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What kind of idiot sets an animal trap in the middle of nowhere is Astarion’s first thought, as he swings several feet above the forest floor in a thick netting. His second thought comes as a terrible searing sensation envelops his exposed flesh: Hells, this is not meant for animals.
The thick, fibrous strands are damp against his face and bare forearms, soaking into the fabric of his sleep shirt, and within seconds of his entanglement it begins to burn. He cries out in surprise, frantically trying to arrange himself so that his bare skin doesn’t touch the rope, but it’s too flexible and free and only follows him as he moves. He has no purchase other than to grasp the ropes with bare hands, gritting his teeth through the pain as he attempts to haul himself out of the netting with his upper body strength alone.
Barely moments after the trap has sprung, the sounds of people approaching quickly reaches his sensitive ears, and his struggles increase: those are not the familiar footfalls and creaks of leather of his companions. Anxiety rushes through him, and in a desperate attempt to free himself he shoots a firebolt at the rope above his head, hoping to burn the trap away. It sizzles and steams, but the damp of water it’s soaked in prevents it from catching fire. He curses, grabbing on to the highest tension strand nearest to him and beginning to hurriedly saw at it with a hidden knife, still awkwardly reclined with one of his boots poking through the side higher up.
The group is nearly upon him, and his agitated blade work has only managed to sever one rope and fray another. Then the smell hits him, as familiar now as it was outside the old hag’s lair - Gur.
The fear and recognition strikes him at the same time as the netting is cut, and suddenly he’s in freefall, unable to manoeuvre himself to land properly.
The drop doesn’t knock the breath out of him but it still hurts, and before he can spring into action there’s weight on his arms and legs and too many hands are holding him down. He snarls and jerks against the three Gur furiously, but their grip on his arms and legs holds fast and he only hurts his already ruined skin in the process.
Another Gur kneels over him, and quick as a flash his dagger is between Astarion’s teeth and he freezes. The blade cuts into the corners of his mouth as the man above him bears down to make sure Astarion stays still. Astarion has to awkwardly shift his tongue away to stop the deadly sharp edge from doing further damage as he swallows around a drop of his own blood.
Somewhere in the darkness nearby a lantern is lit, almost blinding him as his sensitive eyes adjust from dark vision, and it illuminates a circle of even more Gur surrounding him than he’d at first assumed. Dread settles coldly inside him, but he tries not to show it. Astarion remains obediently still as the light comes closer to his face, and the blade tilts up behind his front teeth to display his fangs.
There’s muttering within the circle: that’s him, alright and a vampire and they were right. The man above him sneers, presses the knife up cruelly so that Astarion has to tilt his head back with it. The ropes continue to burn his skin like acid, and he can no longer resist the urge to twitch away from where it touches too much of his body. At his uncontrollable movements the blade catches at his skin where it’s already scored his cheeks and gums. It only makes the Gur push more weight on him.
“You’re Astarion then,” he mutters, but doesn’t remove the knife to let the elf answer. Their intel must have been good enough to give a description of him. He wonders who sold him out, whether it was a tiefling they’d saved looking for quick money on the way to Baldur’s Gate, or maybe one of their own party. He doesn’t want to consider that option.
A squeaking, grinding sound draws his attention from his right, but he can’t see what it is with the threat of the knife between his teeth. It’s only once the man on top of him takes the knife away to fiddle with something in his hands that Astarion can look to the source of the noise as it grows louder.
A cage, big enough maybe for a wolf, and strapped down to a small cart narrow enough to get through the trees and bushes. His breath quickens with an impulse he’s never fully been able to shake as it draws closer.
As the two people at his sides let his arms go slack enough for the man atop him to grab instead, Astarion uses the barest hint of freedom to fight back. He bucks and snarls without the weapon in his mouth to restrain him, and his vampiric is strength enough to dislodge the man atop him for only a moment. But a moment is all he needs.
With deft fingers he slips the knife from the man’s belt and shoves it up into his throat with lethal precision. Hot blood sprays across Astarion’s wide eyes, and with his teeth bared manically he can taste it too. He pushes the shuddering body off him and doesn’t miss a beat to listen to his death gurgle.
Astarion kicks out at the one holding his ankles, and feels a vicious satisfaction at the crunch beneath his boot. With all his limbs freed he scrambles to untangle himself from the netting still wrapped around him, but he’d be at a disadvantage even if he’d had his weapons on him, and more of his attackers are already closing in around him. He lowers his centre of gravity and swipes out at two Gur who dare to come close enough, eyeing up his attackers to identify weaknesses and escape routes. He bares his bloodied teeth like a cornered wild animal.
There’s a deep wet thud as something hits him near the collarbone. In the briefest second that he stills in shock to see a crossbow bolt sticking out of his flesh, they pounce.
Instantly he’s overwhelmed again, rough hands grabbing onto his wrists and shoulders as they manage to flip him over. Sudden pain explodes from his shoulder as the bolt snaps off against the ground and he screams, his agony turning to anger with the crack in his voice.
In the time it takes his vision to fade back from black to greyscale in the dark, he’s on his front with one knee pressed forcefully into his spine and the other on the back of his thigh, keeping him from wriggling away. His hands are trapped in an iron grasp as even more rope is wrapped around his wrists – this time not soaked in burning holy water, if that can count as a mercy – and trying to pull away only gets the vice-like grip to squeeze tighter, grinding the bones together so hard he fears they might crumble. He hisses in fury, unwilling to give up his freedom without a fight, but he’s already restrained and the rope around his wrists and ankles is unforgiving. He wouldn’t be getting out of this one on his own.
Whoever is kneeling on his torso keeps him immobile as Astarion’s head is jerked up roughly by his hair, and he bites back a grunt as his neck is stretched beyond the uncomfortable mark. The aged woman standing before him has his hair in a tight grip, and her eyes wrinkle with a deep anguish beneath the hatred. He meets her gaze defiantly and waits as the small crowd quietens.
“We’ve been searching for you for a long time, you know.” The woman says, looking down on him with disdain. “The monster that stole our children away from us. And now... now you’ve killed two more of us.”
She takes a moment to breathe, and her jaw clenches visibly. Astarion, still dazed from the fresh wound, stays uncharacteristically quiet – there’s no use denying what he’s responsible for.
“This will not end happily for you, no matter what you say or do. But if you speak – if you tell us where our children are...” she leans close, holding his gaze, “I’ll be sure to make it quick.”
She speaks quietly, like she has a level head and mercy to give, but he knows she is capable of neither. He doesn’t need years of experience reading people and analysing their tells to know she’s lying; her sorrow and anger simmer just below the surface, and once she’s got what she wants, she’ll take her revenge. As will everyone surrounding him.
He thinks, maybe, he’ll deserve it.
But he can’t talk. He refuses to die by such mundane means when there’s a worldly crisis going on, and he’s got his own role to play in their little team of accidental heroes. All he has to do is drag it out – prolong whatever they have planned for him, and hope that his travelling companions will come and find him either because of the bonds they’ve made in recent days, or at least because if the left him behind he’d turn illithid without the artifact.
Besides, he’s got two centuries’ worth of experience being tortured – he can take a little more.
So – silence it is.
The man restraining him reaches down to his shoulder and grabs onto the broken bolt and tugs sharply, wrenching an agonised yell from his bleeding lips. A brief moment goes by as the man is still.
And then he yanks again, and he doesn’t stop.
The man keeps moving the bolt around with sick pleasure, digging it deeper and tearing the already ruined flesh with each jerk. It scrapes and twists and burrows relentlessly into his wound as Astarion screams freely, and he can’t move away, can’t fight back; he’s reduced to writhing in the dirt beneath his tormentor, tears falling openly down his burned cheeks. The bonds on his ankles and wrists strain until blood begins to flow anew beneath the rope. His face is still held up firmly, his tortured face on display for every Gur to relish in. He’d thought he was done with feeling like a piece of meat, but the satisfaction on their faces at seeing him in pain is a horribly familiar look.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts for, but all of a sudden the grip on his hair releases, and his head falls limply to the ground. The echoes of his torture wrack his body as he sobs into the dirt, trying to catch breath that he doesn’t need. There’s talking above him, but he doesn’t pay attention. He tries to focus on the taste of dirt and tears and borrowed blood, the scent of sweat in from his attackers and the dirt of the rotting forest floor – anything to distract him from the burning ache radiating from his shoulder.
“Where are they?” The woman demands once more, her voice fraying with frustration and rage.
He wants to curl away, but can’t, not with the restraints and the Gur’s tight hold he’s still in. He can’t tell them, even if it prolongs his suffering; he’s only just gained freedom, and he won’t give up his life so easily. He’s strong enough to withstand this.
But still, he hopes someone comes to end this soon.
Apparently his silence lasts too long. A muddy boot, hard-soled and hobnailed, stamps down on his head, and a yell is torn from his sore throat. The metal pins grind punishingly against his skull as his face is pressed into the dirt. He whimpers through gritted teeth, feeling the tiny stones and hard bits of vegetation cut into his skin.
She asks again, and again, and other voices are joining in now, but Astarion still doesn’t speak.
More weight forces his skull into the ground and the pressure makes him writhe and struggle helplessly, trying frantically to get away. With every desperate movement the protruding shaft catches against the uneven ground, bringing with it a new wave of agony. He can’t help the guttural cry that escapes him each time it does.
There’s yelling overhead, the woman shouting now, and other raised voices as the other Gur grow agitated, but he’s shaking on the ground and choking on dirt and cries of pain and he couldn’t form words if he wanted to.
There's a sudden wave of heat overhead that singes at the remains of his already scorched and tattered shirt, and everything stops. The boot on his head startles and steps off him, and the weight on top of him jumps and shifts to look backwards. And then like a balm to his desperate undead soul, he hears a familiar, insufferable, and in that moment wonderful voice:
“I would ask you to release my friend there so that we may settle this like thinking creatures,” says Gale, and at last Astarion can turn his head and see them all standing there, weapons at the ready surrounding the Gur. Gale’s staff is held threateningly towards the man still pinning Astarion, and the woman with her heel half raised. “But I’m afraid the time for talking is thoroughly over.”