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

[vampires_pawn]

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

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

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

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

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

Shadowheart?

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

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

Shadowheart! Slow down for gods’ sake!

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

Shadowh—ow!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He avoids sleep where he can help it after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Astarion is alone in his room once more.

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

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

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

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

Comments

[vampires_pawn]

[ So it is one of the city's tricks. Astarion stops fiddling with the cuffs and shoots a glare at the ceiling. ]

Ugh, of course. And how did he manage to free himself, hmm? Or is he still plodding around in shackles?

[ If it's the latter, Astarion might just decide to get acquainted with the city's resurrection logistics sooner rather than later. Or, even better, convince his new compatriot to get acquainted with them himself. It's not like they can keep him cuffed to another person if only one of them is waking up under the city, after all. And if one of them wakes up cuffed alone as a result, like the man says, it will still be preferable to being chained to another.

...Or maybe they can just saw the damned things off. That would be a good deal less messy.

As for if Astarion had done anything unlawful to earn these cuffs... There is a look of dawning realization on his face. ]

Ah, [ he says, the gears in his mind visibly turning as he tries to think of an inoffensive way to put this. ] Well. I may have gotten into a bit of an, uh... let's say, drunken altercation on my way home last night. Nothing too serious, you understand. But I suppose it was the sort of thing one might reasonably expect to spend a night in the cells for.

[ The explanation is at least 50% lies by weight. Astarion had been drinking beforehand, so "drunken" isn't inaccurate, but "altercation" is usually reserved for situations in which the other party can fight back. The boy hadn't resisted at all when Astarion had fed on his blood—and all he'd been able to do afterwards was scream. Something passes over Astarion's face, the briefest flash of a grimace.

And then it's gone, and he sighs in mere displeasure. ]

A lesson for the future, perhaps. You said you had a saw?

[aceslow]

I don't know. He never said. But considering I never saw him complain again, and haven't yet seen anyone waddling around this place with their hands locked behind their back, I would imagine that they eventually unlocked. [ A little sourly: ] I don't see why I had to be lumped in this, though. I didn't get into any drunken scuffles.

[ Does he believe Astarion? Not really. It's possible that he's telling the truth, being that after a night like that, it would be incredibly easy to get worked up enough to attack anyone who came your way. There's nothing like being locked in a goddamn haunted Halloween party to raise one's hackles, if only in supposed self-defense. But the way he stops and stumbles makes him doubt it. He regards Astarion cooly, the look in his eye making it more than obvious that he doesn't buy it. ]

Hnh. Ooo-kay. Well, whatever you got into last night is none of my business. [ He would like, desperately, for it not to be his problem. ] But if whoever you got into whatever with last night poses a danger to you today, let me know before it becomes a problem. For now, we have to head out to the hardware store. I don't just keep a saw in my apartment.

[ He tugs Astarion along to his closet, yanking out a few oversized pieces that might just fit Astarion's bigger frame. ]

Come on, then, time to wash up and get changed. I'll cover my eyes if it makes you feel any better, but it won't be anything I haven't seen before.

[vampires_pawn]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[aceslow]

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

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

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

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

[vampires_pawn]

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

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

Hmm. Convenient.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[aceslow]

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

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

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

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

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

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