[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

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Cazador. Nikolai takes note of the name, eyes narrowing. If Cazador is indeed here, Nikolai will find him. He has a great deal of confidence in his own abilities and there aren't so many people in this city that a man could hide indefinitely. Once he finds him, well... Nikolai's not so sure what he will do. But it won't be pretty.

Because from the way Astarion says it, 'master' is not a synonym for teacher or employer. He says master like he means owner. Slavery may be officially illegal in Nikolai's world, but it still happens. Nikolai had come across a few ships with chained human cargo in their holds, during his years as Sturmhond. He had not been merciful then, and he doesn't intend to be now. ]

Has this happened before, since you came here?

[ Nikolai doesn't know enough about this place to guess whether someone could influence it from another world. If Astarion's so-called 'punishment' is coming from his own world... Nikolai isn't sure how that could be prevented. ]

Rh Positive?

[ The words have no significance to him, but Nikolai gets to his feet and begins to search the section that Astarion gestured towards. The bags are foreign to him, but then, so is much of the packaged food and drink in this place. It's not until he is reaching for one that Nikolai sees the label and it clicks into place.

It's not wine, as he had assumed, but blood.

He does look back to Astarion, then, a small but undeniable double take. When it's clear that, yes, he had grabbed the right thing, Nikolai's brain begins working in overtime. This is blood, and Astarion wants to drink it. He called it a gift of his master's. That means...

Ravka does not only have folktales about firebirds and heroic kings. There are monsters, too. Dead creatures that need to drink the blood of the living to sustain themselves.

Nikolai takes it in stride. His hesitation is noticeable, but he swiftly recovers, reaching for the shelf again and grabbing a second bag. ]

Hmm. I'm bringing you two. You look like you could use it.

[ He declares it with a brusque friendliness, as if this man had not just revealed that he's a monster out of legend. Nikolai would have to be the worst kind of hypocrite to turn on him for that.

Nikolai hands over the bags and sits back down. ]

I'm Nikolai, by the way. You're a kilyklava?

[ It's not the first time Nikolai has met a creature he'd thought only existed in stories. In fact, it's becoming quite a common occurrence in his life. ]

[vampires_pawn]

Not quite like that. These past few weeks, there have been... episodes—random attacks of pain or seeing things that aren't really there. All of them to do with my master but... [ His brow furrows and he shakes his head. ] None of them have lasted that long. Or felt so real.

[ It had truly felt as if he'd been back in the kennels with Cazador—as if he'd never really left. Will it keep getting worse, he wonders? How much worse could it get before Cazador finally comes to collect?

He remains watchful as Nikolai goes to fetch what he's asked for; and certainly, he catches the hesitation when the man realizes what exactly has been requested of him. Astarion waits, almost impatiently, for what comes next: the disgust, the fear, and perhaps something worse as well: anger or hatred. At the very least, he expects that gallant sympathy the man has displayed thus far to gutter out like candlelight in a rainstorm.

Instead, the man bluntly declares that he's bring Astarion two bags and promptly does exactly so, returning to him and holding out the blood like it's nothing more extraordinary than a a bottle of wine. For a moment, Astarion just stares at him. ]

You don't—I— [ He looks from Nikolai to the bagged blood in his hand. Could it really be so easy? After another moment's hesitation, he takes the bags, still looking a bit bewildered. ] Thank you.

[ The blood bags are cold and scentless in his hands, but they might as well be ambrosia for all Astarion cares. They contain human blood, after all—a veritable feast compared to the vermin he'd been forced to subsist off for the past two centuries. Astarion gives Nikolai one last assessing look, like he's deciding whether or not he might take offense to the sight of a blood-drinker living up to the title—then decides to-hell-with-it and rips the cap off of one of the bags with his teeth. He drinks deeply of the blood within. Having enough is still such a novelty to Astarion that it feels like a luxury, something he could lose with the slightest turn of fate.

One that he will lose, once he is Cazador's once more.

He finally pulls the bag away from his lips, already looking a bit less pale than he did before. ]

A pleasure, [ he says, some of the strength returned to his voice. ] I'm Astarion—and perhaps a kilyklava. If that word means 'vampire spawn.'

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai considers that information; he really has very little to go on here, but there seem to be two distinct possibilities emerging. Either someone is inflicting this on Astarion and getting better at it over time, or his earlier 'episodes' had been unrelated hallucinations and this is not an escalation but something new. ]

Well, that sounds like fun.

[ Sarcasm drips from the final word. The wheels in Nikolai's head are turning. Another man might have offered sympathetic words or reassurances that it will all turn out alright, but Nikolai is not that man. He prefers to search for explanations and solutions rather than dole out platitudes. ]

You shouldn't tax yourself with it now, but I wonder if there are any common factors between those episodes and this. Even something simple, like a sound, a smell, or a certain time of day.

[ It's not much to go on, but any factor could be a hint in unraveling how such an attack had been possible. He thinks about telling Astarion that he'll begin investigating if this Cazador fellow has turned up here, but ultimately decides against it. Best not to give what might turn out to be false hope. If he does manage to discover the man, he can tell Astarion about it after the fucker's dead. ]

You're very welcome.

[ Nikolai looks entirely unfazed by Astarion eagerly downing an entire bag of blood. The smell of it does unsettle him a little, but Nikolai has an excellent poker face. And the truth is, it only perturbs him because of the familiarity. He can't help wondering how much blood he'd drunk as the monster. Much more than could fit in two little bags like that, judging by how much of it he was usually covered in when he woke up. ]

That is what it means, more or less. They're only myths, in my world.

[ Which is not to say that Ravka doesn't have its share of real monsters. Some made by merzost - the volcra, the nichevo’ya - and some made by science - the khergud and Grisha under the influence of jurda parem. Then, of course, there's the demon that currently resides inside Nikolai. No one even has a name for whatever it might be. ]

I've always loved meeting myths. And I'm quite fond of disobedient rule-breakers.

[ Nikolai smiles at Astarion, warm and easy. He still feels shaken from what he'd witnessed, but he is nothing if not resilient. ]

I would ask if you're alright, but I think we both know that would be a stupid question. So instead, allow me ask, would you like me to leave you alone now? Or would it be alright if I stayed with you a little longer?

[ Perhaps it is irrational, but Nikolai can't help worrying that if he excuses himself, Astarion's torture will resume, and the blame will partly be on him for leaving. ]

I swear not to ask too many questions about vampires, if I do.

[ He lays a hand over his heart, as if making a solemn vow. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ It's amazing how much difference a bit of blood makes. Astarion can already feel vitality returning to his drained body, the phantom pain fading from his back. He straightens up some and rolls his shoulders, taking stock of himself for any injuries, but aside from a knee bruised in the process of collapsing to the floor, his body bears no lingering marks from the attack. It's disconcerting, but certainly preferable to the alternative.

Maybe it's the blood or maybe it's the nature of Nikolai's flattery, but Astarion actually manages to return a smile at his words. ]

Then I dare say you'll like me quite a lot. I might not have been able to disobey back on my own plane, but here? I like to think I've been making up for lost time.

[ Even now, Astarion can't say that he regrets breaking Cazador's rules. Maybe his master will find ways to make him regret it, but for the moment, Astarion wouldn't trade this fleeting freedom for anything. Not even this latest round of torture has taken that from him. ]

After everything you've done? Stay as long as you'd like. [ Already, he's sounding more like his usual charming self, but as he braces a hand against the wall to stand, there's still a certain tentativeness to his movements, like he's not sure he won't be forced to the floor again. Perhaps his willingness to let Nikolai stay isn't entirely selfless. ]

Though, I hope you won't mind if we walk and talk. I didn't come here just to make a scene, despite appearances.

[ Yes, Astarion just been forced to relive a horribly painful memory of physical torture. Yes, he fully intends to complete his grocery-shopping anyway. It's amazing what a motivator spite can be. ]

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

Pssh. 'Everything I've done'? It was hardly a sacrifice, getting the chance to talk to an intriguing stranger. One of my favorite pastimes, in fact.

[ It's an obvious distortion of the truth; it had been awful, kneeling there and witnessing every second of Astarion's agony, powerless to do anything. But Nikolai presents this re-writing of history to Astarion: an offer. His own inclination is to immediately minimize the seriousness of any terrible thing that might have happened to him. If Astarion wants to play the game of denial, Nikolai is indicating that he will follow along without missing a beat.

He gets to his feet, scooping up the little ball he'd given Astarion in the hopes of grounding him and tucking it away in an inner pocket of his jacket without comment. Nikolai stays close - not enough to smother, he hopes, but near enough that he has some chance of catching Astarion if he were to collapse again. ]

I hope it's not too brazen to offer, but if this Cazador is here, I hope you'll consider me an ally against him.

[ Nikolai stays by Astarion's side as they move through the store, giving a fluid sort of shrug as he explains: ]

You see, I happen to hate bullies and slavers and tyrants of all sorts.

[ In his own world, Nikolai's ability to act against such people has always been somewhat constrained by his status. Kings may have a great deal of power, but they also have limitations. Here, none of that applies, and for once Nikolai and the monster that's mostly dormant inside him are in complete agreement: some people just deserve to be torn to pieces. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ Rewriting of history or not, it's a revision Astarion is all-too-happy to accept. ]

True, [ he muses, feigning consideration. ] Then let's say that I'm allowing you to stay just because I like you. Much simpler that way.

[ He twists the cap off of the second blood bag and brings it to his lips, as casually as if it were a wineskin. He still can't quite believe that this is something he can just do here, especially in the company of another living person. No wonder Cazador is incensed; all those centuries of brutal discipline and subjugation, poured down the drain in a matter of weeks.

At Nikolai's offer, Astarion almost laughs, and his face does something strange, twisting into a hard half-grimace, half-smile. Oh yes, he likes Nikolai—likes his charm and his constancy and his broad-mindedness—but he can already tell, too, that that heroic streak will get him killed. ]

It is brazen. Not that I don't appreciate the thought, but I'm fairly sure a decent portion of Cazador's diet consisted of would-be heroes who felt similarly. And those he merely killed were the lucky ones.

[ The facade of a smile slips from Astarion's face. ]

And if he's here physically, then he can't die, anyway. None of us can.

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai politely pretends not to notice Astarion drinking the second bag of blood. His mind is a hurricane of questions. What would happen if Astarion didn't get enough blood to drink? Did he have to have a certain amount to stay alive per day? Per week? Did he also drink water or only blood? Would the blood of any animal do, or were there limitations - mammals only, that kind of thing?

But he'd promised not to pry and so he won't. He'll just have to do a little research of his own later on. ]

Oh, I think you misunderstand me.

[ Nikolai can see the discomfort in that half-smile. How many would-be heroes had Astarion see killed, tortured, or turned? Had some of them been his friends, his family? It certainly doesn't seem like a warning to be dismissed lightly. All traces of levity slip from Nikolai's face, leaving him looking grave. ]

I didn't offer to be a savior. Just an ally. I do believe that Cazador is every bit as dangerous as you say. You would certainly know better than I would. But please, don't let the blond hair and the pretty face fool you. I'm not hero material.

[ He says it without flourish or fanfare, but with cold certainty. He is not like Alina. He can pretend to the people that he's their bright-eyed heroic storybook king, full of virtue and goodness. But it's a mask, just like all the others. ]

Heroes have honor. They fight fair, and believe that justice will naturally prevail. I know what the world is, and I'm not afraid to fight dirty.

[ Even if Cazador can't be killed here, even if they're hopelessly outmatched, there must be a way. There is always a way. It's a philosophy that Nikolai clings to, in more matters than just this one. ]

Just... keep it in mind, is all I am asking.

[vampires_pawn]

[ Honestly, Astarion isn't so sure he agrees with Nikolai's self-assessment. After all, the man can say that he knows what the world is and how it works, but here he is, offering to stick his neck out for a total stranger to try and change it. It's terribly foolish. Still, Astarion can't deny, it's the kind of foolishness that might just come in handy—for him, anyway. ]

...Alright, [ he says after a moment. ] I will.

[ Maybe leaving his room today wasn't such a mistake after all. Of course, there's also his original purpose in coming here to this shop; the two bags of blood Nikolai had brought to him were restorative, but Astarion will need to stock up if venturing out is going to continue being this fraught. He shrugs an empty leather rucksack from off his back, now thoroughly rumpled from being pressed into a corner for so long, and moves towards the shelf from which Nikolai had retrieved the blood bags to take some for himself. ]

I must admit, [ Astarion says, filling his pack, ] you've been given quite the introduction to my own circumstances before this place spirited me away. But what of yours? I'd peg you as nobility, but you don't seem like any of the patriars I've met.

[ Which, given the quality of gentry Cazador tended to entertain in his manor, isn't necessarily a bad thing. ]

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai isn't sure he's entirely convinced Astarion, but pushing further isn't going to do any good. Actions speak louder than words, after all. He allows Astarion to smoothly steer the conversation away from himself, picking up his own small bag from where he'd abandoned it and resuming his own shopping. ]

Well, now you're just flattering me.

[ Of course, it's not a guaranteed that the nobility in Astarion's world is like the nobility in his own, but Astarion hadn't phrased that like an insult. Nikolai takes a great deal of pride in being absolutely nothing like his family or the rest of the nobility of Ravka.

Now he just has to decide how honest he ought to be. Nikolai has been avoiding mentioning his status to most of the people he meets here. But then, none of them had immediately clocked him as nobility, or suggested that the hierarchy in their own world might mirror his own. In the end, he decides honesty is the safest option. The only reason to lie would be his own comfort, and he'd rather not risk causing confusion or hurt just to avoid some potential awkwardness. ]

I did leave off a little when I introduced myself to you earlier. Technically, it's King Nikolai Lantsov of Ravka.

[ To add levity, he fishes a coin from his pocket, flipping it to Astarion to catch and then turning, holding his chin high so that his profile will match the one etched into the gold. It's a thoroughly obnoxious move, of course, but whether it annoys or amuses, it'll probably take Astarion's mind off what he's just been through, even if only a little bit. At least, that's the hope. ]

But since I've yet to meet anyone here who has so much as heard of my country, I've been sticking to just 'Nikolai'. To be honest, it's been a nice break from all the bowing and the banquets and the diplomacy. Why, no one's hounded me about getting married in weeks!

[ All traces of the grave, serious Nikolai who had offered to be in Astarion's corner are gone. He's pure charm, now, practiced and shiny. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ At first, Astarion thinks it must be a jest—perhaps a callback to the folktale Nikolai had told earlier. After all, what are the chances that a king of all people would end up in a place like this? Astarion's already smirking and is just about to ask if Nikolai managed to bring his magical feather with him, when the man pulls something gleaming and golden from his pocket and flips it over to him. Astarion catches it, bemused.

It's not a feather, but a coin. He turns it over in his hand, studying it with idle curiosity. There's an etching on the face of the coin, a little portrait of a regal-looking man in profile. It's exactly the sort of thing one expects to see on a piece of currency and yet, something about it makes Astarion do a double-take. Surely that couldn't be—?

Astarion looks up just in time to see Nikolai strike the same pose, all at once a mirror image of the portrait on the coin. He stares for a moment, astonished—

—and then laughs, despite himself. ]

My, my! If I had known I were meeting royalty today, I would've dressed for the occasion. [ Astarion's tone is teasing, and yet, he's staring at Nikolai as if he's suddenly transformed into an entirely new kind of creature. ] You're sure I don't need to bow? Genuflect?

[ It suddenly feels very important that he not mess this up, whatever this even is. All Astarion knows is that it's not every century that a king gives the time of day to someone like him—and even less often that they offer their aid on top of it. ]

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai knows he made the right choice as soon as Astarion laughs. Of course, he would be pleased to startle a laugh from a handsome stranger in most situations, but it's all the more meaningful in this context. Astarion had just been through something so awful; from the sound of it, there had been plenty more of that in the past, too. So it makes Nikolai feel a warm, proud surge of happiness, that he could lighten that, even if only for a moment or two. ]

I'm quite sure.

[ He matches Astarion's teasing tone, smiling and at his ease. Truth is, he's fairly neutral on bowing and all the other forms of court etiquette like it. Nikolai knows these displays are vitally important in some contexts; this is not one of them.

(He knows, too, that even the most technically-perfect obeisances could still convey contempt. He'd dealt with plenty of that in his time.) ]

I am a king, but I'm not your king.

[ Nikolai could say more about how they're all equals in this place. Equally trapped, equally exiled from their homes, equally powerless against whatever forces brought them here. But - while true - that sentiment is fairly depressing. No need for more of that. ]

Besides, there's absolutely nothing wrong with how you're dressed. You'd fit right in at the palace at Os Alta. You're certainly a step above just about everyone else I've met, here.

[ The informality of everyone's clothing here had been something of a culture shock, for Nikolai. Along with many, many, many other things. ]

You can keep that, if you'd like. It's not like there's anything to spend it on here.

[ And maybe it will be there as a reminder to Astarion, if he ever needs one, that he has someone in his corner. ]

I'm guessing there is no Ravka, in your world?

[ There's a hint of hope in Nikolai's voice, but only a very little one. Astarion hadn't seemed to recognize it, which goes along with the trend of everyone else he's met in the city. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ Astarion scoffs at Nikolai's comment about the common mode of dress here. ] A low bar to clear, [ he declares, ] but thank you.

[ In all honesty, he is rather pleased to hear Nikolai say it. The doublet he's wearing alone is no doubt older than much of the population here, and Astarion has taken pains to make it and the rest of his clothes still look presentable. Careful stitching conceals the worst of the damage over the years, but he can never quite get the gold embroidery to lie flush against the fabric the way it used to.

But if his efforts are enough to pass muster with a king, then who he is to disagree? ]

I like to think that gold is gold, whichever realm one may find themselves in. But if you insist— [ And because Astarion is trying to be impressive and maybe just because he can, he makes the coin disappear with a flourish of his fingers. It's not real magic, just a bit of sleight of hand he'd taught himself while whiling away the daylight hours in Cazador's palace. For now, the coin sits snugly up his sleeve, the gold warm against his wrist.

His pack now sufficiently filled with blood, Astarion begins to move to another section of the supermarket, glancing away from Nikolai to scan the shelves. Apparently, blood wasn't the only thing on his shopping list. ]

Not that I've heard of. And I suppose you've never heard of Baldur's Gate? Or Faerûn?

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai grins in response to the sleight-of-hand. He appreciates the trick itself, but even moreso he appreciates the fact that Astarion is showing off. The trick and the banter both speak to a resilience that Nikolai admires. Nikolai would bet good money that Astarion is not nearly as fine as he's pretending to be. He'd just been tortured and there is no guarantee it won't happen again. But here Astarion is, putting on a good show. It's exactly what Nikolai would be doing if he were in Astarion's shoes. ]

Faerûn?

[ A small furrow forms between Nikolai's brows as he searches his memory. He's sure there's no such place in his own world, but he's had time to do a little reading since arriving here. Had it come up in anything? Moments later he shakes his head. ]

Sadly, no. Which is quite vexing. I'm not accustomed to being at such a complete loss when I meet someone! I'd love to hear more about it sometime.

[ It's no mere annoyance; being able to befriend just about anyone is a crucial survival skill as far as Nikolai is concerned. How is he supposed to do that without the necessary information to lay a groundwork of small talk and pleasantries? Sure, plenty of the time he'll pretend not to know much about a place just so he can ask questions and give the other person the pleasure of explaining their home to him. But how is he supposed to know the right questions to ask without a thoroughly-researched foundation? ]

I'm afraid the real Ravka isn't quite like in that story I told you. Fewer mystical animals and more petty nobles endlessly scheming and squabbling. Although...

[ He makes a small noise of consideration, scrunching his nose and adding: ]

I suppose there are one or two mystical animals running around.

[vampires_pawn]

[ Resilience is one word for it. Conditioning might be another. For 200 years, Astarion has endured every torture Cazador's depraved imagination could conjure and more often than not, still be expected to go out and hunt the following night so long as he was able to walk. Suffering and fear were never impediments to his charm—they were the drive behind it. Be charming enough and he could keep Cazador fed. Content. And most importantly, not as inclined to amuse himself with Astarion the following day.

There is no guarantee his master is here and even if he is, Astarion no longer knows what might stay his hand. But there is another reward being dangled before him now, one that is perhaps even more precious than a single day's reprieve from his master's wrath:

An ally. And a powerful one at that. Of course Astarion will do what he can to show himself to be worth the man's help. ]

That's reality for you, isn't it? It doesn't sound too much different from Baldur's Gate, truth be told. It was easy for a man like Cazador to thrive there.

[ His expression darkens on that last thought, his gaze low. But that flash of bitterness is shuttered away soon enough. He adds, primly: ] I don't have much firsthand knowledge on the rest of Faerûn; I'm afraid I'm not the most well-traveled. [ A wry smile. ] But tell me: what does one deem a "mystical animal" in the kingdom of Ravka?

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai nods; he understands Astarion's meaning. He might not know the specifics, but he is very aware of how the conditions of a place - its social hierarchy, its economic structures, its culture and religious institutions - could act as a catalyst for suffering. He'd grown up seeing it in action in Ravka; he's spent his entire adult life trying to find ways to change those conditions. It would never eliminate evil men like Cazador, he knows, but hopefully he could make it at least a little harder for them to flourish. ]

Maybe you weren't before. But how many people from Baldur's Gate can say that they've visited a whole other world? You've probably traveled further than the rest of all of them combined, now.

[ Nikolai matches the wry smile, because of course none of them had chosen to travel here, and how could the distance they've gone from their homelands even be measured? ]

Well, there are stories of a handful, but only one I've ever seen with my own two eyes. Rusalye. The sea whip.

[ Nikolai allows himself a dramatic pause here, the corner of his mouth curved into a smile. He can't help but feel a certain rosy nostalgia, thinking back to hunting the beast. In terms of years, it wasn't even that long ago, but he'd been a different person, then. Younger, more daring, more naive, more hopeful. ]

It was a gigantic white serpent that lived in the waters of the Bone Road, a cluster of small islands far to the north of Ravka. The folktales said it was a prince who had been cursed to live in the body of a monster.

[ Somehow, his brain never made the connection until now. Nikolai can't help it: he laughs. ]

Terribly cliché, isn't it?

[ He shakes his head sadly, as if he were not himself a king cursed to transform into a terrifying monster every night. Somewhere in the universe, he thinks, Zoya would be rolling her eyes at him. ]

The stories said that it lured girls out to the water with its song and then dragged them under the waves to be its bride, only to wail and weep when they starved to death. But I have to say, having seen the thing up close myself, it wasn't about to seduce anyone. It was just an animal. A dangerous, powerful wild animal with about seven rows of teeth and a foul temper.