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Sometimes the very best part of being a roving adventurer was coming home again.
If you could call the frequently growing and often chaotic campsite just outside Rivington home. It was loud, frequently dangerous, and people came and went as the fancy suited them. They’d somehow acquired an owlbear cub, a dog, and more than one small child. A large druid who often meditated in bear form and clawed the ground around him as if chasing rabbits, and an Aasimar who was as cold and deadly as she was beautiful. In short, they were a lot of freaks and weirdos with more enemies— and sometimes brains—than they could count.
It was the first real home he’d had in almost 200 years and secretly Astarion had never been happier.
He stood as he often did, off to the side of the din, watching as though uninterested, while his campmates began to ferry the myriad of items they had salvaged from Auntie Ethal’s lair into the camp. Their second fight with the old hag had not only been successful because they had managed to rescue Vanra and reunite her with her mother; the multitude of items they had managed to salvage from the hag’s lair would not only line their pockets well but also keep them for in food and sundries weeks. Everything from rare spices to cheese to wine had been carried back with them. Trinkets and potions had been crated and retrieved as well. Now it was down to sorting and deciding who would take what or what would go in the communal pot.
Iolena was leading the charge, the lovely copper haired druid moving from point A to Point B as those who had stayed behind began the task of helping those who had fought and come home victorious. Poised, energetic and to his mind startlingly beautiful, she moved with focus as she checked crates and opened boxes.
“Be careful with that case Wyll, it’s got healing potions in it.” Astarion watched as she directed Wyll to tote a large wooden crate across the campsite and settle it in their makeshift medical tent next to Halsin’s camp. “I get the feeling we’re going to find them precious shortly.”
“Shortly? How about now?” Shadowheart straggled pasted her, barely concealing a wince. Vivid bruises covered her arms and shoulders disappearing under the cover of her armour. “If we ever fight a hag again, it will be far too soon.”
“At least the child was safely rescued.” Halsin set the bag down he was carrying and reached out a hand, sending a wave of blue healing energy her way. “Although I warrant the poor thing is traumatized at the ordeal. Better?”
“Much, thank you.” She rolled her shoulders as if to test how far she could push the muscles and then to Astarion’s surprise, cast a look in his direction. “Instead of lurking in the dark Astarion, why don’t you come and help us? The faster we get this sorted, the faster we can settle in for the night and relax.”
“We’ve got enemies upon enemies, and Cazador’s palace is far too close for comfort. Forgive me if I take your word for that.” Still, with a sigh, he strode over to the pile, perusing to see what he could carry.
“Try that one, it’s right up your alley.” Iolena eased up next to him and indicated an ornate wooden crate housing six elegant looking bottles. She bumped his shoulder playfully. “I picked them for you myself.”
Auntie Ethel had clearly maintained her own private reserve cellar. Astarion could see several bottles of Ithbank, an expensive sweet red, and another of Gulthmeran Reserve, heavy and rich. There was a bottle of Saltmarsh wine and lastly a Whitestone smoked brandy in a heavy red bottle, a blazing tree adorning the front.
“I haven’t had a bottle of this in a long time. I’ve almost forgotten what it tastes like.” Plucking the Gulthmeran Reserve from the crate, he turned the bottle over in his pale hands.
Iolena quirked a smile and he felt a wash of heat spread from his chest all the way down, settling in his groin. Even bone-weary and half bloodied she was a welcome sight. Astarion still wasn’t quite sure how to approach his feelings for her. It had started out so simple: get her to like him, use those affections to keep himself safe and yet, somehow he’d failed at his own plan. She hadn’t run him off from camp when she found out he was Cazador’s spawn. The opposite in fact; she’d opened her veins to him on the regular and somehow managed to tuck herself up next to his heart in a way he found more then a little disconcerting. To wit, despite the fact he desperately wanted to make a move, there was still a large portion of his brain that was on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop and things to turn to ash. He’d lived weaving falsehoods for so long, he had no idea how to approach the idea of something real. The margin of possible failure was enough to keep him quiet.
“Perhaps we could take a drink together some night?” She idly reached into the crate and examined one of the bottles, looking at him from under her lashes.
“Are you certain of that? I have no desire to get mauled by a bear—” From the corner of his eye, a trinket in the crate caught his attention. A small silver medallion, a tad larger than a gold coin was tucked under between two bottles. The smooth surface of the metal was etched with a faint pattern of laurel leaves, the edges blurring oddly and giving it an unfinished look.
Curiosity peaked, Astarion stooped to catch it in his fingers, only to find himself caught completely off guard when it shifted in his grip, a single tiny pseudopod appearing and wrapping firmly around his finger.
The ungodly shriek that escaped his lips was more embarrassing than he could ever admit to. It reverberated across the camp; he could watch its progression from Iolena to Lae’zel to Shadowheart to Karlach and finally to Halsin, who emerged from the medical tent with a puzzled look on his face. In the meantime, Astarion had begun to frantically shake his hand, trying in vain to get whatever it was off only to find that it a tiny set of teeth now joining the pseudopod as it strove to keep itself anchored to his fingers. “What in the blue fuck?”
With a final hard shake, he sent whatever it was sailing through the air and into the leaves of a nearby cinquefoil bush. Examining his fingers, he found a set of minuscule bite marks, barely bleeding but enough for his ire to rise. With a growl, he stalked to the bush and parted the branches as Iolena peered over his shoulder.
In a world of enchanted objects and what seemed like a veritable zoo of creatures at any given time around camp, he wasn’t sure what he expected to find but a creature that so much resembled a lump of grey, wet clay wasn’t on the list. Several sets of sleepy dark eyes started up at him blinking in the sudden sunlight. One pseudopod, the same one Astarion assumed that he’d been grabbed with, stuck out from the side like a tail, tipped with a minute sucker.
Seeing Astarion, it began to try and drag itself forward, succeeding only in further tangling itself in leaves, and with a tiny huff, gave up in clear frustration.
“Well, you’re not very fierce, are you?” He stepped back in bemusement and studied it. “Actually what are you is a better question? Some type of gelatinous monstrosity? A sentient fungus, perhaps?”
Suddenly feeling absurdly sorry for the thing, Astarion squatted down and began to untangle it, working carefully until he could gently extract it and settle it in his hand. Again, the pseudopod immediately wrapped around his fingers, anchoring the wee monster firmly in his palm. “Oh well, make yourself bloody comfortable, why don’t you.”
“What do you think it is?” Iolena reached out tentatively and then recoiled when the tiny beast made a growling noise.
“Sticky.” Astarion made a disgusted face. “Other than that, I have no bloody clue.”
“Came home with an interloper, did we?” Approaching, Gale took in the scene, crossing his arms over his chest in curiosity.
“It appears so.” Iolena canted her head in question. “Any idea what it could be?”
“A mimic most certainly. And given its size, probably newborn.” Gale reached out a hand. “May I?”
“Gladly.” Astarion tipped his hand so the monster would slide into the wizard’s cupped fingers. The mimic, however, seemed to have other ideas, clinging resolutely to his skin and adjusting itself to a comfortable position. “Oh, come now, seriously?”
“Let me try.” Iolena reached out and gently tried to take the mimic, only to find herself rebuffed as well with a sharp slap of its pseudopod. “Ouch!”
“Ohhhhh fascinating!” Gale bent to examine the tiny monster, watching as it gave a tiny snarl and moved up Astarion’s arm until it could settle close on his shoulder. “I’ve never seen this type of behavior before. Granted, most of the one’s I’ve seen have been full grown and trying to eat me…”
“Perhaps it’s imprinted.” Halsin joined the growing cadre with a puzzled expression. “Like a duckling. The first thing they see, they think is their mother. It doesn’t matter what the creature is, their instinct is that it will nurture them.”
“Do I look like the nurturing type?” Astarion didn’t even try to hide the aghast tone in his voice.
“To it, yes, perhaps.” Gale shrugged. “There’s no accounting for taste after all.”
“No, no, no no.” Astarion raised a hand in censure and stalked towards the first camp closest to his, where Karlach was lounging on a large pillow, half asleep but listening to their conversation. With a grunt, he plucked the mimic from his shoulder and placed it down beside her on the fabric. “Tag. You’re it.”
“What the fuc—”The tiefling started, half sitting up as the mimic settled down in the crook of her neck. In an instant, it had shifted its form, becoming an almost complete replica of her missing horn, save the one tiny pseudopod it couldn’t seem to make shift. “Awww, it’s just a wee thing innit?”
“Yes, well.” Astarion took a careful step backward towards his camp. “If you say so.”
Karlach held the mimic up to her head, holding it close to the broken horn. “It’s trying very hard! Good job little mate. Now let’s work on some coins…”
With a sigh of relief Astarion turned and, trying very hard not to look over his shoulder as he went, fled back to his camp before he could change his mind.
Knowing that he was due to pull a watch shift that evening, and that even the best night could seem very long in the dark, Astarion decided that an afternoon spent in meditative trance was exactly what the healer ordered. With a sigh, he settled against his bed roll, the absolute pleasure of finding the fabric warmed by the sun, only aiding to help as he began to drift off…
When suddenly something warm, and sticky cuddled happily in the crook of his neck and shoulder.
“Eeeeeeh!” Sitting up with a dismayed expression, he found the young mimic had found its way back to his camp and made itself at home, tucking itself in the shadow of his neck and shoulder on the pillow. Now, it blinked sleepily and yawned, revealing a mouth of needle fine teeth as if to say ‘Oh come now, I just got comfortable.’
“Okay, this—” Astarion wagged a finger between the two of them. “—is not going to work.”
The small mimic blinked again, and then in an instant, turned itself into an almost exact miniature replica of his favorite dagger, laying a few feet away by his boots.
“I can see you.” Astarion reached out and gently poked the ever-present pseudopod. “I’m not the parenting type. We’ve already got an owlbear, and a dog, and more children than I’d like to admit I care about. Come now, we’ll find you someone better.”
Picking up the ‘dagger’ he padded barefoot past a now sleeping Karlach and headed for the tent furthest away from his. Out front, Lae’zel was squatting next to a small flint wheel, sharpening her sword with a deadly focus. “I’ve a gift for you, my friend!”
“I am not your ‘friend’ Astarion, I’ve no time for camaraderie with the fight ahead.” Lae’zel set the sword aside and nodded to the dagger in his fingers. “And if that is the infant mimic I heard you all crowing about, you should realize it’s both a nuisance and a menace. Give it to me and I’ll rid the camp of it as humanely as possible.”
“What. No!” Astarion found himself hugging the mimic to his chest protectively. “You’ll do no such thing.”
“Soft vin'isk.” Lae’zel made a noise of censure. “It will only grow larger. How long until it tries to eat the owlbear cub or Scratch, or eventually one of us? Think smart and rid us of it now.”
Astarion took a step back and bared fangs with a low hiss. “Never mind, forget I ever walked over.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Halsin emerge from the medical tent to add sage to the nearby drying rack and hurried in his direction. What in hell’s name had he been thinking even approaching Lae’zel? A stupid idea. She had about as much nurturing ability as a hungry gnoll. Perhaps the gentle druid was the better choice; he had an affinity for teaching and with the way he often tussled with the owlbear, wasn’t afraid of getting hurt in the process. “Hello!”
“Ah, Astarion. How does the parenting go?” Halsin finished weaving the herbs and stepped back to critique his work until he was satisfied none would fall off.
“Well, that’s exactly why I’m here.” As he spoke the mimic began to grow restless, reverting to its natural state and making a fussy grumbling noise. “I fear I may not be the best choice of … guardian. Perhaps someone like yourself would be much better, you’ve got more patience and tolerance then I’ll ever have.”
As he spoke, the small mimic continued to fret, moving rapidly from his hands up his arm to his neck, and across his shoulders in a petulant gesture. Astarion twisted, trying to catch the creature as it rippled in what could only be annoyance. “Now stop that! I’m trying to help, that’s all.”
It ignored him, perching again on his shoulder and hunkering down like the world’s oddest-looking parrot. With a snort, it puffed itself out and chittered in agitation, practically vibrating in exasperation. Halsin watched its movements for a moment, cocking his head as he studied it. “Perhaps it’s hungry. Bring it over here and set it on the table.”
Astarion followed along behind and set the mimic on the small battle-scarred table Halsin used for cutting herbs. The druid disappeared into his tent for a moment and returned with a piece of venison and a small dagger. Slicing off a chunk of meat, he offered it to the mimic on the tip of the knife, careful to keep his fingertips away from the tiny teeth.
Immediately the mimic’s long tongue swept out and grabbed the meat, swallowing it whole in a single gulp. Halsin offered a second and then a third, which the mimic quickly swept down. “Fascinating. It’s much like feeding a bear cub, they seem to eat with all the vigor they possess.”
He offered the next chunk of meat to Astarion with a slight flourish of the knife. “Here, you try.”
“No, you’re much better at it then I’ll ever be.” Astarion tried to refuse but quickly found the dagger pressed into his fingers. With a sigh, he offered the meat to the mimic who gulped it down greedily, followed by another. As they watched the mimic let out a small burp and then almost immediately began to slip into a doze as if milk drunk. “I had hoped perhaps you would take it off my hands, it’ll be much better off with you.”
“I think the cub has already chosen who it wants to be with.” Halsin spoke gently. “It’s most contented with you as its caretaker.”
“I am not a caretaker,” Astarion insisted, even as he gently gathered the mimic up and returned it to his shoulder. “I am wholly a selfish person and utterly content to be so. I didn’t even realize it was hungry for pity’s sake!”
“I have no doubt you’d have figured it out.” Halsin assured him. “Much like any new parent.”
“I’m not—I can’t—” He hadn’t the right words to describe what he was feeling. A mixture of fear and protectiveness that he hadn’t bargained on being present. All afternoon he’d been focused on trying to rid himself of the little menace and failing, and now Olidammara help him, he was starting to get attached, and he desperately didn’t want to admit it.
Halsin reached out a comforting hand and squeezed his free shoulder reassuringly. “Tell me Astarion, why does the idea of caring for something and being cared for frighten you so? Is it because you fear the idea of loss, or of the idea of possibility?”
For the first time ever Astarion noticed how good it felt to have the druid’s hand on his shoulder, a comforting reassurance with something simmering underneath. From across the camp, he watched Iolena emerge from the forest with a load of firewood, took in the smile she gave him as she set the logs down and began to make that evening fire.
“I…” Without another word, Astarion turned and fled back towards his tent before he could give an answer he would second guess later.
Twilight found Astarion sitting in the entry way to his tent, legs stretched out in front of him and an open bottle of Ithbank in his hands. Beside him, the mimic was happily chewing on the toe of a battered leather boot that he had salvaged from some of the more damaged crates they had brought back to camp.
Glancing over at it, Astarion sighed and then took a drink from the bottle. “Well, my little friend, I guess I’m rather stuck with you, aren’t I?”
Reaching over he rattled the boot slightly, chuckling when the mimic made a squeaking noise and attacked the leather with abandon. “Feral little creature, aren’t you? We have that in common I suppose. I know what it’s like to have people think you’re evil, when all you’re trying to do is survive. It’s…lonely.”
The mimic was far too engrossed in savaging the boot’s laces to pay attention to his words. It hissed quietly as it found itself tangled and then looked at Astarion pitifully.
With a sigh, he reached out and pulled the laces away then made a cupping gesture. The mimic hopped in his direction and settled in his palm, looking up at him with bright eyes. “I can make no promises. I’m not the ideal companion at the best of times and we’ve still got a hell of a fight ahead of us. Think you can handle that?”
The mimic blinked as if considering things and then extended its pseudopod and wrapped it around Astarion’s fingers. The vampire spawn smiled in delight and curled his fingers around the tiny arm. “I’m going to take that as a yes.”
“You two seem to be getting on well.” Iolena settled down beside him and gave the mimic a gentle touch. This time, instead of recoiling the mimic leaned into her touch, closing its eyes in contentment.
“I can’t for the life of me figure why.” He offered her the bottle of wine and ploughed his fingers through his hair. “I tried passing it off and it keeps coming back. It’s small, and it needs care, and it’s picked me, which is unarguable the worst choice in camp.”
“Maybe it feels safe with you.” She took a sip of wine and set the bottle aside.
“Then it really does have shitty instincts.” He winced. “I’m no parent, Lena. I’ll inevitably cause it harm. It happens to everything and everyone I care about.”
She fixed him with a look and then reached out and took his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. “I think you’re harder on yourself than you need to be. Look how far you’ve come since we met. “
“It’s true.” He cocked his head and gave her fingers a squeeze. “Perhaps it sensed that and that’s why it won’t leave me alone. I can’t remember a time I’ve been so… content. Even with this slug in my brain.”
He gave her a side eye glance, watching as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and then impulsively leaned in and brought his lips to hers in a tentative kiss. For a fraction of a second, he was terrified she’d push him away. When she reached up to cup his cheek, and leaned into him, his normally slow heartbeat jumped.
When they finally broke apart, Astarion cleared his throat, glancing over to see the young mimic now sleeping contentedly in the tipped over boot, and then back to Iolena. “I’m new at this…all of it. I think there’ll need to be patience all around.”
“We’ll do it together.” Iolena leaned her head on his shoulder. “Baby steps.”