Chapter Text
Gods what a nightmare, Astarion thought to himself as he slowly came to consciousness. He had dreamed of a shelled and tentacled ship, a horror of metal and meat, looking like it was dredged from the Bitch Queen’s deepest oceans to flash through the early evening sky of Baldur’s Gate. Its pink and gray flesh glistening dimly in the last vestiges of sunset. He remembered seeing it from the south tower of the palace as he had been setting out to the Blushing Maiden at Cazador’s orders. A ship had docked that morning from Evermeet; Cazador wanted the purest elven blood, something unique and heretofore untasted, like a sun elf, to sup upon as soon as possible. Astarion was chosen to seduce a member of their fabled navy and sent out as early as possible.
He must have failed spectacularly and been tortured for it; it was the only explanation for the bizarre nightmare of a tentacle snapping him up into the ship. Only an evening spent in the merciless grip of a disappointed Vampire Master could beat his head into conjuring visions of mind flayers and a grotesque worm crawling into his eye. Astarion groaned, feeling pain in every muscle and joint of his body as well as a curious weakness. One he hadn’t felt since the year he spent entombed, starving to the point of insanity as punishment for running away. It had been ages since he felt this weak; he had learned to play Cazadors games better than this. What had happened? How badly had he failed?
Astarion blinked gore-crusted eyes open, expecting to see the plain stone walls of the spawn kennels and the rough wood of Petras’s bunk above him. He wasn’t chained, so Godey’s torture chamber was out. Instead he was greeted with tall trees towering into a bright sky in a heart-rending shade of blue he hadn’t seen in two centuries. The sun was warm on his face.
The sun. Shit. Fuck.
With a shout of surprise, Astarion scrambled backward until his back connected with a tree trunk and sat, dazed, in its dappled shade. Had he been dumped out of the city to burn in the sun? He needed to get back, the command was a constant imperative, return home before the sun rises over Wyrm’s Crossing. What sick new torment was this? Would he be punished for running away again? No matter that he didn’t take himself out of the city, Cazador wouldn’t see it that way even if the bastard himself had laid Astarion out in the middle of nowhere.
A strange crackling sound and a sickly stench of metallic burning drew his attention to behind his hiding place. The tentacled ship from his nightmares lay in a deep furrow in the ground, where it had clearly driven itself in a crash. The ship lay in pieces, cracked open like a giant snail, revealing still-smoking innards, pale pink flesh charred black in great chunks. Nearby was the strange fleshy pod he had dreamed of as his new coffin, broken and hanging open. It must have protected him during the crash
This was no nightmare.
That must mean there really was a mind flayer worm in his brain. Disgusting.
Although… He glanced again at the warm sunlight just in front of him, then down at his as-yet-unhurt body. Tentatively, Astarion reached a hand out into the direct sunlight, braced for agony.
Nothing happened.
Astarion stepped fully into the warm sun and felt its gentle caress on his face for the first time in two hundred years. It felt incredible. Warmth and light. Golden rays of bliss coming down in gentle kisses from the heavens. He stared around at the forest, at colors he hadn’t seen in so long, vibrant and bright.
Amazing, but he had to get home. The order was clear, the compulsion would - wait. There was no compulsion. His body should be taking him to Baldur’s Gate by now, he had no control over his response to direct orders from Cazador. But here he sat in the sunlight, entirely of his own free will, with no urge to move at all.
Two centuries of begging every god in the pantheon. Two centuries of being as conspicuous as he could, while still holding to Cazador’s rules, in front of any adventuring party or cleric, hoping they would follow him back and end Cazador or at least stake him and put him out of his misery. No one listened. No one saw him for more than a pretty-boy. A rake seducing men and women in taverns every night. His presence dismissed as one of no concern or anyone deserving a moment of thought. If he wasn’t fucking someone, he may as well have been invisible. He was as good as invisible while fucking someone as well; his wants were never a factor in the bedroom, he was there as Cazador’s personal fuck toy, a beautiful flesh golem.
And now he was lost. Lost to the city, lost to his ‘family’ and the endless parade of victims who gained their life’s last pleasures from his unwilling body.
Tears ran unnoticed down his sun-warmed face.
He was free.
He had lost track of time just basking in the marvel of sunlight, but eventually his attention was caught by the sounds of fighting coming from the wreckage behind him. Instinctively, he reached for the dagger at his belt and was briefly surprised to actually find it there. He peered into the wreckage of the ship as best he could without giving himself away. Deep in the cracked carapace of the ship, a struggle could be seen. Intellect devourers, brains on spindly legs, swarmed around two figures, one pale, armored in silver chainmail and brown leather, her hair caught in a long black braid, the other robed in dark gray, dark skinned with great volumes of stark white hair in a wild cloud around her head.
A memory of a nightmare flashed into his mind. He had seen these two from his pod. They had free run of the mind flayer ship. They must be involved with the Illithids somehow, or at least know something about what in the hells was going on. Astarion scrambled, realizing the women had ended their battle with the brains and were heading his way, conversing too low to make out. He needed to get some answers.
As they drew closer, Astarion fell into the easy motions of a roll he knew well. Relying on his beauty and cultured tones to gain assistance and quick trust. He would seem so helpless, they would either help or leave him without a fight. He could work with either.
The two women drew closer still. He could hear their conversation now. The pale one was a half-elf, standing half a head or more over her petite companion. The Half-elf appeared to be a cleric, usually that would signal that she was the leader of the two, as clerics rarely liked playing second fiddle to anyone outside their own faith, but she was effusively thanking the other woman for saving her, clearly drifting along behind her. The shorter woman was scraping her cloud of white hair off her dark face, revealing pointed ears as she tied her hair back with a leather thong. A Drow. Fascinating. Of course the drow was the leader between the two women, that made sense. He’d never met one before, but Astarion was well aware of the reputation of Lolth’s children and their fanatical matriarchal structure. He probably had an advantage here, as he would be underestimated. But would the evil elf be stirred at all by his plan to need help?
It was too late. They were almost on him. Now or never.
“Hurry! I’ve got one of those brain things cornered.” He cried out, staring into the forest behind his pod, allowing his body to vibrate with anxiety - not an act - and his voice to drop low in what he knew was an alluring timbre, “There, in the grass. You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others.” He pointed off into the brush.
“Easily,” The Drow said with a friendly smile, her pale blue eyes almost startling him, glowing from her dark gray-purple face. “Stand back,” her voice was elven-accented, but it was off in odd ways. An underdark accent, he assumed. The cleric hung back, a suspicious look shuttering her gaze while the guileless drow moved forward to help him.
“There, can you see it?” Astarion encouraged the drow to move closer to the brush, pointing deeper in where something did actually move. Astonishingly, it worked. The drow peered into the brush, trying to see what he was pointing at. He had her.
His knife was out and at her throat in an instant. Not wanting the cleric at his back, he tripped the drow, the two of them falling to the ground. He now had a shield to any magic and a disadvantaged drow helpless in his arms. Perfect.
“Shh. Not a sound.” He breathed in her ear, his knife pricking her throat. The scent of her blood was in the air, a deliciously forbidden bouquet. She didn’t struggle, holding herself still as the grave, her blue eyes hard on him, categorizing everything. “Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.”
Movement in the corner of his vision. The cleric was considering something stupid, he was sure. He glanced at her, his red eyes flashing in the light. “And you,” He spat, “keep your distance. No need for this to get messy.”
“I need her alive.” The cleric stated in the accents of Baldur’s Gate. “stow that blade, or I’ll show you how messy things can get.”
Astarion laughed at the useless threat. “Promises, promises. But I have other business, I’m afraid.”
He turned his attention to the frozen drow in his arms. “Now, I saw you on the ship, didn’t I? Nod.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she nodded. Did the cleric not know, perhaps? Maybe he would have an ally in her once he slit the drows’ throat.
“Splendid. And now you’re going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacled freaks did to me.”
“You have it backwards,” The drow explained in that oddly accented voice. “They took me prisoner, just like you.”
Prisoner! Wandering the ship free as a lark and he was to believe she was a prisoner.
“Don’t lie to me. I - agh!” Agony seared through his brain. A vision seen through a stranger's eyes flashed into his mind; a magnificent city carved from onyx-black stone in a massive cave. Stalactites twisted ‘round with staircases, descending from unseen heights and fanciful carvings everywhere highlighted with purple faerie fire. Mushrooms as big as oak trees glowing phosphorescent green on street corners. Spiders everywhere, real and as decorative motifs. The stranger's feeling of helpless terror gripped him; there was no way out of this beautiful place but death.
The vision severed. Astarion opened his eyes to frightened ice-blue ones. “What was that? What’s going on?” he rasped out, the terror of the vision not-quite fading.
“It’s the mind flayer’s worm - it connected us.” The drow explained. He must have seen the underdark, her city. What had she seen? If she was plucked from one of the great drow cities of the underdark, she couldn’t be with the mind flayers. She was telling the truth.
He let his arm fall, the knife falling away from her throat. Astarion rolled away from her, then cautiously got to his feet at the same time she got to hers. “You’re not one of them.” He agreed, “They took you, just the same as me.”
How to turn this around. How to survive. Seduction always worked. Ingratiate himself and ride it out until a better option presented itself.
“And to think,” He said with a winning smile, “I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”
“Apology accepted.” The Drow said, before a smirk quirked up the corner of her lips and her face became a beautiful picture of mischief. “I might have done the same, were the rolls reversed.”
“A kindred spirit.” Astarion observed, giving the drow one of his best smirks before moving to introduce himself to this potential new ally. “My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”
“Tav.” The drow offered her name and nothing else. The cleric offered nothing more than a frown.
“So, do you know anything about these worms?” Astarion kept the desperation from his voice but it was close. He needed her to talk. She knew things he didn’t, even if she wasn’t with the illithids.
“Yes, unfortunately.” Tav sighed, “They’ll turn us into mind flayers.”
She had to be joking. She had to be. Her face was haunted. This wasn’t a joke. He burst out laughing all the same.
“Of course it’ll turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?” Astarion laughed out with no humor. Would he be a vampire spawn illithid? Or just an illithid? When would it happen? How long did they have?
“Although… it hasn’t happened yet. If we can find an expert - someone that can control these things - there might still be time.” This worm let him walk in the sun and severed him from Cazador’s compulsion. If there was a way to control it, he would be able to stay free. This could still work.
“Control it!?” Tav was incredulous. Hadn’t the worms given her any powers? Surely a drow would want to hang on to power. “We need to get rid of it!”
“Well, yes, of course.” Being agreeable got one everywhere. “But first things first.”
“You should travel with me.” Tav offered, “Our odds are better together.”
He wasn’t sure his odds would be better with a cleric of any faith, but Tav did have a point all the same. They were now on the same quest and if he separated from them, they might get answers or resources before him. Better odds together.
“You know, I was ready to go this alone, but maybe sticking with the herd isn’t such a bad idea.” Astarion was constantly assessing Tav’s face, what did she think of him, where did he stand, how could she help him survive? “And you seem like a useful person to know. Alright, I accept. Lead on.”
Tav moved on and Astarion followed quickly on her heels. The cleric stuck close to Tav’s other side.
“Shadowheart, are you ok with this?” Tav asked the half-elf as they walked, “I don’t feel right leaving worm infected people, but you should have a say.”
“I’m not sure how useful he would be.” The cleric said, disdainfully looking him up and down.
“Oh? And how useful are you?” Astarion asked her.
“Oh, she’s amazing!” Tav enthused. “She cast this command spell on a cambion when the ship was in the hells and it just dropped its sword! I couldn’t believe it. Lae’zel scooped it right up and gutted the devil with his own blade. It was fantastic!”
“Lae’zel?” Was there another member of this strange party out there?
“A githyanki who escaped with us.” Tav explained. “Not sure where she is now. The crash threw us all pretty far. I hope she survived.”
This drow was most un-drow-like. Though what did he know of dark elves? Perhaps they were all full of bright smiles and helpful attitudes.
“And how useful are you… Astarion, was it?” Shadowheart asked, condescension thick in her voice.
Astarion smirked before vanishing into the shadows of the forest, remaining silent while Tav gently admonished Shadowheart for requesting a show of power. He appeared behind the half-elf and tapped her on the shoulder. She gave a shriek of surprise and leapt into the air while Tav doubled over laughing.
“Your face!” The drow gasped out at Shadowheart around helpless giggles.
“Oh, Lady Silverhair, I needed a laugh.” Tav sighed out, wiping a tear from her eye and granting Astarion a warm smile once she had recovered from her laughing fit. “I’m sorry if you feel badly, Shadowheart, but it was pretty funny.”
The cleric rolled her eyes affectionately at the drow. They may not have years of friendship, but the drow had clearly charmed the cleric enough that laughing at her drew no anger.
“And what can you do, darling?” Astarion inquired of Tav.
“Yes, Tav, you should show him.” Shadowheart encouraged, full of false innocence.
“You just want me to light him on fire or something.” Tav smirked at the cleric.
“Wizard, then?” Astarion asked.
“Sorcerer.” Tav corrected. “My magic is inherent, not studied. Though I’m really not quite sure what I can do right now. This tadpole in my head has really messed with things. I can’t find most of the spells I knew before.”
She was weaker for the infection. That explained her reluctance to gain control over the worm, as well as his own feeling of weakness. Astarion assumed Shadowheart was weaker as well, not wanting to bother asking the annoying cleric. They were weaker, which might mean staying with them would be a risk, but they were also fellow infected looking for a cure, which meant a common goal and a common purpose which would be helpful. If they could find a way to control this infection, his freedom could be permanent. He would stay.
“Where are we going, anyway?” He asked, needing to know their plan as they rounded the site of the crashed ship.
“No idea!” Tav answered brightly. “We don’t know where we are, honestly. Just trying to find a road or something so we can get our bearings.”
“Uh, Tav?” Shadowheart asked, staring at a large rock formation to the east. “Do magic portals usually look like that?”
They turned to see an angry purple vortex swirling in the center of the rock formation.
“Oh.” Tav breathed, drawing closer to the portal than Astarion thought was entirely safe. She couldn’t give him hope for freedom, then die in a stupid broken portal. He followed her, putting a hand to her arm and trying to draw her back.
Just then, a hand thrust out of the portal.