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He doesn’t really know what to make of himself when he stumbles upon the corpse. He had only taken his first few steps in the sand before he noticed it, laying there, blood pooled around its ruined body. Embers drifted from the sky like first snowfall. The sun glinted off the beach like mirrors. And his face twisted into a smile of its own volition.
He lets the smile form, and a warm contentment spreads through him. It was a soft purr in the back of his mind. A satisfied sigh of a lover. The gore was quenching the thirst of a part of himself he had not realised was even there, and it drinks in the scene, etching every brutality into the back of his eyes. This feels glorious. This feels divine. This feels like home.
He lets the smile fall from his face. This feels vile.
—
He lets his pace slow when he wades through the goblin corpses. He calls for his new companions to slow and loot the corpses to search for any loot, and they oblige. Astarion protests, saying that doing such a menial task was below him. Shadowheart sighs and searches after a moment of deliberation, along with Gale.
He crouches. The goblin’s face is twisted in pain, an arrow sticking out of its chest. Astarion’s work in the battle, no doubt. He lets himself pat down the corpse for any spare gold. The blood from the still fresh wound looks so red, and vibrant, and he can feel his eyes lock onto it. His hand drifts away from any pockets and presses into the wound with his claws. Blood pours out from the creature like a burst balloon. It’s warm.
“Come on,” Astarion hisses somewhere from behind. “Glaring at the corpse won’t manifest any riches.” The elf springs up and strides forward. He looks up to see Shadowheart, Gale, and Astarion standing in front of him, waiting expectantly.
He looks down at the corpse, and the freshly coated paint of blood on his hands. He feels a twinge of regret at leaving the aftermath of the battle. He isn’t ready to move on. He does anyway. He wipes the blood from his hands onto his shirt with only a moment of hesitation.
—
Hours have passed since the crash, and night fell upon the land, draping her shadows as she followed up the last hours of the day. They had all set up to rest for the night, bringing out their scavenged foods out after a day of fighting.
Gale was the first one to bring up the issue first. He breathed in, as if preparing for a sprint, and approached him with a nervous smile on his face. “Now, I don’t know how to bring this up without sounding rude—but as potential compatriots for the road ahead, I feel that we should at least… know your name?”
His name. Shadowheart had brought up the matter of his name earlier, but he didn’t have one to give her. He had thought his memories would make its way back eventually, but that desperate hope was proving itself exactly what it is: desperate. As far as he can remember, he does not have a home, a family, or friends. He does not know why he feels the things he does, thinks the things he does. Was he a bad person in the past?
He stared at Gale as he stood silently. A bead of sweat trailed down his forehead as the wizard stood like a statue, waiting for an answer with a painful smile on his face.
“Dark and mysterious, aren’t you?” Astarion breaks in after a few moments of awkward silence. Gale finally relaxes when Astarion breaks the tension and takes a few steps away from him.
“Chk,” Lae’zel sneers. “If he does not wish to give us his name, then we will give him a name. You have much resemblance with these lizards. That will be your name, istik.”
Astarion laughs, the glint of the fire drawing shadows across his face. “Ooh, what about Pale, or Pasty?”
“Nonsense. That is a more apt description for you than Lizard .”
“Now, now,” Gale steps in between the gith and the elf, “What about settling for Compatriot? Let’s not offend our new friend.”
Wyll cracks a smile. “That is more of a title. If we’re looking for a name, I believe Ansur—”
He exhales. “I do not know my name.”
The camp falls silent, and whatever Wyll is about to say is lost to the wind forever. He feels the weight of the entire camp’s eyes on him as he finishes speaking. “I do not remember anything before the nautiloid.”
Gale frowns. “You’ve lost your memories?”
He nods. There is one thing he remembers, but it is more of an instinct than a memory. Something etched into his very being. He… does not think his new companions will like his confession very much were he to talk about it.
“Yes.”
“All of it?” Gale asks.
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
Astarion rolls his eyes. “Well, you should’ve told us sooner, darling.”
He wakes up in the deep of night and looks at his sleeping companions. He imagines slitting their throats, and the beautiful gurgle that would make its treacherous ways out of their hole-riddled lungs. His hand trembles and clenches when he snaps out of it. Clenching around a dagger.
He whips his head up. Everyone is fine. He drags his bedroll a bit further away from everyone else. He dreams of red.
—
Lae’zel is covered in blood when she approaches him. She speaks in her particular cadence, a hiss-like quality infusing her every word. Like a dangerous snake warning you off. “You fight well for an istik , Lizard. Though you should be more efficient with the kill.”
Gale huffs in disbelief, off to the side of the battlefield. “Are we really calling him that?”
Lae’zel turns to him and glares. “Do you protest, Lizard?”
Astarion wipes the blood from his new dagger as he strides his way past the gith and the wizard, blood-stained coin bags in his hands. “I still think Pasty is the better name.”
Lae’zel hisses, “You are wrong.”
The conversation dims as he twists the shortsword in the goblin’s gut. There’s a squelching sound, before blood comes pouring out of the minced wound. The light from the goblin’s eyes was long gone, but he can’t help but relish the moment when it faded. His tail sweeps the ground in excitement. It died too soon. Too soon. He unsheathes the sword from the goblin’s stomach and steps back, wanting to sick up.
What is wrong with him?
—
It had been a few days since the crash, and his lack of past bothered him greatly. He picked at his brain whenever he could, trying to remember anything, but there was nothing. Nothing at all. Just an expanse of bleak emptiness in place where anything should be.
So he listens to the others when they’re travelling. Especially Gale when he complains, which is often on their trips out of camp. He makes a note of bringing the wizard out to catch these little glimpses into his life. He always talks about his tower back in Waterdeep, and a person named Tara that he seems quite fond of. He’s probably the most eager one to talk about his past out of everyone in their merry band, though he gets the feeling that everyone here is keeping their own little secrets.
But he listens, and he tries to imagine himself a past.
Did he have a person like Tara in the past? A childhood friend, or maybe a lover. Living in a comfortable home near the sea like Gale, or maybe in the sprawling slums of a city. He remembers the shared bond all tieflings at the grove seem to have, and wonders if he had something like that too. A community he once belonged to, maybe a… a clan? Is that what he’s supposed to have?
The wizard fidgets with his staff, looking profoundly uncomfortable. It has been a while since Astarion went ahead to disarm the traps he spotted. Gale speaks, a low whisper, “Say, you have quite the intense gaze there, friend. Is there anything you want to ask?”
He snaps out of his thoughts. “I have an intense gaze?”
Gale blinks a few times rapidly. “Yes. It’s quite distinctive, with the red eyes and whatnot. Quite intimidating, actually.”
“I am?”
He unsheathes his shortsword and wipes away the blood with his hands. Peering down, he sees his face looking back apathetically. Scales as pale as snow, and burning red eyes. That was him. Was that why people kept shrinking away from him?
“Especially with the height,” Gale adds with a small smile.
“The height,” he repeats. What does his height have to do with anything?
“Yes. You are quite tall. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?”
“I have.”
“Well, yeah.” Gale said lamely. “You tend to tower over everyone. I believe most folk would become nervous when a hulking Dragonborn stares them down with your fiery eyes.”
He blinks and takes a step back from Gale. “Oh. I didn’t know. Is this better?”
Gale relaxes and laughs. “Oh no, it’s fine with us since we’re used to it. I’m just… saying that it’s quite hard to persuade people when you look like you’re going to kill them, friend.”
He does want to kill them. It’s been so tiring trying to fight off his urge whenever he approaches a new person. But he nods. “I’ll keep that in mind, Gale.”
They both fall into silence. The wind whistles through the tree leaves.
“So, was there anything you wanted to ask?”
He looks down at the wizard and thinks for a while, before he finds his answer. “Tell me about your home. Please.”
—
“Oh. It’s your cat.”
“Heavens, no! Not a cat! Tara is a tressym.”
—
He looks down at the hopscotch game.
The lines are crudely drawn and scuffed. It’s been neglected for a long time. There is a soft tugging at his heart. In all his thinking, he realises that he had neglected a possible childhood. He must have had a childhood once, right? That is something all people have.
He places one careful foot into the first square.
Did he play games like these in his youth? Did he have friends to play games with? Was there ever a time before this urge to kill took him over? He wants to believe that these thoughts were because of the tadpole’s influence, but his body doesn’t lie. He is adept at killing, like he had been raised for the purpose of slaughter.
He wonders if there was ever a time before this urge. He imagines his own childish, carefree laughter, and the bruises and scrapes that would come from playing tag. Like how the tiefling children played.
Was he sweet once?
—
He knows that Astarion knows about the urge. His eyes sharpen whenever he takes too long searching a body, or whenever he takes his time with a kill. But he can’t help it. It’s the only way to quench the thirst: brutal murders, the more tragic, the better. And what will inspire more tragedy than the death of a beloved friend?
No. He can’t think like that. He can’t even entertain the thought, though his subconscious forces it upon him in his dreams. He needs to stay strong, for the sake of everyone. Even if they’ll never know his desperate struggle to turn his knife away from them. They can’t know. They’ll hate him. And he… he doesn’t want to be alone.
So when Astarion threatens him with the revelation of his brutal secret, he snaps.
“No!” He growls, pressing the dagger into his throat. A trickle of blood leaks out, and gravity pulls the bead down the vampire’s neck to the dusty ground.
Astarion’s eyes widen, before they sharpen into deadly focus. “What…” he wheezes out, his voice wobbly for a split second, “What will they think when they see a dead elf in camp, and your blood-stained hands? Let me go, and we can just ignore all of this ever happened, hm?”
He should press the dagger down on his neck. Feel the spray of warm blood on his face as this vampire bleeds to death under him, choking on his own blood. Cut him up. Eat his undead flesh. His hand shakes. What part of his thoughts was his urge, and what part was his? The vampire would make for such a beautiful corpse. His hand guides him, digging the blade deeper.
Astarion grabs a handful of sand and throws it into his eye. He’s thrown on the ground as Astarion weasels out of his grip and presses their own dagger into his throat. “You bastard, you were really about to kill me, weren’t you?”
He breathes. There is a surge of pain whenever he does as his throat meets the razor sharp edge of the blade. “Yes,” he says. “I was. About to kill you.” The familiar feeling of disgust rises up to the surface, and he just wants to sleep without any fucking gory dreams for once. He wishes, at the very least, that he would feel disgust whenever he dreamed their deaths, instead of an exhilarating rush.
Astarion lets the blade up, and he can breathe easy again. He doesn’t move. “What?”
“You can’t help it, can you?” The vampire stands up, though his pale hand still clenches the dagger. “It’s like a—”
“—hunger.” He finishes for Astarion. “I need it. As much as I need to breathe. I don’t know why, I don’t want to…” He can’t finish the sentence. He sits up, moving slowly and deliberately, to show that he’s not dangerous, and that he won’t try anything. “But I do.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” he says.
“Likewise,” Astarion says. “Though, can I—”
He tilts his head, exposing his neck. “I’m sorry.”
Astarion pats his back as he drinks his blood. It hurts less than he thought it would. “It’s fine. This more than makes up for the attempted murder.”
—
“Hogwash of course,” the woman says smugly. “A githyanki can no more rise above its nature than gnomes can fly.”
“What?” Wyll responds incredulously. “Violence is taught, not inherited. You do not need to steal a child to learn that.”
The woman laughs at him. “Then you’ve been sipping from the same goblet as the society! Perhaps you’d be willing to help then? To prove your point.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer to the woman. Glaring down at her, there is a soft growl in his throat. She backs off immediately. “Some things are just in our blood. There is no need to prove it.”
The words sounded like a defeat.
—
He wakes up to Alfira’s corpse.
It was inevitable really. He wasn’t realy sure why it hadn’t happened sooner. He’s spent every night fighting the urge. But all it takes is one bad night.
It doesn’t take much to piece together what happened. His dominant arm aches. His hands are covered in gore and blood. And he woke up standing besides the gutted corpse. By that point, however, the shock fades. He opens his mouth to speak, to cry, but all that comes out is a restrained chuckle. There are tears in his eye from the joy. Because it is joyous, and so, so, tragic. He always loved a tragedy. And this is a tragedy. Someone so vibrant taken from the world so soon. She could’ve been anyone, anything, and brought so much joy to the world. What a loss. What a loss. Push your claws in her eye and wiggle around in her brain. Feel the bloody heat of the living and the cold embrace of the dead. Welcome home.
He starts to sob. It’s so beautiful. It’s so fucking disgusting. He stumbles his way to the bucket to wash his hands of the blood. Blood dilutes the water. There is a pang in his heart as he washes the blood from his hands—because it belongs on him—and he just wants to fucking tear whatever part of him that felt that out of his chest and crush it into paste.
He picks up the bucket and pours the bloody water into the grass nearby and sets it down where it was. His hand shakes. He goes to sleep. He can’t sleep. He twists and turns and rolls over to stare at the corpse. He should do something about it, but can’t bring himself to do so. What a beauty. He relishes the memory of clawing her eyes out. He gets up to puke on the grass where he poured the bucket and sits down next to the— Alfira and he can feel his throat tense up before he finally sobs into his monstrous hands, covering his mouth so that the sound didn’t travel far enough to wake anyone else.
There is a hand on his shoulder. He looks up with blurry eyes. It’s Astarion. “Do you want me to help with the body?”
“No.”
“Alright. Do you want to go back to sleep?”
He wipes the tears away, but more comes. He wonders how intimidating he looks, now that he’s openly sobbing. “I killed her.”
Astarion laughs humorlessly. “Obviously.”
“I have to tell them.”
“Well, you don’t have to.” Astarion crouches down with a strange expression… was that pity?
“It’s for their sake.” He clenches his fist. “I thought I could just grit my teeth and bear it but I can’t. I will slip up, and I will kill. It’s only a matter of time.”
He turns away from Alfira’s terrified face to stare into the fire. His new companions would wake up and crowd him in the morning, finding him in front of a mutilated corpse. “What kind of monster would do that,” they would say, and there would be no answer but him. And he thought he was being so good, being so heroic saving the grove. He thought he could be more than the urge, but he was nothing but it.
The Dark Urge sits and waits for their judgement.