[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

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. ]

[vampires_pawn]

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

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

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

[matermali]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ Then silence. ]

cw: referenced self-harm

[vampires_pawn]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ The knife. ]

[matermali]

I thought you liked poetry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[vampires_pawn]

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

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

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

I'm listening.

[matermali]

Are you?

[ It is wearying to consider having to continue repeating herself, but then she cannot underestimate the power of suggestion. She has pushed him quite far in one direction, but she has the power to veer him slightly back. It will do better once he realizes that she isn’t who he thinks she is. ]

Then tell me, what do you believe he would do if he came to the City? Even if he was shackled alongside the rest of us, what do you think he could still be capable of doing?

[ There shouldn’t be a need to say his name, as it’s clear who is on Astarion’s mind. She does not like to waste the use of names. ]

Not to you, but to the others.

[vampires_pawn]

[ Astarion had thought he'd known where this conversation was going, but when the woman begins to speak in hypotheticals, his brow furrows. If Cazador came to the city? Does she mean to say he's not already here?

Astarion feels a treacherous seed of hope begin to take root in his throat. But no—he mustn't fall for it. He'd seen Cazador here, had heard his voice. And that's not even to mention the torments of the past weeks, torments only Cazador would know to inflict upon him. This is a trick, a test. Astarion only wishes he were clear-headed enough to know the right answer.

He shuts his eyes and tries to think. If she was sent here by Cazador, then she already knows what he's capable of. Is she testing Astarion's knowledge? His fear? Or his loyalty?

('Or what if she wasn't sent by him at all?' that treasonous part of him whispers. 'What does she want to hear then?'

In the end, Astarion is too exhausted to give her anything but the truth. ]

It would depend on exactly how this place affected him, [ he says slowly. ] But if he kept even just his ability to create and control spawn, no one would be safe. He could turn as many as he liked and not fear running out of blood, not when it's handed to us freely. If he left anyone with their freedom, it would only be for his own amusement.

[ There's also the fact that he'd be even more immortal here than he was in their own realm, given this place's stubborn rejection of death. Astarion is careful not to mention that, though. If this woman does serve Cazador (and what a fool Astarion is, that it's now become an if), then speaking of something as faithless as Cazador's death will only invite further punishment. ]

[matermali]

[ Exhaustion can eventually take even the most stubborn souls, as that numbness that can be followed by release. It's important not to take it too far, if her own tormentors have taught her anything.

Any news of his master turning others is not surprising, but she had hoped to hear something less cliché. It is, at least, something she was already preparing for, just not for him. ]

What of our captor? What do you believe your master would do if he was able to confront them? Could he best them?

[ It's such a theoretical, but she wonders how far he could reach without limits, or how far he believes he could. Thus far, Cazador sounds like nothing more than a sadistic madman who tripped into too much power.

How could she ever expect more? ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ It is a startling question. Astarion is quiet for several moments, trying to picture it: Cazador taking on the rulers of this place. In some ways, it seems like such a conflict would be inevitable; after all, Astarion can't imagine that Cazador would simply submit to being controlled. The question is, could he resist their domination anymore than Astarion could? It feels almost ludicrous to imagine, Cazador being made a puppet himself. Astarion's mind immediately recoils from the thought as impossible—but is it? ]

I... don't know, [ he says at last. ] I have no idea how he'd even confront them, given how little we know about who or where they are. But I know he'd covet the power they have. He'd do everything he could to understand it, and if he couldn't take it by force, he'd try to court it from them instead.

[ But then, what could his master offer that the rulers of this place couldn't simply take for themselves? They have seemingly infinite resources, the power over life and death itself, and a captive population to torment or toy with as they wish. These aren't unscrupulous nobles in Baldur's Gate being convinced to turn a blind eye to the occasional missing reveler or brothel-goer—with the power the rulers of this place possess, they're perilously close to being gods.

Honestly, Astarion isn't so sure his master won't have met his match. It's a dizzying thought—and not one that feels at all safe to share. ]

I don't know how he'd do it. But I know that Cazador is patient—and inventive. There's no price he wouldn't pay for that kind of power.

[matermali]

[ By the time he's through, from everything else she's gathered, it's obvious that this Cazador creature is indeed nothing more than a tiny beast with a mighty bark. He must be terrified of anyone surpassing him; they always are. He seems scarcely more inspired than Lucifer, only not nearly as inventive in pursuing godhood and glory. No matter if they are called gods or demons, in the end, these small-minded creatures who clamor for more are nothing more than—

Men.

They can be so small and predictable—the most uninspired little monsters.

She watches Astarion carefully while crafting her next question. ]

And you? What would you do for such power?

[vampires_pawn]

All I want is to be free of this place. The same as anyone else here.

[ It isn't a complete lie. Were he to wake back in his own world tomorrow, free of this alien city and its machinations, he would be glad for it. He'd strive, even, for that outcome, were it possible to do so. But it also doesn't answer her question, not really, and Astarion knows it.

Because if a path to that kind of power were to become clear—the power to control an entire realm, to bend reality to his will, to keep himself safe from Cazador and anyone else, forever?

There's not a lot he wouldn't do for that kind of power. ]

[matermali]

You presume everyone here has the same desire.

[ Of course he's catering his answers. He may even more-so until he better understands who he's speaking to. She could wrench every truth out of him if she wished, given enough time. Here, she has nothing but time.

She leans back onto her heels, her hands resting just at her knees while she considers him. Without his master here, he is self-serving. He seems to have no wish to carry out his master's grand plan on his own.

It doesn't make him harmless. ]

What would you do to protect those you care for?

[vampires_pawn]

I presume most do.

[ In some ways, his captivity in this city has been gentler than what it was with Cazador. There's no doubt in Astarion's mind that its rulers are malicious and yet, they are not relentlessly so. Those here are given enough to eat and drink. There is ample space and diversion to pass the time. And there are weeks, months even, between its various torments, times to regroup and recover. Were he given the choice between staying here and returning to Cazador in Baldur's Gate, he'd choose the city, a thousand times over.

But that's not the choice left to him anymore. Perhaps he'd only had the barest few minutes of freedom back in his own realm before being brought here, but it was real—not a kinder captivity, not a larger cage, but true, unrestrained freedom. And he wouldn't trade that for the world.

The woman's next question is equally unexpected—though this time, for its sheer folly. Astarion smiles, a mocking, empty movement of his lips. ]

You presume there are still people I care for.

[matermali]

I had hoped that there once was someone, perhaps before you were turned. It would be very sad, I think, if you have never cared for another.

[ She says it earnestly with a slight furrow to her brow. Nothing like pity, she would never bother with that, but perhaps a melancholy curiosity. ]

In such a case then, this may be easier to imagine. Picture a boy, barely on the cusp of becoming a man. Quiet and tense. On his lonesome, in the dark, he must be one of the unloved.

Would anyone even miss such a tragedy?

[vampires_pawn]

[ Astarion says nothing to that first part. Had there been someone he cared for, back before he was turned? He thinks there must've been. But if he can't remember them, does it even matter? Perhaps they never meant that much to Astarion in the first place, or perhaps Cazador was simply that good at erasing everything that came before him. Either way—now, they might as well have never existed.

And then the woman begins to speak of something else. A boy all alone in the dark—a tragedy. Astarion doesn't need to feign the blankness in his gaze; he truly has no idea who she's talking about. If anything, he assumes she's speaking in hypotheticals again. His tone is weary, frustrated. ]

In my experience? No.

[ After all, he'd survived night-to-night identifying those who would go unmissed—at least, unmissed by anyone with the power to do anything about it. ]

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. ]

[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. ]