[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 kim kitsuragi)

[vampires_pawn]

[ The night after that first bite, Astarion doesn't linger on the city streets. The blood is invigorating, exhilarating—he's never felt his senses this sharp before. It's like a fog has been lifted from his mind, like he's seeing the world with new, clearer eyes. And yet, as restorative as all that blood had been, it hadn't erased the night's other events: being compelled into the city's little game. Being made to hunt and fight, with no control over his own actions. And of course, the drinking afterwards, of the more alcoholic nature. The warm contentment of the blood singing through him now rubs uneasily against the cold dread of the events that had preceded it, and all Astarion wants to do is to go to sleep and let those memories fade into half-forgotten dreams, fuzzed and fogged over, so that only the warmth remains.

The boy's screams echo in his mind. Why did he have to scream like that, Astarion thinks, nose wrinkling in annoyance. Astarion wasn't going to kill him. He hadn't wanted to, anyway. And even if he had, what would it matter? None of them can die here, not really.

When he finally makes it back to the room he pretends is his own, he at least manages to tear the stupid cat ears off before he falls into bed. With fresh blood in his veins and the guiltlessness that comes with knowing one has spent centuries doing so much worse, Astarion is asleep in mere moments. That night, he dreams blissfully of nothing at all, or at least nothing he remembers. He certainly doesn't stir, much less sleepwalk—

—which makes it all the more perplexing when he wakes up and finds himself in a different bed.

He squints blearily at the end table he doesn't remember being there, bearing possessions he doesn't recognize as his own. The beers from the night before have had their intended effect: everything that had happened that night is a hazy blur, punctuated by the bright taste of blood and little else. He hadn't walked into someone else's room on his way back, had he? That is something he can do now, thanks to the tadpole.

Still rather too hungover and disoriented to quite realize the implications of his circumstances, Astarion's head rolls the other way to see what else might be in the unfamiliar room—and jolts upright with a shout of alarm when he sees an entire other person lying in the bed next to him.

The motion jerks the other's man arm up with him and that also makes Astarion start. They're... they're manacled together? ]

What in the hells—?!

[ This is followed by another brief moment of stupefaction, right before Astarion begins a mad scramble with his free hand to find something on the nightstand he can use as an improvised weapon to threaten his new bed-fellow into explaining what the devil is going on here. ]

[aceslow]

[ The night after the Halloween debacle, Kim very nearly didn't make it home. Once the door had swept him into that godforsaken place, he couldn't help the overwhelming sense of paranoia that seized his heart, afraid that one wrong step would take him back there. He didn't face anything there that he couldn't handle - he made it out relatively unscathed, all things considered - but the idea of having to go back there felt like a stone trapped deep in his throat, an uncomfortable sense of inevitability washing over him. He had procrastinated going home as long as possible and it had only been when he began to nod off on a park bench, limbs gone numb from the cold, that he finally admitted defeat and clambered back into his nice, warm apartment. He had done little more than splash some water on his face and shed that horrible costume before falling into bed.

He's awoken from the blessed inky blackness of sleep when something jerks at his arm, a shout of alarm coming from beside him, making Kim rise with a shout, sitting upright with so much haste that it looks nearly as though he's standing at attention. It's all reflex, of course; he's still bleary with sleep, and without his glasses, whoever is beside him is nothing more than a strange, flesh-coloured blur. ]

What--!

[ He instinctively tries to move away, hand grasping blindly for a firearm that isn't there, only realizing that they're quite literally tied together when the movement stalls, hindered by Astarion's weight. He gapes down at the manacle connecting them. ]

What the fuck. [ His free hand curls into a fist, elbow tucked tightly into his side, poised to strike. ] Explain.

(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. ]

[vampires_pawn]

Explain?! [ Astarion splutters, indignant. ] I don't have to explain anything! I—this isn't my room.

[ He says it like an accusation, like the fact that this is the other man's room must mean these are his manacles as well. All the while, he's still using his free hand to pilfer through the items on the nightstand, only really managing to add to the chaos of the scene by knocking several items noisily to the floor.

Suddenly, something clicks—some groggy part of Astarion's brain rousing from sleep. Memories from last night's party flit through his head and among them: a figure from the maze on the first floor, warning him of the danger ahead. ]

You— [ Astarion's struggling stops for a brief instant as he stares at the man, wide-eyed. ] I know you! You were at the Halloween party—on the floor with the automatons.

[ The man looks rather different without the costume, but Astarion can recognize his voice, distinguished by that peculiar accent. Unfortunately, Astarion hadn't managed a similar change of clothes after the party—he's still in his wretched cat costume, torn in several places and with no small amount of dried blood still clinging to the starchy white faux fur around the collar. Astarion's lip curls, answering the man's curled fist with the flash of fangs. Those are no costume. ]

Either you're far more depraved than first impressions suggest—or the city is playing another trick on us.

iii

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai has been uncharacteristically cautious in approaching strangers in this place. The few people he has met so far have been decent, but it seems unlikely that streak will last. Nikolai doesn't have any friends or allies here. Besides which, his name doesn't hold the kind of sway that it would back home. Here, no one gives a shit if he's King of Ravka - which is more blessing than curse all things told. It does mean, however, that he has to be more leery.

But all that goes out the window when he's perusing a little store and hears a crash a few aisles over. Curious, he hurries to investigate and sees a pale man on the floor. ]

Are you alright?

[ Before he even finishes asking the question, Nikolai can tell it's a foolish one. The man is writhing, making the awful half-sounds that men in great pain make when they are trying to stay silent. Nikolai recognizes them at once. This could be some kind of a trap, but if so, this would need to be a preternaturally great actor. As far as Nikolai's concerned, no one can fake that kind of agony.

Nikolai looks around, but there is no one else here in the shop. No one even close by that he'd seen heading in. ]

You're injured, I can send a message to the doctor, just-

[ But the man moves away, dragging himself across the floor with much more speed than Nikolai would expect from an injured man. There's no sign of blood, either. And he doesn't seem to have heard Nikolai.

He follows after, all thoughts of his errand forgotten. Caution is all well and good, but he's not going to just abandon someone in this much distress. Nikolai feels a twist of something akin to dread in his stomach when Astarion wedges himself into a corner like a trapped animal. So, perhaps it is something different going on here.

Nikolai isn't going to loom over the man, so he kneels a foot or so in front of him, hands braced against his thighs. He has enough experience with soldiers and survivors to guess that shaking Astarion by the shoulder is probably not the best way to get his attention. He wishes Tamar or Tolya or Genya were here. A Heartrender would be able to slow his heartbeat, release chemicals in this stranger's brain that would calm him. Nikolai has no such talents.

What he does have is his voice. ]

Hey. Hey.

[ He speaks louder now, sharply. Nikolai is looking intently at the man, waiting to see if he opens his eyes or responds at all to the sound. ]

Can you hear me?

[ Again he uses his battlefield voice, sharp and commanding, demanding attention. ]

[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]

[ There is part of Astarion that knows better. Even as his master’s knife cleaves runes into his back, he can still think. He can still remember. And he knows he shouldn’t be here—can’t be here, that this isn’t when or where he was just a moment earlier. And yet, with every twist of the knife, every fresh new gout of cold, sluggish blood, it seems to matter less and less. This is where he is now, what he is—facedown in the kennels, a plaything to be carved up for his master’s amusement. What comfort can that other world provide when it is so unfathomably far away and his master’s blade so very close?

Of course, an even more monstrous thought occurs to him—that all of it, every second, from the illithid ship to the fall to the impossible city, all of it is just the figment of a shattered mind, that at any second what’s left of the dream will burst like soapskin and leave him with nothing but the hideous reality: that he never escaped. Never escaped Baldur's Gate, never escaped Cazador, never escaped even this singular moment of torment. This is where he’s been, for all this time.

Yet, there’s something that prevents his awareness of that other world from receding entirely. A voice, sharp and commanding and unfamiliar, not Cazador’s nor even his own. It sounds so terribly faint, half-drowned out by his own ragged breath and ripping flesh, but it’s there all the same.

’Can you hear me?’

It’s still there, that reality where he escaped, and Astarion throws himself at it with everything he has. He fights to feel that other body, to feel anything at all other than the weight of his master and the blade in his back, and though it’s like trying to press himself through solid stone, he pushes himself until he can just barely glimpse the other side. He can feel a hand pressed hard against his mouth—his hand—and the wall against his back. If he focuses all his concentration and all his will, he can even open his eyes. They see nothing but the kennel floor and the blood pooling beneath him. But he knows all the same: there’s someone there. A man, crouched and staring at him on a conspicuously bloodless tile floor.

He pushes further, feels his mind strain with the effort. His mouth moves. ]

Yes.

[ It’s barely a whisper, one that immediately breaks off into a low moan of pain as the knife twists in his back once more. His eyes snap shut, his hand once again clamping over his mouth as he’s wrenched back into the kennels.

’Can you not follow a simple command, child?’ his master’s voice sneers behind him. ‘I said hold still. Ruin my penmanship and we’ll have to start again.’

At that, Astarion’s body goes very, very still. Yet, his mouth still moves behind his hand, forming a single word, muffled and choked. ]

Can’t... can’t—

[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?

ii.

[thefreak]

( Eddie hasn't left his apartment that often lately. What point is there? Steve isn't answering his door, and Eddie isn't sure he trusts the city enough to explore places that haven't been wholly deemed safe. Besides, what's to stop the previously safe places from suddenly becoming overthrown by malignant ghosts?

So, Eddie stays put most of the time. Except at night, when the nightmares get so godawful they make Eddie's skin crawl. When it gets too suffocating in his bedroom, he has no choice but to wander the streets and hope for the best.

He rarely comes across someone else. Most people are sane and stay safe in their beds, but Eddie has never pretended to be a wholly sane individual.

When he comes across Astarion, though...it's like the whole world gets pulled in tighter, like when the movies use a fish eye lens to distort his surroundings and make him feel off-kilter. He's seen this before. When Chrissy stood there motionless, her eyes glazed over so that only the whites were visible. While this isn't identical, he remembers Max mentioning that she sometimes saw things that weren't there before the curse started taking hold. )

No... ( he mutters to himself, taking a step back, and then another, stumbling until he falls onto his ass. ) No, no, no, no, no. It can't be, it fucking can't be.

( He thought he escaped it when he showed up in this place, but if Astarion can be cursed by Vecna...then can't anyone? )

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai feels a jolt of hope when the stranger manages to answer him. It seems to cost a great deal, however. Nikolai watches, helpless, as he makes another sound of hurt and cringes into the corner further. He has no way of knowing what this is - the man could be shell-shocked, he could be drugged, he could be suffering one of the strange effects of this place, he could be actively under attack from something. If Nikolai had more information, he would be able to choose a good course of action.

He waits, feeling useless and unsure. Then he lets out a half-snarl of frustration, surging back to his feet and leaving the cowering figure. Nikolai doesn't go far, though. He strides along the aisles of the store, searching for anyone who might be causing this. Nikolai is making an assumption without realizing it - in his own world, line of sight is a necessary part of most magic. He half expects to come across some hidden malevolent figure, but there is no one.

Nikolai quickly returns to Astarion, kneeling before him again and saying: ]

Listen, I don't know what's happening to you, but I'm here and I want to help. Is there some way for me to help you? Are you in danger?

[vampires_pawn]

[ Astarion still cannot see this other world, and yet, with that curious sense of blindsight, he knows when the other man walks away, and fear seizes his throat when he does. Of course, Astarion assumes that he's leaving for good—that he's seen, quite rightly, that there's no helping the wretch curled up on the floor and has thus now chosen to take his leave. There will be no one now but Astarion and Cazador, the same as it ever was, and that other world where he's free will shrink and recede away until it's nothing but a forgotten daydream. ]

No... no! [ He struggles to take control of the useless, half-numb body left in this place, to make it do more than writhe and cower and eventually fade into nothing. His legs spasm, palms pressing into the wall behind him in a desperate attempt to push himself up, but it's futile. He can't control a body he can barely feel, can't move through a world that dims and flickers out of reality with every new stroke of his master's knife. He collapses into the corner again, breath coming hard and fast, on the verge of panic—

And then the man is back, kneeling before him, asking how he can help. Astarion is so relieved, he could sob. ]

Don't... don't leave me with him. [ Astarion doesn't care how pathetic he sounds now. He has nothing to bargain with, nothing to give that couldn't just be taken away. If he has to beg to stay in this world, then so be it. ] Just... talk. Keep me here.

[ He cannot see and he cannot move—but he can speak and hear. If there is anything he can use to anchor himself, even tenuously, in this reality, it will have to be those. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ If there is one comfort to be taken in all the ghastly visions Astarion has had over the past weeks, it's that no one else can see them.

Perhaps it is also a burden in its own ways, too; he's sure he's made himself look like a lunatic recently, getting into shouting matches with people no one else can see. But at least, he tells himself, it means that they aren't really there; they can't touch him, can't harm him, can't take any physical revenge for the fate he'd lured them into. They are hallucinations; frightening, disturbing, but still only figments. Harmless.

So when that inevitable night comes, when Astarion finds himself walking the city streets, driven from his bed by nightmares, and he comes face-to-face with his master—somewhere, beneath the instinctive panic and terror, he clings to that hope: that this is just another specter. A figment that cannot touch or punish or hurt. Even as the figure draws closer bearing that all-too-familiar smile and even as Astarion himself stands there, paralyzed by dread, he doesn't abandon that hope. That this is all in his head. That it will pass, as all the others have done.

And then, there's another voice, muttered and terrified, and out of the corner of his eye, Astarion sees him: someone else, fallen to the ground, staring in horror at... at him? At Cazador? Astarion knows he shouldn't turn away from his master, but he does all the same—what else doe he have to lose?—and stares, wide-eyed and confused at the boy.

Can... can he see Cazador, too? ]

[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?

[aceslow]

Don't worry. You're not my type, [ Kim says dryly, unsure as to how else to respond to that sort of accusation, joking or not. Not that he can say for certain; between the fog of an early morning without his glasses and the dim light of the Halloween party, he doesn't even know what the man looks like. Momentarily assuaged that the other man isn't about to attack him and drag his corpse behind him like a puppet, he fumbles for his glasses and pushing them up his nose, blinking at Astarion as he slides into focus. ]

God, you're even still in the costume. [ The other man must have passed out as soon as he got to a safe place, Kim reasons, not even bothering to change out of the damn thing. It looks scuffed, worn, stained with enough blood that it would be worrisome if Kim hadn't gone through the exact same hellish night. Still, he doesn't care for the fact that all that blood and grime has now dirtied his sheets. He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches at the bridge of his nose with his free hand. He sighs, then gets ahold of himself, brain still half-mired in last night's dreams, whatever they were. ]

Okay. Fine. Assuming you didn't manage to break into my room and handcuff us together without waking me or making a single sound, that means that this is a trick of the City, as though last night wasn't bad enough. [ He looks forlornly at the handcuffs. He's not looking forward to the first time he needs to take a piss. ]

What now?

[thefreak]

( If there is one thing Eddie regrets, it's that he didn't try to do more to help Chrissy. Not that there was anything he could do, but if he could do it all again, he would have tried to intervene. He wouldn't have run from her.

If Astarion isn't at the final stages yet, they have time. Twenty-four hours, if he remembers correctly.

So, for as terrified as he is of the possibility that Vecna has managed to find his way to this place, that he might attack Eddie or, shit, Steve next, Eddie knows he must steel himself. With Steve staying in his apartment and (to Eddie's knowledge, anyway) avoiding everyone, that mostly leaves Eddie as the one with the Vecna slaying knowledge. Even if Steve passed his knowledge down to Will, there is no way in hell he's going to drag that kid into this; he's suffered enough already.

He draws in a deep breath and picks himself up again, approaching Astarion cautiously. )

It's gonna be okay. ( Eddie's voice sounds painfully thin, and he cringes at his own sign of weakness. ) I can help, we just...we need to figure out your favorite song.

( Shit, how long can they fend this guy off for? And how are they gonna figure out where his new base of operations is if the Creel house doesn't exist in this city? )

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai had always found, in battle and other moments of crisis, that the more panicked the people around him, the calmer he became. He doesn't know what is responsible for this response but it has served him well in the past. Astarion's terror and desperation are stark, yet Nikolai does not panic. Instead, he listens.

He might not fully understand what's happening, but the picture is becoming clearer. ]

Well if it's talking that you want you've certainly come to the right place. In my world, my sparkling wit is known across many countries - second only to my dazzling good looks, of course. A general once told me I could talk a rabbit into marrying a fox, but come to think of it I'm not so sure she meant it as a compliment. Here, I'm about to put something in your hand.

[ As he continues speaking, Nikolai reaches in his coat and pulls something from his pocket. He'd found it in one of the shops at the mall. It is a sphere the size of an apple, made of an extremely springy material he'd never seen before. Nikolai takes one of Astarion's hands and carefully but firmly sets the ball in it, narrating as he does: ]

You can squeeze it as hard as you'd like and it won't break. Try it! I've no idea what sort of a material it's made from, but frankly I'm fascinated. Maybe it'll help keep you here, if you can focus on it and the way it feels. Do you know what this material is called? If you do, you really must tell me.

[ Nikolai seems to feel no strain whatsoever in keeping the flow of words coming. His voice is light and casual, but his face remains grave, his attention entirely focused on Astarion. He wonders - of course he does - who has done this, who it is Astarion doesn't want to be alone with, even if only in his mind. ]

I have no intention of leaving. How about a story? I know a good one, about the firebird and the first king of Ravka.

[ And he launches into the story - all about a young warrior who picked up a magical golden feather that made him invincible in battle - embellishing the folktale with jokes and little repetitions, all the while keeping a wary eye on Astarion for any sign that his pain or panic are easing, or becoming worse. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ It's like a switch has been flipped. The second Astarion says what he needs, the voice from that other world changes, lightens, and suddenly it's like the man is chatting up Astarion at a tavern rather than watching him suffer and beg under his master's knife in some abandoned shop. It's absurd and absolutely incongruous with everything else Astarion is experiencing: his eyes see only the squalid floor of the kennels, his body feels nothing but the blade and the stone and his master's knee digging into his spine. And yet, his ears tell a different story: one where he got out. One where his biggest concern at the moment is that he's making a terribly embarrassing scene in front of what sounds like a fascinating new acquaintance.

Astarion would laugh if he could. Instead, he just makes a half-choked sound that isn't terribly distinguishable from any other of his pained, animal noises. His master clicks his tongue behind him. ’Look what you’ve done now.’ Astarion feels the deceptive coolness of a healing spell pressed into his skin, runes erased as his back knits itself back together. ’I will have to start this verse anew.’

He knows the relief will be all too short-lived. Already he can feel cold hands wiping the blood from his back, his master slowly and methodically preparing his canvas for further ruin. Perhaps he only does it to torment Astarion with the anticipation of renewed pain; it doesn’t matter. Astarion seizes the opportunity to push himself again into that other world, to feel the object placed into his hand. His fingers twitch fitfully against it and with a little thrill of triumph, he realizes he can feel it, can feel his fingertips press against the soft, spongy surface rather than the cold stone of the kennel floor.

And then the knife begins to carve into him anew. The world judders and tears with the new assault and this time, Astarion does scream, his control over himself fractured between this reality and the other. Still, he fights feverishly to hold onto the sensation of the thing in his hand, the sound of the man’s voice. The stranger is telling a story now, one about a warrior and a magical bird. A tenuous thread, but Astarion clings to it all the same. His screams quiet to a ragged breath, and then that breath smooths into a stilted rhythm, wounded but steady. He will hear the end of this story, Astarion tells himself. He will stay in this world to hear it and when it is over, Cazador will be gone. He has to believe it. He can't afford not to.

In the end, it will have to be a long story. The torture goes on for nigh on half an hour and what feels like far longer, chapters of the tale punctuated by the occasional spasm or choked cry when Astarion loses control over his body. More than once, he slips out of that world entirely and finds himself wholly back in his Master's clutches, only to fight his way back through ever-deepening exhaustion and fear. What if this never ends? What if it keeps going until Astarion has no strength left to fight and then further still? He remembers torment even worse than this, how it had stretched on without end for days, then weeks, then months. Will this be the same?

It is then, on the precipice of despair, that the hold over him breaks. Cazador, the kennels, the knife in his back—all of it evaporates within a moment, as unceremonious as waking from a bad dream. All of the sudden, Astarion is back in the city, his body drenched in sweat and still pressed into that corner, staring in blank shock at the man whose story had just accompanied him through hell—

—and then promptly slumps against the wall like a puppet with its strings cut. ]

Shit, [ he breathes, caught between relief and horror. It's over.

(It will never be over.)

His voice is hoarse, exhausted. ] I don't understand. How—how is he doing this?

[ He's staring right at Nikolai when he asks it, even though he knows well enough that the man has no answers for him. At least, not to that question. After a moment, Astarion closes his eyes, his head tipping back to rest against the wall behind him. His breathing stutters over a brittle, mirthless laugh. ]

Tell me, [ he says, swallowing around the stone in his throat. ] How does the story end?

[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.

[vampires_pawn]

Trust me, [ Astarion says, voice just as acerbic, ] the feeling's mutual.

[ Somewhat reassured that this encounter isn't going to end with a manacled brawl that ends with him dragging around a stranger's body, Astarion takes a moment to look more carefully at his surroundings. Aside from those things that Astarion himself has just knocked out of place, the room is tidy and neat, with few visible personal belongings aside from the odd book—and, Astarion notices with grudging approval, a small collection of what look like improvised melee weapons tucked under a desk. It seems the man is even more proactive than he thought.

Though, Astarion will need something more delicate to solve this particular problem. ]

I do have some experience picking locks... [ he says, before realizing how that might be taken in this situation. He lifts both hands in an innocent gesture—or rather, he lifts one hand and kind of tugs at the other one that's still connected to his fellow captive. ] Not that I'm in the habit breaking and entering. But, I might be able to pick these manacles—if we can find the right tools.

[korol_rezni_nikolai]

[ Nikolai keeps talking all through it; when he reaches what should be the end of the first story, he simply stitches on another one and keeps going. If there is one thing Ravka has plenty of, it's folktales involving the firebird, and Nikolai had read every one he could get his hands on while Alina was looking for it.

He falters now and then when Astarion muffles a scream or writhes in pain from some unseen attack, but resumes his story quickly. Nikolai has a strong stomach. He's sat by too many bedsides of too many maimed and dying soldiers; in a way this all feels horribly familiar. Nikolai keeps hoping someone else will walk in the door, someone who can actually do something to stop this. As the minutes tick by, a cold feeling of helplessness grows in Nikolai's stomach. What will he do if this goes on for an hour? For two? Eventually he will need a plan. But for now, he keeps doing what Astarion asked. He talks. He stays.

Nikolai's knees are just starting to hurt when something abruptly changes. Suddenly there's a focus in the man's red eyes that was not there before. Nikolai watches, anxious that the pain will return, that the man will cry out again. But he does not.

What he says confirms Nikolai's suspicion. What just happened was far too long to be a mere flashback. Someone had deliberately caused this. Inflicted this pain. ]

I'm afraid I don't know how. I don't have any idea what just happened, but- tell me. Who did this to you?

[ Nikolai's voice is steely as he asks. He's not often a bloodthirsty man, but then, he doesn't often get a front seat to watch someone being tortured. He doesn't have his guns here. He doesn't even have his sword. But like hell is he not going to do something to stop this from ever happening again. He'll figure it out.

Astarion's question about the story takes him by surprise. He wasn't sure how much of it had actually gotten through. ]

Which one? I think I worked about a dozen of them in there.

[ Nikolai gives a roll of one shoulder, shifting away from Astarion to sit on the ground, giving him a little more space. The man looks wrecked. ]

Oh, they all end the same, anyway. The righteous and humble are rewarded with gold and kingdoms and beautiful wives, the evil and greedy are justly punished and die creatively gruesome deaths. More or less the opposite of reality.

[ It's not the best joke, but it's all Nikolai is capable of at the moment. More softly, he asks: ]

Are you alright? Can I get you some water, or... or something?

[vampires_pawn]

Cazador. My old— [ He pauses, swallows again. ] My master. [ His head rolls against the wall to face Nikolai once more. ] I've been very disobedient, you see. Broke every one of his precious rules. And now... [ His gaze grows distant. ] He's punishing me. He must be. Either he's found a way to do it from a distance, or... [ He closes his eyes again, takes a shuddering breath. ] Or he's here now, in the city.

[ Pure dread coils in Astarion's stomach at the thought. Back in their own world, Cazador's creativity in his torments had been constrained somewhat by his dependence on his spawn and their duties. He could not risk killing them, nor doing anything that might permanently hinder their ability to lure back prey. But here, where death is merely a means of reconstituting the body, there will be no such limit. And with all the rules Astarion has broken, all the ire he's earned—

Cazador will make the past 200 years look gentle in comparison.

No. Reality is never like the stories at all.

Astarion refocuses on his new acquaintance, who is now inquiring how else he might help. Early into his enslavement, Astarion had had fantasies of such a person finding him: kind, brave, classically handsome. Silly, storybook notions of rescue and redemption that had gotten him through the unrelenting darkness of those first few decades. Of course, he's long since recognized those fancies for what they were: stupid at best and delusional at worst. Not least because anyone liable to put a stake through his master's heart would be just as happy to put one through his.

Right now, though, Astarion can't bring himself to care. He knows what he needs to regain his strength. And if the man kills him for it... well, a temporary respite from existence doesn't sound like the worst thing that could happen to him at the moment. Far, far from it. ]

If you must know, [ Astarion sighs, looking away, ] I'll need something rather richer than that. [ He motions to a row of refrigerated shelves near where he'd originally been standing when the psychic assault had began. ] There should be a whole rack of it over there. Labeled "Rh Positive," I believe.

[ It won't be too difficult to find the product Astarion is referring to. Walking over, one can indeed find several rows of soft, capped bags bearing that same label or something close to it. Of course, that's not all the label says...

AB
RED BLOOD CELLS
500ML CP2D WHOLE BLOOD

When Nikolai turns back to Astarion, he'll find that he's staring back, expression somewhere between resigned and defiant. ]

Another gift of my master's, I'm afraid, [ he says wearily, eyeing Nikolai like he's daring him to punish him for it. ] The need for regular, ah... let's call them transfusions. But don't worry. [ His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. ] I can be civilized about it.

[vampires_pawn]

[ The boy is delirious, babbling something about favorite songs even as he cringes in terror. Could Cazador do that? Unspool someone's mind without even laying a finger on them? A phantom heartbeat pounds in Astarion's chest as he stands there, frozen with fear and confusion. It doesn't matter. He should kneel. Bow. Prostrate himself and beg his master for forgiveness. But the strangeness of the boy's reaction disorients him, renders the familiar unrecognizable. When Astarion's mind finally catches up with what he's seeing, his first instinct isn't to beg—it's to run.

And so he bolts. He half-expects to hear his master's voice like a whip-crack behind him, freezing him in his tracks with a simple command, but it never comes. So he keeps running, turning a corner to break line of sight and then following his instincts down the shadowiest alleys he can find, looking for somewhere to hide. In the end, he finds the remains of what might've once been a small alley-side shopfront, now thoroughly dark and abandoned. Astarion presses himself to a wall there, not even daring to breathe, listening for his master's slow, deliberate gait behind him.

It never comes. Gradually, Astarion lets himself slowly slide down the wall to sit on the ground, hissing out a breath through his teeth. It wasn't real, he tells himself. Cazador would never have let him run—

—not unless he's playing a very different game from the one he was before. ]

[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.'

[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. ]