Chapter 8 – Flotsam, Jetsam, Lagan, and Derelict

There was once an old saying in the Lower City of Baldur's Gate that went something like: The greatness of the flood is matched only by the height of the salt in its wake. While multiple variations of the pithy sailor's aphorism were still passed around, they always meant the same thing. A sudden abundance of great riches would always be followed by an equally great sorrow. And it was precisely this phrase that came to Astarion's mind as they made their way out of the Kennels, through the manor halls, and towards the massive doors that barred the grand ballroom.

It wasn't exactly because he thought himself rich, or at least not in terms of gold anyway. But ever since his abduction at the hands (tentacles?) of the mind flayers, Astarion had to admit to himself that he'd been rather unusually fortunate. He'd won his freedom, even if it was in a rather twisted sense of the term. He'd been afforded opportunities for vengeance, opportunities to test and refine his defensive skills, and though he still had trouble admitting to it, he had fallen in love. No, more than all of that, she had fallen in love with him in return. With him, just as he was. It was a deluge of riches he'd not seen in two hundred years.

But at that particular moment, all he could taste was the salt on his tongue as he ruminated again about what was likely to have already befallen Lyric here, in Cazador's house of horrors. He simply couldn't shake, nor voice, the constantly nagging feeling that he'd already lost her for forever the very night she had disappeared, and that this entire endeavor was just the prelude to the inevitable discovery that everything he'd fought for in the last weeks was gone. That Cazador had finally taken absolutely everything from him. That there was now nothing but a pile of salt in his heart.

The feeling only grew worse as he then stood silently before the tall cathedral doors sealed shut with infernal blood magic. They didn't so much glow red as they seemed to be steeped in a congealed mist that floated up from the floor and swirled in time with the inlaid carvings of rats scuttling around a spiral of mystical text. He'd always hated this door most of all. Cazador's taste in art was simplistic and gauche but the ballroom doors felt more sinister than mere boorishness. As if their strange design was intentionally odd so as to specifically affect something else that went on behind them. In the middle of the whole scene, of course, there was then a keyhole, where the Szarr family ring would rend all barriers and open the way to the exalted bearer's command. To his left and right, Astarion could hear Shadowheart and Lae'zel unsheathing their weapons, but it was Halsin who moved to stand beside him.

"What was this place?" He asked, vaguely admiring the expensive arches and filigree.

"It was….it is…an abattoir." Astarion answered, his tone sounding almost ashamed. "The ballroom is where Cazador holds all of his high society parties. And even where he allows some low ones if his spawn have deigned to deserve it. Either way, this is where all the most delectable prey are invited to dance and to drink and to drown in merriment until they can hardly see two steps ahead of themselves. And then, well, then the real feast begins."

Astarion wondered if the salt he tasted was actually just the memory of a tsunami of blood spilt within these walls, like a guilty stain of acidity and brine.

He raised the ring cradled in his palm and easily fit the faceted gemstone into the niche. He then gave it a quarter turn and heard the harsh clunk as the mechanisms of the complicated inner lock began to turn. The doors swung open on their pulley hinges, but Astarion found that he could not raise his eyes to look beyond. The strangled gasps he heard from his companions told him that what he had already assumed they would find on the other side was, in fact, exactly as he predicted.

The ballroom was a massacre.

There was so much blood, even Lae'zel hesitated to step over the threshold.

The bodies lay where they had fallen. High elves and humans, a few gnomes, and a dwarf for good measure. They were all dressed in their best finery, some even still holding cups of wine in their hands now spilled and mixed with the thick red pools on the floor. For a brief moment, Astarion saw the depths of the Elf-Eater flash before him again, the tentacles wrapped around the heads and necks of countless victims over countless years, draining away their souls with each swallowed memory. He saw Lyric rushing to his side, in a place where she should never have followed him. It all suddenly felt too much the same.

Because it was the same.

He shook his head to force the vision out of his eyes. He couldn't afford to get distracted right now.

As the companions carefully picked their way through the silent hecatomb, each searched for evidence that their rescue would not be in vain, but all Shadowheart and Halsin could see were the contorted faces of the dead. None of whom they recognized. The cleric sniffed coldly and eyed the others before offering a suggestion.

"Should I speak with some of them, Astarion? Do you think they'll know anything of use?"

But Astarion remained somewhere else entirely. The images of Ityak-Ortheel faded away and in their place, in the midst of the purposeless gore, he began to read a pattern. Footprints. More specifically, two sets of footprints that seemed to move in and out of the bloody rivulets, around and around the ballroom in a spinning motion. One set had been made by a fine pair of boots, pointed at the toe, and clearly looked to be leading. Each print was carefully defined, sure of itself and unsmudged. The second set was smaller and dragged behind, smearing red cursive where the pull of the first dancer had been resisted. He furled the edges of his nose in an involuntary snarl. It was a waltz, a macabre dance of death, between two people who had spiraled through the bloodbath in a slow, methodical, rhythm.

It was then that he noticed another detail. As the dance moved further into the ballroom, it was accompanied by its own trail of droplets. He had been thinking that it was Cazador who had come for one last dance before triumph but now he realized that the first set of boots were made by a man much taller than his old master. The strides were too far apart, and the depth of the heel imprint indicated more weight than the slighter vampire lord. The second set of rounder shoes were also not of a style he knew any of the other spawn wore. None of his brothers or sisters would have tolerated such a smooth sole as it would have left them without purchase and too easy to slip. With trepidation, Astarion leaned down to swipe a single drop of blood from the tiles onto his finger. Halsin observed with some concern then as he tasted it on the tip of his tongue.

Instantly, Astarion knew it was Lyric. There was no possible way he couldn't know it was her.

Which could only mean that the other trail was him. Olivet Ingen Ailil himself.

Astarion looked closer at the tracks, following them around the ballroom as if he were dancing in their footsteps. Olivet had coerced her into each new direction, and she had fought him, her feet sliding through the viscera as he appeared to use her movements like a quill pen; dipping her into the puddles of blood and then tracing a musical arcane circle in the mess through the order of the octaves. Olivet had also cut her. Astarion had to bite his lip to keep his expression neutral, to not give away his heartbreak. Her steps seemed to falter where there would be a fresh splatter near her feet, so he must have done it several times. Astarion then felt the heat in his chest as anger flared unbidden into his throat. The scars on her chest must have been re-opened and…revised. Olivet had completed his unfinished work.

"Astarion!"

He jolted upright to the sharp tone of Shadowheart's voice. "What!" He snapped back unthinking.

"Are you going to frolic around in the bloody room all day or shall we actually make some progress before night falls?"

He blinked for several seconds as the other three stared at him, still half bent to the side with speckles of red on his hands and on his boots all the way up to his knees. With calm dignity and an air aloof disinterest, the vampire then straightened, wiped his hand on his thigh, and strode over to the group as if stepping over a pile of bodies was a mere routine occurrence. (Though, to be fair, some days it was.)

"No sense in lingering." He replied breezily. "This looks to be the leavings from last night's soirée. Cazador probably just wanted one more debauched celebration before his ritual. Exiting on a high note, so to speak. Since he likely plans to be on his way out of the harbor before tomorrow. They'll have nothing of use to say. Likely they never even knew what happened to them."

"This one," Shadowheart pointed to the body of a woman splayed out over a chair. "Had a note on her. See? It says, Sansy, I've been invited to a party at the Szarr Palace tonight in their ballroom. Show the chamberlain at the door this note and he'll let you in to join me. Wear your best dress! – Callira. And I am guessing that Callira is that woman over there with the violin because she had an invitation in her pocket to play music for the party."

"And?" Astarion responded with a snide hint. "Does that tell you anything useful?"

Shadowheart curled her lip and sneered back at him. "Well, while you were being all starry-eyed over the blood lake in here, I managed to get that corpse there talking. He's called Sterlac and he's from the Counting House. Seems he was invited because he's got an ear for city scandals."

"Ah yes." Astarion once again affected his high-pitched haughty laugh. "Who could have imagined that Cazador would call in a few favors to invite the who's who and what's left of the Balduran aristocracy right alongside all those who happen to know their dirty little financial secrets. Almost like he's a, what do you call them, vampire lord? Subtle, isn't it?"

Shadowheart clenched her fist, the metal around her fingers clanking ominously.

"Where to then?" Halsin asked as he moved bodily between them.

"That way." Astarion sighed and indicated a side door on the far end of the ballroom's seating area which had been mostly obscured by thick velvet curtains. "It leads to the West Wing. Cazador's personal quarters are there. It's the only part of the manor that was ever forbidden to us. Wherever he's holding this ritual, I'm guessing that the room he's prepared is down there. Somewhere the household wouldn't see."

Halsin nodded and made his way across, expecting that he might have to shoulder the heavy oaken panels open. But instead, he was surprised to find that the latch turned without complaint. It wasn't even locked.

Cautiously, the druid peeked around the edge of the door. But he saw only another hallway, stretching out parallel to the Lower City wall with windows shielded by drapes to keep out the early afternoon sun.

"I see no one." He announced to the others behind him. "It's clear."

Lae'zel went through first, her eyes narrowed. Nothing in this manor could be trusted and she expected an ambush at any moment. A few magically gifted spawn or perhaps a zombie or two. She'd have even settled for a band of skeletons at this point. Their explorations thus far had been too painless for her. Not just in the way that she craved a real fight but also in the way that it felt wrong. A vampire lord's estate should not be so empty and accessible. Her trained battle instincts told her that this effortlessness was a ruse. There simply must be more that she wasn't seeing.

Shadowheart followed, tapping the bottom of her mace against her hand. Lathander's Light continued to shine out brighter than any flame in the house but that wasn't why she treasured it so much. Lyric had given it to her. After their experiences together in the Githyanki crèche at Rosymorn Monastery, the ranger had taken her aside at camp, presenting the mace as a symbol of hope for their future. While she hadn't yet known it at the time, Shadowheart's faith in Shar was already shaken. She'd been questioning. Not out loud, but every time any of her erstwhile companions had stood at her side in adversity, showing her that she was not going to be abandoned, she had started to reject the possibility of their loss. Perhaps she had only accepted loss in the first place because she had nothing of value left to give to it. But now, she certainly wasn't going to give it Lyric.

Halsin stayed to Astarion's side at the back.

"What did you see?" He elbowed the vampire gently to rouse him once again from a brooding scowl.

"Hm? Oh, nothing."

"I don't believe you."

"What you believe isn't my concern."

"Astarion, I am trying to help." The druid stated lowly. "And I know you well enough to see when your actions carry meaning. That wasn't just some ecstatic twirl in the carnage, as your darker nature might desire. It was sight beyond sight. What do you know?"

Astarion looked askance at Halsin but answered anyway. "Olivet. He's here. Or, at least, he was not too long ago. He's directly involved in what's going on. He might even be a part of Cazador's ascendency. Be on watch for an elf-master you do not yet know. One with the mien of grace and the seeming of wrath."

Halsin nodded discreetly.

"Hey." Shadowheart called from up ahead. "There's a door here. Hidden in the wall. I can see light through this seam in the wallpaper. It looks like, I don't know, maybe some kind of a room."

"Finally." Lae'zel smiled. "Astarion has predicted correctly. This must be the place these chraith have gone. Let us put this t'rac, this insanity, to rest."

Astarion however, was taken slightly aback. He'd never been down this particular hallway, but he hadn't anticipated a house filled with secret doors and unknown rooms. He'd always known Cazador to be relatively flagrant with his atrocities, at least in his own home. But on further inspection, he found Shadowheart to be entirely right. There was, indeed, something behind the thin paper veil.

Together, they tore down the concealing camouflage, setting aside strips of expensive fabric and plaster planks until, to Astarion's intense confusion, they all looked down into an octagonal chamber. The chamber itself was also of a make completely unlike that of the rest of the estate. It was not bricks of sandstone and granite smoothed over with carpets or curtains. Rather, it appeared to be some kind of grey marble infused with brass and gold veins. Its large rectangular blocks were finely chiseled and polished, but the entire structure was also set upon by a giant metal dais of fitted iron. A single lever was the only indication of what the purpose of the chamber might be.

"It's an elevator." Shadowheart scanned the ceiling as she knocked her gauntlets against the hallow-sounding walls. "And looks to be in working order. This contraption is old though. Very old."

Astarion heaved an audible breath. "I had no idea. I've never seen anything like this."

"Looks like we're going down then." Halsin interrupted as he examined the lever. "This only goes in one direction."

Several perplexed and grindingly loud moments later, they had all descended for what felt like a hundred feet, finally coming to a screeching stop in an undeniable dungeon. So much so that Astarion almost laughed out loud. It was so absolutely like Cazador to have a literal gothic dungeon beneath his mansion but at the same time, he couldn't believe it had been here the whole time. Two hundred years and he's never so much as garnered a hint that such an expanse existed right under his feet. There certainly hadn't been any extensive construction in his years in the crypt, and it appeared to be all so much older than the house above.

It was for this reason that Astarion wandered out of the lift first, gazing in shocked wonder at the height of the tunnels, the gilding on the tiered steps, the width of the grand galleries, and then the scrawled lettering in gold leaf that covered almost every inch of every wall. Names. Thousands of names. But once again, none he immediately knew.

Halsin looked about with a crushing sense of worry. He could tell that Astarion was out of his element and that meant that something new was unfolding. Something that couldn't be easily anticipated. And though he'd never been one to fret at walking off of the beaten path, now was not the time for surprises. Unfortunately, then the smell hit him.

Dank, musty, and with the tell-tale choking sweetness of decay. The walkways were rank with death. Old death. Long mummified, dry, fragile, death. The demise that speaks only to unnatural means and defies the cycles of nature that return everything to the soil and, in time, to new life once more. And so, he knew it undeniably to be the scent of undeath. That which refuses to relinquish its grasp on the necessity of change and therefore possesses neither the true essence of living nor the release of oblivion.

Lae'zel however, put it more succinctly. "Fetid as a tomb."

Their words echoed off of the hard stone before falling away.

Then, from somewhere in the dark, they all heard a strange sound. As if something very large was shuffling about in the dust. The shadows flickered and convulsed in the indirect rays of Lathander's Light even as Shadowheart dropped the weapon to her side so as to avoid becoming an immediate target for anything that might be hiding or awaiting their arrival.

Astarion stood at the very limits of the cleric's illumination as he focused on dim shapes in the distance. It was difficult to make anything out for certain, but he was sure he saw something moving. Human-like but not whole. A hand, maybe. A bowed head or a fidgeting arm.

"Who's there." He demanded of the nothingness, his confidence both real and feigned. "Show yourself."

Lae'zel raised her blade while Halsin crouched, poised to call upon the wild and transform.

"I said, who's there!" Astarion repeated. "You will answer me."

Then, ever so softly, a timid voice replied…

"Astarion? No. Is….is that you?"