Chapter Text
Nothing kills a mood more than being caught with your literal pants down, and I don’t think I’ve ever re-dressed more quickly than in that moment.
I smell the blood as it rushes to Astarion’s cheeks, and he’s fumbling about the tent, adjusting his trousers, which are stretched tightly over his erection. I chide myself internally for nearly getting carried away with him, again. There is so much at stake now, and so many unanswered questions. We should not be complicating it with something as simplistic as desire, and I can’t believe how easy it is to lose control with him.
“Well,” he finally says, his throat still thick. “Perhaps we can resume our… discussion… a bit later without the prying eyes.”
It’s a bad idea. I know it’s a bad idea. But his green eyes are pleading, his hair is tousled, and his lips still swollen from our fervent kisses. There are also still marks on his wrist, from the ropes I had used to tie him up as he thrashed against the darkness inside of him… the very darkness that wanted me dead.
Complicated? Oh yes.
Worth it? I’m still not sure, but my body certainly seems to think so.
“Of course,” I murmur, pulling on my boots. “We just got a little carried away.”
“I always get carried away with you, Darling.”
He really needs to stop saying things like that.
“We should go see what Wyll needed,” I say, standing up and smoothing down my clothing. “He’s probably more embarrassed than we are.”
“I think I know what he needed,” Astarion says. “Wyll is a monster hunter.”
Silence falls between us as I process this. Monster hunters slay beasts, devils, and monsters for coin, but also for clout. They like to be seen as heroic, and often brag about their deeds. Many a vampire has fallen to a monster hunter, but more monster hunters have fallen to vampires.
Our interests do not align.
“So you think this is about me?” I ask, and he nods.
“I was wondering if he might approach me about it. Which is ironic, really, as it seems he has much more to worry about from me than you… in the monster category.” His eyes lower, his face saddening.
“Well let’s go talk to him together,” I offer, lifting the tent flap. “Perhaps I can help to convince him that some monsters deserve to die, and others…”
“Others are not monstrous at all,” Astarion says softly, leaning in to kiss my cheek before stepping out of the tent.
~*~*~
With everything that has been happening, I realize that I have not really had a chance to talk to our new companion yet.
Wyll Ravenguard, he introduces himself, has dark skin and black braided hair with a pencil beard and two different color eyes. One is a deep dark brown, and the other white and soulless – perhaps a prosthetic. He dresses as a nobleman, a black jerkin with golden patterns running through the fabric.
The three of us have settled on the far side of the camp, where there is a grouping of logs for us to sit and chat in semi-private.
“My father is the Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate,” Wyll tells us in a confident, steady tone. “I found myself in need of more adventure, and studied to be a warlock. ‘The Blade of Frontiers’, they call me.” He looks at us expectantly, clearly assuming we have heard of him.
“Of course, The famed Blade of Frontiers!” I say with an appropriate amount of excitement without going overboard. I read people easily, it’s part of what made me so successful in capturing Cazador’s victims. Pleasing them, especially men, is not a difficult task when you know what they want to hear. “I did not know the Blade and the son of the Duke were the same person.”
Wyll nods, obviously pleased.
“No one does,” he says. “It is quite a long story, and I do not wish to bore you with the details.” Of course he wishes to bore us with the details.
“Please, continue,” Astarion says.
“Several years ago, while my father was away from the city, I heard whispers of a dragon cult trying to summon Tiamat to Baldur’s Gate.”
“Tiamat?” I cut in, surprised. “The dragon?”
“The dragon queen,” Wyll nods. “Goddess of greed, and servant of Bane.” Bane is one of the Dead Three, and I remember the book Astarion was reading: “The History of the Dead Three”.
“That would have been bad,” I observe, obviously.
“Quite,” Wyll agrees. “And we were powerless to stop them from summoning her. So I did the unthinkable. I made a deal with the devil.”
He continues to tell us that a cambion names Mizora offered to grant him the power to destroy the dragon cult, but the price was his soul. They wiped out the cult, Wyll losing an eye in the battle.
“But the devil was in the details,” he says with a sardonic smile. “The pact forbade me from speaking of the details to my father, and he cast me out of Baldur’s Gate when he saw that I was aligned to Mizora. That tickled her to no end.”
I’m sure he’s right. Devils love to create chaos.
“I ended up in Cloakwood,” he continues. “Which is where I fine tuned my skills and slayed a minotaur, earning myself the ‘Blade of Frontiers’ title. The people saw me as their hero, a slayer of monsters.” His eyes fall on mine. I do not break the contact, and nod for him to continue.
“But Mizora will always collect. She tasked me with hunting a tiefling named Karlach, who serves under Zariel in Avernus.”
“Avernus?” Astarion repeats incredulously. “The first layer of hell?”
“The first of nine layers, yes,” Wyll says. “It was there that I chased after the tiefling, and we both escaped Avernus only to end up on a nautiloid ship.”
“Implanted with tadpoles for possible ceremorphosis,” I finish and he nods. “That is quite a story, Wyll.”
“Quite,” Astarion agrees. “So what did you need to talk to us about?” I once again smell blood rushing to his cheeks, likely remembering what we were in the middle of when Wyll came calling.
“Mizora is relentless,” Wyll admits. “And if I do not capture this tiefling Karlach, I fear I will end up back in Avernus, or worse. I come to you asking for your aid. In return, I offer you my blade for the many battles to come in our quest to rid ourselves of these things.”
“I don’t think we have time to worry about…” I start, but Astarion holds out his hand.
“This Mizora,” he starts, catching my eye. “A devil, yes? Do you know if she speaks Infernal?”
A breath catches in my throat from his question. With the distractions from the past couple of nights, I have almost forgotten of Astarion’s promise to look at the scars on my back, the very scars he claims are written… in Infernal.
“Infernal?” Wyll asks, questioningly. “I’m sure she does. But why?”
“For my own purposes,” Astarion says. “But important enough that I would be willing to offer our assistance if we are able to speak to this Mizora.”
Wyll nods, thoughtfully.
“Mizora does love to be entertained,” he says with a scoff. “I will summon her to our camp this evening. Perhaps away from the others?”
Astarion agrees. “We’ll pick a spot in the woods and tell the others we’re hunting.”
We all agree, and stand as Wyll makes a hasty exit back to camp, leaving Astarion and I alone once again.
I turn to him, looking up into his face. I start to speak, but he interrupts me.
“Take off your shirt.”
~*~*~
I blink at Astarion, almost laugh.
“My shirt? Astarion, now is hardly the time to continue…”
“Just to see your back, Darling,” he says, softly, hands on my shoulders. He turns me around gently so my back is facing him. “May I?”
I am not mentally prepared for this sudden topic change, but still nod in silence, swallowing. He slowly untucks my shirt from my pants and pulls it over my head. He then hands my shirt to me, pressing it gently to my chest so as to cover me from any passersby. It is a sweet gesture, and I become more relaxed as he leans back to study my scars.
I do not need to breathe, as a vampire, but my breath catches anyway as I feel his gaze on me, on the one place on my body I will not show to anyone. Only Cazador has seen these scars, and only because he created them.
“Darling,” Astarion whispers finally, and I feel a finger lightly trail across the bottom of my neck and down my back. “What cruelty you have endured.” I shiver at his touch, but do not move.
“Can you read it?” I ask. The finger leaves my back, and he steps away.
“No, I’m sorry,” he admits, motioning for me to put my shirt back on, which I do gratefully. “It’s definitely Infernal, but whatever my past mind knows of the language, it is not enough to understand the text.”
The desire to know what is carved into my flesh is intense.
“So I need to talk to this devil Mizora,” I shrug. “It looks like we did meet Wyll for a reason, after all. And he didn’t try to kill me, so bonus for him.”
“We will talk to her,” Astarion assures me. “We will find answers.”
“For you as well,” I say, attempting a smile. “We will find your answers, too.” He only nods, looking away.
“Hopefully before someone else has to die,” he mutters, looking pained.
“I will keep ropes on me at all times just in case,” I tease, turning my tone into flirtation. “You just let me know the next time you need to be tied up.” My strategy works, and I earn a smile from him. My dead heart warms slightly. It is a beautiful smile.
“Thank you,” he says with a shake of his head. “For being you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He steps closer, his face hovering above mine.
“Your eyes are especially red this morning,” he observes, lowering himself to his knees in front of me, and baring his neck. “Might you need some breakfast?”
Now, the smile is mine.
