Chapter Text
Beyond the red haze of agony, Petras cast his squinted eyes down to observe the scene happening below. He recognized the curly-haired half-elf woman from the Flophouse. She was the one he'd been trying to lure to the palace, throwing his best lines at her until Astarion came stalking inside the room to reveal she was working with him and it had all been a ruse.
He watched, heaving breaths and twitching within the Master’s thrall, as the Master lifted Astarion and stripped him of his armor before whipping him around onto the last remaining platform to perform the ritual.
You couldn’t do anything, Petras thought hatefully and terrified as the Master began to yell the incantation of the Black Mass. All that talk, our last damn hope, and you were just as powerless as always.
He turned his eyes away to face the high rock ceiling, tears slipping past his cheeks as he shuddered. The scars on his back flared with fresh heat that left him grunting in pain.
But then he heard the Master yelling again, and this time it wasn’t any infernal chant.
Petras looked down again toward the altar, blinking his tears away as he took in the sight.
The Master unleashed a familiar, sickly teal light on the woman Astarion had brought to the inn. He hit her square in the chest and left her stumbling. The Master had always been fond of casting blight. For living victims, it got whatever message he wanted to convey across very precisely.
His “brother’s” companions were making work of the werewolves and ghasts. A couple of them, though it was difficult to tell which, glowed with terrible, blinding daylight that sent the undead reeling. It eventually reached the Master in the central ritual circle, his red mist form hovering there protectively. But when the light reached him, the Master hissed and was brought back into a corporeal body. Some cleric of all things was driving the ugly creatures back with bright, circling yellow lights. Another man, a wizard with a staff, was unleashing flames in an arc across the floor, trapping the bats and other monsters behind a wall of fire that they idiotically still ran through and died.
There was a horned devil with a lute unleashing red blasts on hordes of bats the master summoned, a tiefling and githyanki of all things charging forward with a battle axe and great sword, respectively, and loud roars between them.
Where in the hells had Astarion found these people? How the devil had he gotten them all to help him?
Finally, Petras saw the woman run for his older brother, leaping away from claws and curses and vanishing with a white shining poof. The blonde blinked, not understanding where she’d gone until he realized she was at Astarion’s side, teleported nearly into his arms where the elf hung suspended.
Astarion was pulled down, free and unbound, before more than a matter of seconds could have passed.
Petras and the others had been hanging here for hours. Hours of wicked red magic holding them in place, burning through the scars on their backs like molten metal that didn't drip, didn't cool, didn't actually spill any of their blood, as the Master waited for Astarion to arrive.
Hours hanging limp for sacrifice, feeling his very soul was becoming untethered.
But Astarion only needed to suffer for a few seconds before someone’s hands were pulling him down and setting him right again.
How nice for him.
Could someone pull him down now, please?
Apparently not, because he watched the mage rush away from Astarion only to focus back on the Master. Her hands glowed a bright, crackling blue as she blasted him and Chatterteeth with a powerful bolt of lightning. Astarion darted in right after, actually managing to stab the Master, twice, before the vampire lord turned to mist and evaded them both.
Astarion made the Master retreat with the help of that woman.
Chatterteeth launched a spell, red and foreboding, at the half-elf when she turned to face the werewolves on either side of her. She dropped to the ground like a puppet with her strings cut, and the lycanthropes lunged for her, claws raking across her front and legs. She woke with a ragged scream, shield coming over her head before casting a desperate misty step to teleport away. Petras could smell her blood, thick and sweet, wafting through the air, and wondered if she would be the first to die even as she cast another bolt of lightning that dropped Chatterteeth to his boney knees along with both wolves.
The battle was hard to follow as all the warriors and mages darted around each other. The Master was quick to evade, but just as quickly caught in one trap or another between the cleric and wizard. He couldn’t maintain his mist form, and Petras was starting to tentatively, dangerously hope again. He turned his head in slow inches to try to follow everything, focusing briefly on the githyanki skewering a ghast in front of him. The creature gave a rasping shriek, claws flailing aimlessly as the fighter ripped the sword back out and let the monster fall to the ground.
It went on for so long; the sound of new summons, the clang of metal, echoes and explosions of spells, the cries of fury and pain warping into a cacophony.
Then across the room, a high, piercing cry echoed back toward him through it all. One of the walls of fire that had erupted at one point fell away to nothing.
His eyes flicked over the condensed battle, trying to find what had happened, when he saw the Master savaging the curly haired one. His bloodied palms clawed across her left, right, center. She fell to the floor, unmoving, only for the Master to snatch her back up with his right hand around her neck. The brown haired half-elf’s hands were limp at her sides, head hanging backward. Even from this distance, Petras could pick up on the familiar smell of decaying flesh.
The Master brought her in to his mouth, twisting his right wrist to expose the top of her neck and leaning in close on the right side of the helpless woman’s face.
Astarion was bellowing now, rushing to get to the Master with either blade but unsuccessful as the older elf easily dodged and turned to mist again. The woman fell to the ground, and Petras saw her skull bounce against the marble steps. Her armor had already been drenched in red, and now blood soaked her hair.
Astarion threw himself to his knees at her side, one palm against her neck while he used the other to brace himself on the ground. Petras couldn’t tell what he found, but he rose swiftly right back to his feet and fairly flew at the Master's small insidious form.
The battle kept raging with significantly more screaming as Astarion made contact with the Master and the cleric tried to reach their fallen comrade past the wall of fire their own side had cast.
Petras couldn't make out what anyone was saying, too much yelling and noise and lights flaring and then suddenly it was over.
In another wink of radiant light, the Master dematerialized with a curse before shrinking away into his coffin. The few bats still haranguing the fighters died in high squeaks as everyone tried to get their bearings.
The coffin lid went slamming to the floor and the Master followed it, Astarion spitting vitriol all the while.
After a long moment, the wall of fire finally faded away. The cleric rushed for the downed spellcaster but Petras had to wonder if there was any point. Between the amount of blood on the ground and the Master’s fatal necrotic claws, he didn’t think the witch could be alive. Surely they weren’t going to let the Master heal enough to keep fighting!
Now the Master was cowering on the ground, palms still raised toward Astarion even though no one was paying him enough attention. They actually appeared to be arguing amongst themselves.
Petras wondered half bleakly and half eagerly if the Master would still manage to kill Astarion due to the sheer idiocy he was displaying.
The group was speaking to Astarion now. Petras couldn't hear, still locked by the red beams holding him and his siblings in place.
“These people died years ago. Trust me on that!” Astarion's voice echoed in the chamber, and then Petras understood what was going on. He remembered Astarion's words at the Flophouse, remembered the story Aurelia and Leon had gotten out before they had all been forced to follow the Master underground.
Astarion taking the Master's place in the Black Mass. Astarion planning to ascend.
You bastard, Petras thought in rage and despair. You absolute, unbelievable bastard.
Even as he renewed his attempts to break free, he felt wretched envy that Astarion, the Master’s favorite pin cushion, the one with the sweetest screams, the runaway, might actually get to sacrifice them all and cheat undeath instead of the Master. Instead of him.
The warlock was speaking to Astarion now. Petras couldn't hear, still locked by the red beams holding him and his siblings in place. But whatever he was saying didn't sound particularly friendly, more angry and accusing.
The cleric and wizard were still hovering over the fallen half-elf, pouring potions into her mouth while the cleric's hands glowed blue.
Whatever the Master had done to her, it had been quite a bit of damage. The mage was shuddering on the ground as she woke, still shielding her body and twitching from what Petras could see.
Finally, she came to properly, sitting up with the cleric’s arms at her front and the wizard behind her back.
Petras had a clear view of her when she looked between Astarion and the devil, and he saw her struggle to her feet. The warlock stopped talking and the tiefling came up beside him.
They let the sorcerer take over.
The woman was saying something to him, too softly and far away for Petras to hear over the hum of red energy. But Astarion was listening to her, face open and raw.
Petras’s eyes flicked frantically between them all and the Master.
Too close, he thought in agony. Please just kill him. Don't let that bastard kill us for revenge against the Master!
He was flexing his fists, closing his eyes and trying desperately to break himself free while the Master was distracted. Then he heard the stilted yells of pain and rage.
It was over before he had a chance to appreciate it. Lord Cazador was dead and wasting away in a bloody puddle on the ground and Astarion had collapsed to his knees. He was wailing like he was the one gutted on the floor.
Petras stopped paying attention at that point, tugging restlessly on the bonds until at last they faded to nothing and he was able to land softly on the ground. His back still felt sore, but that horrid burning had faded.
The six of them moved forward slowly, forming a circle around the macabre display. The woman had approached Astarion again where he knelt on the ground and draped a dark cloak over his bare shoulders. Astarion's left hand came up to tug it more tightly around himself at his right shoulder, brushing her right fingers lightly with his for a moment.
Dalyria and his eldest brother spoke first before Petras could ask the pressing question of what this all meant.
“What do you want it to mean?” The half-elf mage asked, hovering behind Astarion after adjusting the cloak over his shoulders as if his modesty needed protecting.
“I-I don't know,” Petras stuttered out, still too agitated to think clearly.
She frowned, sympathetic but not only that. “Do you think you can keep your thirst under control?”
Annoyance at her presumption reared up. “What business is it of yours?”
“It will be everyone's business if you feast on half the city.” Astarion bit out, sounding a bit more like the miserable git Petras knew him to be.
When it was over and done with, Petras walked toward the stone steps with his siblings in a near daze.
In the last day, he'd gone from believing he was hours away from becoming a vampire lord, powerful and in control like never before, to being permanently consigned to the Underdark as a spawn responsible for herding seven thousand other spawn.
The Master had never intended to free them. He'd only intended to consume them all. Astarion had wanted to do the same. Would have done the same, had his apparent minders not stopped him.
And now we're just doing what he says? We let him stand tall and wield the Master’s staff like he was our new overlord?
Petras turned to look back at the large group, focusing on where the woman and Astarion stood to the side away from everyone else.
She was coddling him again, left palm against his right cheek while her right fingers wiped tears and blood from his left. Astarion was staring at her, Petras could tell even from this distance. As he watched, the pale elf brought up both hands to cup her wrists, dragging her fingers forward and pressing his mouth against the curled digits. He let his head fall forward and rest on her knuckles.
Petras scowled, lip curling and nostrils flaring, before he felt a hand on his left shoulder. He whipped around, but it was only Dalyria.
“Petras?” She asked quietly, looking past him to where he'd been staring. Her expression was still soft, still exhausted with relief. No one had offered her or him anything to cover themselves with. They'd have to make a trip through the house before venturing into the Underdark itself if they didn't want to be hopelessly exposed.
“What?” He responded gruffly, moving to walk past her on the stairs and chase after their other shell shocked and fleeing siblings. “We'd better get going if we intend to make it into the Underdark. Who knows how long those tunnels go?”
Dalyria hummed, bringing up the rear of their group as they finished climbing the stairs.
Petras ignored her, hunger growing more acute in his gut the further they got from living morsels.
No more rules, he thought with growing resilience. I can feast soon. Damn Astarion's worries. Maybe I can find that tasty elf still before I head deeper underground.
But the opportunity to break away didn't come. The other spawn had already gone ahead and who knew what trouble they would find. No sooner had the six of them gotten dressed than they needed to hurry back through the tunnels and sewers as quickly as they could, packs of meager gold, clothes, and jewelry on their backs as they ran frantically from the Gur breaching the castle's defenses at last.
Heh, he thought with panicked malevolence and a backwards glance as the elevator shot downward and out of the tribe's reach. Have fun with them, brother.