[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

(closed to kim kitsuragi)

[vampires_pawn]

[ The night after that first bite, Astarion doesn't linger on the city streets. The blood is invigorating, exhilarating—he's never felt his senses this sharp before. It's like a fog has been lifted from his mind, like he's seeing the world with new, clearer eyes. And yet, as restorative as all that blood had been, it hadn't erased the night's other events: being compelled into the city's little game. Being made to hunt and fight, with no control over his own actions. And of course, the drinking afterwards, of the more alcoholic nature. The warm contentment of the blood singing through him now rubs uneasily against the cold dread of the events that had preceded it, and all Astarion wants to do is to go to sleep and let those memories fade into half-forgotten dreams, fuzzed and fogged over, so that only the warmth remains.

The boy's screams echo in his mind. Why did he have to scream like that, Astarion thinks, nose wrinkling in annoyance. Astarion wasn't going to kill him. He hadn't wanted to, anyway. And even if he had, what would it matter? None of them can die here, not really.

When he finally makes it back to the room he pretends is his own, he at least manages to tear the stupid cat ears off before he falls into bed. With fresh blood in his veins and the guiltlessness that comes with knowing one has spent centuries doing so much worse, Astarion is asleep in mere moments. That night, he dreams blissfully of nothing at all, or at least nothing he remembers. He certainly doesn't stir, much less sleepwalk—

—which makes it all the more perplexing when he wakes up and finds himself in a different bed.

He squints blearily at the end table he doesn't remember being there, bearing possessions he doesn't recognize as his own. The beers from the night before have had their intended effect: everything that had happened that night is a hazy blur, punctuated by the bright taste of blood and little else. He hadn't walked into someone else's room on his way back, had he? That is something he can do now, thanks to the tadpole.

Still rather too hungover and disoriented to quite realize the implications of his circumstances, Astarion's head rolls the other way to see what else might be in the unfamiliar room—and jolts upright with a shout of alarm when he sees an entire other person lying in the bed next to him.

The motion jerks the other's man arm up with him and that also makes Astarion start. They're... they're manacled together? ]

What in the hells—?!

[ This is followed by another brief moment of stupefaction, right before Astarion begins a mad scramble with his free hand to find something on the nightstand he can use as an improvised weapon to threaten his new bed-fellow into explaining what the devil is going on here. ]

[aceslow]

[ The night after the Halloween debacle, Kim very nearly didn't make it home. Once the door had swept him into that godforsaken place, he couldn't help the overwhelming sense of paranoia that seized his heart, afraid that one wrong step would take him back there. He didn't face anything there that he couldn't handle - he made it out relatively unscathed, all things considered - but the idea of having to go back there felt like a stone trapped deep in his throat, an uncomfortable sense of inevitability washing over him. He had procrastinated going home as long as possible and it had only been when he began to nod off on a park bench, limbs gone numb from the cold, that he finally admitted defeat and clambered back into his nice, warm apartment. He had done little more than splash some water on his face and shed that horrible costume before falling into bed.

He's awoken from the blessed inky blackness of sleep when something jerks at his arm, a shout of alarm coming from beside him, making Kim rise with a shout, sitting upright with so much haste that it looks nearly as though he's standing at attention. It's all reflex, of course; he's still bleary with sleep, and without his glasses, whoever is beside him is nothing more than a strange, flesh-coloured blur. ]

What--!

[ He instinctively tries to move away, hand grasping blindly for a firearm that isn't there, only realizing that they're quite literally tied together when the movement stalls, hindered by Astarion's weight. He gapes down at the manacle connecting them. ]

What the fuck. [ His free hand curls into a fist, elbow tucked tightly into his side, poised to strike. ] Explain.

[vampires_pawn]

Explain?! [ Astarion splutters, indignant. ] I don't have to explain anything! I—this isn't my room.

[ He says it like an accusation, like the fact that this is the other man's room must mean these are his manacles as well. All the while, he's still using his free hand to pilfer through the items on the nightstand, only really managing to add to the chaos of the scene by knocking several items noisily to the floor.

Suddenly, something clicks—some groggy part of Astarion's brain rousing from sleep. Memories from last night's party flit through his head and among them: a figure from the maze on the first floor, warning him of the danger ahead. ]

You— [ Astarion's struggling stops for a brief instant as he stares at the man, wide-eyed. ] I know you! You were at the Halloween party—on the floor with the automatons.

[ The man looks rather different without the costume, but Astarion can recognize his voice, distinguished by that peculiar accent. Unfortunately, Astarion hadn't managed a similar change of clothes after the party—he's still in his wretched cat costume, torn in several places and with no small amount of dried blood still clinging to the starchy white faux fur around the collar. Astarion's lip curls, answering the man's curled fist with the flash of fangs. Those are no costume. ]

Either you're far more depraved than first impressions suggest—or the city is playing another trick on us.

[aceslow]

Don't worry. You're not my type, [ Kim says dryly, unsure as to how else to respond to that sort of accusation, joking or not. Not that he can say for certain; between the fog of an early morning without his glasses and the dim light of the Halloween party, he doesn't even know what the man looks like. Momentarily assuaged that the other man isn't about to attack him and drag his corpse behind him like a puppet, he fumbles for his glasses and pushing them up his nose, blinking at Astarion as he slides into focus. ]

God, you're even still in the costume. [ The other man must have passed out as soon as he got to a safe place, Kim reasons, not even bothering to change out of the damn thing. It looks scuffed, worn, stained with enough blood that it would be worrisome if Kim hadn't gone through the exact same hellish night. Still, he doesn't care for the fact that all that blood and grime has now dirtied his sheets. He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches at the bridge of his nose with his free hand. He sighs, then gets ahold of himself, brain still half-mired in last night's dreams, whatever they were. ]

Okay. Fine. Assuming you didn't manage to break into my room and handcuff us together without waking me or making a single sound, that means that this is a trick of the City, as though last night wasn't bad enough. [ He looks forlornly at the handcuffs. He's not looking forward to the first time he needs to take a piss. ]

What now?

[vampires_pawn]

Trust me, [ Astarion says, voice just as acerbic, ] the feeling's mutual.

[ Somewhat reassured that this encounter isn't going to end with a manacled brawl that ends with him dragging around a stranger's body, Astarion takes a moment to look more carefully at his surroundings. Aside from those things that Astarion himself has just knocked out of place, the room is tidy and neat, with few visible personal belongings aside from the odd book—and, Astarion notices with grudging approval, a small collection of what look like improvised melee weapons tucked under a desk. It seems the man is even more proactive than he thought.

Though, Astarion will need something more delicate to solve this particular problem. ]

I do have some experience picking locks... [ he says, before realizing how that might be taken in this situation. He lifts both hands in an innocent gesture—or rather, he lifts one hand and kind of tugs at the other one that's still connected to his fellow captive. ] Not that I'm in the habit breaking and entering. But, I might be able to pick these manacles—if we can find the right tools.

(closed to mollymauk)

[vampires_pawn]

[ Ever since the events of the city’s Halloween party a few weeks prior, Astarion has felt… out of sorts. Of course, the party itself had been disastrous. Astarion had been puppeted, driven into violent madness and wielded like a weapon against strangers and acquaintances alike, and ultimately left with a newfound apprehension of just how easily this city might make a plaything of him once more. At the same time, it’s also the first night he’d fed on the blood of a thinking creature, defying his master’s rule. There’s a cruel kind of irony to it—realizing he’s escaped one tormentor only to find himself in the hands of another, all on the same night.

But maybe those aren’t the only reasons he hasn’t felt at ease lately. The nightmares, the flashes of familiar faces, the burning ache of his scars—his master isn’t here. So why does it still feel like he’s being punished?

He finds himself returning to the poison garden more than once in those weeks, the same spot where he’d fed on the boy that night. There’s no evidence of his transgression, no damning patch of red staining the grass underfoot. Certainly, Astarion doesn’t feel guilty. And yet…

'First, thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures.’

His master’s words keep worming their way into his dreams, his thoughts. Astarion doesn’t know what’s worse: the thought that Cazador somehow knows of his defiance even untold realms away and is punishing him for it—or the thought that he has Astarion’s body and mind so well-trained that he doesn’t have to.

Of course, there’s another possibility that’s more terrible still, but Astarion refuses to think of it—even as flashes of his master’s face begin to haunt his waking hours as well.

One morning, he finds that is not alone as he wanders the poison garden. A familiar, amethyst-skinned tiefling has set up shop on the grass, a deck of ornate cards laid out before him. At the sight of him, Astarion’s memory stirs, fuzzed as it is by time, alcohol, and fear. He remembers Molly from the Halloween party—specifically, as someone he’d attacked on the second floor. More than that, he remembers a particular sensation: his fangs piercing someone’s neck, and then something stinging and vile filling his mouth like brambles. Yes, he remembers. There’d been something terribly wrong about the tiefling’s blood.

Which, Astarion can hardly hold against him given he’d bitten the man in a fit of compelled madness. When he approaches now, it’s with his hands open at his sides, his bearing easy and peaceable. ]

Hello again, [ he says, and when he smiles, he’s careful not to do so with fangs. ] No need to fret—I won’t bite this time. I usually don't when it's up to me, but I'm afraid I wasn't quite myself when last we met...

[ He's watchful of the tiefling's reaction, alert for any signs of hostility or resentment. He doesn't expect the realization that one's acquaintance is a blood-drinker to be a particularly welcome one, even among more laid-back sorts like Molly. ]

[mollymocks]

[ Molly will be the first to admit that he probably doesn't respond in the healthiest way to trauma. Certainly there are more than enough people in his life who would tell him so. But what's the alternative, really? Bad things happen, you pick yourself up and keep going. Simple.

So yes, the city's various games are starting to wear on him a little. As with most other bad situations he's run into, there's not much he can do about that. So he keeps going. Puts on a smile and sets out his cards and waits for someone else who's in the need of a bit of encouragement.

This time, at least, the arrival is prefaced by that odd tingling sensation that he's still not sure what to make of. But it does mean that he's not all that surprised when Astarion steps into view. He is, at least, pleased that they seem to be on much firmer ground this time, and the smile Molly offers back is perfectly and honestly friendly. ]

Hello there, dear. Feeling better, then? [ Compulsion spells, they can happen to anyone. He's hardly going to hold it against the man when he'd done his share of attacking people as well. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ Astarion relaxes slightly when he sees that Molly doesn't appear to bear any grudge over the bite. Good. He's being sensible. ]

Feeling more myself. So yes.

[ He says it breezily enough, but perhaps that's the problem; there's not much genuine relief to his words. True, he isn't being actively controlled by another force now, but all the same, he doesn't feel truly free. There have been too many reminders of his old master lately for that.

He leans over to get a better look at the cards Molly has in front of him and winces slightly as the movement stretches the raised skin of his back, a painful warmth spreading through the scars. He straightens quickly, plastering over the pained look on his face with one of nonchalant curiosity. ]

An odd venue for card games, isn't it? [ He glances up at Molly, a coy smile flashing over his face. ] Does this one happen to be for two?

[mollymocks]

[ For all his lazy smile, Molly's tracking Astarion's movements carefully, though that's more out of habit than any real wariness. It does mean he catches that covered wince, the practiced evenness of his tone. Marked, but left alone for the time being. He's not going to press.

Not when he has a much better way of getting information right in front of him. ]

Game? Oh my, no. This, [ he gestures grandly over the deck, ] is divination. Three cards, representing past, present, and future.

[ His smile ticks just a hint wider, red eyes glimmering with something like a challenge. ]

Fancy a go?

[vampires_pawn]

[ Divination? Apparently, Astarion's first impression of Molly as something of a charlatan had been correct. ]

The past, too? [ Astarion feigns a little gasp that melts readily into a smirk. ] Aren't we daring?

[ The future is anyone's guess, but the past is a known quantity—for the most part, anyway. Which means, unlike telling the future, there's a chance the person you're trying to fool might be able to peg you as wrong.

Still, if Molly is indulging in such chicanery free of charge... Astarion supposes a little distraction from his current predicament couldn't hurt. If he's any good, perhaps Astarion will even learn a thing or two—if not about the future, then at least potentially about interesting new tricks of the trade.

He settles across from Molly, resting his chin atop his interlaced fingers. ]

I'm an open book, darling, [ he says, head tilting demurely to the side. ] Tell me what you see.

iii

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai has been uncharacteristically cautious in approaching strangers in this place. The few people he has met so far have been decent, but it seems unlikely that streak will last. Nikolai doesn't have any friends or allies here. Besides which, his name doesn't hold the kind of sway that it would back home. Here, no one gives a shit if he's King of Ravka - which is more blessing than curse all things told. It does mean, however, that he has to be more leery.

But all that goes out the window when he's perusing a little store and hears a crash a few aisles over. Curious, he hurries to investigate and sees a pale man on the floor. ]

Are you alright?

[ Before he even finishes asking the question, Nikolai can tell it's a foolish one. The man is writhing, making the awful half-sounds that men in great pain make when they are trying to stay silent. Nikolai recognizes them at once. This could be some kind of a trap, but if so, this would need to be a preternaturally great actor. As far as Nikolai's concerned, no one can fake that kind of agony.

Nikolai looks around, but there is no one else here in the shop. No one even close by that he'd seen heading in. ]

You're injured, I can send a message to the doctor, just-

[ But the man moves away, dragging himself across the floor with much more speed than Nikolai would expect from an injured man. There's no sign of blood, either. And he doesn't seem to have heard Nikolai.

He follows after, all thoughts of his errand forgotten. Caution is all well and good, but he's not going to just abandon someone in this much distress. Nikolai feels a twist of something akin to dread in his stomach when Astarion wedges himself into a corner like a trapped animal. So, perhaps it is something different going on here.

Nikolai isn't going to loom over the man, so he kneels a foot or so in front of him, hands braced against his thighs. He has enough experience with soldiers and survivors to guess that shaking Astarion by the shoulder is probably not the best way to get his attention. He wishes Tamar or Tolya or Genya were here. A Heartrender would be able to slow his heartbeat, release chemicals in this stranger's brain that would calm him. Nikolai has no such talents.

What he does have is his voice. ]

Hey. Hey.

[ He speaks louder now, sharply. Nikolai is looking intently at the man, waiting to see if he opens his eyes or responds at all to the sound. ]

Can you hear me?

[ Again he uses his battlefield voice, sharp and commanding, demanding attention. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ There is part of Astarion that knows better. Even as his master’s knife cleaves runes into his back, he can still think. He can still remember. And he knows he shouldn’t be here—can’t be here, that this isn’t when or where he was just a moment earlier. And yet, with every twist of the knife, every fresh new gout of cold, sluggish blood, it seems to matter less and less. This is where he is now, what he is—facedown in the kennels, a plaything to be carved up for his master’s amusement. What comfort can that other world provide when it is so unfathomably far away and his master’s blade so very close?

Of course, an even more monstrous thought occurs to him—that all of it, every second, from the illithid ship to the fall to the impossible city, all of it is just the figment of a shattered mind, that at any second what’s left of the dream will burst like soapskin and leave him with nothing but the hideous reality: that he never escaped. Never escaped Baldur's Gate, never escaped Cazador, never escaped even this singular moment of torment. This is where he’s been, for all this time.

Yet, there’s something that prevents his awareness of that other world from receding entirely. A voice, sharp and commanding and unfamiliar, not Cazador’s nor even his own. It sounds so terribly faint, half-drowned out by his own ragged breath and ripping flesh, but it’s there all the same.

’Can you hear me?’

It’s still there, that reality where he escaped, and Astarion throws himself at it with everything he has. He fights to feel that other body, to feel anything at all other than the weight of his master and the blade in his back, and though it’s like trying to press himself through solid stone, he pushes himself until he can just barely glimpse the other side. He can feel a hand pressed hard against his mouth—his hand—and the wall against his back. If he focuses all his concentration and all his will, he can even open his eyes. They see nothing but the kennel floor and the blood pooling beneath him. But he knows all the same: there’s someone there. A man, crouched and staring at him on a conspicuously bloodless tile floor.

He pushes further, feels his mind strain with the effort. His mouth moves. ]

Yes.

[ It’s barely a whisper, one that immediately breaks off into a low moan of pain as the knife twists in his back once more. His eyes snap shut, his hand once again clamping over his mouth as he’s wrenched back into the kennels.

’Can you not follow a simple command, child?’ his master’s voice sneers behind him. ‘I said hold still. Ruin my penmanship and we’ll have to start again.’

At that, Astarion’s body goes very, very still. Yet, his mouth still moves behind his hand, forming a single word, muffled and choked. ]

Can’t... can’t—

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai feels a jolt of hope when the stranger manages to answer him. It seems to cost a great deal, however. Nikolai watches, helpless, as he makes another sound of hurt and cringes into the corner further. He has no way of knowing what this is - the man could be shell-shocked, he could be drugged, he could be suffering one of the strange effects of this place, he could be actively under attack from something. If Nikolai had more information, he would be able to choose a good course of action.

He waits, feeling useless and unsure. Then he lets out a half-snarl of frustration, surging back to his feet and leaving the cowering figure. Nikolai doesn't go far, though. He strides along the aisles of the store, searching for anyone who might be causing this. Nikolai is making an assumption without realizing it - in his own world, line of sight is a necessary part of most magic. He half expects to come across some hidden malevolent figure, but there is no one.

Nikolai quickly returns to Astarion, kneeling before him again and saying: ]

Listen, I don't know what's happening to you, but I'm here and I want to help. Is there some way for me to help you? Are you in danger?

[vampires_pawn]

[ Astarion still cannot see this other world, and yet, with that curious sense of blindsight, he knows when the other man walks away, and fear seizes his throat when he does. Of course, Astarion assumes that he's leaving for good—that he's seen, quite rightly, that there's no helping the wretch curled up on the floor and has thus now chosen to take his leave. There will be no one now but Astarion and Cazador, the same as it ever was, and that other world where he's free will shrink and recede away until it's nothing but a forgotten daydream. ]

No... no! [ He struggles to take control of the useless, half-numb body left in this place, to make it do more than writhe and cower and eventually fade into nothing. His legs spasm, palms pressing into the wall behind him in a desperate attempt to push himself up, but it's futile. He can't control a body he can barely feel, can't move through a world that dims and flickers out of reality with every new stroke of his master's knife. He collapses into the corner again, breath coming hard and fast, on the verge of panic—

And then the man is back, kneeling before him, asking how he can help. Astarion is so relieved, he could sob. ]

Don't... don't leave me with him. [ Astarion doesn't care how pathetic he sounds now. He has nothing to bargain with, nothing to give that couldn't just be taken away. If he has to beg to stay in this world, then so be it. ] Just... talk. Keep me here.

[ He cannot see and he cannot move—but he can speak and hear. If there is anything he can use to anchor himself, even tenuously, in this reality, it will have to be those. ]

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai had always found, in battle and other moments of crisis, that the more panicked the people around him, the calmer he became. He doesn't know what is responsible for this response but it has served him well in the past. Astarion's terror and desperation are stark, yet Nikolai does not panic. Instead, he listens.

He might not fully understand what's happening, but the picture is becoming clearer. ]

Well if it's talking that you want you've certainly come to the right place. In my world, my sparkling wit is known across many countries - second only to my dazzling good looks, of course. A general once told me I could talk a rabbit into marrying a fox, but come to think of it I'm not so sure she meant it as a compliment. Here, I'm about to put something in your hand.

[ As he continues speaking, Nikolai reaches in his coat and pulls something from his pocket. He'd found it in one of the shops at the mall. It is a sphere the size of an apple, made of an extremely springy material he'd never seen before. Nikolai takes one of Astarion's hands and carefully but firmly sets the ball in it, narrating as he does: ]

You can squeeze it as hard as you'd like and it won't break. Try it! I've no idea what sort of a material it's made from, but frankly I'm fascinated. Maybe it'll help keep you here, if you can focus on it and the way it feels. Do you know what this material is called? If you do, you really must tell me.

[ Nikolai seems to feel no strain whatsoever in keeping the flow of words coming. His voice is light and casual, but his face remains grave, his attention entirely focused on Astarion. He wonders - of course he does - who has done this, who it is Astarion doesn't want to be alone with, even if only in his mind. ]

I have no intention of leaving. How about a story? I know a good one, about the firebird and the first king of Ravka.

[ And he launches into the story - all about a young warrior who picked up a magical golden feather that made him invincible in battle - embellishing the folktale with jokes and little repetitions, all the while keeping a wary eye on Astarion for any sign that his pain or panic are easing, or becoming worse. ]

ii.

[thefreak]

( Eddie hasn't left his apartment that often lately. What point is there? Steve isn't answering his door, and Eddie isn't sure he trusts the city enough to explore places that haven't been wholly deemed safe. Besides, what's to stop the previously safe places from suddenly becoming overthrown by malignant ghosts?

So, Eddie stays put most of the time. Except at night, when the nightmares get so godawful they make Eddie's skin crawl. When it gets too suffocating in his bedroom, he has no choice but to wander the streets and hope for the best.

He rarely comes across someone else. Most people are sane and stay safe in their beds, but Eddie has never pretended to be a wholly sane individual.

When he comes across Astarion, though...it's like the whole world gets pulled in tighter, like when the movies use a fish eye lens to distort his surroundings and make him feel off-kilter. He's seen this before. When Chrissy stood there motionless, her eyes glazed over so that only the whites were visible. While this isn't identical, he remembers Max mentioning that she sometimes saw things that weren't there before the curse started taking hold. )

No... ( he mutters to himself, taking a step back, and then another, stumbling until he falls onto his ass. ) No, no, no, no, no. It can't be, it fucking can't be.

( He thought he escaped it when he showed up in this place, but if Astarion can be cursed by Vecna...then can't anyone? )

[vampires_pawn]

[ If there is one comfort to be taken in all the ghastly visions Astarion has had over the past weeks, it's that no one else can see them.

Perhaps it is also a burden in its own ways, too; he's sure he's made himself look like a lunatic recently, getting into shouting matches with people no one else can see. But at least, he tells himself, it means that they aren't really there; they can't touch him, can't harm him, can't take any physical revenge for the fate he'd lured them into. They are hallucinations; frightening, disturbing, but still only figments. Harmless.

So when that inevitable night comes, when Astarion finds himself walking the city streets, driven from his bed by nightmares, and he comes face-to-face with his master—somewhere, beneath the instinctive panic and terror, he clings to that hope: that this is just another specter. A figment that cannot touch or punish or hurt. Even as the figure draws closer bearing that all-too-familiar smile and even as Astarion himself stands there, paralyzed by dread, he doesn't abandon that hope. That this is all in his head. That it will pass, as all the others have done.

And then, there's another voice, muttered and terrified, and out of the corner of his eye, Astarion sees him: someone else, fallen to the ground, staring in horror at... at him? At Cazador? Astarion knows he shouldn't turn away from his master, but he does all the same—what else doe he have to lose?—and stares, wide-eyed and confused at the boy.

Can... can he see Cazador, too? ]

[thefreak]

( If there is one thing Eddie regrets, it's that he didn't try to do more to help Chrissy. Not that there was anything he could do, but if he could do it all again, he would have tried to intervene. He wouldn't have run from her.

If Astarion isn't at the final stages yet, they have time. Twenty-four hours, if he remembers correctly.

So, for as terrified as he is of the possibility that Vecna has managed to find his way to this place, that he might attack Eddie or, shit, Steve next, Eddie knows he must steel himself. With Steve staying in his apartment and (to Eddie's knowledge, anyway) avoiding everyone, that mostly leaves Eddie as the one with the Vecna slaying knowledge. Even if Steve passed his knowledge down to Will, there is no way in hell he's going to drag that kid into this; he's suffered enough already.

He draws in a deep breath and picks himself up again, approaching Astarion cautiously. )

It's gonna be okay. ( Eddie's voice sounds painfully thin, and he cringes at his own sign of weakness. ) I can help, we just...we need to figure out your favorite song.

( Shit, how long can they fend this guy off for? And how are they gonna figure out where his new base of operations is if the Creel house doesn't exist in this city? )

[vampires_pawn]

[ The boy is delirious, babbling something about favorite songs even as he cringes in terror. Could Cazador do that? Unspool someone's mind without even laying a finger on them? A phantom heartbeat pounds in Astarion's chest as he stands there, frozen with fear and confusion. It doesn't matter. He should kneel. Bow. Prostrate himself and beg his master for forgiveness. But the strangeness of the boy's reaction disorients him, renders the familiar unrecognizable. When Astarion's mind finally catches up with what he's seeing, his first instinct isn't to beg—it's to run.

And so he bolts. He half-expects to hear his master's voice like a whip-crack behind him, freezing him in his tracks with a simple command, but it never comes. So he keeps running, turning a corner to break line of sight and then following his instincts down the shadowiest alleys he can find, looking for somewhere to hide. In the end, he finds the remains of what might've once been a small alley-side shopfront, now thoroughly dark and abandoned. Astarion presses himself to a wall there, not even daring to breathe, listening for his master's slow, deliberate gait behind him.

It never comes. Gradually, Astarion lets himself slowly slide down the wall to sit on the ground, hissing out a breath through his teeth. It wasn't real, he tells himself. Cazador would never have let him run—

—not unless he's playing a very different game from the one he was before. ]

[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?

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. ]

[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?

[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. ]