laughable to say that Astarion has anything that might be termed an advantage in this interaction; he can do nothing but listen as the woman lays out the terms by which he might escape having his mind ground into dust. Yet, as she continues to speak, he realizes there is what might be called a small mercy in all of this: that she truly does not seem to know that much about him. It feels unthinkable. The torments he's endured for the past weeks had been so personal, so precisely targeted, that he'd assumed she must know nearly as much about him as Cazador. And yet... she seems to picture Astarion as some voracious hunter, leaving a long trail of victims behind him, of which her cherished imbecile is simply the most recent. It does not seem to occur to her that the boy had been the exception rather than the rule.

Perhaps that is why her first demand feels relatively lenient; she does not know just how tightly he'd been bound before. Astarion will be allowed to keep himself fed, with seemingly no reservation given as to whether the blood may be from a thinking creature or otherwise so long as it comes from the city's bagged supply. Astarion doesn't think much of her condition that he must inform her of any willing donors, either—he can't imagine he'd be able to find any in the first place.

He must not show any sign of relief; if she gets the impression she is leaving him quarter, it will only give her reason to tighten his leash. ]

As you say, [ he says, wishing he could let himself drift away from his body so he wouldn't have to hear the gutless submission in his own voice. He's played this role long enough that he could do it in his sleep; often enough, it felt like he was. But the woman's inexorable gaze doesn't grant him any such reprieve. He couldn't pull his attention away from her even if he tried. ] I won't feed on another soul—aside from those who... offer it.

[ There's a tinge of puzzlement on those last words. Clearly, he finds the idea of willing donors to be rather dubious. ]