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Mid 14th century, Lower Baldur's Gate
None of the elves in this tavern were actually any good at singing. Except Astarion, as he'd like to believe. Not that he ever had to opportunity to try his hand and voice, but the later the night progressed, the less coherent the bards and patrons were getting, and the better he would probably sound to them.
Additionally, he wouldn't risk garnering the wrong attention so publically. A single person enchanted by him at a time was fine, manageable. It worked. But multiple people were a challenge, straight up terrifying, could even pose a threat. Pitchfork, torches and the like.
And he wasn't in the mood for theatrics, not really. His life was a bloody stage as it was.
Today, again, prowling the tavern like some sort of villain, preying on the unassuming, the innocent civillians, the blushing maidens. The wine tastes bitter as he thinks of what he's doing. The wine tastes bitterest when he remembers the rack and his master, though, so ever forward he trudges with the devils work. Sometimes he wishes it to be a literal devil, instead. Surely, an infernal contract would be akin to indentured servitude rather than the slavery of a vampiric bond? But alas, not even hell would have him.
Enough moping. He ordered another glass of wine, one that would last the whole evening as he wholly intended to provocatively sip from it without actually drinking, nothing but appearing as a vaguely drunk regular.
The glass was warm to his cold lips as Astarion glanced across the room. The half-elf bard was new, and horrid, as she tried to put way too much soul into a weekday evening song, oversinging every note. He hadn't been here in a while, as the last victim he had stolen away from this place had been merely three months ago.
Cazador was nothing if not adamant about his spawn avoiding suspicion.
Maybe he should've just gone to the Three Kegs or that swill at the dock. He hadn't expected the musical entertainment here to take such a hit, and he liked to pretend that he still had standards, even while doing what he was. As her accompaniment put a flute to their mouth he turned away from the stage, scrunching his face at the sound, arms propped on the bar.
It seemed he wasnt the only one taking offense to the butchering of the beloved dance of thorns, a song all elves (and probably everybody else) knew did not, in fact, sound like that, subjective intonation be damned.
There was a group of six or so drunk gnomes around a central table trying their best to overtone the music with shrill yelling and cluttering of cutlery, a druid in the corner booth was drinking from the largest wooden utensil he had ever seen fit into a pair of hands as though it were a mug.
Maybe he would go for them, they looked absolutely smashed. Then again, druids were a tricky bunch.
If one went missing, you'd have to be a paranoid avoider of all wildlife in the city for a couple weeks which was far harder than you'd think it was when surrounded by stone and concrete.
Groups were, as he always said, hard to deal with. Especially when he was... planning on preying on one of them like this. He bit back the bile rising in the back of his throat; dont focus on the what; focus on the how. And the who.
People tend less to come alone here, which made taverns a hit or miss. However, he had spent his last few hunts in the sewers and underbelly of the city, and if he saw one more rat right now in this moment, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from throwing up anymore. Even if the scent in Taverns could be overwhelmingly strong, the smell of food and beer and musk was ten times better than shit and piss and whatever coagulates at the bottom of the city pipes.
Focus. The people that didn't seem to carry an entourage included a sad looking sorcerer who was wailing over her potatoes, slumped on the table.
Misery was promising, he caught himself thinking. He knew it was fucked up, but it was true. He could give it a shot. Passing adventurers were a solid option, as rarely anyone local would miss them. Sometimes , though, they were often more powerful than you would like to tangle with. That would be cazadors problem, not his.
The flute messed up a horrid note, which sent a jolt through the rowdier parts of the tavern. The hour was so late, and these oafs were still drinking like the night had just begun. Astarion observed further.
A human threw a coin at the stage with high velocity, missing the performers by a large margin. Another entered the tavern through the open door, dragging in a trail of mud, garnering protests from those sitting near the entrance, as well as the staff.
One drow was sitting with his back against the wall and his cup resting in his hand upon his crossed arms. He was staring at the flautist. Astarion couldn't blame him, really.
Although, the longer he looked, the more he could recognise that the drow was staring at the accompanying bard like Astarion stared at people he had just knocked out and dragged onto the burgundy carpet in the foyer of the manor. He was staring at him like he was about to eat him, and not just gently annoyed at the music. Red eyes met red eyes as the drow shifted his gaze to Astarion, having noticed the attention, much to the vampires chagrin.
It was uncomfortably intense, with those black sclera and a very contrasting, intense red iris, and Astarion gave his best confident smile. It was his best quality. It was his best defense.
Now the other bloody elf was boring holes into him. From what he could tell, one of the rarer surface dweller drow. Brown, non descript leather armor as opposed to the black, borderline bondage looking straps of Menzoberranzan, and a mop of white hair about cheek length combed back with unruly streaks falling over his dark, navy-dusk colored skin like spiderwebs. A dark red tattoo of tears on his neck streaking up his jaw, and a singular red flame on his forehead. Probably not lolth-sworn, then. He hoped. Although, he looked bitter and battered enough to qualify as a male ex-worshipper of lolth.
They engaged in uncomfortable, prolonged eyecontact. It felt like an eternity before the drow finally moved out of his stasis, tipping his cup towards the undercover vampire, face unchanging. The way his limbs moved didn't sit well in Astarions skin, but he raised his cup in response nonetheless.
Then he rotated on his stool, facing the bar, turning his back to the under-elf. Eager to move on. Fucking weirdos came to this tavern. No, of course, he didn't count himself among them. It was everyone else, with their weird social graces, and fucked up looking mug.
He much rather would watch the miserable sorcerer, who was now actively, yet still quietly and discreetly, sobbing with her face buried in her arms. Astarion didn't want to truly think about why she was sad. If he ended up attempting to charm her, he could not think of his victims as people. They were targets, and he didn't need to imagine their lives outside of that. He couldn't. Besides. Why be all mopey when it was actually kind of comedic, how pathetically her hat drooped sadly in tandem with its wearer, covering her entire head.
Astarions senses were assaulted as the strongest smell of remnant blood he had smelled in a long time hit his nose. It was the kind that lingered, the kind that normal people would only be able to faintly smell, remaining on clothes and the like. He almost jerked out of his skin as the drow from earlier leaned mere inches beside him, broad chest before his face, returning the cup to the barkeep, exposing Astarion to the source of the smell. By all the gods, this drow smelled of death. There was not even that much visible blood on his armour or shirt or hair, only dried, crusty spots on the chestplate here and there, but if anyone would be able to smell the residue of blood scrubbed off, it was a vampire.
This armor had been stained, and washed immediately, and stained, and washed immediately ad infinum. His hair carried iron, even if you couldn't see it. Not even soldiers or adventurers are that heavily laden in blood. It was like this guy had bathed in it. Multiple times. Astarions nostrils flared, and if he still lived, his heart would be banging about in his ribcage like a frightened bird. He hadn't heard him walk up, which, fair, loud tavern, but he had caught the full load of his scent like a fast moving carriage to the face, as the man suddenly stood right here, inches away from him.
They had another uncomfortable second of eye contact, and Astarion knew naught to do but smile. "You alone here tonight?' Came the drows gruff voice. Normal, for the most part. Deep, and insinuating. The man wasn't really smiling, the vampire wasn't even sure this guy knew how to, but he leaned his broadish chest against the bar, chin propped on the back of his hand, and his body language spoke of someone open for a night of something two consenting adults might wish to partake in, if they weren't called Astarion, and weren't leashed to an ancient master.
The vampire didn't know what it was, but his subconscious tightened his throat further, and his mouth went dry, and he chuckled his most sultry laugh. "No, sorry, darling, I'm waiting for someone." He lied in a heartbeat. He hadn't even really thought about what he was saying before it had slipped out. Those dangerous red eyes looked him up and down, unbidden.
"A shame." The drow said softly, and bared his teeth in a half-grin, eyes not smiling one bit. "Next time, perhaps." It was unsettling, but as Astarion gave a light-hearted laugh as a reply, the man with the lingering iron scent started weaving his way away, to the end of the tavern, carrying the waft of blood behind him. And he gave the flautist bard, who had by now stopped accompanying his mellowed lead singer, thank the gods, one last hungry glance, before slipping through the door of the tavern.
No vampire lured an innocent to their death that night. Cazador allowed taking a couple nights for a target, and Astarion was left slightly unnerved that evening, unable to decide on a victim. He had walked home as the first light blues greeted the horizons, catching himself watching the shadows even more than usual, turning over the evening in his mind. It was one of those things that, only once as he lay in his creaking bed surrounded by his still-as-the-grave-but-still-waking siblings, it slowly dawned how uncomfortable he had felt.
That epiphany always comes after the shock, and he didn't want to imagine where all that blood came from, or what that dangerous smile would've had had in store for him.
Without knowing it, one predator had met a bigger one. That very night, he could've very well have ended up a corpse by the sea bitches temple, that once upon a time had had the intention of doing the same to others. On some days, though, in those next few years, he wondered if that would've been so bad. On those, that blood drow, and whatever he would've done, seemed like the lesser evil he would have happily invited to free him from his cage. On others, he had already forgotten that meeting to the pain completely.