The forest lay quiet, bathed in golden light filtering through dense canopies that arched like ancient cathedrals over the narrow dirt road. The clip-clop of Gandrel's pony disturbed an otherwise tranquil woodland, his cart rolling steadily as he adjusted his reins, his attention largely on the road ahead. Behind him, in the cart's shadow, lay a large cage cloaked in heavy canvas, edges bound tightly with rope. Gandrel's eyes flicked occasionally to the side, cautious, as if sensing something amiss in the quiet.
In his periphery, a dark shape loomed, slinking from the undergrowth. A giant direwolf, fur like tarnished steel, padded up beside the cart, its massive paws silent on the earth. Astride the beast sat a young elven woman with raven-black hair, braided and woven with feathers. Her ice-blue eyes held him in a gaze as unwavering as her mount's. She wore a mix of leather and fur armor, each piece worn and shaped by use, the rough sinew of her life in the wilds. In her hand, a bow rested, almost lazily, but her body remained taut, poised as if she could spring from her seat at any moment.
Gandrel steadied his voice, though his grip on the reins tightened. "Greetings, friend - if friend you may be," he called out, keeping his tone cautious yet amiable. "I am Gandrel. May I know your business with me?"
The woman inclined her head slightly. Her expression gave nothing away, yet something about her presence prickled at his instincts. "Greetings, Gandrel. I am Ashara. My business with you will depend on what is contained within that cage of yours."
Gandrel glanced back to the covered cage, feeling a sudden surge of unease. Though he masked it, a shiver crept up his spine. Guiding his pony to the side, he stopped, watching her with wary eyes. She made no move to approach, but the direwolf's amber gaze was fixed upon him.
"It holds no beasts of the forest, if that is your concern," Gandrel replied, choosing his words carefully. "Only a prisoner, one I am taking to Baldur's Gate."
Ashara's expression didn't shift, but her posture did, almost imperceptibly; her bow was suddenly, dangerously, taut, the arrow aimed directly at him. "People are disappearing up and down the Sword Coast," she said, her tone sharp as flint. "I've been hired to investigate. You will show me this prisoner. Now."
Gandrel forced a placating smile, raising his hands slowly. "Please, do not mistake my intent. The prisoner I carry isn't one of your missing innocents. He is vampire spawn - a creature my tribe tasked me with capturing and delivering to Baldur's Gate."
Ashara's gaze never wavered, the bowstring taut in her grip. "Nevertheless, I require you to show me this prisoner."
Reluctantly, Gandrel clambered down from the cart, moving slowly to avoid provoking her further. He reached for the ropes holding the thick canvas in place, fingers steady but betraying a flicker of resignation. With a swift motion, he pulled the covering free, revealing the cage's occupant.
Ashara's gaze sharpened as she took in the unusual features of the elven man in front of her: red eyes like garnets gleaming beneath the tangle of his silver curls, pale skin sunlit, but without the burns that would afflict a vampire. He was on his knees with his hands bound behind his back, a strip of twisted cloth silencing any cries he might have given. A rope wound tightly around his neck, the other end of which was passed through the bars of his prison and tied to a metal ring in the bed of the cart.
As he caught sight of her, the elf strained against his bindings, muffled sounds slipping past the gag as he glanced between her and Gandrel with urgent desperation.
Gandrel held up a hand, intercepting her questions before she could voice them. "I understand the confusion," he said, his voice calm yet resolute. "I was also taken aback to find a vampire walking freely in sunlight. But make no mistake - his immunity only serves his deceit. He used it to win the trust of a band of adventurers."
Inside the cage, the elf shook his head furiously, his eyes flashing with fierce protest. In a desperate effort, he scraped his gag against the bars until he managed to free his mouth. Though Ashara searched for telltale fangs, he kept his lips firmly pressed - a gesture that did not escape her notice. She hesitated, her gaze sharp with suspicion, yet unwilling to accept Gandrel's explanation outright.
"Please, listen," the elf gasped, his voice smooth yet strained, an accent polished with nobility. "This Gur is lying through his teeth! My name is Astarion, and I'm a magistrate from Baldur's Gate. I was kidnapped by this thug, who most likely intends to ransom me. Free me, and I'll see you richly rewarded."
Ashara studied him, noting the regal, carefully groomed air about him, the elegance of his speech, his clothing - though dirtied - was finely made. She looked back at Gandrel, suspicion flickering in her gaze. "Proof," she said quietly, her tone brooking no argument. "Show me proof of his nature beyond mere words."
Gandrel's expression flickered as if with hesitation, but he nodded in resigned acceptance. Climbing up onto the cart, he took hold of the rope tied to the elf's neck and pulled it taut, dragging him toward the back of the cage despite his furious writhing. Tying it off, he produced a key and moved to the cage's door, opening it and stepping inside.
Ashara watched, a prickling unease creeping up her spine as he seized the man by the hair, forcing his head back with a relentless grip.
Astarion snarled, his voice venomous. "Unhand me, you filthy bastard! What are you - no!"
Gandrel ignored his protests, gripping Astarion's lower jaw with his other hand, forcing his mouth open to reveal sharp, glinting canines, gleaming in the sunlight like a predator's trap laid bare.
"See?" Gandrel murmured, his voice low, yet something in his eyes seemed troubled as he looked back at Ashara.
All pretense vanished from Astarion's face, twisting his elegant features into something feral as he jerked his head, his fangs flashing as he snapped at Gandrel's hands. The hunter barely flinched, releasing Astarion with an eerie calm, stepping back as if accustomed to such wild resistance.
Gandrel's voice was devoid of sympathy. "I take no pleasure in this, spawn. It would have served you better to be truthful."
Astarion strained against his bonds, spitting like a wild cat. "Go to the hells! I'll tear you to pieces for this, Gur."
Ashara felt a chill crawl up her spine at Astarion's abrupt, vicious change. He'd gone from a desperate prisoner to something far more dangerous, a predator wounded and cornered. Still, her voice was steady when she spoke to Gandrel, watching him as he locked up the cage and loosened the rope tether, giving Astarion just enough freedom to slump back onto his knees.
"What will happen to this vampire once you've delivered him to your people?" she asked, her gaze flicking to Astarion, now panting heavily, his eyes wild with fury.
"What do you think? They'll kill me!" Astarion cut in before Gandrel could answer. The fear in his gaze stirred something reluctant in her, as he pleaded, "Look, I'm sorry for lying, but I haven't done anything wrong. I wasn't going to hurt anyone, I swear."
Gandrel's expression hardened, his voice now cool, a wall built from old wounds and memories. "That may be so these past few days, but you're wanted for more than just being a vampire. You helped steal away the children of my tribe. My own included."
The words fell like stones, each one a blow that left Astarion frozen. He flicked a nervous glance at Ashara, his composure wavering. She caught the tension in his shoulders, the flicker of shame in his eyes, so brief it could've been a trick of the light. But when he looked up, anger masked his face once more.
"I didn't have a choice!" Astarion's voice rose, a bitter edge cutting through it. "Cazador ordered me to take them, and I had to obey. All his spawn have to obey - you know that damn well, Gur!"
Gandrel's face hardened, but a flicker of pain crossed his eyes, so brief Ashara almost missed it. "Willingly or not, it makes no difference. You know what happened to those children, and you will tell us."
Astarion looked away, jaw clenched. "You want to know what happened? They're probably dead by now." His voice was low, resignation tainted with anger. "Nothing I say can change that, and I won't apologize for something I couldn't control."
The weight of Gandrel's sorrow settled heavily in the silence between them, and his jaw tightened, a haunted glint in his eye. "Then my people will have their vengeance... one way or another."
Astarion scoffed, a hollow, bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Killing me won't change a damn thing."
Gandrel turned to Ashara, his eyes weary but resolute. "Now that you've seen my prisoner, am I free to continue on my way?"
She glanced back at Astarion, who had slumped back against the bars, head bowed as though each breath was an effort. A faint sense of guilt stirred within her, but she forced herself to nod, her voice quiet. "Yes... your business with this man is your own."
Astarion's head jerked up, his eyes ablaze with fury and betrayal. "Damn you!" His voice cracked, the anger veiling something more fragile. Then he fell silent, a hollow figure against the iron bars.
Ashara straightened, stroking her wolf's thick fur as she gave Gandrel a respectful nod. "Onyx and I apologize for detaining you, Gandrel of the Gur. May your journey be swift and your burden light."
A weary smile ghosted across Gandrel's face as he climbed back onto the cart, his eyes softening as he inclined his head. "And so too may yours be, Ashara."
She nudged Onyx to step aside as Gandrel took up the reins, his cart lumbering forward along the winding path. But as they passed, her gaze fell back to the figure in the cage. Astarion was watching her, and in his eyes, she caught a shimmer - a trace of something unguarded, unfeigned. A plea that was all the more startling for its sincerity.
"Please... help me," he whispered, his voice a fragile thread, breaking under the weight of despair.
She tore her gaze away, her chest tightening as a pang of guilt twisted within her. Beneath her, Onyx sensed her discomfort, and gave a low rumbling growl of reassurance as they slipped back into the forest.
Beneath the cover of trees, she dismounted, letting her thoughts drift as she resumed the task she'd abandoned earlier - skinning the deer she'd taken down just before Gandrel had passed by.
Onyx settled beside her, his watchful eyes fixed on her with a calm assurance as his voice echoed in her mind.
"You feel guilt for the vampire. Waste not your sympathy. His kind are known for cruelty and deception. His fate is one he surely deserves."
Ashara paused, turning to run her hand over the thick fur along Onyx's neck. "I know. But something about seeing him caged like that - so desperate for freedom - it reminded me of you. People said you were a monster too." She gave a half-smile, her eyes softening. "And I'm glad I didn't believe them."
Onyx's muzzle curled into a canine grin, his teeth glinting. "As am I, my friend."
She sighed, tracing the line of her blade over the deer's pelt. "I know I shouldn't get involved-"
"Then don't." Onyx's voice was calm, grounded in a wisdom that often tempered her impulsive nature.
"But maybe we could free him and let him go somewhere remote and far away from people?" she argued, more to herself than to him. "Like the owlbear we rescued from those hunters?"
Onyx scratched an ear, tilting his head thoughtfully. "A vampire is not an owlbear, Ashara. If he is freed, he will remember every slight, every indignity. And he will eventually return to civilization, hungrier and more cunning than before. Do you truly wish the blood of the next innocent traveller he meets to be on your conscience?"
Ashara felt the weight of his words and lowered her gaze, her resolve weakening. "No... you're right."
Onyx's voice softened as he leaned his head against her arm. "If you choose to free him, his fate is your responsibility. You would have to ensure he never harms another innocent soul. And that would mean keeping him close and watching over him."
She glanced up, startled. "What... like a pet?"
A rare bark of laughter escaped Onyx, a sharp huff that made her smile despite herself. "No, not quite. I do not think he would take kindly to that title."
Then, a spark of curiosity glinted in her eyes as she remembered. "Oh, how did I do back there by the way?"
Onyx nuzzled her cheek affectionately. "You handled yourself well. You were confident, respectful."
"I wasn't too aggressive?"
"For a man who captured a vampire? I think you showed just the right amount." His amber eyes gleamed approvingly.
Ashara gave a small, proud smile, her hands resuming their work. But even as she focused on the deer, her thoughts drifted back to the prisoner. Those crimson eyes, filled with anguish, haunted her. And as the forest wrapped around her, she wondered if she could truly let that plea go unanswered.
Astarion leaned against the cold iron bars of his cage, eyes fixed on the firelight dancing across Gandrel's stoic face. The day had been an unending haze of jostling and grinding through the forest paths, and now, as the stars thickened above, they had pulled off the main road to camp. The pony was tethered nearby, munching idly on dry grass, while the tempting aroma of roasting meat hung heavy in the air, making Astarion's stomach twist in unbidden hunger. It didn't matter that he couldn't enjoy real food anymore, the scent was still enough to trigger his bloodlust.
Gandrel, seated on a log by the fire, watched Astarion's quiet struggle, the way his fingers tugged and twisted against the ropes, futile and desperate. The hunter's voice cut through the quiet, low and calm. "That will do you no good. Not many can slip from my knots."
Astarion threw him a scornful look, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, I'm so glad to have been bound by a professional. It must be nice to know you have at least one useful skill in life."
Gandrel's mouth tightened, unimpressed. "Save your energy. You will need it for when we reach my people."
Astarion slumped back, the cold iron biting into his skin as he stared up into the dark canopy. The stars above flickered, distant and indifferent. "And what are the chances I'll actually survive the interrogations?" His voice was low, barely more than a mutter.
Gandrel's gaze fell to the fire, his jaw clenching as he poked at it, refusing to meet Astarion's eyes. The silence hung thick between them, an answer in itself.
A humourless smile curved over Astarion's lips. "Right. None, then."
A shadow flickered across Gandrel's face as he added another log to the fire, the flames hissing and sparking. "I do feel some regret, Astarion. I wish things were different. But I lost my children because of you. If there's even a chance I could get them back..."
"There isn't." Astarion's tone was cold, sharper than he intended. "Trust me, Cazador wouldn't show mercy simply because they were children."
The flicker of a tear caught in Gandrel's eye as he poked at the fire with more force, scattering sparks into the night air. Astarion's gaze narrowed, the gears in his mind turning. He'd seen that look before - the glimmer of grief, ripe for manipulation.
"Oh, it surprised me too," Astarion continued, his tone coaxing, almost confessional. "When he ordered me and my 'siblings' to take them. Usually, my targets are... well, let's just say they're of age. I can only assume he wanted a leash on you monster hunters."
Gandrel's jaw tightened, his eyes hardening as he met Astarion's gaze. "He made a mistake provoking us."
"Oh, I agree," Astarion said, voice dripping with mock sincerity. "I'd love nothing more than to see his head rotting on a spike, believe me. But you can't win, none of us can. And all dragging me back to Baldur's Gate will do, is add one more spawn to his arsenal."
"Not if we kill you first." Gandrel's words were cold, final.
Astarion's eyes glinted, the faintest trace of fear darkening them. "You probably won't get the chance to before he finds me."
Gandrel let out a frustrated breath, his shoulders sagging. "So I'm just supposed to accept my children are gone and let you go?" His voice cracked, a moment of vulnerability slipping through. "Is that what you're saying?"
Astarion's eyes narrowed, trying to push any advantage he could find. "Well...yes, that's precisely what I was getting at."
Gandrel's eyes locked onto his, piercing and weary. "I'm sorry. But that is not my decision alone to make. There are others who grieve, others who demand justice. Even if I could find it in my heart to forgive you... I cannot deny my tribe."
Astarion sighed, leaning back against the bars, his face a mask of weary indifference. "Well... it was worth a try."
Gandrel let out a slow, steadying breath, his tone softening. "It need not be the end for you, Astarion. Not if you cooperate and-"
The sudden twang of a bowstring split the air as an arrow sliced through the night, embedding itself in Gandrel's shoulder with a sickening thud. He staggered, a grimace of pain crossing his face as he instinctively broke the shaft. Astarion jerked around, alarm spiking as the silence shattered, replaced by guttural howls and the heavy thud of footsteps encircling the camp.
Gandrel, grimacing, reached for his crossbow, his eyes darkening. "Orc raiders."
Panic clawed at Astarion, but he forced his voice steady, pressing against the cage bars. "Free me. Let me help. You'll need all the hands you can get if you're to survive."
"Quiet!" Gandrel's eyes darted between the approaching orcs as he loaded a bolt with trembling hands, his face pale from the wound but resolute.
A particularly large orc let out a thunderous roar, raising a massive axe high. Gandrel loosed his bolt, striking the orc in the chest. The orc staggered, snarling, but continued forward, undeterred.
"Gandrel!" Astarion's voice rose, desperate. "If you want to make it out alive, I'm your best chance! Release me!"
Gandrel's jaw clenched, his gaze flicking to Astarion's cage, hesitation in his eyes. But before he could respond, another arrow whistled through the air, embedding itself in the ground mere inches from his foot.
The orcs surged forward, a wave of muscle and rage, forcing Gandrel to back away, his grip tight on his crossbow. With a grim look at Astarion, he shook his head. "I'm sorry."
Gandrel turned, breaking into a painful sprint as the orcs chased him into the trees. Astarion watched, helpless, as his captor vanished into the darkness, the sounds of his flight receding into the forest.
Then, silence.
A chill ran down Astarion's spine as the orcs turned toward him, eyes gleaming with a cruel satisfaction. He noted the symbols painted on their skin, the barely-concealed smirks, the glint of amusement in their eyes as they inspected him like livestock.
"He looks like the one," one of them grunted, prodding Astarion's ribs through the cage with the butt of his spear. Another grinned, a flash of yellowed teeth under a scarred lip. "Lord Cazador will pay well to get his spawn back."
Astarion's stomach churned, fear mingling with rage as he thrashed against his bonds, but the orcs laughed, ignoring his struggles. They set about hitching the pony to the cart, slapping its haunches and roaring with mirth as it squealed in protest and swiftly started moving.
Hours passed, the forest blurring as they pulled him along the narrow trails, their taunts filling the night air. By the time they arrived at their camp, a vast encampment sprawled along the riverbank, the sight of it was almost worse than the journey. Makeshift tents, stacks of weapons, and bloodied meat hung from racks scattered around the area. His cage was unceremoniously set down, the cart wheels squeaking as they finally ground to a halt.
The orc leader, a hulking figure with a patchwork of scars, raised a hand to silence his men. He strode up to the cage, his leer widening as he looked Astarion over. "Well done, lads. Lord Cazador will be pleased." He lifted a fist, and his voice rose over the gathering. "Tonight, we celebrate. Firewine for everyone!"
The orcs erupted in cheers, bringing out barrels of the potent drink. Cups clinked, and laughter turned raucous, the wine fueling their already coarse revelry. Astarion watched them warily, instinct telling him to keep his head low, to avoid drawing their attention. Yet it wasn't long before a few of the raiders stumbled close to his cage, emboldened by drink, and prodded their weapons through the bars, laughing cruelly as he flinched.
"Aw, what's wrong, little spawn? Scared?" one slurred, poking a rusted blade toward him.
Another joined, his thick, calloused hand reaching between the bars to snag a lock of Astarion's silver hair. He jerked it, forcing Astarion's head against the bars. "Shiny hair for a bloodsucker. Guess even the undead got vanity, eh?" His breath stank of firewine as he smirked.
Astarion met his gaze with defiance, even as his scalp burned from the pull. "One day," he hissed, his voice laced with quiet venom, "I'll be the one doing the hunting. And believe me, you'll wish I had the mercy to let you run."
The orc laughed, shoving his head back with a mocking grin before rejoining the group around the fire.
The drunken sounds of the revelry echoed through the trees, a twisted symphony of debauchery that grated against Astarion's nerves. His wrists ached from the chafing of the ropes, and he slumped against the bars, trapped and helpless, the sharp chill of dread pooling within him.
He tried to retreat into himself, to block out the cacophony of voices and smells - until two orcs, a hulking male and a lithe female, ambled toward him. Their eyes gleamed, and Astarion's skin prickled at their leering appraisal.
The female, her lips pulling back in a smirk, tilted her head as she studied him. "Ain't never had a vampire before," she purred, her voice like gravel. "Think he got the stamina for it, Thritch?"
The male orc shrugged, a sly grin pulling at his scarred lips. "Boss won't like it if you mess him up too much, Vassa. Vampire Lord is payin' good money for 'im."
Astarion's stomach twisted as he heard Vassa laugh, a low, cruel sound. Without further warning, she raised her battle axe and brought it crashing down onto the cage lock, shattering it. His heart pounded as he scrambled to his feet, but there was nowhere to go.
The heavy iron door swung open, and Vassa stepped in, grabbing the rope around his neck with one hand, dragging him forward with brute strength. He stumbled, struggling to stay upright, but her grip tightened as she pulled him from the cage.
His mind raced as dread consumed him, his every instinct screaming to flee. Thritch's thick hands clamped down on his arms, pinning him as Vassa prowled closer, her gaze sweeping over him, as if savoring a feast. He could see the lust in her eyes, the savage edge to her smile.
Trying to regain control, Astarion forced a smooth, flirty smile to his lips. "Well, aren't you a luscious thing?" His voice was a purr, though every fiber of him recoiled from the words. "I'd be more than happy to indulge your curiosity about my... endurance. But to fully appreciate my talents, wouldn't you rather enjoy the experience with my hands free?"
The effort was wasted. Thritch's chuckle was a dark, rumbling sound from behind him. "She don't need your hands to enjoy herself."
The breath against Astarion's neck was warm, rancid, as Thritch leaned closer, his hand trailing down his back. "Neither do I," Thritch murmured, letting his fingers slide down Astarion's groin.
Astarion stiffened, unable to suppress a shiver of revulsion as Thritch's hand crept lower. He could feel Vassa's sinister grin as she watched him, sensing his discomfort. Her hand dropped to her belt, pulling a jagged dagger which she used to slice through the ties on his padded doublet, each cut sharp and deliberate, exposing him further with each stroke.
Astarion's heart hammered as he tried to twist away, but Thritch's grip held him immobile. His charm, his façade, began to crumble, his calm replaced with growing terror as he struggled.
"Don't touch me, you filthy swine!" he spat, his voice cracking with a raw edge of panic as he felt Thritch's fingers curl around him through the fabric of his trousers.
Vassa laughed, undeterred. "So, the little spawn has some fight in him. Good." Her blade continued its path through his clothing, revealing the fine fabric beneath. "I like it when they squirm."
Astarion's vision blurred as Thritch yanked him down, the rough ground scraping against his back as he cried out in pain and shock. He barely had time to brace himself before Vassa straddled him, her dagger slicing through the remnants of his doublet, her sneer widening as she ripped the fabric from him, piece by piece. She ran her fingers over the ruffles of his undershirt, her eyes gleaming.
"Ooh, fancy," Vassa cooed mockingly. "Almost seems a shame to get blood on it." She leaned closer, her breath rank and sour, her hand moving toward the ties on his trousers. "Now, let's see what the rest of you looks like."
Astarion clenched his eyes shut, a shudder coursing through his entire body as he felt her fingers slithering over him. His mind reeled, retreating into itself. In his thoughts, he whispered to the night, to anything that might hear, Please... just let it be over quickly.
Ashara and Onyx had tracked the orc raiding party since morning, moving silently through the trees as they followed the signs of carnage left in its wake. Now, crouched low behind a thicket, she could see the faint glow of firelight and hear the raucous sounds of celebration drifting through the trees.
She dismounted, kneeling in the soil, letting her fingers dig into the earth as she reached out with her senses, feeling the hum of the forest's magic pulse beneath her hands. Her awareness spread outward, revealing scattered guards patrolling the camp's perimeter and exposing a blind spot in the defenses.
Quiet as shadows, she and Onyx slipped through the trees, hiding atop a rocky outcropping overlooking the encampment beside the river. Ashara's gaze swept over the scene, taking in the drunken orcs swilling firewine, tearing at stolen food, and tossing plundered trinkets aside. Piles of crates and barrels surrounded the roaring bonfire, and her eyes narrowed as she spotted Gandrel's cart and the tethered pony. But the cage... it appeared empty.
A chill passed through her as her eyes roved over the clearing, and then she saw him. Astarion lay pinned to the ground, bound and helpless, two orcs looming over him like vultures, their lecherous intentions unmistakable. One of them straddled him, her hand moving over his body with cruel, deliberate slowness.
A pulse of pure, gut-wrenching fear surged through the soil beneath Ashara's hands, a raw, frantic energy that she could feel radiating from the vampire.
Onyx's voice rumbled in her mind, his eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. "I don't see any weapons drawn. What are they doing to him?"
Ashara's stomach twisted as she choked out, "We need to help him. Now!"
Onyx whined, his voice a mix of hesitation and caution. "We can't take on a whole camp alone... patience."
She whipped her head toward him, her eyes blazing. "Those orcs are about to rape him!"
The words hung in the air, the weight of them sinking into both of them. Onyx's eyes flashed, his usual calm evaporating as a guttural, furious growl rose from his chest. His fangs bared, he spoke in a voice that was a vow. "Everyone here dies this night! Let the Lord of the Wild Hunt be called forth."
"There's no time!" Ashara whispered urgently, her hand gripping the hilt of her sword.
Onyx met her gaze with a fierce, unyielding stare. "Then you know what must be done."
Ashara's heart pounded as she met Onyx's gaze, the bond between them thrumming with shared rage and purpose. She glanced at Astarion again, feeling a surge of guilt and fury swell within her. Without another word, she nodded, her resolve steeling. She would make them pay for this. Every single one of them.
Astarion lay still, his body a cage of fear as Vassa's dagger traced down the ties of his trousers, her breath a hot, fetid wind against his skin as she raked her teeth and tongue over his exposed abdomen. His mind screamed for escape, but his body refused to move, caught in a stifling paralysis. Just as her blade pressed further, a distant, blood-curdling scream sliced through the night air.
Vassa jerked, her hand freezing mid-cut as she whipped her head toward the sound. Another scream followed, and then another, until chaos erupted throughout the camp. Shouts and the clash of weapons filled the night, firelight flickering wildly as figures darted through the shadows, fleeing or searching for an unseen assailant.
Thritch scrambled up and took off to investigate, while Vassa cursed and hauled Astarion to his feet, her fingers digging into his arms like claws. She shoved him back into the cage, slamming the door shut behind him just as a low growl rumbled nearby.
Before Astarion could catch his breath, Vassa let out a strangled cry as something dark and monstrous yanked her backward. Bone-white jaws clamped around the orc's torso, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. Her scream was raw, torn from her throat as the beast hauled her up, her body twisting helplessly. Astarion pressed himself against the back of the cage, staring in horror as she disappeared out of sight above him, her screams cut short by a sickening crunch. Seconds later, her mangled corpse dropped back to the ground, split in two, blood soaking the earth.
Astarion was paralyzed, his eyes glued to the twisted remains, his mind reeling. His gaze slowly lifted, pulled by some dreadful compulsion, until he found himself staring into a pair of glowing blue eyes.
They shone from the face of a giant wolf skull - bleached bone, with jagged fangs that gleamed like polished ivory, bared in an eternal deathly grin. The eyes - if they could even be called eyes - seemed to bore straight into him, like twin frozen flames, empty and ancient, radiating an aura of malice older than time.
Terror clawed through him, a primal fear that reached deep into his bones. This wasn't an animal, or even a spirit - it was death given form. The skull-headed wolf regarded him, unblinking, a silent omen of his fate. Astarion barely had time to draw breath before the creature turned, lunging with silent, deadly grace toward an oncoming group of orcs, its jaws snapping and claws tearing through their ranks like paper.
The camp descended into bedlam. Weapons flashed, arrows and spells whizzed through the air, and screams echoed through the trees as the orcs scrambled, some desperately fighting while others fled. Astarion glanced at the cage door, heart pounding when he noticed it was still unlocked. He threw his shoulder against it, the door swinging open just as the ground shook with the force of an explosion. A fireball streaked through the air, cast by one of the raiding party's spellcasters, exploding as it collided with a massive shape.
Astarion's senses blurred as the shockwave hit, sending the cage, the cart, and him hurtling down the embankment. He tumbled, his world spinning in a frenzy of mud, metal, and shattered wood, before crashing into the river below.
Panic gripped him, his legs thrashing as he took a deep, instinctual breath, only to feel himself dragged downward. The cage settled on the riverbed, a cloud of silt seeping through the bars. He pushed toward the door, but the rope around his neck jerked him back sharply, his terror spiking as he realized it had tangled in the wheels of the overturned cart beside him.
Fear clawed at Astarion's chest as his lungs began to burn. The knowledge that he couldn't die from this did nothing to quiet the terror writhing inside him. He remembered what drowning felt like - the dark pressure crushing him, the burn of water in his lungs, the endless, agonizing cycles of death and revival. He had no intention of reliving it, of being trapped in the riverbed, reviving only to drown over and over again. The surface was so close, tantalizingly out of reach, just above his head.
Desperation clawed at him, and he twisted, bringing the rope to his mouth, his teeth gnashing against the thick, waterlogged fibers. But the rope wouldn't give, and his movements became weaker, his vision swimming as his lungs screamed for air. Pain wracked his body, water creeping into his throat, each gulp cutting off his lifeline. He choked, his body spasming as it tried to expel the water in his chest.
Then, a shadow moved above him. He looked up, his vision darkening, to see a figure swimming down. The elven woman from the road was reaching for him, a knife held between her teeth.
She grasped rope around his neck, her blade flashing as she cut through it with swift, precise strokes. Relief flooded Astarion, but his lungs betrayed him, his body convulsing as the last of his air escaped. He could feel himself slipping, but he was dimly aware of her arms wrapping around him, pulling him close as he drifted into unconsciousness.
Darkness clawed at his mind, and as he went limp, the last sensation he registered was the warmth of her arms, cradling him as the world faded into black.
