Summary: Wyll and Astarion have a chat. The party realizes the true nature of the wetlands. Astarion discovers Siobhan's terrible secret.
CW: Depictions of self-harm
"I know it's you."
Astarion nearly trips over an exposed root of a tree and fixes Wyll with a confused glare at the whispered accusation.
The others don't hear them; they're far enough ahead as they travel through the wetlands in search of Auntie Ethel's Teahouse.
"I beg your pardon?"
Wyll shrugs, one hand resting on the pommel of his rapier.
"You're the vampire, aren't you? I wasn't sure at first. I mean, you can walk in the sun and do everything a vampire shouldn't be able to do. But then we found that boar. You don't do anything a living creature does. You don't eat, you rarely rest, and I've seen enough to know that high elves don't naturally have red eyes . . ."
Astarion doesn't know how to respond; his first instinct is to deny, deny, deny, but he can tell that Wyll's mind is made up and won't be persuaded otherwise.
"What I want to know is how you convinced her to offer herself up as a meal."
Astarion glances at the wood elf at the front of the group, head down in conversation with Gale, whose arms are gesturing wildly, likely pontificating on some esoterica related to the book of necromancy Astarion had helped recover from the hidden cellar under the apothecary.
"She didn't expose you, if that's what you're wondering," Wyll assures him, concerned with protecting the wood elf's character. "Back in Moonhaven, I figured it out. She tried hiding it, but I've seen vampire attack victims before; I know what blood loss looks like."
They'd left Moonhaven days ago. Why is Wyll only confronting him now?
"Oh good, as long as she didn't tell on me," Astarion says lightly, trying desperately to tamp down his panic.
"Siobhan wouldn't sell you out, you know that," Wyll frowns, his free hand making an aborted gesture towards his new horns.
Not long after recruiting Karlach, a female cambion, Mizora, appeared in their camp, announcing herself as his patron and exposing the lie that is The Blade of Frontiers and where his power comes from. Instead of casting him out for his devilish allegiances, Siobhan comforted him and promised to seek out a solution for his enslavement.
"So? How did you manage it?" Wyll asks again.
Astarion bristles at his tone, "Our leader has a soft spot for the needy and downtrodden, as you're intimately aware,"
Wyll flinches as if he's been pricked but waits for him to finish.
"If you must know, she offered herself up – unprompted," Astarion sighs, "Little miss prim can't abide the suffering of others, so she was more than happy to help once she discovered what I am."
Wyll nods, the tension leaving his shoulders as his hand falls away from his rapier, "Good. I just wanted to make sure you hadn't taken advantage of her."
"Oh yes, because she isn't completely capable of looking out for herself. What would she do without you?" Astarion drawls, and Wyll has the self-awareness to look embarrassed.
Despite Astarion's animosity, Wyll pats him on the shoulder and says, "I won't tell the others, you know. You've been honest with me, and Siobhan clearly thinks you're trustworthy enough not to . . . cross any lines with the rest of us."
"How generous of you," Astarion sneers, jerking away from Wyll's touch, his skin crawling from the contact. He looks offended for a moment, then smiles.
"You're alright, Astarion. As much as you'd like us all to believe otherwise."
Astarion can only glare past the anxiety, hand hovering over the area Wyll patted him, poised to slap the offending hand away if it got close again. Wyll pays him no mind, seemingly unaware of Astarion's hypervigilance. The warlock pulls ahead, leaving him at the back of the group to contemplate their conversation. Astarion is rooted to the spot for just a moment before his feet pull him forwards numbly as he follows.
Despite his assurances, Astarion worries about how long Wyll is going to keep his secret. Dread pools in his gut as he realizes the timeline to seduce Siobhan has to be accelerated. Astarion watches the wood elf snort at something Shadowheart mutters in her ear from over her shoulder with dismay; he's made little progress despite his efforts.
Astarion has never had to work so hard to seduce someone. Astarion also has never had to seduce a specific person before. Usually, if he couldn't win his target over after an hour, he would move on to someone more receptive. Cazador had strict quotas for his spawn, so wasting time on targets that weren't guaranteed to fall for the grift was abandoned at the first sign of resistance.
And the wood elf has proven to be very resistant. Every time he tries to get close to her, she sends him away. Every time he turns on the charm, she dismisses his advances. He can't tell if she's oblivious to his flirtations or if he has completely misread her and she's simply not interested.
But she must be interested; how could she not be? Astarion knows he's handsome; he knows the effect his attention has on the plain and insecure. They're always so thrilled to be chosen, in awe that a creature like him would ever spare them a glance, let alone pursue them.
He continues to watch her as she basks in the attention the others lavish upon her. The ranger's helpfulness and attentiveness seemed to have an intoxicating effect on their companions because they had all warmed to her bewilderingly quickly. Her eyes shine with pleasure, but underneath, he can see the desperation for approval.
"I thought you didn't like me . . ."
Is that it? Is she so insecure that she can't fathom Astarion desiring her over the others? It's true; she isn't lovely like Shadowheart, lacks Karlach's raw sexuality, and doesn't enjoy Wyll's effortless charisma, but she's not totally hopeless. He wasn't lying when he told her she had her charms.
The wood elf may be plain, but there are other things besides physical beauty that can make one attractive. She's soft-hearted, almost to the point of foolishness, yes, but she's no idiot. She's competent enough in combat, resourceful (although admittedly a bit of a pack rat), and a skilled survivalist. However, it's her uncanny ability to manage disparate personalities that sets her apart. A natural diplomat. It's a different kind of power to Cazador's, to be sure, but power nonetheless. Power that Astarion finds very attractive. It's clear that without her acting as a unifying force, the party would have splintered long ago common goal or no.
So why had she pulled away when he had told her as much? Is she just modest? Embarrassed by his compliments?
"You're too close."
Her skittishness is infuriating, but perhaps it should be expected. It was all a colossal misunderstanding, of course, and they'd since cleared that all up, but his nighttime visit must have done more damage than he anticipated. She doesn't trust him, not fully. She might even find him physically threatening.
Astarion needs to make her think that she is the one in control, that she is the one with the power, and that he's no threat to her. But how? As insufferable as Gale and Wyll are, they managed to get her support easily enough. She happily defended Wyll from his patron and pledged to find him a way out of his contract. The wood elf didn't hesitate to donate a valuable magical artifact to Gale to control his mysterious malady.
Ah. That's it, isn't it? She likes to have others indebted to her. It isn't a matter of trust or not trust; she latches on to those she thinks need her, that she thinks are smaller and weaker. Astarion should have realized. It's so obvious in hindsight. Isn't that what she's done ever since he met her? Collecting pet causes like the trinkets and baubles she stashes in her pack? Perhaps six of one and half a dozen of the other?
Maybe she can't bear to be near him because he'd scared her and because she thinks his disapproval is guaranteed, that there's no thorn she can pluck from his paw. Well, if it's a charity case she wants, then it's a charity case she'll receive.
Astarion can spin her a sad little tale with enough truth to make an impact and make himself look desperate for a savior. The bait is irresistible. How could she refuse the handsome, tragic vampire who yearns to stay in the sun? She would never deny him. After successfully wrapping her around his finger, he'll never have to worry about going hungry again. He won't have to worry that the others will kill him in his sleep. Hells, he may even get her to convince the others to kill Cazador for him.
The stage is set with Siobhan. She's already demonstrated a willingness to overcome her reservations about him to offer up her blood. Yes, he may have gotten a bit carried away, but Astarion could tell that she enjoyed the process. He could tell that she'd basked in the intimacy of it. That she found at least some part of it pleasurable. She enjoyed controlling him through his hunger, dangling her blood in front of him like a reward for a dog being asked to perform a trick.
The thought turns his stomach, and Astarion considers for a foolish moment abandoning his plan to preserve the little pride he has left before discarding the notion. Just because he would be playing the pet doesn't mean he will be. That was just the first step. Eventually, he will learn what motivates her desperation for approval, to be seen as heroic, and twist it against her. Twist it to serve him.
He would have to be careful. The wood elf's unwavering morality is enough of a barrier that if he pushes too hard too fast and asks her to do something too unsavory when she's not ready, he could lose whatever power he holds over the wood elf.
It will be a delicate process, but Astarion is confident he can succeed. Even if he wasn't, failure isn't an option.
It isn't until they stumble upon the not-sheep five days into their journey through the sunlit wetlands that the illusion fades away to reveal a putrid bog. Even their most perceptive party members failed to see past the artifice until now. It sent a wave of concern through the entire group. If the wood elf hadn't stopped to coo at the ill-placed not-sheep to try and determine why they were wandering so deep into the wetlands, they might still not have seen past the illusion.
Karlach almost gives them away after Siobhan staggers back in shock and realization. The psychic link granted to them from their illithid worms instantaneously transfers the awareness that the bog and the redcaps posing as sheep are under illusory magic. Sensing the impending danger, the wood elf instinctively throws out a hand that collides with Karlach's stomach to stop her from cursing or otherwise giving them away to the redcaps.
"Careful!" Shadowheart, who's closest, shouts, too slow to stop her.
"Fuck!" The wood elf yelps in pain as the momentary contact with Karlach's skin ignites her sleeve and scorches her hand. The smell of burning flesh is overpowering, and Astarion's heart jumps in his throat at the sight.
Before Astarion can think to act, Gale exhausts the last of his magic to summon a jet of water and extinguish the flames, but the damage is done. The inflamed skin on her hand is bright red, glossy, and pocked with weeping blisters; her sleeve is blackened and tattered.
"Oh no! I'm so sorry!" Karlach cries miserably, creating as much distance between them as she can while still staying within the perimeter of the group, "I didn't mean to!"
"No! No – it's okay. My fault. I wasn't thinking." Siobhan spits out through gritted teeth as she examines her burns, tears pooling in her eyes from the pain as she tries to reassure the distraught tiefling. "It's not even that bad. I promise!"
The redcap glares at them with suspicion, unsure of what prompted their reaction to its presence. It bleats threateningly (poorly imitating the creature it still believes to be disguised as) while the redcap's hand inches slowly to the club tied to the belt on its waist.
"Now, now," Astarion says quickly, "You're scaring the poor animal. Let's move on and let the creature be."
Siobhan, cradling her burnt appendage, acknowledges him with a slight nod and follows his lead, "Yeah, of course. Come on, everyone, let's see if we can't find somewhere to set up camp. It's getting late.
"Shadowheart- ?" The ranger hardly gets the words out before Shadowheart casts a spell of lesser restoration and cure wounds in quick succession. The relief is immediately apparent on her face as the blisters fade to non-existence.
"Thank you." She says, but Shadowheart waves her off.
"Save your thanks; you can take the first watch."
Siobhan acknowledges her with a short nod and leads them away from the suspicious redcap. They're all anxious to get far away enough from it so that they can speak freely. Once they're out of earshot, Gale kicks off the speculation with awed chattering.
"I've never seen anything like it! The borders of the enchantment must be tens of kilometers in diameter, yet its fidelity is totally uniform. Something exceptionally powerful must have cast it to have fooled all of us for so long."
"Powerful enough to dupe Mystra's chosen, how comforting." Astarion grimaces.
Gale winces and scratches the back of his head, looking a bit awkward, "Well, not so much anymore, actually. And I will admit, I'm not as powerful as I once was. My condition has had a rather unfortunate . . . dampening effect on my abilities.
All the same, that not one of us managed to see past the illusion until now is highly concerning." Gale frowns.
"Those men we ran into, the ones looking for their sister- they were right." Siobhan cursed. "It's Ethel. She's a bloody hag."
When they'd first encountered the men on the road, the wood elf had dismissed them outright. After all, they'd all met and spoken with Auntie Ethel. She'd appeared to them as nothing but a sweet old medicine woman, helpful and kind. The ranger had muttered unhappily for hours after at the ignorance of men, at their dangerous suspicion.
"It's always the same, isn't it? You make a few potions, cure a few ailments, and the whole village loves you. But the moment something bad happens? 'She consorts with demons! It's the witch's doing!' What a load of shite." The wood elf had spat in an odd show of ill temper.
"Even the druids didn't realize Ethel's true nature," Wyll says now in an attempt to console her, "How could you have known?"
His words don't seem to alleviate her distress, the regret plain on her face. She shakes her head, clearly unwilling to let the others absolve her of her guilt. Instead, she forges ahead to lead them to a suitable place to make camp and regroup. They walk silently until the sun dips behind the thick canopy of gnarled branches and vines above them. She settles for a clearing next to the bank of a sluggish stream, likely the only freshwater they'll find this deep into the bog that isn't brackish and bitter from stagnation and rot.
After a short discussion on next steps (the plan to get help from Ethel temporarily abandoned for the moment in favor of finding Kagha's secret meeting place), they start setting up camp.
Astarion has to fight the urge to stare at Siobhan as he sets up his tent and organizes his belongings, so he tries to distract himself by watching the others instead. Karlach, after being reassured again that Siobhan is alright, is helping Wyll set up the rest of camp, collecting stones to line the firepit.
Meanwhile, Gale sorts through their provisions to see what can be put together for dinner with a frown. The wetlands, or rather the swamp, had been largely empty of food that could be foraged aside from a small selection of mushrooms and the rare wild tuber, much to the others' dismay. They had also failed to encounter any game- the last time before entering the swamp.
They won't starve yet, but it could get dire if something doesn't change soon. The lack of animals has affected Astarion the most, as he can't partake of regular food. He hasn't fed in almost a week, and the gnawing in his stomach can't be ignored anymore. He's gone without drinking blood for far longer before, of course, but now that he knows what it feels like to have the thirst satiated, the hunger feels more pronounced.
Astarion's gaze falls on the wood elf at the thought. She's flitting around camp, helping where she can, speaking to everyone but him. The mere scent of her from halfway across camp is mouthwatering. If he could just get her alone for a moment, away from prying eyes, he's certain he can convince her to let him feed again.
He waits after everyone's settled in, listening for the others' heartbeats to slow, indicating that they've fallen asleep, before slinking out of his tent to find Siobhan. Astarion finds, to his surprise and dismay, that she's not in camp at all. He closes his eyes and lets his senses billow out around him, reaching for the sound of her heartbeat. It's not too far off, but she's certainly a fair distance from camp. He follows the sound, creeping quietly so as not to disturb the others nor alert her to his approach.
Astarion freezes at the sight of her when he finally arrives at the place she snuck off to. She's standing in the stream in her underclothes, her shirt and breeches freshly washed and hanging wetly on a low branch to dry. But that's not what makes him pause. It's the smell of blood, hot and metallic, filling the air around her: the source, a dozen shallow cuts spanning the width of her thighs. The short dagger he'd found in her pack all those days ago, the one that was so carefully wrapped in oiled animal skins- that is the dagger that she uses to draw another red line into her flesh. Blood weeps from the fresh wounds and runs in rivulets down her legs before mixing with the water and washing downstream.
Astarion can see the pain on her face from where he stands, but also . . . relief?
Before he can stop himself, the words are spilling from his mouth in a hoarse whisper, "What the hells are you doing?"
Her eyes fly up and land on his face as he steps out from the darkness into the moonlight.
"Astarion!" She's white with horror, frozen. Siobhan makes no attempt to hide her near nakedness. He's already seen too much.
As he gets closer, he can see countless faint white lines crisscrossing beneath the fresh cuts, decades of self-mutilation. This is not the first time she's done this.
"You mustn't tell the others," She begs, tears flowing freely down her face, "please, they wouldn't understand."
Astarion doesn't know how to respond, struck dumb by what he's caught her doing and her request. Siobhan's eyes search his face frantically, trying to divine what he's thinking and what he'll do next. With a start, he realizes they're playing out the inverse of the night he'd tried to drink from her. Now, he's the one being asked to protect a horrible secret.
But he can hardly focus on what to do next, all thoughts deafened by the sound of her throbbing heartbeat pounding in his ears and the pungent smell of her blood flooding his nostrils.
Siobhan's face goes slack with realization and then twists desperately, nervousness flooding from her like waves.
"You haven't eaten in days, right? Come," she beckons him with her free hand, "you must be starving. I should have come to you sooner. I was just so distracted with everything." The laugh that bubbles from her throat is both manic and placating.
". . . what?" Astarion replies unintelligently.
"Yes, yes. Let's get you fed and head back to camp. We must return before the next watch and the others realize we're missing." Siobhan is a blur of motion as she steps out of the stream, rushes to her pack, and falls to her knees. The bloodstained dagger drops to the dirt with a soft thud next to it, forgotten, as she begins pulling things out. She retrieves a health potion, which she drinks hastily, and a bundle of spare clothes, the wounds closing before his eyes as she begins dressing.
He's still rooted to the spot when she finally walks up to him, pulls him to the ground, and offers up her right arm, sitting just like they had the first time.
"Are you sure?" He asks. Why is he asking? Isn't this what he wanted? Isn't this why he followed her here in the first place?
"Don't be silly. That's what friends are for, right? They help each other."
The words are right, but her expression is all wrong. Her eyes are too wide, the smile too stiff, her cheeks mottled with high spots of color and wet from her tears, but she's right; he's starving, and she's offered.
". . . of course," Astarion nods finally, slowly taking her arm up in his hands and bringing it to his lips, eyes fixed on hers, "happy to help."
Her face crumbles with relief for only a moment before it contorts with pain as his teeth make purchase.
What an odd way to make his very first friend.
Okay, so we ended this one off on a bit of a doozy. Fair warning: it's likely to get worse before it gets better.
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