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It’s too hot.
Far too hot.
Astarion can feel the droplets of sweat forming on his brow, on the back of his neck, and trailing down his spine. The perspiration soaks through his billowy shirt. It gathers on the top of his lip, a perfect droplet in the philtrum. He licks it, tastes the saltiness of it.
It’s strange to sweat because, for as long as he has been a vampire, he has not needed to perspire.
But this tadpole does strange things. He no longer needs permission to enter someone’s abode (which includes tents, by the way). He can cross running water. And most importantly, he can walk in the sunlight.
And it’s glorious to feel those rays on his skin, warm and comforting, and to see sunlight peeking through the trees and the clouds. To awake from his trance and see the dawn breaking over the river from their camp.
So, what’s a little sweat? It’s a novelty.
On the second day of the heat wave, even Karlach can’t stand it.
“It’s too damn hot,” she moans, despite the patch of ice on which she stands, courtesy of Gale’s magic hands and a little of manipulation of the Weave.
Though Dammon has cooled her engine, she still burns like Avernus, and so the hot weather does not help.
The air is still. They remain at camp, like a ship becalmed at sea with no wind in its sails. Humidity clings to the fat, lazy molecules bobbing in the ether, refusing to budge.
“I would not mind a stiff breeze,” Shadowheart says from her spot under the shade of a tree.
Gale sighs, running a hand through his damp, sweaty hair. It clings to his face and the nape of his neck. A lovely little rivulet of sweat trails down his neck, just along the carotid artery. Like a glistening bit of quicksilver. Hunger stirs in Astarion’s belly at the sight.
“I can’t use any more of my magic for such frivolous things,” Gale says. “What if the goblins arrive just now and I’ve spent all my magic making Karlach a wading pool and fanning you, Shadowheart?”
The cleric grouses, but concedes. “I suppose that’s fair. But I am suffering.”
“I thought you were all about that. Being a Sharran and all,” Astarion quips.
She throws him a glare. “Not like this. Not all of us are as cold as ice.”
“I imagine that goblins and bugbears won’t be keen on running around in this heat,” Wyll interjects.
The man, newly horned, shed his shirt somewhere by the riverside and joins Shadowheart under the tree. He carries a bottle of chilled wine–apparently he has deemed spending his limited magic on providing the cleric with some relief.
“Ch’k,” Lae’zel hisses. “This hardly compares to the intensity of the Astral Plane. Istiks are so very… finicky.”
“You sure are judgmental. For someone standing around in your skivvies and diving in the river at every chance,” Shadowheart snipes back to the gith.
They glare at one another, but either the heat or the humidity douse the vitriol between them. Lae’zel turns back and heads to the rocky beach, to dunk her head under the water.
There will be no blades at throats today.
A shame, Astarion thinks. He is so very bored. Sweating isn’t nearly as exciting as being able to walk in the sunlight and cross rivers and go into places uninvited. In fact, he’s finding it rather annoying.
His clothes are constantly damp. And leather trousers are not great for such a thing as perspiration. Which is why he has borrowed a pair of pants from Wyll’s earthy garb—the man appears to have a few extra on hand. And he won’t miss it, Astarion figures.
The trousers fit well enough and, more importantly, Wyll merely raises an eyebrow at the sight and says nothing else. Astarion will launder and return them. Probably.
But it is Gale who remarks on the change.
“I take it that your usual outfit and leathers are not appropriate for such weather?” Gale ventures.
Astarion glances at Gale. His purple robes sit somewhere abandoned inside his tent, alongside a stack of books and pile of mugwort and acorn truffle and other fungi and plants. His wrap shirt is tied a bit more loosely and drapes past his waistband, untucked, and hangs down his thighs. The edge of the orb is visible, streaking out and along his chest and up toward his neck. The muslin fabric is damp with perspiration. Astarion’s salivary glands twinge as he takes in the salt and musk wafting from Gale.
And then there is the acrid note, like a sour poison, from the orb-tainted blood running through the wizard’s veins.
Astarion’s fangs ache and his stomach roils, despite the boar he eviscerated last night.
Strange. He never cared for the smell of sweat or body odor of any sort before this. Back when he prowled Fraygo’s Flophouse and beckoned his prey to follow him through the muggy, addled streets and alleyways of Baldur’s Gate and into the stinking sewers.
In fact, it made his stomach turn, but the compulsion, the drive, from Cazador’s control overrode everything else. But that’s no longer a concern—now. maybe he finds he likes certain things that he didn’t before. Now, he has the chance to decide that for himself.
“Everything alright, Astarion?” Gale asks, brow knitting with worry. The sunlight glimmers off of the mage’s sweaty, olive skin, from jewel-like tears of sweat.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Astarion replies curtly. “In fact, I think I’m doing rather well compared to you.”
Gale’s teeth flash as he gives Astarion a smile. His lips are soft, plush, and Astarion gazes at them for just a moment too long. He wonders if Gale’s mouth tastes of the same salty sweetness he is smelling. An unnecessarily warm tendril coils in his stomach, fluttery and absolutely annoying.
Then, Gale’s face slackens in surprise, mouth going round as his eyes fall to Astarion’s neck.
“Are you…sweating?” The wizard steps in closer, tilting his head to examine the trail of sweat clinging to Astarion’s throat.
Gale's eyes narrow, honing in on that bit of perspiration. His gaze prickles Astarion's skin. A tingle runs up and down his spine, and he flushes. Is this how it feels when he stares at people's necks so intently? He rubs his hand on his throat, gathering the bit of perspiration, and gazes at the wetness on his palm.
“Yes, I am,” he replies.
“Fascinating. In all my research over the years, I was under the impression that not only do vampires lose breath and their heartbeat, but that they also don’t sweat.” Gale raises a hand up, fingers slightly extended toward Astarion’s neck.
“Well, I think all bets are off with these tadpoles, darling.” Astarion bats Gale’s hand away with a light slap. “That eager to touch me, hm?”
Gale hastens back a step, snatching his hand to his side. A heaviness settles on his shoulders and guilt colors his face and cheeks.
“That was untoward and presumptuous. I’m so very sorry, Astarion. I just got caught up in this…heat,” Gale finishes lamely.
Haven’t we all? Astarion muses.
“Perhaps you should take a dip, like Lae’zel.” Astarion gestures toward the water. “Clear your mind.”
Gale glances out to the rocky bank, where Lae’zel and Wyll are swimming, their bodies cutting under the river with athletic precision.
“Yes, perhaps I should,” Gale says. “A bit further upstream, though.” The wizard blushes again and wraps his arms around his middle.
As though he has anything to be ashamed of beneath those robes and that shirt. Astarion rolls his eyes. The musky sweat and Gale’s faintly poisonous scent haven’t eased the ache in his fangs and stomach. His presence, also, seems to make Astarion perspire even more.
“Yes, further upstream. For your modesty,” Astarion replies. “Have a lovely swim, Gale.”
He turns on his heel and heads into the shade of the forest, away from Gale, before the wizard can respond.
At least in the woods, that saline musk won’t follow him. And so, he goes, and waits until dark to hunt again.
That night, Gale relents and casts a cone of cold spell in the middle of where they would usually set the campfire. Shadowheart shivers from the frosty and delights in finally being cool enough to sleep comfortably. The entire crew falls asleep almost immediately.
Except for Astarion. He takes the first watch. Though the air has been chilled, Gale and Wyll remain shirtless. It is a bit of a distraction. Both men possess well-formed muscles, particularly Wyll, since he has been hunting devils and engaging in sword play so actively. But Astarion finds his eyes wandering to Gale’s chest and the orb, which has remained dormant during the heatwave. Maybe the heat makes even the Netherese magic lazy.
The two humans sleep by the cone of cold, snoring and muttering in their slumber, with Karlach and Shadowheart.
Astarion, assured in Gale’s restful state, heads for the wizard’s tent and rifles through, searching for something entertaining to read. He saw the man pick up a book entitled A Pleasurable Deal and squirrel it away as quickly as he could into his pack. It must be something saucy.
He pauses, though, at the sight of Gale’s muslin wrap shirt hanging from the end of a post. The briny aroma, mixed with something sweet and almost brandy-like, and then that damnable Netherese bitterness, flood Astarion’s nose. His mouth waters again. And his skin tingles in the humid night air. He picks up the shirt, inhales, letting the fragrance wash over him, savoring it like a delicacy, and groans quietly.
A drop of sweat trails down his temple. He’s not even hot. And what the fuck is he doing?
From outside, he hears a rustling from the others. He delves into the shadow of Gale’s tent, hands clutching the tunic, and gazes out. The wizard is awake, murmuring and waving his hands around. A quick cantrip to refresh their icy hearth. And then, Gale lays back down and slumbers.
Astarion waits for a moment and then sneaks out of Gale’s tent. He stuffs the shirt into his own pack, deep in the recesses of his own tent, and then takes position for his watch.
The next morning, when Gale asks him about the missing garment, Astarion just shrugs. He watches as the mage searches fruitlessly, enjoying the view of his tanned skin and the sheen of perspiration. Maybe later, Astarion will replace it when Gale isn’t around. But for now, he enjoys the show.
After all, it’s no sweat off his back.