Chapter Text
The entrance to the mansion, at least on a surface level, was quite more unassuming than Wyll had expected. The word vampire brought to mind gruesome decor: decapitated corpses hanging on poles, a fountain full of blood, or sculptures of various denizens of night. Instead, the courtyard leading to the front door displayed simple cobblestone paths and overgrown shrubs. The griffin medallion hanging around Wyll’s neck - a witcher’s trinket that alerted him of nearby threats and magic - was completely still.
This place, at least, did not seem to advertise the nature of its inhabitants.
He slowly looked around, taking in the details of his surroundings. The throbs of his pulse over his temples, exaggerated by the potion, accompanied his movements. He had to admit, there was an uncanny beauty about this place: the abandoned-looking manor and the unkempt garden hinted at what the estate may have looked like in its prime. The tangled plant life in the courtyard was no doubt carefully maintained at some point. Now, they were infiltrating all sorts of cracks and corners of the estate. His potion-enhanced senses detected insects and rodents scuttling about under the cover of such plants, but nothing else noteworthy. At the very least, there were no bodies he would have to cremate.
He went up to the front door, brushing away the ivy climbing around it. Underneath, there was a sturdy plaque reading ‘The Szarr Manor’, matching the ealdorman’s account. The Szarrs. A minor noble, perhaps? The name was completely unfamiliar to the witcher, and thus he resorted to entertaining two hypotheses: the monsters stole the home from the Szarrs, or the Szarrs themselves are the monsters. He knew certain subspecies of vampires were capable of assimilating into human society, even climbing to occupy significant positions. Rarely he would hear horrified murmurs about how a certain noble was found to be a blood-drinking monster. A family of vampires owning a mansion was surely not outside the realm of possibilities. He eventually brushed the thought away and slowly pushed the doors open. Whatever the case may be, there were monsters that needed to be felled.
The inside was as dilapidated as what the exterior suggested.
Darkness seemed to envelop the entire foyer, with only traces of sunlight seeping through the occasional cracks in the windows and the tears in the curtains. Candelabras and small decorative statues lay on the floor in a disorganized fashion, clearly knocked over in some sort of skirmish. Chipped pieces of wood and metal lay haphazardly on the floor like flower petals at a betrothal. Dark, crusty stains were scattered amongst the rugs and wooden furniture, some of which were covered by a thick layer of dust. Based on the scent, the witcher guessed it was a mixture of monster and human blood. What grabbed Wyll’s attention the most, however, was the sizable portrait facing him on the wall. (As sizable as the subject’s vanity, he assumed.) It depicted someone wearing intricately-made clothing, bone white embroidery on a black jerkin. Underneath, there were red sleeves sporting similarly patterned ornamentation. The diamond necklace of the subject mesmerized the viewer with their shine, and the pale hands neatly crossed in their lap were decorated by even brighter golden rings. Most curious though was the torn-out face of the painting. The facial features were completely unrecognizable behind the numerous lashes, each of them digging deep into the artwork. The only thing that Wyll could really discern was the pale, almost ashy skin. Was it the knight? The witcher found it hard to imagine her taking the time to vandalize this, especially if she had failed to return. His fingers traced the shapes of the marks. Sharp, deliberate, deep. There were certainly strong emotions that went into this. Was this… from a creature’s claws?
The sudden thrill of his medallion jerked Wyll into motion. His investigation quickly drew to a close.
His hand reached for his silver sword on his back, unsheathing it in an instant. Come out, wherever you are. Let us not draw this out. Like a feline stalking its prey, Wyll carefully planted each step. Every one of his five senses were focused on detecting even a clue of this danger; his reflexes ready to command his body into motion. He had traced a circle around the room, before hearing a brief burst of wind from a passageway. There. His senses jolted his body into action. Slowly, he advanced towards the direction of the sound, sword still in his grip.
Wyll’s eye quickly scanned the passage. Though it was completely dark, his mutated sight allowed him to traverse with no difficulty. Not unlike the foyer, it had its share of broken ornamentation and signs of battle. This place, too, was covered in its share of dust and debris. He carefully made his way to the only other exit, a wooden door, still conscious of his sharpened senses. The movement of a large rat scuttling past caught the witcher’s attention for a second; he tried not to imagine how the rat could have feasted to grow to such a size. He shook his head, pushed the wooden door open, and took a deep breath. His medallion was trembling ever so slightly.
This was where it happened.
The end of the passage revealed absolute slaughter. Slaughter which took place at least a few weeks ago, it seems. The stench of rotting flesh assaulted Wyll’s nose as soon as he stepped into the hall. It was truly a wretched sight - various bodies were lying on the cold floor, picked apart by crawling scavengers. Maggots were teeming in the remaining flesh, no doubt thriving in the abundant supply of nourishment. Carefully, the witcher inspected the area, his heart filled with equal parts of grief and righteous anger. The battle ended in this grand hall of sorts; a large, empty space with marble flooring and elegant tapestry adorning the walls. An impressive seat, most likely a throne of sorts, rested upon a dais. The bodies - mostly vampire corpses - were strewn about, forming a trail to a knight and a certain vampire, their decaying remains frozen in a duel.
The knight’s sword had pierced the vampire’s - a katakan’s* - chest, who in turn had its claws stuck in the former’s abdomen.
Her friable hand still gripped the sword tightly, the arm outstretched in a vigor that the rest of her cold body lacked. Wyll knelt down, closing her eyelids with a gentle hand. “Rest in peace,” he managed to whisper, “Your bravery will not be forgotten.” He then uttered a short prayer: one he picked up along his many years of travel. There had been a time where he sincerely believed in its words; he had learnt better since then. Despite this, it seemed that it was the only thing he could offer for those who already departed this world. The witcher was about to turn to the squire’s body, when -
The medallion. It’s shaking.
“Who are you?” He enunciated each word, his tone unflinching.
“It’s considered good manners to introduce yourself before you ask, darling.” A lilting voice spoke from across the hall. “And certainly before you enter someone’s home.”
Wyll spun around, re-adjusting his hold on his sword. Before him in the distance, was a pale figure. The witcher furrowed his brows, approaching the other presence ever so slightly. “My apologies,” he spoke, refusing to sheathe his blade, “Wyll of the Griffins: a witcher.”
“Oh? And here I thought you were another one of those knight errants!” The last two words were spat out with a dose of bitterness, only for the voice to take a completely different turn. “But no, a witcher in shining armor, is it?” Each word, each moment seemed to scrape at Wyll, urging him to look deeper, to look closer. What stood in the distance took slow steps towards him, which was when the witcher truly saw.
He saw a slender man with bone-white hair and deep crimson eyes on an impossibly pale canvas. Even from a brief glance, his otherworldly beauty was evident. It was as though he was created by the gods with such meticulous care, that no sculptor would dare try to capture his likeness. Wyll had to admit - he saw someone dangerously charming. He noticed that on that bewitching face was a smile that did not reach his eyes. A smile which, he realized, was full of fangs.
“Now that I have done my part, I ask again: who are you?” The witcher raised his sword in both hands, the blade slanting in a slight diagonal angle. “Lord Szarr, perhaps?” (If Wyll had looked away for even a second, he would have missed the slight flinch of the vampire.)
“And what would you do about it?” The vampire’s fingernails gradually morphed into lengthy claws, his beautiful face contorting into a monstrous expression. A bruxa**, I see. Wyll concentrated his senses, feeling the surge of adrenaline in his system. The potion was still supplying him with copious amounts of energy. With his opponent’s hiss of unrestrained rage and a sudden leap, the fight had begun.
A slash of the claws and a clang of metal echoed throughout the hall. The witcher twirled in a quick pirouette to the side - dodging the attacks in a practiced fashion. The vampire, too, was intent on avoiding any of Wyll’s precise jabs. Any attacks that the witcher's sword made was soon blocked and countered by a swift movement from his claws. Wyll knew that a vampire's power was not to be underestimated - each blow seemed to be returned in resentment, too. It was akin to an elaborate dance - one steps forward, the other steps back. One advances, the other retreats. A block. A parry. A slice. A dodge. A series of well-practiced maneuvers formed a mesmerizing sight - with neither partner willing to be the first to fall. Clearly frustrated by the whole affair, the vampire pounced, his claws outstretched. Too outstretched, Wyll noticed, and it was now far too late to stop. The witcher eagerly took the moment to step to the side and cast Yrden*** , summoning glyphs on the marble floor. By the time the vampire realized he missed his target, the magic had taken its hold. He stood still, trying with all his might to turn around and launch another attack. Never pass up the opportunity to strike . The voice of his mentor from years past echoed in Wyll's head. A moment of doubt means death for witchers like us. Yes, even complete fledglings like you lot. No monster out there would spare you out of pity - so stop your grimacing and get up. He swung his sword upwards, ready to strike his opponent down. It was something so simple, something he had done a countless number of times. How many careless monsters had he felled with this exact maneuver? He should strike.
Yet, he stopped.
He saw a motionless vampire, trapped by his spell. His body was thinner than what the witcher fist saw - almost skeletal. His white blouse, that at first glance seemed sophisticated, was full of stitches and mends. His wrists, clearly shackled at some point, were full of scars and still-healing sores. His neck, too, had its share of marks - including a band of bruising around the circumference. He looked… exhausted , if the undead were even capable of being in such a state. And were his eyes always so fearful?
Wyll slowly withdrew. Despite his rational mind advising otherwise, he loosened his grip on his sword. “I want to know what happened here. The whole truth, and nothing else.” And against all common sense, he undid his spell. Upon release, the vampire slumped down onto the floor.
“You arrived too late, witcher.” A mirthless laugh escaped his lips. “Lord, no, Cazador is no more.” He gestured limply to the katakan’s corpse by the knight.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s dead, what else could you possibly want to know?” A scowl accompanied those words.
“Many things, but to start with - who are you?” This was the third time he was asking this question, Wyll realized. With some luck, he could elicit the truth.
“...Astarion. Thoroughly displeased to meet you.”
The witcher chose to trust the answer while ignoring the sharp remark, though he was impressed by the vampire - Astarion’s - consistency. “Astarion… Szarr?”
He quickly regretted his suggestion when the mere irritation on Astarion’s face was quickly replaced by rage. Those red eyes flashed with an animalistic anger that almost jerked Wyll back into battle, even as he sat lifelessly on the floor. “Don’t ever, ever say that again.” The words were almost said in hisses. Just Astarion, it is.
“My apologies.” The witcher continued to speak, choosing to adopt a more gentle tone, “I should, er, explain: I was hired by a nearby village to put an end to the vampiric murders - I see that my predecessor attempted this and perished in the process. Who were these vampires? How did you come to be here?”
“Oh, where do I even begin?” Astarion cast a downward gaze, a corner of his lips slightly raised in a smirk. “I… was Cazador’s one of thralls. A plaything, if you will.” He swallowed. If his voice wavered, Wyll chose not to comment on it. “His words were our orders - often he’d torture us, and sometimes we would torture ourselves. That was my life - being used and tormented.” A growl escaped his mouth. “Then just a few years ago, he declared we would be moving to, well, here . And even in the outskirts of the countryside, he wouldn’t give up on his greed - he’d indulge his thirst on whatever he could find, while forbidding us from consuming anything but rats . But it seems that his appetite eventually brought him a fitting end, ha!” Astarion made a high-pitched giggle, resuming his story once he felt he had expressed enough enjoyment. “I was locked up in a cage that night - something Cazador saw fit to do to thralls who disobeyed him. I heard screams, shouts, a symphony of panic and pain. I felt a tug on my psychic leash and by the time I managed to undo the lock, it was all over.” The vampire laughed, this time bordering on delirium. “It was over - all these years of abuse , all these years of absurd punishments , they were all over! So please, if you are to kill me, do it swiftly. I wish to still be drunk on this bliss even in my last moments.” Astarion gazed at Wyll, presumably waiting for the executioner’s blade. The sword hung limply by the witcher’s side.
“Leave, run far away, and don’t ever come back.”
–-----------------------
Wyll gazed at the ash and smoke rising from the funeral pyres. The improvised ceremony took considerable effort - gathering enough wood being just one aspect of the process. He muttered a short prayer for the dead and closed his eye. He could hear birds chirping in the distance, the wind blowing through the foliage, Firefly grazing on the grass, and -
“I thought I made myself clear.” He turned around to glance at the vampire.
“No problem there, darling. I understood you well enough.” Astarion emerged from behind the trees, seemingly unphased. “But where could I possibly go? Should I lay low in the next abandoned building, hiding in fear of the next monster hunter that decides to pass by? I’d much rather like to… accompany you for a short while, witcher - and before you panic, I swear to keep my teeth to myself.” He gave a sheepish smile, batting his eyelashes. “I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.”
The end of the world must be nigh, Wyll thought, if Wyll of the Griffins spares a monster and lets him be a bloody traveling companion. “If you give me any reason to regret this decision,” he spoke, “my sword will find its way through your chest.” The witcher paused, waiting for the words to sink in. “Go wait next to Firefly. She’s grazing in the fields over there.” He pointed at the approximate location.
“You have a horse? Such dreadful creatures, all they want to do is squeal and bite.” Astarion scrunched up his face.
“Yes, how terrible it must be,” Wyll said with considerable snark, “to have a traveling companion that bites.”