[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

[mollymocks]

All I can impart is what the cards show me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[vampires_pawn]

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

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

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

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

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

[mollymocks]

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

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

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

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

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

[vampires_pawn]

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

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

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

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

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

[mollymocks]

Did I.

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

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

Well then. What do you want to know?

[vampires_pawn]

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

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

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

He leans forward, eyes glinting with curiosity. ]

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

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

[mollymocks]

[ The questions are general enough that they lull Molly into a sense of faintly amused false security. Which just makes the final question hit all the harder. For once, he loses all sense of artifice to stare blankly back at Astarion, nothing but genuine confusion written on him. ]

Sorry, what?

[ There's something wrong with his blood? That's something he's never heard before, though he supposes he'd have to trust someone who's literally bitten him to know. Which he still hasn't gotten an explanation for either, but nevermind. That can come after he figures out what Astarion is talking about, and considering how often Molly has cause to see his own blood, you would think he'd realize there's something off about it. He's in the middle of trying to work that out when his eyes catch on one of his own dramatically outstretched arms and some of the many, many scars that decorate it and....oh. Oh right.

That.

He clears his throat, trying to paste a smile back on. Far too late now, probably, but one does what one can. ]

Oh dear. Did I forget to mention? I'm afraid I'm terribly cursed, you see. Family problem.

[ That line sounds so much better when he has his swords to hand and he can blame it on them. Ah well. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ Astarion must admit, seeing the genuine shock and confusion on Molly's face is quite refreshing after their little game of practiced artificiality. He smiles, smug as a cat. ]

Ah, yes. A terrible family blood curse. So easy to let those slip one's mind.

[ That might actually be the reason, for all Astarion knows, but the way Molly had stumbled so clumsily into the explanation suggests there's more to it than that. If anything, he'd seemed confused that Astarion had even brought it up, as if he hadn't realized his blood was affected at all. Or maybe, he just didn't think it was obvious enough for anyone to tell.

Well, most people wouldn't. But then, most people don't have the opportunity to taste. ]

Don't worry, I won't judge, [ Astarion broaches. ] My own blood is less than palatable itself, truth be told.

[mollymocks]

[ He cocks a wry eyebrow at that, but Astarion is on the right track and Molly is more than willing to let himself be distracted from that particular line of thought. He can't even do any of those particularly weird blood tricks here, who knew it would still have an affect?

Well who knew anyone was going to bite him to find out. Molly's eyes narrow just a bit. ]

And what have you been getting up to that you know that for a fact, darling?

[ More of those things Astarion is assuming he already knows, probably. Well, he's already made an idiot of himself once, may as well keep going and hope he get some actual information. ]

[vampires_pawn]

Nothing at all. It's simply a known peculiarity of my, ah, altered physiology.

[ He has tried it before, truth me told. After all, one might be willing to try anything when they're starved—and not-infrequently covered in their own blood, besides. He'd quickly learned that he'd be better off trying to suck blood from a stone than his own skin. At least a rock might not taste so foul.

Astarion's gaze on Molly grows a touch uncertain. ]

You do know what I'm talking about, don't you? I would've thought the fangs in your neck would've made it fairly obvious.