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The thieves skirt the walls of the palace in near silence, moving with the shadows and tremoring like the flickering candlelight which dimly illuminates their surroundings. It isn't difficult to blend in with the darkness here, the absence of any windows dictating the grim blackness which envelops the palace even in the middle of the day. This manufactured gloom is designed to protect the castle's inhabitants. What a shame it will lead to their demise.
Awfully short-sighted of the grand vampire lord to provide willing thieves such as these with the perfect shroud under which to rob him. They have every intention of stealing his favoured artefacts, but for now they seek a much more valuable treasure.
The room is unguarded, but clearly plastered with wards and enchantments. A lesser sorcerer would need to spend hours detangling the complicated threads of such an enchantment, but Gorran has trained his entire life for such a task. The door will open in a matter of minutes, and in just a few more their quest will be half-complete.
His partner watches the hallway sternly and casts impatient glances towards the wizard. "Hurry up, will you?" She hisses, "This place is probably crawling with spawn, and I don't much fancy being anyone's meal."
Gorran's mouth twitches into something like a smile. "Patience, Vesta. The prize will be worth the wait."
Vesta's frown only deepens as she strains to hear any sounds of movement from within the castle. It's eerily quiet. Suspiciously quiet.
"I don't like this." She whispers. "They should be on us by now. There's no way that they don't know we're here."
Gorran glances her way and frowns. "It's midday, they're probably all asleep. Your paranoia is more likely to kill us than an ambush." His hands continue moving quickly, working some kind of magic that Vesta's eyes are blind to.
Suddenly, Gorran sits back on his heels with a flourish. "We're in!"
Vesta's brow furrows. "That's it? I thought it would be more... magical."
Gorran huffs and pushes on the great black door. "Sorry to disappoint. Next time I'll be sure to include some more theatrics for you."
The thief rolls her eyes and joins him in pushing on the door. Its weight is impressive, and the pair are forced to strain for thirty seconds before it gives way.
The chamber beyond is vast and ornate. Crimson curtains hang around a ridiculously opulent bed, candelabras illuminate every corner of the room, and an enormous mirror takes up an entire wall. Doors lead to what must be bathing and dressing rooms - although it's hard to tell, in a vampire's palace. They could just as easily lead to dungeons full of not-so-willing blood donors. This chamber is a true reflection of its occupants. And yet, neither of them actually seem to be here.
"What is it with vampires?" Vesta remarks, striding further into the room. "They have such obvious taste."
"I think 'gauche' is the word you're looking for. You know, tacky." Gorran gazes at the ceiling in amazement. Beyond the gigantic chandelier is a painted mural of angels laughing and playing amongst the clouds. It must be some kind of sick joke. Why else would vampires want to look at that kind of thing?
The grandeur of this chamber is so arresting, so distracting, that neither of them notice a dark shape in the far corner.
"I am sorry to hear that my interior decorating preferences are not to your liking." A quiet, feminine voice sounds from somewhere in the room. Vesta draws her blades as Gorran summons his staff.
"Who are you?" The former demands. "Show yourself!" Her eyes cast desperately around the room, trying to locate the mysterious speaker.
She almost doesn't believe her eyes when a woman emerges seemingly from nowhere, stepping out from the shadows as though she belonged there.
This woman is strange to look at, in an unidentifyable way. Dark red eyes, long limbs, knowing smile - of course. She's a vampire. The very vampire they are here to kill. The monster's eyes appraise her amusedly before her gaze comes to rest upon Vesta's treasured daggers, clutched tight within her hands.
"Throwing-knives? How quaint. That's my speciality, you know." The vampire says quietly.
"I think we've heard enough from you." Vesta flicks her wrist and sends three blades shooting towards the vampire. These are not ordinary weapons. They have been consecrated by the holiest member of Vesta's sacred order, designed specifically to kill godless creatures such as this one. When the knives pierce her heart -
The vampire leisurely lifts a hand and catches all three blades deftly between her fingers. "Oh dear. That wasn't a wise move." She sighs. "I'll have to deal with the both of you later. For now, I think you could do with some rest."
Once the words are spoken, the thieves find themselves slipping into unconsciousness, their bodies becoming heavy. The weight of sleep, irresistible and inviting, crushes them until they fall to the floor.
Vesta comes to on the floor of the vampire's chamber. No, she realises. This is a different room. One with a large window taking up the right-hand wall. There must be a fireplace behind her, because she can hear the crackling of the flames and feel the warmth settling into her bones. Outside, darkness has fallen. She and Gorran must have been unconscious for hours.
Gorran!
Vesta struggles to pull her groggy head from the floor, casting her gaze around to find her comrade. He is nowhere in sight. Vesta dimly registers that she is bound with some kind of rope. She cannot move her arms or legs. This situation is beginning to look slightly hopeless.
"Awake at last, I see." The vampire. The woman from earlier. She reclines on a crimson loveseat, sipping something dark from a crystal goblet. It occurs to Vesta that some poor soul probably died for that drink.
The vampire turns her head and meets Vesta's eyes. Her expression is odd. Not unkind, but... exasperated?
"I do wish you'd stop referring to me as 'the vampire'. You know my name." She says mirthlessly, swirling the contents of her glass around in a disinterested manner.
Vesta's mind scrambles. How does this fiend know what she's thinking? Can she read her mind?
"Of course I can." The vampire woman says impatiently. "And once again, you know my name. Use it."
The command hits her like a wave. Somehow, she has no choice but to obey. "Tavreille." Vesta spits. "Wife of the most evil man in Baldur's Gate. Vampire ascendant. Monster."
Tavreille's face contorts into an amused smile. "Some of that is true, yes." She takes a slow sip from the goblet. "Evil is in the eye of the beholder. We've been called much worse."
She stands, gentle and careful. There is grace and elegance in everything she does, but Vesta is careful not to forget herself. It is an illusion. A pretty picture to hide the ravenous beast beneath. She crosses the room agonisingly slowly and reaches behind Vesta's head, grasping the strange, glowing rope that binds her. She tugs her captive inelegantly into a seated position. The thief recoils from the monster's touch but is unable to wrestle herself away. Somehow, this unholy creature is compelling her not to move.
"You really brought this upon yourself, you know." Tavreille sighs, moving back towards the loveseat. "There are thousands of rooms in this palace, each filled with enough valuable goods to set you and your little friend up quite nicely for the rest of your lives. You would have been punished for trespassing, of course - but if it was truly necessity that had driven you to steal, we would have helped you. You could have walked away from this place rich beyond your wildest dreams."
The vampire woman reaches the seat and turns sharply to meet Vesta's gaze. Her eyes are burning bright red. "But no. You just had to come to our room, didn't you?"
She seems to regain her composure as she brings a hand up to her temple. If she were human, she might look worn out. On a vampire, the gesture looks fake. Practised.
"Where is Gorran?" Vesta pushes. "What have you done with him?"
"The wizard? He is awaiting judgment, just as you are. I thought it best to separate you. My husband's temper can be a bit quick, I'm afraid. I'd rather he didn't slaughter both of you on sight."
Vesta's blood chills. The man Tavreille speaks of is the vampire lord of Baldur's Gate - the first vampire ascendant in history. Vesta had never dreamed she would be in his presence -
"Well, honestly - what did you expect? You did come here to kill his wife, after all." Tavreille laughs.
Ah yes. The mind-reading.
Tavreille's head tilts to the side, as though she's listening for something. "He'll be with us shortly." She announces quietly, and sits back down. "I meant what I said. Any other room in this palace, and you'd have lived."
Vesta becomes aware of the sound of approaching footsteps.
"I will try and convince him to be merciful." Tavreille says. "You will not suffer, if I have anything to do with it."
The door bursts open and in storms the vampire lord himself - Astarion Ancunín, in the not-quite-living, definitely-not-breathing flesh. He doesn't look quite how Vesta had imagined him: his elven bone structure and expensive clothes make him look more like a nobleman than a creature of the undead. He is quite clearly furious, eyes glowing bright red and tension coiled around him like a spring. Vesta feels her bones chill at the sight of him. But nothing compares to the feeling of absolute pitiful dread which washes over her once his petrifying gaze is turned in her direction.
"You upstart little fool." He seethes, marching in her direction.
"Dearest -" Tavreille interjects.
He pays her no heed, seizing Vesta by the hair and pulling her up until she meets his gaze. He is tall, and her feet are dangling a ways off the ground before he can look her in the eye. Every instinct in her body begs her to look away, but her eyes are not her own anymore.
"What on earth gives you the right to march into my palace, take down my wards, and threaten my wife?" He isn't shouting - he doesn't need to. It isn't volume that's giving his voice that dangerous edge.
"They did not succeed, dear heart. I am unharmed. They posed no real threat." Tavreille does not bother to rise from her seat.
The vampire lord laughs mirthlessly and drops Vesta to the floor. Her head hits the marble tiles with a crack and she groans in pain as her mind becomes fuzzy. She can just make out snippets of a conversation between the two vampires.
"Pathetic... waltzing in here... the sheer arrogance..."
"No point... hardly worth the effort..."
As the ringing in her head subsides, Vesta dimly realises that they're talking about her and Gorran. Arguing over what to do with them.
"I ought to suspend them both from a pike in the city centre." Lord Ancunín spits as he paces before the fireplace.
"If you want to make an example of them, throw their rotting corpses onto the streets. Mount their heads on a pike over the city gates, for all I care. But no torture. Torture is beneath us." Tavreille's voice is calm but firm. She still hasn't moved, but she watches her husband carefully.
"But it would make me feel better." He spits petulantly.
"So would a stiff brandy and a decent book." His wife reasons.
He pauses, looking at Tavreille properly for the first time. "You know you are infuriating when you make sense." He says quietly.
"And yet, you married me anyway." She smiles delicately, daring him to meet her eyes. He does, and sighs: defeated.
"Very well."
He strides back over to Vesta, dragging her back into a seated position. He pulls her head back and glares at her crumpled form. "You are lucky that my wife is more merciful than I am." He says derisively.
Vesta knows her life is about to end. Her mission has failed, her best friend is doomed to die along with her. And worst of all, the monster they had hoped to weaken will continue to tighten his grip over the city. She realises now that she has nothing to lose.
"You and your wife are nothing but beasts. Gorran and I came here to rid this city of one monster and ruin another in the process. All you've done is prove that we were right to wish you both dead." Her voice doesn't sound as sure or steady as she would like, but she's proud to have choked the words out anyway. She will not cower in her final moments.
The vampire lord's eyes flash a bright red. He sneers and leans in closer. "When you make it to the afterlife, tell them Astarion Ancunín sent you - and then apologise on my behalf for the inconvenience."
Her neck snaps, and then there is only darkness.
Tavreille sets her wine glass down on the dressing room table. She'd brought it with her from the reception room, not wanting to be wasteful, but something about seeing a woman's neck snap under her husband's hands has soured its taste. A shame, really. It's a fine vintage.
She removes her heavy sapphire necklace carefully and sets it in its ornate box. She doesn't need to be gentle with it - its craftsmanship is so fine that she could wrench it from her neck and discard it on the floor, if she so desired, and it would not break. She is gentle not because she has to be, but because she chooses to be.
With this necklace, priceless as it already is, come the memories of the day it was given to her - an engagement present, made to match her ring - and the day that she wore it for the first time. The memories of her wedding have her smiling fondly.
The last of her queenly raiment shed, she stands and crosses into the next room, their bedroom, and finds her lover sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling he'd commissioned for her - another engagement gift.
"You seem awfully intent upon the plasterwork tonight, dearest." She likes to tease him a little - just a little - to open him up when he's like this. He wants to talk about something, but can't find a way to get the conversation started.
"Your angels laugh as if they know something I do not." His voice is flat, but there's a hint of amusement underneath. He'll take the bait, if she keeps probing.
Her eyes flicker to the ceiling. Pairs of angels dance playfully around each other in a heavenly sky. In the centre, curving leisurely around the fixture of the chandelier, two angels lean to meet each other, almost kissing. She feels a sense of peace every time she looks at this painting.
"They laugh, my love, because they have peace and they have each other, and that is enough." Her voice is soft as she sits on the edge of the bed, not touching him. Not yet.
"Would that we could have a little peace every now and then." He snorts.
She rolls her eyes affectionately. "Those thieves were not the first to try their hands at murdering us, and they won't be the last. Before we defeated the Netherbrain, half of the continent was trying to do us in."
Astation frowns and turns to look at her.
"Yes, and look how we are repaid for our brave crusade: thieves break into our home and try to kill you in your own chambers. You, the great saviour of Baldur's Gate. You, to whom they owe their very lives." His anger is rising. That's good. He needs to get these feelings out, or they'll simmer for days and turn sour.
Tavreille takes a moment to try and work her long hair into a braid, considering her next words carefully.
"No matter what good we have done, no matter what good we will do, there will always be those who resent us for what we are. We both know this."
For a moment, her husband is silent. Tavreille frowns at her hands as they try and work her hair into some kind of manageable state. She seems to be succeeding only in creating a mess. Astarion rights himself, reaches out a hand, rests it over her own, and stops her fingers. "You really are hopeless." He says fondly. "Here, let me."
With a warm smile, Tavreille turns and surrenders her tresses to his capable hands. He works deftly and expertly, twisting strands into some kind of complicated pattern that she could never hope to fathom.
"What is it, dear heart?" She asks softly. "You know that I was not in any real danger today. Two upstart thieves are hardly a match for the 'great saviour of Baldur's Gate', as you called me. What is it that clouds your mind?"
He lets her braided hair fall against her back with a small thump. She pulls it over her shoulder to admire his handiwork. Immaculate, as always.
His arms reach forward and wrap around her middle, pulling her backwards to lie on the bed. She squirms and twists in his grasp until she is facing him. Whatever his next words will be, she wants to look him in the eye as he says them.
"I don't know how you're so calm about it." He breathes. "When I took this power, I did so thinking that I would never be subjugated again. I thought that I would live a life devoid of fear, and that both you and I would be safe forever. No more watching our backs, no more fighting off enemies. I thought we'd have peace."
He pauses, frowning. She raises her hand to cup his cheek, encouraging him to go on.
"Instead, I come home to find pathetic, petty little criminals sneaking in to try and kill the person I hold most dear. I'm frustrated, my sweetheart, because I fear that one day a more capable attacker will take their place and steal from me the only person whom I have ever truly loved."
Tavreille brushes a line with her fingers from Astarion's temple to his jaw. "There is no such person, Star." She asserts. "None who could overpower either one of us." He nods, but she knows he does not feel the truth of her words, so she continues.
"This power we share... it was ill-begotten, and we will always carry the weight of that, but it will protect us. We will use it to save and better the lives of countless thousands of people. And, when necessary, we will use it to protect ourselves."
He looks at her with that same frightening intensity that she saw in him the day he killed his former master. That day he had stood upon the precipice of something unimaginable, and for the love of him she had crossed that boundary too. She is not frightened now, however.
She knew when she helped him seize this power that he would use it to be better than he was made to be, that he would share his life and his love with her, and that there would be no secrets between them.
Decades have passed since that night, and she has never been proven wrong in that belief.
"Still," She says, lightening the mood, "there is an easy remedy to this issue."
Astarion's brow quirks in mock scepticism.
"Oh? And what might that be, my treasure?"
Bless him. He always takes the bait she offers.
"I shall simply have to get out more. I could start, for instance, by attending council meetings with you." She smiles, coy and coquetteish.
He is visibly taken aback. "Really? You'd truly be comfortable with that?"
She laughs and nods. "Thirty years is plenty of time spent indoors, I think. I am, after all, one of only two vampires in the world who can walk in the sun. It'd be selfish of me to squander that power, don't you think?"
He laughs with her and leans forward to press a kiss against her lips. "Now that you mention it, it would save me the trouble of recounting every meeting in tedious detail for your benefit whenever I return home."
She presses her head into his chest, just underneath his collarbone. "It's settled then. Just think: tomorrow, you'll have your wonderful wife arguing for the clean water bill in person with you."
"How exciting." He quips, playing with her braid distractedly. "I can't wait to see the look on the councillors' faces when you storm through the doors of the Great Hall. You'll have them eating out of the palm of your hand dearest, just you wait and see."
She smiles at the thought. It will be nice to speak her mind in person rather than through painfully polite letters. It will certainly cause a stir. "Are you sure you can handle being upstaged by your own wife?" Tavreille teases. "Give it a few weeks, and you might be sick of me tagging along wherever you go."
Astarion laughs and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. "Sick of you? Never, darling. Never."