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Astarion realizes he’s made a mistake the moment he takes a seat at the bar. From the outside, the Faerie’s Fire looks like his usual sort of place, dark and anonymous, the kind of spot where sad souls drink themselves into oblivion and go home with any stranger who flashes them a smile and feigns sympathy for their woes.
Inside, however, he can feel anticipation in the air. Merriment. Happiness. There’s a stage in the corner, just a little raised area held up on splintering feet, and a band setting up on it, five people in torn t-shirts propping a keyboard onto a stand and arranging a set of drums just so.
Live music. Gods. As if my life needed more suffering in it.
But Astarion knows just how to turn this to his advantage. After the first song or two, there will be someone who makes a face and leaves, unable to tolerate the bad acoustics and general mediocrity. He’ll catch up to them on the streets, agree that the music was terrible. And from there he’ll draw them to their death.
It’s not fair, of course, that good taste in music might be the reason someone dies tonight. But it’s been centuries since Astarion has been permitted to think about things like “fair.”
The bartender is a man nearing forty, with shoulder-length brown hair and a circular tattoo just below his throat. Astarion catches his eye. “Whiskey, neat. Whatever’s most expensive.”
“A man of taste!” the bartender says cheerfully, reaching for a bottle below the counter.
He says a few more things, about this particular bottle and the distiller and how he normally drinks wine himself but enjoys this whiskey from time to time. Astarion hums in assent but isn’t really listening; bartenders always want to finish their shift, which makes them poor targets. He hands over a few bills without comment and shoves the change into the tip jar.
As Astarion sips his drink, the shriek of a microphone alerts the patrons that things are about to begin. The murmur in the bar dies down as a man steps forward, and Astarion blinks with sudden surprise and interest. The man is a devil bearing a crown of heavy horns, with deep brown skin, dreadlocks, and eyes that are visibly two different colors even in the dim light of the bar. He wears a dark red shirt with the sleeves torn off and a leather cuff around one wrist, and his smile is pure charm as he looks out over the small crowd.
“Hey. I’m Wyll, and we’re Wyll and the Ravens. We’re here every Thursday. If you don’t know us yet, that’s Karlach on drums—”
A tall red tiefling woman with one horn bashes a cymbal enthusiastically.
“Shadowheart on keys—”
A pale half-elf wearing her hair in a long white braid nods to the crowd.
“Lae'zel on bass–”
A githyanki in dark eye makeup stares out at the audience, and does nothing save blink once.
“And Lia on vocals and guitar.”
A pretty silver-blue tiefling with purple hair and no horns gives a little wave.
“Thanks for joining us tonight.” Wyll grins. “Let’s get started.”
He nods to Lia; the guitarist taps her foot as she begins playing. Karlach and Shadowheart and Lae’zel join a measure later, and a few measures after that, Wyll begins to sing.
And to Astarion’s shock, the music is good.
It’s not saccharine pop or self-important metal, the two main genres that he seems to encounter when he’s out hunting. It’s rock with an edge of folk, energetic and rich, bittersweet lyrics accompanied by skillful riffs on the guitar. It’s the kind of music that, in another life, Astarion could imagine himself playing on the highway, singing under his breath until he can’t resist belting the chorus as he drives.
“Is there a line that I could write, sad enough to make you cry? ” the devil sings as the guitarist harmonizes behind him. “All the lines you wrote to me were lies.”
Near the back of the bar, Astarion sees someone stand up to leave. He knows he ought to follow—but the guitarist is changing keys, moving into a new song, and suddenly the thought of not knowing what they’ll play next is unbearable.
Astarion sits there through five songs, watching the patrons in the bar sway and dance and exchange squealing observations about how hot the lead singer is. He does not enjoy himself, exactly; he knows what he still must do tonight, what is waiting for him back home, and that knowledge precludes true enjoyment of anything. But he allows himself to appreciate. To pretend, for a minute, that he’s an ordinary elf who happened to find some decent music while wandering the streets of Baldur’s Gate.
And then Wyll steps away from the microphone and reaches for a water bottle, and the guitarist is stepping forward, a slightly shy grin on her lips.
“So. This is the part in the evening where I give Wyll a break for a song or two, and you all indulge me in whatever sad-girl guitar music I’ve been working on,” she tells the audience, winking as she strums the strings of her instrument. “This one is called ‘If I Wrote You.’”
Now would be a good moment to hunt, Astarion thinks. He can sense the bar’s restlessness, their skepticism about the promised sad-girl guitar music. Someone is about to stand up and walk out that door; he can feel it. But a ripple of notes sounds from the guitar, and the tiefling begins singing, and once again he finds himself in no mood to leave.
The song is about a letter from someone the singer once loved—a boyfriend or girlfriend, Astarion supposes, though that detail is never filled in—and loves still. The singer does not know what to write back. It is a simple story, but there is a longing to it that pulls at something in Astarion’s chest. Longing for things he can’t have, after all, is an emotion he knows well.
“And if I wrote you,” the tiefling sings, her voice rich and sweet, “You would know me, and you would not write me again.”
Bass and keyboard join in, filling out the spaces around the guitar’s plucked notes; a gentle rhythm from the drums feels like the beat of a breaking heart. Wyll steps to Lia’s abandoned microphone and sings a soft, deep harmony. The bar is silent as the tiefling weaves her story, as the song’s subject decides how to answer the letter.
“And I’m so happy,” she sings,
“I had to tell you.
And I love you.
And you will not write me again.
No, you will not write me again.”
The applause is warm and sincere. Astarion joins it half unconsciously. He tries to tell himself he is only doing it to blend in, but even as the thought forms he knows it’s a lie. Wyll is a spectacular front man, all charm and raw charisma—but there is something about the tiefling that holds him almost captive when she sings.
Lia grins and begins playing another song, this one faster and more upbeat. Astarion allows himself to listen to its opening notes before he forces himself to push back from the bar. He begins to make his way to the exit, trying not to look over his shoulder as he does so.
He never hunts in the same spot twice, not without a year or more in between successful trips. He tries to take those who will not be missed, but he knows that his activities will occasionally lead to investigations, and questions, and to someone remembering a white-haired elf who is mysteriously absent from the security tape.
And so, even though he still has to bring prey to Cazador tonight, he will not take anyone from the Faerie’s Fire.
Wyll said they play every Thursday, and he would very much like to come back.