back into cookie run

Uhhhh so this is the first time I’ve actually posted anything on tumblr, but this idea hit me randomly out of god knows where so here we go? This also probably horribly formatted because I’m on mobile.

Just some notes before I start rambling, I do tarot readings on occasion but I’m probably an amateur at best so… I’m using The Pulp Girls Tarot Deck guidebook and Tarot for Self Discovery (published by Herron Books) as my sources. These also could all be OOC, I hope not but who knows - and in saying that I’m very open to other people’s opinions and suggestions for this idea of mine. (Edit: forgot to mention that this is just the 22 Major Arcana cards, might also assign Minor Arcana cards at some point)

If for whatever reason this post is well received or I figure out if a different card fits someone better then I may do a follow up post, or even do a post assigning cards from my Oracle Decks to the characters.

I was also very tempted to do an ask in one of the AMA’s as to what tarot card would be assigned to each character, but I wasn’t sure if it would be too dense of a question or how to even get into the AMA’s, so I just decided to go with whatever the hell my brain thinks. This is also done because I am coming up with my own character concept or way of interpreting MC.

Edit (Taken from my eventual next post): Inspiration notes: iyayadonna’s characterisation of all the characters are inspirations and influences. Hexserath’s mirror hall theory as well is a note of influence.

SHADOW MILK COOKIE AND SILENT SALT COOKIE ARE NARRATIVE FOILS!!!!!!! THEY ARE MEANT TO BE DIRECT REFLECTIONS OF EACHOTHER, SPECIFICALLY IN HOW THEY VIEW THEIR RESPECTIVE CORRUPTIONS!!!!!!!!!!! AND I WILL PROVE IT TO YOU IN THIS ESSAY!!!!!!!!!!!!

The parallels between them are kinda hard to describe without just listing shit but bear with me- first of all, I think it's really important to note the way we're introduced to both of them, because the contrast is VERY strong. While he wasn't the first Beast to become playable, Shadow Milk was still the first Beast to get properly introduced, while Silent Salt was introduced last. So they're already book ending all of the Beast Yeast shit, but then there's ALSO the fact that Shadow Milk Cookie is introduced when the Beasts are escaping the Silver Tree, while Silent Salt's entire introduction is basically just the story of how they were trapped there in the first place. Shmilk is introduced first by breaking out of jail while Silent is introduced last by putting everyone in jail.

Jumping off of that, you can already tell from how they're introduced that they have VASTLY different oppinions on their time in the Silver Tree, and if that wasn't enough Shadow Milk literally screams about wanting the witches dead for putting him in there later on in I thiiiink episode 2? Quote "MAY THEY BURN IN THE OVEN", this bitch wants those motherfuckers to SUFFER. Honestly, I'd even go as far as to say Shmilk is the angriest out of all the Beasts about their imprisonment, given the fact that he's the only one to express any active rage about it. Shmilk and Silent Salt have complete opposite views on their time in the Silver Tree.

Now, putting a pin in the Silver Tree stuff, let's move on to another massive parallel between them- their corruptions. Like first of all, obviously Salt corrupted last and Shmilk is heavily implied to have corrupted first, so once again they're book ending the Beasts. But even further than that, the way they treat their corruption is VERY different. Silent Salt obviously fucking hates himself for it. He views himself as a failure, renaming himself out of shame and then coming to Elder Faerie in complete shambles and literally asking Elder to kill him. Then, he locks himself and the other Beasts in the Silver Tree, hoping that the 5 of them will just rot in there forever. When that doesn't work and they all escape, instead of doing. Anything, really. He locks himself up in a tomb in the hopes that no one will ever come looking for him. He's fucking MISERABLE. Meanwhile, Shmilk fucking LOVES being the villain. He plays himself up, he puts on little shows, he revels in causing chaos, and he completely buries any evidence of who he used to be, even from us the players. He is Shadow Milk Cookie, and you will fear his name!

The only thing Shmilk and Silent have in common post-corruption is that they constantly vilify themselves on purpose. While the other Beasts' actions mostly speak for themselves, Shadow Milk REALLY plays up the evil factor. He makes it clear that he is the bad guy, that he is not to be sympathized with. The only time he paints himself in a sympathetic light is during the puppet show he puts on about the Beasts getting trapped, which Imo is more evidence that he REALLY hated that fuckin tree but I digress. This purposeful vilification is why Pure Vanilla gets to him so fucking much, because PV is willing to completely ignore all of it and forgive him on account of being. Jesus. And Shmilk can't fuckin stand that.

Meanwhile, Silent Salt doesn't have a lot of in game evidence of this beyond the stories that got passed down about him, but his wiki makes it VERY clear that he views himself as beyond redemption. I mean look at this shit-

I have no clue WHY he's the only character with a customized wiki like this, but he is, and oooohhhhh boy does it say a lot about him. Oh boy. He does NOT want you looking any deeper into who he is or why he's like this, he wants to be viewed as lost cause. He does not want your sympathy. WHICH IS A LOT LIKE SHMILK!!!!

Overall, these two are clearly meant to intentionally parallel each other. They're not only the beginning and the end of the Beasts corruption, but also the beginning and the end of their imprisonment. They both make themselves out to be one dimensionally evil villains, just for very different reasons. They're both medieval themed. But what I find the MOST interesting about these parallels is how it ties in thematically with what tore the Beasts down in the first place; the fact that they were created to be just their job and nothing else.

BECAUSE LIKE OKAY HEAR ME OUT!!!!!!! Shadow Milk Cookie is clearly DEEPLY affected by the way he was treated as the Fount. From what little we know about his backstory, the reason he corrupted is because cookies wouldn't listen to him. He failed at his job because nobody wanted to hear the truth, they only wanted sweet lies, and I think it's probably safe to say that people fuckin HATED him for the things he said. It's possible that the reason he corrupted first is that he was the only virtue nobody liked. All of the Beasts were screwed over from the start, but his position as the Fount of Knowledge, fittingly, made him the most likely to realize how inherently fucked their existences were.

Now, post-corruption, he's an absolute control freak. He's clearly trying to take the reigns of his life back, forge an identity for himself through any means necessary. Choosing a name for himself and making sure that everyone he encounters KNOWS IT. Controlling the narrative through lies and manipulation. Shapeshifting constantly. Taking his personhood by force. Nobody gets to choose who he is but him, not the other cookies, not his fellow Virtues, not even the witches. The need for control, to be his own person outside of the Fount of Knowledge, also makes his clear rage at being locked in that fuck ass tree make a LOT of sense! Because, from his perspective, he's been forced into a role he didn't want since his creation, and the minute he starts trying to find a place outside of that role, expressing his anger and resentment at being put in that position at all, he's locked in sensory deprivation hell for thousands of years and LITERALLY FUCKING REPLACED!!!!!!! It's another attempted blow at his personhood, another form of objectification. He's the only Beast to express clear, unbridled rage at their imprisonment because he's the only one expressly motivated by how awfully the virtues have been treated for their entire existence.

Can you tell I have a lot of feelings about Shadow Milk Cookie-

Anyway, let's look at Silent Salt now. The Salt of Solidarity had arguably the best job out of all the virtues. He was the only one who's job allowed him to be viewed as an actual person by the cookies around him. As the virtue of Solidarity, his job was literally to Show Solidarity to everyone, no matter who they were. You can't do that if you're supposed to be an untouchable god, it's just not possible. Because of this, he was the one to face the least amount of objectification while actively working as a Virtue, allowing him to have an overall positive view of his job that most of the others didn't get. But that doesn't mean he was completely free of of that objectification. Because not only does he still go by exclusively his job title like all the other virtues, but he also integrated his job so deeply into his personality that he had no idea how to live without it. He never actually viewed HIMSELF as an independent person. He doesn't think he needs to be. So, when the Virtue DehumanizationTM from other cookies catches up to him, painting him as a tyrant and taking away his support network, he doesn't have any sort of identity left. He loses everything, including himself. Only Silence remains.

Then, after his corruption, he's just. Completely given up. He's so horrified that he failed he asks his boyfriend to kill him where he stands. Taking on a new name not as a show of his personhood, but as a mark of shame. Shame that he failed his job, that he isn't the Salt of Solidarity anymore. Again, he's the only Beast to have his corrupted virtue in his name. He's an empty husk of a cookie, a walking corpse, and, as a final act of sacrifice, he seals both himself and the rest of the beasts away in the Silver Tree. He doesn't believe they deserve anything else, he thinks they deserve to suffer eternally for what they did, for their failure to serve cookie kind. The fact that the tree created new virtues in their place only solidifies the fact that he had no plans on ever letting himself or his former colleagues free. No plans to maybe, one day, get them all help. Find new purposes. In his mind, they were only their roles, and now that they can no longer perform those roles they're all as good as dead anyway.

All of this also makes him an amazing antagonist for White Lily btw. Like this essay isn't abt her but all of this is VERY thematically appropriate given her Dark Enchantress shit and I'm very excited to see where the story goes.

ANYWAY. When I write it all out like that, the parallels become REALLY obvious, don't they? But the real kicker here is that they both- directly or indirectly- tore the others goals and senses of self directly out from under them. Shadow Milk may not be aware of the full extent of the damage he did to Salt and the Kala Namak, but that doesn't change the fact that, thanks to Black Sapphire's presence, he was still the Beast with the most direct involvement in their downfall. Meanwhile Silent Salt, who viewed himself and the other virtues as nothing outside of their jobs, ripped Shadow Milk's independence and identity away from him, replacing him with a new virtue like you would a broken microwave. They caused eachothers worst nightmares to come true.

So uh. In conclusion. CookieRun's storytelling is fucking amazing. Shadow Milk and Silent Salt are narrative foils and you cannot convince me otherwise. And uh. These two make me physically ill. Okay bye-

Tag list:

@pufthebirb

Things that were, Things that are

Part 1 & 2 (2/3)

Oh wow, what a complex question! It’s definitely a stimulating one. The first thing that came to mind as I read it was Zimbardo’s “guards and prisoners” experiment, which I read about years ago in my psychology textbooks. I remember it clearly, among others, because of the results of that experiment—which was supposed to last two weeks, but was interrupted after just six days. For a very specific reason.

Before I go on, let me clarify the usual: I studied psychology, but I’m not a psychologist, and certainly not a psychiatrist, so I’m not trying—nor am I qualified—to make any kind of diagnosis. That’s important to keep in mind.

So, going back to Zimbardo and the Stanford Prison Experiment (1971): Stanford University launched a study to investigate the psychological effects of taking on the roles of guard and prisoner. They selected 24 healthy college students, randomly assigned them to one of the two roles, and placed them in a simulated prison built in the basement of the psychology department. The experiment was intended to last two weeks, but it was terminated after only six days due to the extreme levels of stress exhibited by both groups.

The “guards” developed sadistic, arrogant, and increasingly authoritarian behaviors.

The “prisoners,” within just a few days, began to show signs of disorientation, depression, and passive submission.

Three prisoners voluntarily left the study by day four due to psychological trauma.

The experiment revealed just how profoundly situational factors and imposed roles can transform human behavior. People who are otherwise “normal” can adopt cruel and dehumanizing behaviors when placed in contexts of power and control.

The Stanford Prison Experiment is one of the most well-known examples in social psychology where depersonalization and dehumanization clearly and disturbingly emerged. Depersonalization is a subjective experience. It occurs when a person stops feeling like themselves, perceiving a sense of detachment from their body, emotions, or social role. It is common in situations of trauma, extreme stress, or contexts where the individual loses control over their actions and decisions. Dehumanization, on the other hand, is an active act, carried out by others. It happens when an individual or group denies another human being their humanity, treating them as an object, an animal, or a tool.

In the context of the experiment, the dynamic of depersonalization became evident from the very first days. The “prisoners,” for instance, no longer had names—they were identified by numbers. They wore identical uniforms, were subjected to strict rules, and had to ask permission even for the most basic needs. Little by little, many began to internalize their role, ceasing to perceive themselves as free and autonomous individuals. Some broke down in tears, others fell into passive silence, and some completely lost their sense of what was real or right. They were no longer students participating in a psychological simulation, but actual inmates who believed they were truly imprisoned. This is where depersonalization comes into play: when you're stripped of your identity, your name, your rights—you stop recognizing yourself. And if you don’t recognize yourself, you don’t resist.

The same process occurred, though in reverse, for the “guards.” They too wore uniforms, dark glasses that blocked eye contact, and carried batons as symbols of authority. Soon, even the most mild-mannered among them began to behave in authoritarian, humiliating, and in some cases openly sadistic ways. They were no longer individuals accountable for their actions, but instruments of the role they were playing. Power, combined with anonymity and emotional distance, transformed them. Not because they were evil, but because they felt authorized—shielded by a system that justified every behavior.

This, ultimately, is the heart of the problem: when people are stripped of their personal identity, dehumanized, and placed within a closed system where every action is dictated by rigid and authoritarian roles, it becomes much easier for them to lose their moral compass, their empathy, and their critical thinking. After all, those people aren’t seen as people anymore — they’re seen as things. And that’s how depersonalization and dehumanization feed into each other.

That’s why, despite its later criticism and methodological flaws, the Stanford Prison Experiment remains so relevant — and so frightening: because that kind of evil can be seen in the real world, too. You don’t need to be a monster to commit monstrous acts. You just need the right context. You just need the absence of limits.

Power, in itself, is neither good nor bad. It’s a social force — a dynamic that exists wherever human relationships do. But when it’s exercised without responsibility, without external limits or ethical boundaries, it can easily turn into a tool for domination and abuse. That’s precisely what happened inside the simulated prison of the Stanford experiment.

And this is exactly where the figure of the vampire in Baldur’s Gate 3 comes into play — particularly in the cases of Cazador and Vellioth before him — both deeply entangled in power dynamics within a closed system, where dehumanization and depersonalization are not only evident but systematically reinforced within the "families" ruled by these vampire lords.

Let’s take our favorite vampire lord, Cazador, as an example. His spawn are no longer individuals — they are tools, property, things to be broken down and reshaped in pursuit of a perfection that doesn’t exist. He strips them of freedom, will, and desire. They have no possessions of their own, no room of their own, no relationships outside the family. He calls them “children,” “littles,” “pathetic.” This is exactly the kind of forced depersonalization we see in real-world power structures — in prisons, cults, or abusive relationships. Identity is shattered. Language becomes a weapon that defines and confines. And power becomes an end in itself: domination for the sake of domination, harm for the sake of harm. Let’s not forget — Cazador is a sadist.

And what happens to those on the receiving end? Much like the “prisoners” in the Stanford Prison Experiment, the spawn internalize their role as victims: they stop resisting, lose their sense of self, develop emotional dependency, blind obedience, or even trauma bonding. Astarion is the only one who manages — through immense struggle — to break that cycle. But not without consequences. For a long time, he too saw himself as nothing more than a pleasure object, a creature with no value except through the satisfaction or desire of others. And even in seeking his identity and purpose, he initially searches for them within the very system that stole them from him.

And so far, I’ve only talked about social dynamics that are common even to our real world. But if we also take into account that vampires are, by definition, undead creatures driven by bloodlust and violence — animated by monstrous hunger and plagued by a fundamental distortion of emotions and feelings — then it all comes together. That’s how vampire cruelty finds fertile ground in a context that is already inherently susceptible.

But there’s another level to consider — one that ties cruelty not just to power, but to identity itself. A true vampire is, by definition, something unnatural. Neither truly alive nor truly dead, a creature condemned to eternal hunger and endless night, existing outside the natural rhythm of life. In a sense, they are suspended in a state of existential limbo — immortal, yes, but hollow. And without power, without control, without a role to perform… what remains? Nothing but a pitiful being, cursed to rot in the dark through the ages. Pathetic, damned, a fragment of what was once human.

And that’s why cruelty becomes not only instinct, but meaning. Violence becomes a necessary ritual. Domination becomes the scaffolding that supports a fractured sense of self. The vampire lords of Baldur’s Gate 3 — like Cazador — aren’t cruel only because they can be (or because they perform the role of the patriarch, the one who has the “right” and “duty” to enforce discipline — context and role are key as we’ve seen in the Zimbardo experiment). They are cruel also because, deep down, that cruelty is the only thing that confirms their existence. It makes them feel alive, reflected in the eyes and bodies of their broken victims. It’s what tells them they are still something. Still powerful. Still feared. Still in control.

But this power only truly exists within the closed system they govern. Cazador can do whatever he wants with his spawn. Within the walls of his estate, within the boundaries of his "family," he is a god — absolute arbiter of life and death. But outside of that microcosm, his rule is not as recognized. His authority doesn’t carry the same weight. His invincibility is an illusion, confined to an environment entirely controlled by him. To everyone else, he’s just another Baldur’s Gate noble — perhaps more reclusive than most, but nothing more.

And so, he builds that environment to sustain himself — to create a world where his power is total, where his ego is constantly reinforced, and where no one dares challenge him. Because outside that system, he is only a mask... or the monster to be slain — vulnerable to confrontation, to exposure, to rejection, and even to death. His entire identity depends on the survival of the system he built — a system where cruelty isn’t just permitted, it’s expected.

In this sense, cruelty isn’t merely a tool for true vampires: it is their armor, their mirror, their only way of feeling real. Alive. Their violence isn’t random — it is ritual. It protects them from the unbearable thought that, without that domination, they might be nothing at all.

In this context, power and suffering go hand in hand. We must never forget Cazador’s own words about his existence — about the never-ending monster and how he mourns the person he once was. Vampirism is a curse. And power might seem to ease its torments, but as both psychology and literature have taught us, power without control corrupts.

The examples that immediately come to mind are The Lord of the Rings and Macbeth. The power of the Ring is the ultimate symbol of corruption. Even the purest characters (like Frodo, Bilbo, and even Gandalf) are tempted by it. Gollum is the most extreme example: once a hobbit, he becomes a deformed, obsessed creature. The Ring doesn’t just grant power — it erases identity and destroys will.

Macbeth, on the other hand, begins as a valiant general, but a prophecy and unchecked ambition turn him into a bloodthirsty tyrant. Power consumes him: he loses clarity, isolates himself, and kills anyone who threatens his throne. Sound familiar?

In Astarion’s original playthrough, after the Ascension, the newly risen vampire lord even considers killing his former companions, as they might become a threat in the future.

Essentially: a closed system, rigid roles fueled by dehumanization and depersonalization, vampirism with its inherent implications, and power — these are the perfect ingredients for unchecked cruelty. And if we also consider psychiatric traits like narcissism, paranoia, and an obsession with control — which True Vampires often develop as distortions of themselves and of everything that consumes them (eternity, power, hunger) — it becomes easy to understand how and why this cruelty is so particularly extreme.

At this point, I think it’s impossible not to mention Stanley Milgram’s experiment. It’s another cornerstone of social psychology and speaks directly to the issue of authority and blind obedience. Milgram designed it in the early 1960s, while the world was closely following the trial of Adolf Eichmann, the Nazi official who famously declared he was “just following orders.” The question haunting Milgram was simple and terrifying: how far will ordinary people go when urged on by an authority figure?

In the experiment, participants were told they were taking part in a study on memory. They were assigned the role of “teachers” and instructed to administer electric shocks to a “student” (actually an actor) whenever the student gave an incorrect answer. The shocks weren’t real, but the participants didn’t know that. The “authority,” played by a stern experimenter in a lab coat, remained present at all times, urging them to continue—even as the student screamed, begged, or eventually went silent.

The result? The majority of participants—about 65%—delivered the maximum shock level of 450 volts, despite showing clear signs of distress, anxiety, and even nervous breakdowns. They did it because the authority figure told them to, because the setting felt legitimate, and because the moral responsibility appeared to fall on someone else.

And I believe this mechanism is crucial to understanding the “cruelty” of the spawn when they deliver victims to Cazador. Astarion and the others are victims—but in certain moments, they are also enforcers. Not because they’re evil, but because they were placed in a system where their identities were destroyed and replaced. They internalized the belief that obedience is the only way to survive—or, in the worst cases, to be loved.

Cazador, like Milgram’s authority figure, leaves no room for dissent. He is an all-consuming presence, cloaked in absolute power, legitimizing every command and dehumanizing every victim (the "cattle"). In a system like that, losing your moral compass takes no time at all... especially when disobedience means being buried alive.

And I’ll say this again, for everyone who underestimates Astarion’s context and thinks it’s easy to judge from their own high ground of moral safety: what Milgram and Zimbardo both show us is that you don’t need to be a monster to do harm. You just need to be in the wrong context, surrounded by the wrong people, and without anyone to remind you of who you really are.

But let’s move away from the social and situational level — the one explored by Zimbardo and Milgram’s experiments — and return to the psychiatric and clinical perspective. In this case, the issue of cruelty becomes even more nuanced. Especially when cruelty is not an impulsive act or a one-off reaction, but something systematic, repeated. Here, explanations intertwine with personality disorders, defense mechanisms, and even the ways in which an individual constructs (or destroys) their own identity.

One of the first clinical profiles that comes to mind is narcissistic personality disorder (as I mentioned earlier). We’re talking about individuals who have an extreme need to feel special, superior, revered. The problem is that this grandiose self-image is fragile, and whenever something threatens it — rejection, disagreement, disobedience — the reaction can be fierce. The narcissist punishes to reassert control and reestablish their value. Cruelty, in these cases, is not a release: it’s a “necessary” act to protect the ego. When Cazador humiliates, punishes, or kills a spawn who dared to think for themselves, he doesn’t do it solely for sadism — or rather, not only. He does it because his power is fragile, and every act of freedom puts it at risk.

But narcissism can also blend with something even more dangerous: antisocial personality disorder, or psychopathy. In this case, cruelty can become a tool — a way to get what one wants, with no guilt whatsoever. Other people’s pain means nothing. Empathy is absent or reduced to a useful simulation. Some individuals even find pleasure in humiliating or destroying others — not because they are wounded, but because they are emotionally empty, and the only way they can feel anything is through domination. A vampire with psychopathic traits is the perfect predator: calculating, seductive, and ruthless.

There are, however, more ambiguous cases, where cruelty is born not from coldness but from emotional confusion. Some individuals with borderline personality disorder, for instance, may hurt the people they love out of fear of being abandoned. Pain becomes proof of love, or a desperate attempt to avoid feeling powerless. This isn’t the same “cold” cruelty of someone like Cazador, but it can still be devastating. One can imagine certain spawn who, while being victims, in turn hurt others — maybe to gain a scrap of attention, a privilege, or simply to avoid being at the bottom of the food chain.

And then there are true sadists, which is where Cazador fits once again. That is, those who feel genuine pleasure in witnessing the suffering of others. Sadism as a personality trait is no longer included in official diagnostic manuals, but it continues to be recognized in clinical settings, especially in cases of organized abuse, torture, or sadistic-predatory relationships. Here, cruelty is not a means but an end. It is part of the identity. It’s an erotic act, a symbolic one, a spiritual one. A constant affirmation of power. And what could be more iconically sadistic than a vampire who imposes hunger, fear, and dependency as acts of “love”? Like a father toward his prodigal son.

But not all cruelty is deliberate. In some cases, it’s the result of deep, unprocessed trauma. There are victims who, over time, end up identifying with their abuser. It’s a survival mechanism called introjection: if I imitate the one who hurts me, maybe I won’t be hurt anymore. This can lead to compulsive repetition: someone who was abused may reproduce the same dynamic with others. Not out of malice, but out of desperation — to feel in control, to no longer be the prey. Some spawn in Baldur’s Gate 3 seem to act this way. They have internalized the violent system they were raised in, and they repeat it because they know no other way. Like Astarion, who yearns to ascend as a form of revenge and self-rehabilitation.

Lastly, there are cases where cruelty stems from paranoid beliefs (again, as mentioned above): “the other is a threat,” “they will betray me,” “I must punish them before they strike.” Here, power isn’t just exercised — it’s defended at all costs. Every action is interpreted as hostile. Every relationship becomes a battlefield. In these situations, violence is justified as self-defense — even when it’s wildly disproportionate. A paranoid vampire doesn’t kill for pleasure, but out of fear — because they believe the alternative is their own destruction. This concept is perfectly illustrated in how Astarion, post-Ascension, even considers killing his former companions to eliminate future threats — before those threats have even taken shape.

In all of these scenarios, the most disturbing part is that cruelty never appears as cruelty to those who enact it. It’s justified. It’s necessary. It’s a right — or even a mission. Power, especially absolute power, corrupts one’s perception of reality and of others. And when morality bends to the logic of domination, the suffering of others becomes just a detail.

To conclude, I believe that the motivation behind the cruelty of true vampires cannot be pinned down to a single cause or reason, but must be sought across various domains — which can be roughly summarized as relational, experiential, contextual, and pathological.

They’re called contributing factors. And the matter is honestly much deeper and broader than what I’ve been able to sum up (perhaps a bit simplistically) here in this post.

This makes the figure of the vampire and their spawn truly layered and complex. Certainly not easy to judge.

Okay, I’ve written another of my massive rambles. Apologies for the avalanche of clumsy concepts, and thank you for giving me the opportunity to indulge in my ravings. xD

Sources:

Zimbardo, P. G. The Lucifer Effect (2007) – On the mechanisms that turn ordinary people into perpetrators.

Milgram, S. Obedience to Authority (1974) – On blind obedience to authority figures.

Bandura, A. (1999). Moral Disengagement – On how cruel actions are morally justified.

American Psychiatric Association. DSM-5® (2013) – Official diagnostic criteria.

Baumeister, R. F. Evil: Inside Human Violence and Cruelty (1997) – A psychological analysis of evil.

van der Kolk, B. A. The Body Keeps the Score (2014) – Trauma and how it’s stored in the body.

Herman, J. L. Trauma and Recovery (1992) – Survival mechanisms and the repetition of trauma.

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Lord of the Rings (1954–55) – Power as moral corruption.

One thing I absolutely love about Astarion’s redemption arc is the complexity of his relationship with the figure of the hero.

Astarion is a vampire, a monster, and also a victim (as well as, in a way, a perpetrator, due to his forced obedience to Cazador). He is the first person in desperate need of a hero to save him and the last person suited for the role of a hero.

He prayed to every god for salvation, even for death, and even that was denied to him. He resents heroes and the powerful, and when confronted with the idea that both have a duty to protect the weak, he scornfully responds that no, they’ve done a terrible job—that in 200 years, no one saved him from torture, and that it was the mind flayers, other monsters, who finally freed him. And that, in reality, the powerful only use their strength to bend others to their will and serve their own selfish interests. It’s in this same conversation that Astarion declares his desire to be better than Cazador—stronger, more powerful—though the player likely meant kinder, more noble.

Yet, despite everything he says, despite his disapproval of every heroic action taken in Act 1, Astarion is irreversibly drawn to the figure of the hero. First and foremost, he seeks their protection, though still through the warped lens of his past under Cazador’s cruel talons. Secondly, he is extremely sensitive to kindness, understanding, acceptance—to being treated like a person, just as a true hero would treat him.

And then, this is something I particularly noticed while playing as Karlach—Astarion is fascinated by Wyll, who is, in many ways, the quintessential hero of the party. He even admits that if he had to choose one of them to feed on, it would be Wyll, because he is sweet and righteous, just. Which is a contradiction, because the very traits that draw Astarion to him are the same ones that make him want to drain him dry. Love and hate, all in one.

With this in mind, even the conversation after meeting Aurelia and Leon takes on a deeper meaning. The player sees something in Astarion, but he still refuses to recognize it, to admit it, and rightfully says he can’t be what we see in him—a good person, a righteous, understanding, even heroic figure. And yet, the player sees through him…

And it’s breathtaking when, during the ritual, just before stabbing Cazador, Astarion says those very same words: "You're right. I can be better than him." But this time, he doesn’t mean stronger or more powerful. No, this time, he means it exactly as it was first presented to him and so bitterly rejected. And he means it with all his heart.

And in doing so, in freeing all his siblings and all the poor souls imprisoned there, Astarion commits a truly heroic act. He does for others what he once desperately hoped for himself, what he prayed for—becoming the hero he needed. Because at the same time, he is freeing himself—from his chains, from his narrow worldview that saw everything in terms of power and dominance. For the first time, he is free to live outside of the path that someone else forced upon him.

And that’s exactly why, in my opinion, the next morning, it’s right to tell him that yes, we were the heroes who stood by his side, but we only gave him a push. Because, in the end, he saved himself.

He is the hero he had been waiting for centuries!