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Cazador’s days—no, hours— were numbered as far as Mazikeen was concerned. The urge within her trembles with delight at the very thought of killing a powerful vampire lord. No , she tells herself firmly, this is Astarion's kill, not hers. He has every right to deal with his former master however he sees fit.
The more their little hunting group lingers in the Gothic mansion, the more the Bhaalspawn feels a strange sense of deja vu. Her memories before the crash of the nautiloid still remain scrambled, and she doubts they'll ever return.
It isn't until they're stepping over wolf, bat, and werebeast corpses in the ballroom that visions begin to flitter through her fragmented memory.
Polished floors glimmer beneath the lit chandeliers. Strings, flutes, and drums sew a beautiful symphony, with masked aristocrats dancing the night away.
A goblet of rich and dry wine is grasped between her fingers, amethyst eyes scanning the moving crowd. Delicious sacks of viscera, all of which would make her father hum in satisfaction should she choose to turn this into a blood soiree. But her mission is clear. There would be no bloodshed tonight, only flattery, alcohol, and a power play alongside her accomplice.
Lord Enver Gortash—a truly cunning and vile snake at heart. A honeyed word here, a kiss and a well timed laugh there, and already he had nearly every aristocrat wrapped around his jeweled fingers.
She however, was far less charismatic and silver-tongued. Her blade does most of the talking when words fail, and tonight is no acception, should things go awry. But speak of the devil, and he shall arrive.
“Oh come now, Mazikeen,” Gortash chides, leaving the merriment of the dance floor, “That dour expression of yours could sour even sugarcane. Go on—enjoy yourself! The more allies we can make, the better. Who knows, perhaps our esteemed host will ask for a dance?”
“Your trust in me is ever astounding, Gortash,” She smirks. A dangerous gleam enters her eyes, mischief sparkling at the edges. She takes a sip of her wine leaning further against the wall, “Undead Cazador may be, but killing an esteemed vampire lord would be quite the challenge. And dare I say, a thrilling hunt?”
The lordling sighs. “And yet here you stand, sulking in the corner with only the drapery for company.” He gestures towards the crowd, taking a sip of his own drink. “A fine collection of the wealthy, resourceful, and the despicable all in one place. You'll get to put that blade of yours to good use soon enough. But for now, relax, have a dance, and indulge in the sins of the flesh while you can.”
Mazikeen scoffs. “I'll think about it. But you're the conversationalist. Do whatever you need to to win over Cazador. I'll be…watching.”
“A faithful watchdog, what more could I ask for in a partner?”
He leaves her to her own thoughts once more. She is too sure just how much time has passed, but the moment her glass of wine empties, there is another placed in front of her. Her eyes follow the silver goblet to a pale hand and embroidered sleeves, until they lock with glowing crimson behind a dark mask.
“A bold viognier, heavy but faintly sweet.”
The stranger's voice could make anyone swoon, and his fanged grin stirred an instinctual fear within her flesh. A vampire, one of Cazador’s thrills, no doubt. She should've known that the vampire lordling would put his spawn to work, even at an event such as this. She takes the goblet and drinks, allowing the rich taste to flow over her tastebuds. “Far preferable to the vinegar I was drinking before. Might go so far as to say it's my favorite. Either you have excellent taste, or you're quite perceptive.”
“An educated guess,” He dismisses charismatically, “Though I'm pleased to hear that I made a sensible choice.” He bows and takes her other hand, “Astarion Ancunín, my lady,” His lips graze against her knuckles.
She shudders from the unexpected cool touch. But there is also a thrill stirring deep within. She wonders how much of her blood would spill if he sliced his fangs into her wrist? How utterly beautiful would his embroidered clothing be once stained with splashes of crimson? The morbid thoughts remain, although a quick look into those scarlet eyes makes her realize that he's waiting for an answer.
“Odile—Lady Odile.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His cool breath fans against the back of her hand, raising gooseflesh. But he leans away, regarding her for a moment. “May I have this dance?”
Her lips twitch into a smile. In all honesty, he was the first to approach her. None of the others had dared once they spotted her brandishing her blade. A single glare towards any approaching drunkards or handsy guests would send even a gnoll running. But for all intensive purposes, he appears to be positively sober. Her fingers tighten around his hand. “How could I say no?”
“Mazikeen? Mazikeen?”
The familiar voice pulls her from her thoughts and grounds her in the present once more. Abruptly she turns. “Sorry, what did you say?”
Astarion sighs, gesturing towards the iron door at the other end of the room. “I didn't say anything, darling. But gawking at the bloodstained floors and entrails won't help us destroy Cazador. His study is open, and I'm betting the answers to his damned ritual are somewhere inside.”
The tadpole in her head squirms, reaching out to connect with its own kind. The Bhaalspawn can feel the vampire's rage as if it's her own—burning beautifully hot and longing to stain the ground with his master's suffering. She stiffens, silencing the Urge that also longs to bathe in red. She nods in agreement. “Lead the way.”
Astarion doesn't waste any time, storming into the once forbidden chambers of the vampire lord. The two members of their group follow, but Karlach hesitates. “You alright, soldier?” A gentle probe and a sharp contrast to her usual loud and boisterous personality. A hand weighs itself down on Mazikeen's shoulder, teetering on the edge of burning hot. “You looked like you were a million miles away.”
Yes, yes I was. The magus brushes off both her friend's hand and concern. “It's nothing, just thinking the best way to kill a vampire is all. I doubt Cazador will be alone when we find him.”
“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” the tiefling reassures, “Who knows, maybe this vampire lord isn't who he's chalked up to be. A daylight spell could go a long way.”
Mazikeen snorts, “That would be convenient, wouldn't it?” In truth, she didn't want to waste anymore time. Astarion was eager to end this, and she was itching to give him his sweet revenge. Her eyes flicker to the ballroom now stained with red. How long had it been since that night? Months? Years? The memories of who she once was and a single night of dancing with a handsome vampire spawn haunt her like a ghost. It stirs something within her—a conflict that's been raging ever since her memories started filtering back to her scarred mind.
She turns away and follows Astarion and the others to continue their search.