He knows, stepping silently towards the sleeping form of the bard, that this is not the wisest of choices. This is a course of action that will almost certainly reveal him, whether after a minute, a night, or a week; he will be discovered.
Astarion has his reasons, of course, as ever.
He tells himself: I am weak, still half-living on the sour-rotten blood of vermin. The blood of the boar he’d felt lucky to spot just a day ago had, of course, soon belied the beast’s true nature. It had let out a repellent squeal as its musty lifeblood emptied into his mouth, tasting tannic like a wine made only from husks.
He tells himself: I need to provide some benefit to this camp. I need this strength to manipulate these strangers into becoming allies; better them fighting at my back in a fight rather than thrusting a knife into it. The strength, the power from this will do that, surely.
After the boar, the relief from the hunger, always stalking him like the shadow he now cast, never fully came. The further along this road they venture, drawing closer to the Szarr Mansion by way of Moonrise, the more these animals’ blood fills without sating. The druid spoke of a shadow-curse; perhaps something is beginning to drain these animals before he ever has the chance. Or, perhaps, this is another of Cazador’s games with him.
He tells himself: if I might just taste the bard’s blood—she being as much a thinking creature as any bard might be—then I might have some knowledge, some confirmation, that I am free from my master. If I escape his punishment for breaking this first rule, then perhaps this reprieve is true, however temporary.
From the moment he kneels, letting himself hit the ground near her bedroll too heavily, he knows that he should leave. She sleeps too lightly, already disturbed by his approach. Elves are wise, he’s been told; if he were still an elf, perhaps he would have been wise enough to creep back to his tent, fake a trance until first light. Instead he bends towards her, knowing what will come next as her eyes flash open, scrambling for a knife–a stake perhaps–
He thinks, privately, that this way no one might rightly despise him for the way he is. This way, he might take the torturing out of their hands. If he must be revealed a monster, then he can seize that moment, perform for them something other than his real crime.
The bard looks at him, gaze flicking to their still-sleeping companions.
Asartion thinks, dead heart rabbit-fast, I can carve out the insides of my veins with more precision than they ever might. I have staked myself a thousand times over.
Instead—
The bard stares at him, arms crossed, silently evaluating. He faces judgment: monstrous in the demands of his un-flesh. Monstrous, though, exactly as they all would expect him to be. It is easy to allow this mask to cover the true rot underneath.
Her tail uncurls, pointing towards him like a compass fooled by a false north. She nods silently, pats the ground, and the shame-fear leashing him crumbles as the yawning pit of his hunger takes free rein. He kneels again before her, disturbed by such permission. Re-positioned as a supplicant and wrong-footed, as it were, Astarion takes that first rush of blood, latching onto her shoulder. He drinks and drinks—this is the first time, surely the last time, and desperation has him pulling more and too much more. She pushes him away, gray-black talons firmly, gently bringing him away by his throat. She might puncture his neck too this way, Astarion thinks, delirious on this new blood. A bite with her claws in return, spilling both their blood on the dusty ground—
She shoves again, harder, and Astarion opens his eyes.
It’s an almost sickening feeling, this fullness, this rush of power. A dangerous thought, that. Nothing more finally-deadly than to shudder away from power of this kind. A lesson that his master perhaps did not mean to convey, and yet one that had been burned into him as surely as his caress.
This is a gift, he tells her—she nods, once, stares as he walks away. He makes it not twenty paces into the brush before he retches.
![iriador - burnhamofvulcan - Baldur's Gate (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)](data:image/png;base64,iVBORw0KGgoAAAANSUhEUgAAAAEAAAABCAQAAAC1HAwCAAAAC0lEQVR42mP8/h8AAvMB+NzmkbcAAAAASUVORK5CYII=)