The High Hall is a hauntingly beautiful building.

You had stood at these courtyards with countless others as Baldur's Gate had been thrown into turmoil, the threat of the Absolute wreaking havoc on the very foundation of the city. It was a place of strategy as the city officials had rallied to put an end to the threat of the Elder Brain.

Tonight, the courtyards are less crowded, and a little more colorful. Gone are the blacks, grays, and browns of armor and steel, replaced with delicate silks and satins donned by the city's elite.

As you walk through the gardens, you admire the architecture of High Hall. The many windows were added as an afterthought, you know, because the building had once been a fort in defense of the city. The gargoyles stare you down with each step you take towards the entrance, and you remember being terrified of them as a little girl, your father tugging on your hand, ensuring they were just statues. When he had turned his back to you, you'd secretly cast a quick spell of invisibility on the ones within your reach.

You smile at the memory. Your magic had been such a little, and inconsequential thing then. The gargoyles would return with insistence within the next few minutes, their banishment short-lived. And you could never make the ones on the rooftops disappear. You hadn't been strong enough for that.

Now, you walk by two of them as you ascend the stairs into the ballroom. Astarion has a hand on the small of your back as he guides you in, his eyes flickering this way and that.

The first thing you see is the long table pushed to the side, practically spilling over with food and drinks. Astarion leans down into your ear, and whispers, "Wine, darling. Make yourself comfortable."

It's likely that wine is the only thing you can consume on that table without gagging. You slip away from him, and he eagerly approaches a group of gentlemen at a corner.

You are in blue velvet today, and you wonder if your eyes really do complement the color. Your skirts brush the floor as you move, and you're again taken back to the days where your mother would dress you up in all sorts of restrictive clothing. You place a hand on your midsection, the tightness of the corset not even remotely a bother.

Corsets can't harm the unbreathing dead, you suppose.

You approach the table, and a servant offers you a selection of wine. You grab a glass, and turn to the musicians, who are tucked away in a corner, playing a low, classical hymn. You watch Astarion as he converses with people you have never met.

Your social circle in Baldur's Gate definitely hadn't involved high society. Your father had occupied a modest position at the Counting House, and your mother took care of you. The circles you were familiar with were small, and intimate.

Astarion had told you about the importance of tonight. The Council of Four held feasts like this frequently to engage with the high nobles of the city. Cazador had been one to attend for decades, he had told you, but the lord had stayed mostly on the sidelines, ensuring his presence was known, but unthreatening. Astarion, however, had a different approach in mind.

"To be elected as one of the Council of Four," he had mused the night before, as you lay with him in your chambers. "They are elected for life. And we? Well..." He chuckled. "We simply cannot die." Disdain found its way into his tone. "And you know what else? We are seen as heroes in this godsforsaken city."

The way he had spat out the word had almost made you laugh. "Gods forbid you're ever a hero, Astarion."

"It seems the Gods have forbidden it, my dear."

You're taken out of your thoughts by a gentleman who approaches you from your left. Immediately, you feel an odd sense of premonition. Your spine tenses, and you find that you're holding your glass just a little tighter.

"My lady." His voice is gentle, and unassuming. "Apologies, but have we met?"

Your gaze focuses on the man, who is well-dressed, with blonde hair that cascades to his shoulders. He wears a cape thrown over a shoulder, and you immediately recognize his association. An official of the Flaming Fist.

"I don't believe so." You smile at him, offering your hand. "Lilith Savini."

He furthers the greeting by taking your hand, and planting a simple kiss on its back. "Savini." He considers. "I'm afraid I haven't heard of your family."

Humbly, you bow your head. You have manners, of course. "I am not the slightest bit offended, sir." Because he would never have heard of the name Savini in the Upper City.

"Forgive me, my name is Sylas Vore. At your service."

You certainly are, you think, as you glance around at the nobility surrounding you. The Flaming Fist served the upper class more than they ever looked in the direction of the ones in need.

He doesn't stop staring at you, and you feel just a trickle of anxiety at his attention. You glance down at your drink.

"Forgive me," he repeats, smiling. "You just seem so familiar, I can't quite put my finger on—"

"I'd certainly prefer that you don't put a finger on her, Sir Vore."

You turn to see Astarion beside you.

Sylas stills for a moment upon noticing him, then lets out a quick chuckle. "I meant no—"

"A savior," Astarion cuts him off, his demeanor sharp,"of this grand city. Of course, she's familiar to you."

Sylas's attention darts to you, his gaze probing. He masks his irritation well. "Then on behalf of this city, I must thank you for your efforts, Lady Savini."

"Ancunin," Astarion corrects, not very politely.

"Pardon?"

"Lady Ancunin accepts your thanks graciously." Astarion slips a hand around your waist, and you're pulled against his side. "And so do I. If it weren't for us, you lot would be thralls to a group of squids."

Sylas raises his glass, the gesture only slightly mocking. "A toast to you, and your companions, then. For saving our city." His gaze turns to a figure approaching your group. "And for returning our beloved Duke Ravengard."

Duke Ravengard is all smiles as he clasps a hand on Sylas's shoulder. "What a journey, my friends."

Astarion raises his glass to his lips. "Indeed."

"It's so good to see you. Both of you." Ravengard's smile is warm, and genuine, as he admires you both. "You know, I've spoken to the Council, and they are showing interest in organizing some sort of thanks for you and yours. A celebration. Gods know this city needs it." He looks at Sylas, determined. "We have been rebuilding, and I believe we're finally reaching a point where we can afford such distractions."

Astarion watches the Duke for a moment, but relents with a cautiously enthusiastic, "What a splendid idea."

"Which brings me to the question… where are the rest of our saviors, Astarion?"

Astarion looks down at you, gaze distant. "Oh, probably… scattered about somewhere."

"Well, ensure that they're soon scattered about Baldur's Gate," The Duke says, and then lowers his voice, "and yes, I do also mean my son."

Wyll.

A surge of excitement courses through you. You haven't seen your friends since that fateful day that the Absolute had been destroyed. Scattered had been the correct word, because everyone had dispersed so quickly in the aftermath. The freedom from the Illithid tadpoles had instilled a new determination in your group—to live, in freedom, and without any threat of enslavement to a higher power.

And now, they may all be coming back.

Astarion quickly pulls you away for a dance, seemingly in thought. As you walk with him, you still feel Sylas's attention, and you also sense that Astarion is very much aware of it.

The dance is a slow waltz, and you can tell that Astarion is reading the room as he pulls you this way, and that. You have a hand on your skirts to prevent you from toppling over entirely.

"There," he says into your ear, nodding towards a corner, "Corrin Renault, and Casimir Roe."

The other two members of the Council of Four, besides Ravengard. The last seat of the Council remained vacant, as to honor a previous Grand Duke who had been lost to the Bhaalspawn Crisis a few years ago. You wonder if Astarion is truly, and seriously vying for that empty spot. By the way he's dissecting the room, you're sure he is.

"If we hadn't saved Ravengard from his untimely fate, all of this would have been annoyingly harder," he says. "Seeking an audience with the Council can take months. Their inner circle rarely cracks open to outsiders."

"Have they questioned Cazador's absence?"

His lips curl at the mention of his name. "Ravengard knows all that has happened. I'm sure the information has been relayed."

You find that you don't understand. "The Council knows that you murdered Cazador? Astarion—"

"The Council knows what we are, my dear, just as they knew what Cazador was. They don't meddle with these petty relations of master and spawn. They only care about who ends up at the top." He smiles down at you with pleasure. "And that happens to be me."

You swallow, your eyes drifting to the two Council members. Vampirism, as you've come to know, is not something that society takes lightly. "And they will keep our secret?"

"My loyalty is something they will want to cherish," he says. "I can give them what Cazador only let them use sparingly."

You don't know what that means, but before you can question him, Ravengard approaches the both of you with two drinks in his hands. "Astarion, come. Renault would like a word."

Astarion grabs Ravengard's offering of wine, and places a kiss to your temple. You watch him walk away, and you are left alone once more. The musicians have taken a break from their playing, and you find yourself back at that large table, reaching for another drink.

But there is Sylas, handing you one. "I did see you out there, you know." Hesitantly, you take the wine from him, and he continues, "After that glorious fight—it was a sight to behold, with that… disgusting giant brain in the water." He takes a step closer, introspective. "But after, when you came out to the crowd with your fellow companions… I could have sworn that your eyes were anything but crimson."

You tense immediately, but the lie has been prepared on your tongue all night long. "I'm a sorcerer, Sir Vore. I will my eyes to whatever color I please." Which would be a neat trick that would have avoided this entire mess in the first place, but no matter how hard you had tried, you couldn't find a spell that could achieve this without a penalty.

Astarion had said your attempt with prestidigitation had worked, but you had also ended up completely blind.

There is something unconvinced in his eyes as Sylas leans back, regarding you. "As you say, Lady Ancunin."

Your mouth opens to correct him, but nothing comes out.

"Although," he continues quickly, "Astarion Ancunin is not married in the court records, and you are certainly not of his kin, no matter how similar your… pallor." His head tilts up in consideration. "What exactly are you to him, my lady?"

Your gaze drops. Lover, surely. Consort—a term Astarion had used—was not appropriate, as he was not a ruler of anything.

And now, you try, but fail, at keeping your attention away from Astarion as he crosses the room from one side, to the other. He doesn't give you any indication that he notices you by the table as he's pulled away into another conversation.

At your silence, Sylas follows your attention, and then turns back to you. "If I may be so bold—all evening, you have trailed this man like a lost puppy."

Your anger is a surprise as your palms heat with the promise of flames. "You are being too bold, sir."

His head cocks to the side as he regards you. "A beautiful savior of our city, under the thumb of a novice noble who seeks a place in our high court." He takes your hand, and places a gentlemanly kiss on the back. A farewell. "I truly wonder what power he has over you."

A/N: I'm barely into Act III, so I'm making all of it up, besides some quick research into Baldur's Gate politics. Maybe you can tell.

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