Hello

The Moon

A corner of Astarion’s mouth twitched upward in a sardonic smirk once he turned over the next card.

“Not literal, you say?”

The card depicted a path laid between two towers, a wolf and a dog separated by the path, and a half moon shining dim light over the scene.

“Ah, the Moon,” said Asmodea.

“The two towers,” Astarion mused, sipping his wine. “Is it like the previous card? Do they mean anything?”

“They can,” shrugged Asmodea.

“And the two mutts - which one am I?” Astarion pointed at the wolf and dog.

“You’re the crayfish,” said Asmodea.

Astarion took a closer look at the image - indeed, a crayfish was depicted crawling out of a pond and onto the path at the bottom of the card.

“You’re a bloody crayfish,” he muttered. “So, what in the hells does this mean?”

“It signifies duality. Complicated, conflicted emotions. Possibilities and choices, and the path we walk between these choices.”

“That doesn’t answer what it means for me. Choices…” Astarion huffed. “That is so vague, why that could mean absolutely anything and anyone!”

“Hardly,” Asmodea objected. “Have you, perhaps, met someone who walked a parallel path? Whose path converged with yours, to eventually split off into another direction again?”

“A ‘parallel path?’ Again, that could mean anything,” said Astarion. “Everyone I’ve ever met has ‘converged paths’ with me.”

“It will be more specific than that,” Asmodea said patiently. “Think. Someone who influenced you, who you had something in common with. Say… Another city elf… Another magistrate… Another hedonistic asshole who did nothing but bitch, moan and drink all the best wine. Another…” she was cut short as Astarion suddenly began choking, violently, on his drink. “…Are you alright? Go down the wrong pipe, did it? Well, not like you need those lungs anyway…”

“Vampire,” Astarion choked out, coughing. “It was another vampire.”

It wasn’t the first time Cazador hosted guests, but it was by far the most lavish.

A duo of drow vampire sisters and their large retinue had all but taken over the manor. A trade deal of some kind was being brokered. Astarion could guess what the sisters wanted: Baldur’s Gate had a port, and although Cazador had no rights to the said port, it was entirely within his ability to extend or deny other vampires the ability to use the said port unmolested. As for what the drow sisters could offer in exchange - Astarion could only speculate, though he cared not to.

What he did care about was that once he had surrendered his victim to Godey and his ghoulish assistants, he was expected to return to the city to find more marks within the very same night - the usual arrangements had been altered due to the guests and their appetites.

He hadn’t even seen them with his own eyes yet, nor did he want to, but they were making his life a more aggravating hell than usual. Their departure could not come soon enough.

He was on his way to the kennels to refresh himself when he was apprehended by Violet. His new sister was clad in scanty minstrel garb and carried a lute - the bitch had talents which Astarion had not, and had been permitted to demonstrate said talents instead of prowling the streets. It appeared she had just finished entertaining.

“Took you long enough,” she sneered. “I couldn’t rest until I gave this to you.” She tossed a velvet pouch at Astarion. It felt and sounded like it contained a hefty amount of coin. Gold..? Astarion frowned. Can’t be a tip… Am I to run some errand? “You are expected upstairs. Wash, perfume and oil first, and be quick about it. The Master wants you extra pretty tonight.”

“Does the Master want me..?” Aurelia’s voice sounded nearby, as Astarion stood extracting the contents of the pouch - some kind of tangled chain interspersed with gemstones.

“Has the Master ever wanted you?” Violet snapped, collapsing onto her bed.

Astarion released a weary, resigned sigh, having realised what he was holding.

Not coin.

A jewelled body harness.

Why he wasn’t even the most scandalously dressed attendant at the soiree. His attire, if the body chain could be called that, was, in fact, among some of the most tasteful and elegant.

Astarion observed the festivities, concealed by a drape by the grand hall’s entrance, awaiting instructions from Dufay. The hall was crowded with the drow sisters’ followers, servants, and slaves. Most of the mortals - at least the more heavily compulsed ones - wore nothing at all. Most of those now served as living footstools and other furniture, or were engaged in contortionist acts. Astarion noted a few familiar faces of his own marks from nights prior, with some satisfaction - not so haughty now, were they? The servants that still had their wits about them and were trying to please through their own volition wore unassuming liveries. The free guests that made up the drow entourage, on the other hand, would not have looked out of place attending a ball at a whorehouse.

Astarion caught sight of Cazador and the sisters, seated at the grand hall’s dais. The two drow were about what he expected - beautiful, minute, dressed in precariously draped wisps of spidersilk. One was engrossed in a female tiefling’s neck. The other lounged, sprawled over the seat which had been provided her, conversing with Cazador, her legs thrown over his lap. Astarion had to bite his lip not to laugh at the sight. Unlike the visitors, his master sat stiff and upright, the collar of his usual tasteful but unremarkable garb buttoned to the chin. He was completely out of place in this den of licentiousness, sticking out like a withered, crooked and sore thumb. And he looked positively miserable.

Astarion’s eyes continued to wander, reaching a small stage erected at one end of the hall. He watched with a revolted fascination an act put on by a trio of tumbling gnomes dressed in naught but spiked leather harnesses and dog muzzles. It was delightfully disgusting. It was a shame he was to be part of the evening’s entertainment, if not for that - he might even have enjoyed this flavour of debauchery.

“You’re up next,” Dufay appeared next to him.

“And just what in the hells does he expect of me..?” asked Astarion. A rhetorical question. He knew he was short on talents. An image flashed in his mind, a rare glimpse into his childhood: a memory of being made to stand on a stool before a faceless crowd and recite a poem, and of being so nervous he nearly vomited. The image dissipated, but not before he pictured himself doing the same now, in the midst of the drow orgy, naked but for the chains of gemstones and pearls. He giggled. Doubtful. Regardless, the gnomes were going to be a tough act to follow.

“You are to participate in a grappling, of sorts,” answered the chamberlain. Ever tactful even with the spawn, Dufay.

“‘Grappling’,” snorted Astarion. “With whom?”

“The sisters brought a champion of their own. There.” Dufay motioned to a man Astarion had somehow overlooked in the mass of nude and demi-nude bodies in attendance.

It was the largest drow Astarion had ever seen. Hells, he might have been the largest man he had ever seen, period, barring some half-orcs whose acquaintance he had had the misfortune of making. Slabs of muscle bulging beneath his blueish grey skin, straight lavender-white hair falling past his clavicles. He stood at the other end of the hall, dressed (if it could be called that) in a manner similar to Astarion’s, arms crossed, sheer boredom painted on his face. And he was staring, unblinking, at Astarion. Studying him, even. Having met Astarion’s eye, expression unchanged, he nodded and wagged his flaccid penis in greeting.

Astarion giggled again, and silently congratulated himself on having oiled very thoroughly.

“Go,” said Dufay.

And suddenly he was on a stage, trying to settle on the right balance between dazzling and sultry for his smile, giving a sensual turn and a spin for the benefit of the eyes now turned to him, all while the butterflies in his stomach made a determined rush for his esophagus.

“Ah, so this is the pearl of your collection!” one of the drow sisters exclaimed.

Is that how Cazador had described him..? Singling him out as his ‘pearl’? Conflicting emotions washed over Astarion. A sense of pride, immediately followed by a wave of disgust with himself for having felt the pride.

“Oh don’t feed his vanity,” drawled Cazador. “He pleases the eye, but he is good for one thing and one thing only.”

That settled the turbulence in Astarion’s mind, if not in his innards, his feelings once again settling in a familiar, dull hatred. 

“Oh? This refined specimen of a moon elf?” remarked the other sister. “Why I’d wager he’s of noble descent. Does he sing? Or perhaps he shall please us by reciting some classical poetry?”

Astarion barely suppressed another nervous giggle, the memory from his childhood flashing before his eyes again. For once he was happy that he had not had a single drop of anything that might have otherwise come up from the depths of his stomach.

“Cania will melt before I believe you give a mephit’s ass about poetry,” the other sister, the one whose legs dangled across Cazador’s lap, came to his rescue. She hopped off from her seat at the dais and moved to retrieve a decanter and goblet from a nearby table. “Let’s see just how good he is at something more interesting, shall we?” she said, filling the goblet. “Your master says you were hard at work earlier today,” she addressed Astarion, smiling yet managing to look down her nose at him despite her being a full head shorter. “…Were you? Hard at work?”

“Like steel, my lady,” purred Astarion. Always best to humour them.

“Velvet-wrapped, no doubt,” she laughed. Astarion resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the cliche. “Well, we can’t have your fatigue upset the balance. Let’s even the odds, shall we?”

Even the odds..? For what?

The drow woman sauntered to him and passed the goblet under his nose, playfully, letting him catch the aroma. A rich wine, mixed with… Blood. Thick and cloying. Teasing his nostrils. Blood.

“On your knees,” she giggled.

Though it took a monumental effort, Astarion’s eyes first flicked to Cazador. The Master gave him a slight nod, which to Astarion said “you may obey the deranged bitch”, a sneer, which Astarion interpreted as “do not embarrass me, boy”, and a (likely involuntary) slight flaring of the nostrils which wasn’t for Astarion’s information or benefit at all, but which indicated that Cazador could not wait for this night to be over either.

He sank to his knees without any further hesitation - Cazador could still dismember him later for being too eager, he did not care - the goblet was filled to the brim, and this woman would give it to him.

“Fresh blood of a displacer beast in heat. This will rejuvenate you. Now open your mouth…” His mouth was open before she even finished speaking, head thrown back in anticipation. Another giggle, and she tipped the goblet, letting the rich liquid flow between his lips.

Smooth, smoky velvet, so much richer than anything he’d ever had before. He drank, desperate not to allow even a single drop to spill, though of course it was impossible, of course she moved the goblet to make some of it pour over him. Most of it did end up making it into his mouth however. And gods, if the blood of a displacer beast was this good, then how would it feel to sink his fangs into a sapient creature’s pulsating neck..? No matter, that was a fantasy, while the liquid gold that poured from the goblet was reality, until the stream stopped, and it wasn’t. He would have grabbed the goblet from her hands and licked it clean, but she took it away, and ran a thumb along his lower lip and chin, where precious drops had spilled, and brought it to her own mouth instead. “Good boy,” she purred. How he hated her then. But then a heat began to settle in his groin, pushing away all thoughts of hatred, of fear, even of hunger, leaving only a pulsing need.

He staggered back up to his feet at a motion from the drow woman. Appreciative shouts and laughter, and even some applause from the spectators registered somewhere in the back of his mind. He paid them no attention, instead his eyes were drawn to the hulking mass of the drow ‘challenger’ which had apparently joined him onstage while he was gorging on the displacer beast blood. It was only now that the drow was within a few steps of him that Astarion realised that he was also a vampire.

Even the odds for what..?

“The rules are simple,” the drow woman’s voice rang in his ears. Did she always sound like a mosquito..? “The one to make their opponent climax wins.”

His head swam and his cock was on fire. It pulsed. It throbbed. It ached. It burned. And the only thing worse than touching it would be to leave it alone. He reached for himself.

“No, no, no, silly, you win by making your opponent climax, not yourself!”

Laughter from the faceless crowd.

Good gods, did they feed that mountain of a drow that blood too..? Is that better, or worse..?

“Incapacitate your opponent, pin them down, break something if you must. Whatever you need to get the job done. Oh, but you don’t have to stop at just one. The night is young - if you lose at first, you can always double down and bounce back.”

A gong must have sounded somewhere, either that or the ringing in Astarion’s ears reached a crescendo, but the next thing he knew was he had been lifted off the ground and was being spun around, hurled over the drow’s shoulder. Why? He had no idea.

“Focus,” he thought he heard the drow growl between gritted teeth. Focus on what..? Everything spun. Though the word was enough to break him from a stupor, so that when the drow hurled him back on the ground he managed to roll on impact and bounce back to his feet. Moments later they were circling each other like two tomcats, half-crouched.

“Work with me,” the drow hissed, unmistakable now.

Well then. He had never wrestled anyone this way in his life - he only hoped that his fumbling was more amusing than offensive to his spectators, as he tried to follow the drow’s lead. What followed was a crash course in pair acrobatics and feigned tussling. Astarion could only speculate what it all looked like, but he imagined that it might appear as though they were both using their individual skills and talents to their advantage: the drow’s forte was strength, size, and actually knowing what he was doing, Astarion’s - speed and being covered in oil.

And then, just as Astarion thought he was getting the hang of it, he found himself pinned down on the floor by the drow. It was finally time to retreat for the night, he supposed.

“What will he do to you for losing?” the drow’s question jolted him back to the present moment. The whisper was barely audible, their faces concealed behind a cascade of the drow’s hair that momentarily hid them from view.

Too surprised to think to lie, Astarion answered truthfully. “Flay me, probably,” he said.

Somehow, the drow was now under him. It might even have looked like it was all due to Astarion’s own efforts. The drow struggled, pathetically, as though he was locked in place.

“Why?” Astarion breathed.

“I’ll only go without dinner tonight. Thank me later.”

The rest of his recollections of the night grew ever muddier, as he slipped into his familiar thoughtless routines. The last thing he remembered before the memories crumbled to nothing was an image of the drow impaled on his cock, his absurdly big and absurdly blue penis in his hand.

“There,” the drow whispered. “Now no more posturing, be gentle.”

He was.

Astarion’s way out of the spawn kennels was impeded by a large chest. In his hurry, he ricocheted off it back into the chamber, nearly losing his footing. The chest was connected to two trunk-like arms, folded in front of it. Above that - a thick neck, and above that - a blindingly white, fanged smile, shining from a dusky-toned face.

“Didn’t recognise me with my clothes on?” the drow grinned, seeing Astarion’s confusion.

Astarion’s first, most natural instinct was to put on his charm and flirt. But of course this was not necessary - this was not a mark, nor was this an important guest that needed to be pleased. Rather, this was an equal, of sorts. Which prompted a secondary instinct in Astarion - one equally natural, which he employed every day in dealing with his dear darling sisters - which was to raise his hackles and speak from a place of preemptively defensive contempt. Only the drow’s smile seemed entirely free of mockery and malice, which Astarion didn’t quite know what to make of. He frantically searched for a third option.

“Erm…” he produced, though the drow was already looking over and past him, casting a curious look over the kennels.

“Lolth’s tits, is this where you sleep?” the drow asked.

Astarion turned back to survey the quarters he shared with Violet and Aurelia, as though seeing them for the very first time himself. It had never occurred to him whether he ought be ashamed of them. The question didn’t sound derisive, however, so he just shrugged at the drow.

“I suppose it’s different to ah… your accommodations?” he asked.

“The mistress usually keeps me on a cot at the foot of her bed,” he said. “Sometimes on the bare ground, sometimes in a cage,” he added, nonchalant, still looking around the chamber.

Astarion gave a polite acknowledging hum, as though this exchange was as normal as a casual chat about the weather or the latest news headlines. “…I think I prefer the arrangements Cazador has in place to such alternatives, to be honest.”

“Out of sight, out of mind,” the drow nodded, turning back to Astarion and grinning. Why did he keep grinning..? Astarion needed to be rid of him.

“Oh if only…” said Astarion. “But anyway. Much as I’d love to stand here and compare notes, I have some errands to run, so if you’ll excuse me…”

“Errands!” the drow laughed. “Yes, that’s why I’m here. I’m to accompany you on your ‘errands’.”

“What?” Astarion said, his tone curt. Babysitting this giant oaf was the last thing he wanted to do. He had worked out a system. A one man system.

“How do I look? Good enough for Baldurian watering holes?” the drow spun. Astarion finally took note of what he was wearing. Silk shirt in a dark purple, complementing his skin tone. Leather breeches that sat snug - very snug - on his ample haunches. A pair of well-made boots. He looked like a wealthy adventurer or mercenary out for a night of debauchery. Drow tailors and leatherworkers were impeccable in their taste and skill, and clearly the man’s mistress spared no expense in dressing her spawn, Astarion thought with a touch of envy.

“It will do in a bind, I suppose, but-”

“The mistress also gave me this,” the drow continued, retrieving a paper slip from a pocket and handing it to Astarion.

“‘No drow, druegar or deep gnomes! Tiefling (any age and gender), robust middle-aged male (human), female virgin (any), something heavily wine-drunk’…” Astarion’s voice trailed off, though the list went on. “…Is this a bloody shopping list?!”

“Obviously,” the drow shrugged like it was the most apparent thing in the world, plucking the slip back from Astarion’s fingers. “Is your master not as particular?”

“Well, no, I suppose,” Astarion stuttered, “but-”

“That must be nice,” the drow said, already turning and walking away. “Let’s get a move on, only got until sunrise. …Say, when is sunrise?”

His name was Ryldor. He had belonged to the sisters from birth, had been trained as a warrior and a pleasure servant, and had been turned once they had decided he had attained his peak physical form.

Astarion learned all this and more in the hours they spent ignoring their duties, deep in the wine at the Mermaid. Gods, but he couldn’t even remember the last time he had been able to sit around and gossip, freely, with anyone… He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself half this much. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so carelessly drunk, either, whether on the wine or the pretence of normality - he did not know.

“He makes you fuck them first?” Ryldor snickered into his goblet. “Why?!”

“Who knows why that sadistic bastard does anything… A humiliation ritual? Honestly, it’s just a drag.”

“Have you ever seen a mortal chef prepare a tough piece of meat? You know, when they smash it with a mallet, to tenderise it? Is that what Cazador thinks he’s got you doing..?”

And again, they burst into laughter, loud and genuine, if a bit desperate. Still, how refreshing to find himself on the right side of laughter for once… Ah but these moments were so fleeting… With every passing minute, it felt as though a chain constricted tighter around Astarion’s neck.

“Listen… I don’t know how lenient your mistresses are with that little list of yours, but I will be skinned alive if I fail to turn up with prey for Cazador, so…”

Ryldor seemed to sober up then, immediately, perhaps realising that Astarion meant that literally.

“Right… Of course… Let’s get to it.”

There was a shift in him then, which Astarion observed with curiosity. He had expected to witness the appearance of a mask, something similar to what he ordinarily did himself, but surprisingly it was more of an unveiling. Everything that Ryldor had already appeared to be, became more. Effortlessly so. Not even a bell later, admittedly aided by the gold the drow sisters had generously supplied him with, he was the life of the party, riling up the entire tavern. A few bells later, half the tavern left with him, never to be seen again. Every item on the list had been ticked off, and then some. Astarion understood how all those poor unfortunates had been so hopelessly enchanted - after all he was, too.

The drow party stayed at the manor for about a tenday.

The night after their joint escapade, Astarion hoped that Ryldor would be sent to accompany him out in the city again, but he wasn’t. He had hoped that there would be another orgy, to entertain or serve at, but that didn’t happen again either. He found himself lurking on the upper floors of the manor during daylight hours - something he ordinarily avoided. He hoped, and he waited, and he yearned, not even sure exactly what it was he craved. Every day was a mixture of hopeful anticipation. The chain felt ever tighter around his neck, but he ignored it as best he could.

There weren’t many opportunities for him and Ryldor to exchange words - his mistress kept him close - but on one of the occasions when they did, the drow told Astarion that his mistress had requested to borrow him, but that Cazador had refused. Astarion was shocked with his own disappointment at this discovery.

Then, one day, as Astarion was preparing for another night serving as bait for Cazador’s dinner, Aurelia walked into the dormitory.

“They’re leaving tonight,” she said.

Astarion stiffened. After what felt like an eternity and a plunge into an ice bath, he willed himself to continue his preparations. “Good,” he said. He thought he heard a quiet scoff.

“He’s in the east wing.”

“…Who? The Master..?” he looked up to meet her eyes. Aurelia started back at him with something bordering on pity.

If she insinuated that- …How dare she- …Well if she thought that he was about to- …He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of-

Moments later, he had already brushed all those thoughts aside, and was rushing upstairs, shirt still unbuttoned, without having as much as run his fingers through his hair.

The east wing was empty.

Cruel… So pointlessly cruel… He would have expected this from Violet, but Aurelia… Perhaps she did mean Cazador, and he would appear at any moment. That, or he was too late, and…

These thoughts too were cut short, as an arm pulled him into a dark alcove beneath a staircase.

Another flash of those stupid white fangs on that stupid, dark grinning face, and Astarion was on his toes, pulling the drow down by his ears, also stupid, into a kiss. The first kiss Astarion remembered wanting to give. It felt defiant, somehow, to take a kiss for himself and not for the sake of Cazador. Defiant, desperate and ultimately futile. He began to mourn it before it was even over. Just as nothing was sweeter than the moment of trepidation just before their lips locked, nothing could fill him with more grief than knowing that he could never experience it for the first time again.

Somewhere far, a voice called for Ryldor, and he broke away, with a gasp and a tremble. The tremble passed, and he leaned back toward Astarion. “I’ll come back for you,” he whispered, barely audible, in Astarion’s ear.

“What..?” Astarion managed, with shaking breath.

“By Vhaeraun, I’ll find a way to dispose of those two lecherous, vapid cunts, and I’ll come back for you. I pro-”

Ryldor’s words were cut short as Astarion pressed his lips against his again. “Don’t,” Astarion whispered, once he pulled away again. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

The drow inclined his head to touch his forehead against Astarion’s, and held it there for some moments, until his mistress repeated the call with more shrillness in her voice. He clenched his jaw, and then he was gone.

In the ensuing silent stillness, Astarion sank with his back against the wall. The chain constricted tighter around his neck until it cut off all promise of oxygen, again. It was fine. Everything was fine and back to normal. He didn’t need air, but good gods did it taste sweet to breathe it, even if only for a little while…

Some years later, Astarion overheard that the drow house had been annihilated by its rivals. The sisters had been staked, impaled, and taken to the surface to burn. Their courts had been massacred as a warning to others. Whether a certain vampire spawn had survived the carnage or had perished alongside his mistress - Astarion never learned. Regardless, no one ever returned for him.

“A vampire? I thought your kind detested each other. I always imagined a meeting of two strange vampires to involve arched backs and a lot of hissing and spitting.”

“A safe assumption,” said Astarion. “Though there are some occasional exceptions to the rule.”

“Don’t tell me you enter each other’s territories to mate.”

“Plot, scheme and trade, usually. And throw the occasional grand ball to showcase one’s wealth and influence, of course.”

“Of course.” A silence held. Asmodea observed as Astarion contemplated the card with an almost wistful expression. “So what happened?” she asked.

“Hmm?” Astarion looked up, his reminiscence broken. “Oh, nothing much… It’s been so long, and was so meaningless I’ve all but forgotten, until now.”

“Can’t be that meaningless, the cards picked up on it and you almost immediately knew who it was.”

“What happened, was…” Astarion paused, searching for words, but ended up shaking his head. “Have you ever had a torrid affair with someone who was in your life only for a brief moment..? Say, someone who was passing through town, who you knew would disappear in a matter of days? Leave you with nothing but memories, a racked up tab, a forgotten handkerchief and a bout of chlamydia?”

Asmodea nodded. “I’m usually that person. The one that leaves. …And no, I don’t leave chlamydia in my wake.”

“That’s all it was,” said Astarion. “A little… ‘dalliance’, if you will.”

“A vampire passed through the city and took a piece of your heart with them,” Asmodea concluded.

“Now let’s not go that far,” said Astarion. “It wasn’t love.”

“What was it then?”

Astarion took a thoughtful sip of his wine before answering. “Childish naivety… Daydreaming… A bit of make-believe. In other words: nothing. Just wishful thinking.”

~~~~~

Next part coming in a week's time.

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