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

[vampires_pawn]

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

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

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

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

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

Shadowheart?

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

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

Shadowheart! Slow down for gods’ sake!

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

Shadowh—ow!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He avoids sleep where he can help it after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Astarion is alone in his room once more.

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

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

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

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

Comments

(closed to mollymauk)

[vampires_pawn]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[mollymocks]

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

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

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

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

[vampires_pawn]

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

Feeling more myself. So yes.

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

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

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

[mollymocks]

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

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

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

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

Fancy a go?

[vampires_pawn]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[mollymocks]

[ Now there's a claim that earns a look that's both knowing and dry--Molly doesn't have to be particularly perceptive to see the layers of defensiveness there--but he just smiles easily as he gathers up the deck to shuffle it. He even throws in a few particularly fancy moves, cards flying from one hand to the other, because what's the point if you can't show off before a pretty person.

His expression does get a bit more focused as he pulls the top card, but that's all part of the show too. The card he sets down, though, depicts a long staff with a piece of cloth draped over it that bares an almost uncanny resemblance to Molly's own coat, a large crow perched on top against those dark colors. Beneath is written DEATH in a flowing script.

Molly can't help but huff a little at the sight, but his eyes are even when they flick back up to Astarion. ]

For the past, we have Death. The end of something. Not necessarily a loss, but certainly something that's over. Perhaps ended to make way for something new?

[ A bit generalized, perhaps, but they are only getting started. And for all that it doesn't show, Molly is watching very closely. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ Astarion's head stays resting on his hands as he watches the show, amusement showing plainly on his face. He's not taking this seriously, not at all; it's a game to him, one where his main interest is in seeing how well Molly plays. Yet, there's something else Molly might glimpse beneath that glib curiosity: an air of uneasy distraction there in the way that Astarion's gaze drifts just ever so slightly off in the act's less showy moments. Something else is preoccupying his thoughts—and it isn't anything good.

Even so, he manages a wry chuckle when Molly pulls the Death card. An undead blood-drinker with death in his past? How shocking. ]

Come now, [ he teases, a flash of fangs in his grin. ] You hardly earn any points for stating the obvious. Even if we weren't to take it literally—something's always ending, isn't it?

[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.