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Astarion should have stolen a nicer tent.
He sighs, rubbing his eyes. Another thin spot in the canvas exposed by the fading light of day, another mending project he has no resources for, but it’s not as if he had options. After the fall of the Elder Brain he had the armor on his back and the coin in his pocket and no room to be picky about which musty tent he stole from what questionably abandoned roadside stall—but he misses his old one.
It wouldn’t have killed him to swing by camp and retrieve his things before he left Baldur’s Gate entirely, but it would have hurt his pride. And that was close enough to the same thing.
At first he’d been downright gleeful as he stood on the docks with the Crown of Karsus sinking into the silt of the Chionthar. They had all survived, and the late summer sun warmed his face through streaks of blood and ash. He wasn’t burning. The Brain was dead, and he wasn’t burning, and he’d thought—hells below. He'd thought, I can be more than a vampire spawn.
Madness, of course. Temporary insanity due to the high of battle. It only took another moment for reality to set in, for the clouds above to part and blister his hands in a beam of light.
No one gave chase when he ran. No one found him hiding amid boxes in the first puddle of shadow big enough to offer shelter. The moment night fell Astarion put the ruins of the city at his back and picked a direction, and that was that.
He hasn't seen any of his friends since.
He travels alone now. If anyone asks—not that anyone can, he hasn’t seen a soul for days, but his answer is ready even as he lays on his back and considers the new hole in his tent—this is exactly as he likes it.
The Sword Coast at night is vast and quiet, offering a solitude Astarion could only long for when he was under Cazador’s control. He greets each moonrise with only the sound of his own voice to cut through the increasingly chilly air, and that’s perfect. Astarion lost centuries wishing for even a single night where he could move as he pleased without being forced to smile, or invite the touch of strangers, or use his body for the benefit of anyone but himself.
Part of Astarion misses the crackle of a campfire and the smell of cooking things as he travels in darkness, but even that much light would spoil the beauty of the stars overhead. He knows many constellations now. He picks them out as he walks, murmuring the names to himself in common and in gith, watching the Tears trailing behind Selûne with an aching melancholy.
He hunts, and he has no self-righteous monster hunter or brash tiefling or verbose wizard to tell him where to sink his teeth.
And that's fine.
He doesn't miss them.
The quiet presses in on all sides—inescapable, even with a symphony of bugs that would make the druids smile—but he doesn't miss them. Why would he? What place could they even have in each other's lives, with the Netherbrain dead?
Astarion walks as quickly or slowly as he pleases, he searches the forest for signs of magic, and he sets up his tent (mended within an inch of its life) well before dawn approaches. He does not spend hours lying awake, watching light filter in through the fabric of the tent, wondering if Shadowheart really did start a dreadful little farm at a dreadful little cottage just like she’d fantasized about around the campfire with her lover.
If she did, she’s probably having a terrible time. An education in torture beneath Shar’s cloister in Baldur’s Gate hardly lends one the necessary knowledge to run a farm. Astarion certainly doesn’t know a damn thing about animal husbandry himself, but he knows that. Ophelia might be better equipped for it, but he still can’t picture the Ilmatari cleric next to a sheep.
He isn’t bitter about Shadowheart or Ophelia or any of the rest of them, or that so far his plan to find some ruins and plunder them for magical trinkets to overcome his sunlight aversion have been entirely fruitless. How was he to know that ruins are apparently difficult to find? Their party was forever stumbling across crumbling façades positively brimming with magical garbage to feed to the Netherese disposal system in Gale’s chest.
Astarion considers a speck of dust drifting through the fading light in his tent, frowning. He’s not sure where the nearest town is, but it might be time to find it and see if he can sweet-talk the local color into giving him a more productive heading. At the very least, it would be nice to drink some sentient blood again. He hasn’t seen anyone in ages, and if such a thing is possible Astarion might actually be getting tired of the sound of his own—
He tenses. There is something sniffing around the outside of his tent.
He sits up, his dagger in hand. It doesn’t sound large, really, but anything might present a problem while the sun is still sinking lazily past the horizon. “Get back, whatever you are. I’m armed.”
The snuffling pauses.
The creature barks.
He knows that sound but Astarion says, “No,” anyway, as if denying it can change that the sniffing has resumed at a more enthusiastic frequency. A dark shape moves around the tent, and paws scrape at the hard-packed ground. Astarion groans. “Do you want me to burn, you stupid—”
A wet, black nose wriggles under the edge of the tent close to where Astarion sits, and the white muzzle attached to it whines.
“You should be in Baldur’s Gate, what in the nine hells are you doing here?” Astarion hisses. Gods, he’s already talking to the dog. That won’t do at all. “Move along, Scratch. If you found your way here, surely you can find your way back.”
He pushes the dog’s snout away, and Scratch’s long tongue lolls out and leaves a trail of slobber across the back of Astarion’s hand.
He shudders, full-bodied, and gropes around for a rag. “Oh, I did not miss this.”
Scratch whines. His snout disappears as Astarion cleans his hand off. The thwack of Scratch’s tail against the canvas announces his position as he circles the tent.
Astarion glances at that thin spot again—is the light low enough to risk parting the front flaps? And does it really matter? If he knows anything about Scratch, the dog is coming in regardless. Better to usher him inside on his own terms, as it were, than risk further damage to the one thing he has to protect him from the sunlight.
With a groan, Astarion twitches open the tent flaps, staying well beyond the fall of any light that might singe him, and Scratch trots inside.
The dog looks good. Healthy. His coat is glossy and thick, and that’s a good sign for as little as Astarion knows about dogs.
It almost makes Astarion smile.
Panting, tongue lolling out of his mouth, Scratch looks about the small space. His ears perk up instantly upon laying eyes on Astarion, tail wagging enthusiastically, kicking up a wind that smells distinctly like dog.
Astarion scowls, using the gesture Shadowheart showed him to make Scratch sit and closing the tent up tight. “I cannot believe you found me all the way out here, you mangy mutt. If you sought a warm welcome, you came to the wrong tent.”
Scratch just tilts his big, stupid head at him. Around his neck is an unfamiliar collar in Shadowheart’s colors. The tag dangling from it, which almost certainly says Scratch’s name, is shiny and new.
“Gods,” Astarion shakes his own head. “Why are you here? Was farm life unpleasant? Did they put you to work?”
The dog doesn’t respond to his mocking tone except to lean as close to him as possible and sniff very, very loudly.
He sneers, staying out of reach of Scratch’s tongue. “You ought to go home, however little you liked life in that cottage. I won’t pamper you like—like your mothers did. I won’t feed you. I won’t rescue you if you imperil yourself. I certainly won’t play with you.”
He couldn’t, anyway. Scratch’s ball was tucked away in Shadowheart’s things when the Elder Brain fell. She probably has it on a shelf in pride of place on that dreadful little farm.
Why did the dog decide to nip at his heels? Astarion has nothing to offer him. He doesn’t even have a ball to throw.
Astarion supposes Scratch has never been the brightest creature. He eyes the dog. “Are you going to acknowledge anything I just said? Speak.”
Scratch barks.
Astarion rubs a hand over his face, sighing. “Very well. But if you give me trouble, I’ll eat you.”
The dog seems entirely unphased. Astarion watches Scratch’s dark, empty eyes as the creature tilts his head at him, giving the vampire a look that might be curious if the animal were a bit more intelligent. In an act of tremendous generosity and compassion, the vampire does the gesture for up.
Scratch springs back to all four feet and launches himself at Astarion with a happy little bark, and Astarion does his level best to keep his face un-licked.
He does not succeed.
~*~
There are growing pains.
Scratch is content enough the first night to stay close to Astarion’s side, looking up at him frequently with those big, dark, wet eyes and woofing at scuttling sounds in the undergrowth. He hunts his own food and stays out of the way when Astarion does the same, which suits the vampire just fine. When Astarion erects his tent at dawn, Scratch turns a quiet circle a respectable arms-length away and lays down to sleep. It’s nearly pleasant.
The next day, as Astarion steers towards signs of intelligent life, the animal tries to be helpful.
At first, when Scratch runs off into the bushes, Astarion thinks he might be rid of him. It doesn’t sting to have lost the interest of a dog so quickly. It’s a relief to be rid of the constant panting and the scrabble of his nails over rocks.
Then Scratch bounds back out of the foliage with something clamped between his teeth and tries to give it to him.
“No,” Astarion snaps, when it becomes clear that simply dodging Scratch’s mouth isn’t enough to deter him. “Drop it.”
Scratch whines, circling Astarion as they walk and pressing his wet muzzle into the back of Astarion’s thigh.
“I said no, you ridiculous—” Scratch rears up, nearly knocking the vampire off-balance as his paws land on the small of his back. Astarion stumbles under the animal’s weight, twisting out from beneath him. “Gods, fine! If it’s take that thing from you or taste dirt, very well!” He turns, holding his palm out. “Give it here, then, whatever it is.”
Delicately, with the grace befitting a former courier dog, Scratch deposits a mouthful of sopping wet leaves in Astarion’s waiting hand.
A shudder goes up his spine at the drool clinging to his fingers, even as part of Astarion recognizes the herbs. Mugwort. Good for… something.
Certainly none of the deadly arts Astarion has spent centuries practicing.
With effort, he relaxes his stiff shoulders. “Perhaps a bit less drool, next time, hmm?”
Scratch gives Astarion a happy little woof, and Astarion waits for him to trot ahead before dumping the mugwort in a nearby bush and shaking his hand dry. They keep walking.
They find nothing of note besides a collection of stones that may have, centuries ago, been a hovel. Scratch disappears a few more times into the undergrowth and returns with a bloody muzzle, or with nothing but a lolling tongue and a perplexingly adoring expression in his black eyes.
Astarion pitches his tent close to dawn, and they fall into rhythm. Scratch inches a little closer to Astarion to sleep, which is irritating, but bedding down with another set of eyes to scan the horizon is… nice. The days grow shorter by fractions, giving them a sliver more night to search by each evening, and the leaves turn from dull green to dull reds and yellows in the moonlight around them.
Scratch curls against him as he trances, warming his death-cold body, and Astarion finds he can nearly forgive the smelly creature for leaving stiff white hair everywhere.
He still hasn’t touched Scratch’s new collar. It hangs around his neck, catching the thin light and Astarion’s eye, but he won’t touch it. He’s seen exactly enough of the back of the copper disk to have noticed writing there, and he knows Shadowheart and Ophelia—it’s the address of their awful little cottage.
And Astarion doesn’t need to know that.
~*~
The nearest town is tiny and untouched by the mindflayers that ravaged Baldur’s Gate. Their biggest problems are a poor harvest and bandits—or so the barkeep at the single tavern tells Astarion. When he asks about ruins, the barkeep scoffs in his face.
“If you really want to get haunted,” she says, cleaning out a brass flagon, “take the road toward Candlekeep. The Lamwin Palace fell to its foundations out there. And take your dog out of my bar.”
Astarion pushes off the countertop, Scratch’s tail slapping the side of his leg. “He is not my dog.”
She rolls her eyes.
Scratch and Astarion walk through the woods along the side of the road, keeping to the shadows—Scratch’s footfalls are nearly as silent as Astarion’s, and they both keep a sharp eye on their surroundings for sudden movements. It takes almost no time for the Lamwin ruins to rise into view through the trees, a few stray towers of dark stone against the night sky. It would have been grand, once. Now, as they circle it, all that’s left of the estate are its bones.
There’s a thump up ahead and the hum of bugs abruptly stops. Scratch cleaves too close to Astarion’s legs, which is his next clue that something is wrong.
Then he hears voices.
“We don’t want any trouble—”
“Then hand everything over, and there won’t be any.”
Shit.
“We don’t have anything worth taking—"
“Then we’ll have some fun, instead.”
There’s the sound of weapons being drawn, and a growl builds in Scratch’s throat. Astarion lowers a hand to Scratch’s head in warning. The dog looks up at him with those big, wet eyes.
Astarion shakes his head. “Not our fight,” he whispers, stepping backwards, melting into the deeper shadows of the surrounding trees.
Scratch watches. Then he turns tail and bounds towards the ruins, snarling.
“Gods below,” Astarion breathes, the white streak of Scratch disappearing around a pillar. He unsheathes his daggers and follows, because—what else is he going to do? Stand by and let the beast perish?
~*~
Astarion steps over one of the four bandit corpses, digging in his pocket for a rag to clean his daggers. He’d lick the blood from the metal, but that’s going to be impossible—the adventurers that managed to get ambushed keep staring at him.
The dog seems happy enough, at least. Scratch’s tongue lolls blissfully out of his mouth, a set of exhausted hands rubbing his muddy belly.
The man attached to those hands motions Astarion closer, apparently unconcerned with the wounds on his face. There’s no more looting to be done so Astarion goes.
“If something else needs killing, I’ll oblige,” Astarion says, as he draws within earshot, “but if you need a healer, I am not your man.”
He shakes his head with a laugh that ruffles the feathers attached to the shoulders of his armor. “No, I’m not looking for that. I can patch everyone up after a little rest. We’ll all be fine, thanks to you and your friend.”
Astarion blinks. His friend? “You mean Scratch?”
He nods enthusiastically, a smile stretching across his face. “Yes! He did say that was his name. You know, most Rangers I’ve met have much flashier companions—bears, wolves, eagles, I’m sure you’re familiar. It’s refreshing to meet someone with more understated taste.”
Astarion splutters. “Understated—”
“From how he talks about you, it’s clear he loves you,” the man continues, oblivious, drying up the indignant words ready on Astarion’s lips. “You must take excellent care of him.”
“I—” Astarion’s gaze slips off the druid and finds Scratch has wandered a little further afield, seeking attention from the sword-wielding member of the adventuring party. The white fur of his muzzle is matted with blood, and he’s muddy nearly all the way to his back. Bedding down with the animal is going to be disgusting. Faintly, Astarion murmurs, “I’m not sure that I do, really.”
The man chuckles. “It’s one of those who rescued who sort of situations, then? That’s sweet.”
Astarion swallows the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes. Sweet. That’s Scratch and I, to the very core. Come here, darling dog. Let’s show the nice man how very sweet we are together.”
Scratch trots over, head tilted in a way that is—he hates to admit this— a bit charming. He whines, craning his neck in a transparent desire for pets.
He’s disgusting. Then again, Astarion is covered in viscera just as thickly. He sinks his fingers into the fur under Scratch’s jaw, and once the dog has thumped his hind leg to his heart’s content, Astarion’s hand slips down to his collar. With a sigh, he wipes the grime from the copper name-disk.
“Time we went home, eh?” He murmurs, and flips it over.