The clamor of Giant's Hollow surrounded Astarion and Ashara as they made their way through its labyrinthine streets. The town clung to the cliffside like a precariously balanced spider's web, its rocky outcrops connected by creaking wooden bridges and narrow stone staircases. Beneath them, the valley stretched out, a stark contrast to the crowded heights above - windswept moorlands dotted with the skeletal remains of forests and the crumbled shadow of an ancient fort, a grim reminder of a bygone era.
Astarion walked with an elegance that seemed out of place in this rough-hewn setting, his boots clicking against the stone as he kept a sharp eye on their surroundings. The town wasn't bustling in the way Onyx had described from his memories, but it was far from deserted.
Dwarven miners trudged by in sooty clothes, humans haggled with merchants over supplies, and the occasional elf or gnome darted through the crowds. It was the kind of place where life was hard and people didn't have time for pleasantries.
Astarion adjusted the collar of his jerkin, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd with a mix of disdain and calculation. "Quaint," he muttered under his breath, though the word dripped with derision. "And by quaint, I mean miserably provincial."
Ashara walked beside him, her shoulders hunched as though she were bracing for a blow. Her hands twitched near her sides, occasionally curling as if to grab hold of Onyx's absent fur. Each clang of a hammer or barked laugh from a nearby dwarf made her flinch, her head snapping toward the source like a startled hare. The tension radiating from her was palpable, and it was beginning to wear on Astarion's nerves.
"For pity's sake!" he hissed, halting mid-stride to glare at her. "Stop jumping like a frightened cat at every sound. You're attracting more attention than a bard on fire."
Ashara's lips pressed into a thin line, but her eyes darted to the nearest group of dwarves, who were beginning to glance in their direction. "I can't help it," she snapped. "Towns make me nervous. Why people would want to live piled on top of each other like this is beyond me."
Astarion exhaled dramatically, the kind of long-suffering sigh he had perfected over centuries. "Oh, my dear, sweet, sheltered little hermit," he said, his tone dripping with exaggerated pity. "You are in for quite the shock when we reach Baldur's Gate. Now there is a true hive of chaos."
He gestured to the crowd with a flourish. "Until then, might I suggest standing up straight and feigning an air of confidence? This sort of town thrives on instinct. If they sense fear, they'll eat you alive."
"What?! They're cannibals here? Onyx never mentioned that!"
Astarion halted mid-step, turning to scrutinize her. For a moment, he wasn't sure if she was being serious. "We've already established sarcasm is entirely lost on you, but please tell me you at least know what a metaphor is."
Ashara's shoulders relaxed slightly, and a playful glint entered her eyes. She stuck her tongue out at him and rolled her eyes with exaggerated flair. "Yes, I know what a metaphor is. I was just messing with you."
He clapped his hands together once, the sound startling a passing human merchant who muttered something rude under his breath. "There! That's the look I want you to keep on your face at all times. That lovely blend of superiority and irreverence. Make people believe you're entirely unaffected by them or their insignificant opinions."
Ashara hesitated, then straightened her posture, her expression sliding into an approximation of the confidence he demanded. It was stiff, awkward, but a start. Astarion inclined his head approvingly.
"Better," he murmured. "Now, let's see if you can maintain it for longer than two minutes."
Ashara huffed, though the corner of her mouth quirked up despite herself. "You're insufferable, you know that?"
"Flattery will get you everywhere," Astarion purred, resuming his stride. "Now, do keep up. The sooner we find these supplies and whatever scraps of information Onyx seems to think this backwater town holds, the sooner we can leave."
They pressed on, weaving through the throng. Astarion's keen eyes darted over market stalls laden with pickaxes, bolts of rough cloth, and jars of unidentifiable pastes. Voices called out in thick accents, hawking goods or exchanging gossip. The stench of sweat and molten metal clung to the air, making Ashara wrinkle her nose.
A dwarf leaning against a crate watched them pass, his gaze lingering on Ashara's every move. She tensed, but Astarion placed a firm hand on her elbow, steering her away with calculated nonchalance.
"Not like that," he murmured. "You just gave him the satisfaction of knowing he unnerved you. Next time, either glare him down or act as if he's beneath your notice."
"Does everything have to be a game of appearances with you?" she muttered back, though her muscles relaxed slightly under his grip.
"Yes," he replied smoothly. "And it's a game I'm quite good at. Now, shall we find a tavern before you combust from overstimulation?"
"Speaking of which... Do you think Karlach will be okay?" Ashara's voice was subdued as they continued down the path.
Astarion scanned the street ahead, his gaze catching on a swinging wooden sign - The Raven's Roost. He inclined his head toward it and steered Ashara in its direction. "I don't think Onyx would let his favorite hot-water bottle get hurt. And if this Halsin fellow is as capable as he claims, then I suspect that by the time we return, Karlach will be lounging by the fire, chugging ale, and showing off a stuffed tadpole like a trophy."
Ashara's lips twitched with a faint smile. "I hope so. If it works... we might have a viable cure to help the other infected too."
Astarion pushed open the tavern door, its hinges creaking in protest, and ushered her inside. The air within was thick with the scent of smoke and stale ale, the dim light casting long shadows across the rough-hewn walls. He guided her to a table near the corner, his voice softening as he replied, "Those who want a cure, at least."
Ashara's brow furrowed as she settled into the seat opposite him. "Who wouldn't?"
He leaned back, one arm draped casually over the chair, his grin sardonic. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps those who find the prospect of power enticing? Those who might relish the chance to bend others to their will? Myself included, naturally."
Her eyes narrowed. "You want a parasite squirming in your skull?"
He shrugged, the motion deceptively elegant. "Not particularly. But it's a preferable alternative to crawling back into the shadows and enduring Cazador's leash again."
Her expression darkened, the tension in her shoulders returning. "That won't happen," she said firmly. "The shadows, maybe, but not him. I won't let it."
A flicker of warmth ignited in his chest at her conviction, but he smothered it quickly. "How noble of you," he drawled, though the edge in his tone lacked its usual sharpness. "All I'm saying is if there's a way to have both freedom and daylight, I'll take it."
Ashara hesitated, her discomfort evident, but Astarion ignored it, focusing instead on the barkeeper's wary glances cast their way. There were questions to ask, and supplies to gather. Whatever Ashara's thoughts on his motives, they could wait. For now, he had a role to play.
"I'm going to have a chat with the barkeep," he said, his voice low and measured, his eyes still roving over the crowd for potential threats. "See if anyone has heard rumors of any tiefling refugees from the Emerald Grove. While I'm gone, remember - head up, chest out... actually, no." His gaze flicked over her slender frame, and he smirked. "Best skip that one in your case. Just... try not to look edible, all right? And scowl. Act mean if anyone talks to you."
Ashara's mouth quirked into a lopsided frown. "Wouldn't being nice to them be more effective?"
He turned fully to her now, raising a brow. "In a backwater town like this? No. Kindness is a sign of weakness, one they'll exploit the moment they see it. Trust me, darling, I know these places."
Ashara frowned but nodded, her expression a mix of skepticism and begrudging acceptance. "Personally, I think your outlook is too pessimistic," she muttered. "But you have more experience in these matters than I do, so... I'll let you take the lead."
Astarion's brows arched in mock offense. "That sounds suspiciously like you're just hiding behind me... again. I thought I was the one needing protection?"
Her eyes sparkled with reluctant humor, and she shrugged, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "If we're attacked by another rampaging bear, I'll happily throw myself in front of you and take charge. Until that happens - yes, I'm hiding behind you."
He couldn't help the smirk that curled his lips. "Try not to trip on my skirts, darling."
Ashara blinked, her brows knitting in confusion. "Huh?"
Rolling his eyes dramatically, Astarion turned and strode toward the bar, leaving her to her confusion.
As he leaned casually against the counter, his posture the picture of nonchalance, Astarion couldn't help but wish Onyx were here. The image of the massive direwolf by his side, radiating an aura of barely restrained violence, would certainly have made things simpler. A being like Onyx didn't need words to command respect.
However, Onyx was back at camp, overseeing Karlach's procedure with Halsin, while Zevlor kept an eye on Mirkon and Vaarl. It had been Onyx, of all beings, who had suggested this excursion, insisting they gather information and supplies for their growing group.
Astarion's lips twitched in a faint smile as he recalled the direwolf taking him aside before their departure. Onyx's amber eyes had locked onto him with an intensity that Astarion was sure they would burn right through his skull, though the wolf's words had been unexpectedly soft. "Watch over her, she can be anxious without me," the wolf had growled.
The memory stirred a mix of emotions - gratification at the trust being placed in him, and a flicker of unease. He wasn't fully sure he was up to the challenge of shepherding someone as guileless as Ashara.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, noting how awkwardly she sat at the table, her posture stiff and uncertain. Astarion felt an unexpected pang of protectiveness. This time alone with her was an opportunity he hadn't expected, a chance to deepen their bond without the others' constant interference. And he intended to make the most of it.
The barkeep, a burly man with a perpetually sour expression, looked up from polishing a glass. "What'll it be?"
Astarion rested an elbow on the bar, his tone breezy. "A pint of your finest... whatever it is you serve here. And perhaps a bit of conversation, if you're in the mood."
The barkeep raised an eyebrow, his thick fingers stilling on the glass. "Information costs coin, same as the ale."
"Oh, I've no doubt it does," Astarion replied, his voice dropping to a silky purr. "But one likes to know what one is paying for first."
The barkeep's mouth twisted into a humorless grin. "What do you want to know?"
"I've heard whispers of tiefling refugees passing through these parts." Astarion gestured vaguely, as if discussing the weather. "Acquaintances of mine, you see. I'm rather keen to know if they've been spotted."
The man leaned against the counter, his expression as impenetrable as stone. "Might've seen them. Might not've. Hard to remember."
Astarion sighed, pulling a coin pouch from his belt and letting it fall onto the bar with a satisfying thunk. He flashed a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I know how this goes. I jog your memory with coin, you tell me things are still a little fuzzy, I offer more, and you miraculously recall everything. So, how about we skip the foreplay and get straight to the perfect recall?"
The barkeep narrowed his eyes, his face betraying nothing but a faint glimmer of greed. "Start putting coin down, and I'll let you know when to stop."
Groaning theatrically, Astarion began plunking coins onto the bar one by one. He took his time, letting the clink of metal draw out for maximum irritation. The barkeep didn't flinch, his hand darting out to sweep up the pile as soon as it was deemed sufficient. He pocketed the money with practiced ease and began pouring a pale amber liquid into a glass.
"Tiefs ain't welcome in this town," he said gruffly, not bothering to look at Astarion. "Which is why, when a bunch of 'em came through, they were told to seek shelter at the fort instead."
Astarion's gaze flicked toward the door, his mind already calculating. "You mean that dismal-looking ruin in the valley below?"
The barkeep grunted in affirmation, his gaze sliding toward the doorway as though ensuring no one was eavesdropping. "The very same. Don't know if they're still there. Don't much care. But if it's tiefs you're after, that's your best bet."
Astarion tilted his glass in a mockery of a toast, the gleam of firelight dancing along its surface. "How thoughtful of you to provide such... charming accommodations. Do let me know if that remarkable memory of yours recalls anything else."
He set the glass down, untouched, his smile fading as soon as the barkeep turned his attention to another patron. Internally, he cursed the oversight of not checking the ruins on their way into town. The coin spent here could have bought them an extra bundle of provisions - or at least a decent bottle of wine.
Astarion turned, ready to share his information with Ashara, only to pause mid-step. She wasn't alone.
A human man sat a little to one side of her, the picture of a self-styled rogue. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he wore a leather doublet polished to an almost unnatural sheen, though its frayed edges betrayed its age. Vanity, not practicality, had clearly dictated his choice of attire.
The serpent-shaped silver pin holding back his blonde hair glinted in the dim light, a detail that struck Astarion as both ostentatious and overcompensatory. The rapier at his side hung low, more a peacock's feather than a weapon meant for true combat. Men like him preferred their prey to be lulled by words, not steel. And judging by the smug curve of his lips, he thought himself quite the predator.
Astarion's gaze flicked to Ashara. Her posture was rigid, her arms folded tightly over her chest as though shielding herself. A faint crease had formed between her brows, and her lips parted slightly, as if she were on the verge of speaking but unsure of what to say. The tension in her stance sent a pang of alarm through Astarion's chest, but he quelled it quickly, taking a step closer to eavesdrop.
"You know," the man was saying, his tone a low purr meant to disarm, "it's rare to find someone as... captivating as you in a place like this. I'd wager you're not from around here, are you?"
Ashara shook her head, her voice steady but wary. "No. My friend and I are just passing through. We're here for supplies."
"Ah, travelers," the man murmured, leaning in as though sharing a secret. "That explains the wildness in you. Untamed, unspoiled." His gaze swept over her appraisingly, and Astarion's jaw clenched at the unabashed leer. "I imagine you've turned a few heads in your time."
Ashara blinked, her expression blank but genuine. "I haven't seen anyone turning their heads. Though I suppose people do glance at me occasionally..."
The man chuckled, the sound a little too polished, a little too rehearsed. "And why wouldn't they? The attention you draw. It's... magnetic."
"Magnetic?" she repeated. "I don't think so. Most people have been avoiding me."
"They're intimidated, no doubt," the man said smoothly, his voice taking on a coaxing quality. "A strong, striking woman like you - most men don't know how to handle that. But me? I know exactly what to do with a challenge."
Ashara tilted her head, her expression a blend of puzzlement and polite curiosity. "I'm not sure I understand. Are you saying you're... good at fighting strong women?"
The man's confident veneer cracked, and a shadow of irritation crept into his smile. "Not fighting, darling. More like... taming. I've a talent for making even the wildest creatures... purr."
Astarion felt his fists curl involuntarily at the overt implication, his nails biting into his palms. The man's oily confidence grated against his nerves like sandpaper. He took a step forward, ready to intervene, but before he could speak, Ashara's expression brightened with sudden excitement.
"Purr? Oh, you must mean cats!" Her voice lifted with genuine interest, her eyes alight. "Have you ever tamed a Crag Cat? They're beautiful, but I suppose they wouldn't be very useful in a place like this. Do you work with animals often?"
The man's smirk froze in place, his expression rapidly shifting from suave to utterly baffled. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again like a fish out of water, clearly struggling to recalibrate.
Astarion bit back a laugh, his irritation melting into something far more satisfying - amusement. He leaned against the bar, crossing his arms as he watched the exchange unfold, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely contained mirth. Ashara's clueless response had thrown the man entirely off balance, his calculated flirtation crumbling under the weight of her earnest misunderstanding.
He rallied quickly, though, leaning in as if to close the distance between them might lend weight to his words.
"Animals? No, not quite." His voice dropped to what he clearly thought was a seductive lilt. "I was referring to you. I imagine someone as fiery as you has... needs. Needs only a man of certain talents can fulfill."
Astarion felt a sharp pang of disgust coil in his chest. The line was too familiar, dredging up memories of similar words he had whispered to unsuspecting targets, back when charm was his weapon and his survival depended on its sharpness. Hearing it now, from the other side, left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Ashara, meanwhile, pursed her lips into a thin line, her expression thoughtful. "Needs? If you're talking about food or supplies, then I've already got enough. I do need to find a good shortbow for my new friend, though. Would you be able to help me with that?"
The man chuckled, clearly mistaking her obliviousness for coyness. "Not exactly. Though I can show you something that would make your trip worthwhile." He reached out, letting his fingers brush lightly against her arm. "I'm quite the hunter myself, you see. And once I've caught what I'm after, I'm known to be... very thorough."
Ashara glanced down at his hand with mild irritation, casually sliding her arm out of reach. Her movement was small but deliberate, her patience clearly wearing thin. The man either didn't notice or didn't care, his grin widening as he pressed on.
"You know," he continued, his voice taking on a silkier, more dangerous edge, "if you're not busy, I could show you some of my hunting techniques. One-on-one. Somewhere a little more... private."
"I'm not really planning on staying here long," Ashara replied, her tone polite but firm. "I can't go anywhere with you - I have to get back to my companions soon. Besides, I don't even know your name."
Astarion bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright. The man's confident facade was starting to crack, and Ashara - completely unaware of the innuendo - was effortlessly unraveling him. The man, however, wasn't deterred. If anything, his frustration seemed to harden into something darker.
"Cassius," he said, his grin stiffening into something colder, more forced. "That's the name people call me around here. And I can promise you, darling, by the end of the night, you'll be screaming it."
Ashara tilted her head again, her confusion deepening. "Why would I do that?"
Cassius's face darkened, his cheeks flushing an angry red as he reached for her arm. "Now listen here, you little wench—"
Astarion's lip curled. That was enough.
He moved before he even realized he had decided to act. In two fluid strides, Astarion closed the distance, standing between Ashara and Cassius.
The man's gaze snapped to him, his expression darkening, but Astarion met it with a lazy, predatory grin that spoke volumes.
"Do carry on," Astarion said smoothly, his voice laced with mock encouragement. "I'd hate to interrupt such a fascinating display of verbal gymnastics."
Cassius scowled, his irritation now fully directed at Astarion. "And who the hell are you?"
"An interested party," Astarion replied smoothly. "Please, continue. I'm simply dying to see how you intend to explain yourself."
Cassius sneered, but when he turned back to Ashara, his tone had lost its practiced charm, replaced by something sharper, uglier. "Don't play coy, sweetheart - it doesn't suit you."
Ashara's eyes narrowed, a flicker of steel in her voice as she said, "I don't appreciate being called 'sweetheart.' I suggest you explain yourself clearly or move along."
The man's mask slipped entirely, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Fine. I'm saying I can give you pleasure like you've never experienced before - the kind only a real man knows how to give, unlike this lanky fairy."
The insult barely registered before Astarion's lips curved into a cold, dangerous smile. "Well," he drawled, his tone soft as silk and twice as deadly, "this 'lanky fairy' is currently debating whether you're worth the effort of killing." His voice was light, almost conversational, but his gaze was as cold as frostbite. He stepped forward with blinding speed, one arm draping over Cassius's shoulder in a mock-friendly gesture that masked the movement of his other hand.
A blade pressed lightly against Cassius's neck, the pressure just enough to let him feel its bite. "And I must say," Astarion murmured, his voice low and intimate, "you're making a very compelling argument for it."
"You see," Astarion continued, his voice a venomous whisper meant only for Cassius's ears, "this fine young woman happens to be under my protection. And you, my dear, are about two sentences away from having that rapier shoved somewhere profoundly inconvenient."
Cassius's skin turned ashen, the blood draining from his face as the implications of Astarion's words - and the cold kiss of the blade at his throat - sank in. His bravado crumbled, replaced by a mixture of fear and fury.
"You've got no idea who you're dealing with, elf," he spat, though the quaver in his voice betrayed him.
"Oh, I know exactly who I'm dealing with," Astarion said, his smile never wavering. "A petty predator dressed up in cheap charm and borrowed manners. Now, I suggest you slink back to whatever hole you crawled out of before this becomes... messy."
The human's eyes darted around the room, gauging the growing interest of the tavern patrons. Their murmurs filled the smoky air, a low hum of curiosity tinged with unease. His lip curled in disdain as he spat out, "Bitch isn't worth the trouble."
Astarion's chuckle was low and mocking as he eased the dagger away from the man's neck with deliberate slowness, the faint whisper of steel against leather underscoring his reply. "Oh, I assure you, she's worth more than you could ever afford."
Cassius surged to his feet, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his rapier. Astarion tilted his head, his smile deepening into something sharper, more predatory, and let his fangs glint ever so slightly in the dim light. "Go on," he whispered, the words a silken dare, "I'm just itching for a decent bloodbath."
The tension crackled like a bowstring pulled taut, but after a moment, Cassius's bravado faltered. His mouth twisted into a snarl, and he spat, "You haven't heard the last of me." He turned on his heel, shoving past a few curious onlookers on his way to the door.
Astarion sheathed his dagger with a flick of his wrist and turned to Ashara, who stood watching the man's retreat with a calm but thoughtful expression. She tapped a finger against her lips, her brows knitting slightly. "He was... odd," she said at last. "I know he was using a lot of metaphors, but I couldn't figure out what he wanted."
Astarion arched an elegant brow, his grin tugging wider. "Oh, sweet Ashara," he drawled, his tone caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. "You're either more innocent than I thought or far cleverer than you let on. Either way, it was utterly delightful."
She frowned, clearly unsure whether to take his words as a compliment, but before she could reply, he gestured toward the door with a flourish. "Come now, darling. Let's not linger. I'm sure your admirer will be sulking in some alleyway, plotting his next attempt at mediocrity."
She allowed herself to be ushered outside, the tavern's warm, smoky air giving way to the crisp bite of the overcast afternoon. The cobblestones were warm underfoot, and the faint breeze carried with it the scent of baking pies and the metallic tang of the nearby forges. Children darted between stalls, their laughter mingling with the clamor of bartering voices.
Ashara glanced sideways at Astarion, her arms still loosely crossed as she mulled over the encounter. "Why do people talk around things like that?" she asked suddenly, her tone carrying a trace of irritation. "Why not just say what they want?"
Astarion slid his hands into his pockets, his crimson eyes scanning the crowd with practiced ease. "Some people," he said lightly, "rely on ambiguity because it allows them to slither away when things don't go their way. Like that one just did. A vague proposition is easier to deny than a direct one."
Ashara exhaled slowly, the corners of her mouth pulling into a faint frown. "Let's just take what we have and leave," she muttered. "I don't want to deal with any more... misunderstandings."
Astarion chuckled, the sound rich and warm. His crimson eyes gleamed with mischief as he replied, "Darling, with you, misunderstandings are half the fun."
As they headed towards the outskirts of town, Astarion relayed the information he had gleaned from the barkeep. "Our tiefling friends were directed to the fort," he said, gesturing toward the valley below. The ruins stood stark against the backdrop of rolling moorland, jagged and foreboding in the afternoon light. "Not exactly the height of luxury, but it's where we'll need to look."
Ashara nodded thoughtfully, her gaze scanning the stalls as they passed. Astarion watched her out of the corner of his eye, his mind turning. For all her bluntness, there was a disarming charm in her straightforwardness. It was rare to meet someone so unpracticed in the games of subtlety and deceit.
His gaze lingered as Ashara stopped at a weapons stall, her eyes lighting up at the sight of a finely crafted shortbow. A faint smile tugged at his lips. He leaned against a nearby post, arms crossed, watching as she haggled with the vendor, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Perhaps misunderstandings really were half the fun, he thought, his smile deepening as sunlight caught in her ebony hair. He made a mental note to adjust his approach when dealing with her. If he intended to flirt - and oh, he did - he resolved to be more direct in the future. Directness might not come naturally to him, but with Ashara, it might just be worth the effort. For now, though, there were supplies to gather, refugees to find, and plenty of daylight left to burn.
The sun hung low on the horizon, casting the ruined fort in hues of gold and burnt orange as Ashara and Astarion approached. Long shadows stretched from the crumbled walls and overgrown vines that twisted around the stone in nature's attempt to reclaim the structure. The outer sections of the fort were little more than rubble, but the central areas stood defiant, their weathered stones suggesting recent repairs. Birds wheeled overhead, their cries sharp against the otherwise quiet evening.
They paused before a massive oak door, its wood darkened and splintered with age. Astarion pushed it open with a grunt, the rusty hinges groaning in protest. Beyond, a narrow staircase led into the bowels of the fort, its stone steps worn smooth by time and countless footsteps. The faint scent of damp stone and woodsmoke wafted up to meet them.
As they descended, the faint traces of recent habitation began to reveal themselves - a discarded blanket here, a bundle of firewood stacked neatly against a wall there, and burning torches lighting their path. But the deeper they went, the more unsettling the absence of people became. The silence felt heavier, broken only by the soft echoes of their steps.
Astarion glanced around uneasily, his crimson eyes scanning the dim corridors. "I don't like this," he murmured, his voice low but sharp with suspicion. "Surely there should be a guard posted or something?"
Ashara slowed her pace, her eyes flitting over the abandoned surroundings. "Maybe they're hiding," she suggested quietly. "If they're the same refugees who were attacked before, I wouldn't blame them for being cautious."
"Maybe..." Astarion trailed off, the uncertainty in his voice mirroring the growing tension in her chest.
As they continued, his foot nudged against something, and he glanced down. A small stone sculpture of a rat sat on the floor, its smooth surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. He stooped to pick it up, curiosity flickering across his features, but Ashara's voice called him over before he could comment.
"It's locked," she said, standing in front of another large wooden door. She turned to him, her brow raised expectantly. "Can you...?"
Astarion grinned, his earlier unease slipping into his usual sardonic confidence. "Say no more," he said with a flourish, kneeling before the lock. "Stand aside and watch the master thief at work."
From his belt, he pulled a neatly rolled set of lockpicking tools, unfurling it with a practiced motion. He selected one of the finer picks and set to work, the metallic scrape of his tools filling the quiet corridor.
Ashara leaned against the wall, watching him work. The dexterity of his hands was mesmerizing, the movements precise and almost delicate. As she observed, a question bubbled to the surface. "I never asked," she began hesitantly, "but why does a vampire even need to be a thief?"
Astarion paused briefly, the tool in his hand catching the faint light. He glanced up at her, his smile tinged with bitterness. "Let's just say that Cazador had expensive tastes which his spawn were required to fund, by whatever means they could. So, if I ever needed coin for fine clothes or a room in a tavern to... entertain guests, then I either had to earn it or steal it."
His mention of earning money piqued her curiosity. "How did you earn money?" she asked, her tone light but inquisitive. "I can't imagine there are many jobs available for someone who only works at night."
The snap of a breaking lockpick echoed sharply, and Astarion froze, his body going rigid. For a moment, he simply stared at the lock, his hands still. Ashara felt a prickle of unease and took a small step closer.
"Did I say something wrong?" she asked softly.
Astarion's voice was tight when he finally answered. "No."
He exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing as he reached for another tool. "No," he repeated, his tone quieter this time. "You didn't say anything wrong. Just... trust me when I say you're better off not knowing."
Ashara's lips curved into a faint grin, though it was laced with uncertainty. "Why? I already know you're a criminal and have killed people, and I still don't think any less of you."
Her light-hearted attempt at reassurance had the opposite effect. Astarion paused again, but this time it wasn't hesitation that stilled him. Slowly, he turned his head, his crimson eyes meeting hers with a look that made her breath catch. The faintest glimmer of sadness softened his usual sharpness, a vulnerability so brief it might have been a trick of the light.
"You would," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper, "if you knew the kind of things I had to do to survive."
Ashara opened her mouth to argue, but Astarion cut her off, his tone cooling as he focused on the lock again. "Besides," he said lightly, "I think I'm entitled to keep a few secrets from you."
Ashara quirked a brow, tilting her head as a teasing smile tugged at her lips. "A few? You keep a ton of secrets from me. You're more mysterious than an Invisible Stalker."
A faint smirk curved Astarion's lips, though he didn't look up from the lock. "And twice as deadly, I hope."
She chuckled, leaning lightly against the wall, her arms crossing loosely. "Probably not. They're pretty tough to fight."
"Oh?" Astarion raised a brow, finally sparing her a glance. "And I'm not?"
Ashara shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I don't know, I've never sparred with you."
A glint of amusement danced in Astarion's eyes as he finally turned his head to meet her gaze. "Well," he drawled, "we must rectify that once we're back. It would be... illuminating. Though while we're on the subject of shedding light on things, there is something I've been meaning to ask you."
Ashara leaned back casually against the wall beside the door, her arms crossed as she waited. "Go ahead."
"Back when we were fighting that druid," Astarion began, his voice dipping into curiosity, "how did you cast that earth spell? I've never seen anything like it. You didn't use any incantation or casting gestures. The ground just seemed to... respond to your touch."
Ashara hesitated, her fingers brushing against the cool stone of the wall. "I don't really know," she admitted, her voice quieter. "I've always had this connection to nature - different from druids and mages, though. I met a wizard once who tried to explain the Weave to me. He seemed really shocked when I told him I didn't feel any connection to it."
Astarion paused mid-motion, his crimson eyes flicking to her in genuine surprise. "I don't blame him... That is extremely rare. Even Wild Magic requires some kind of link, however unstable."
Ashara shrugged again, her nonchalance at odds with the weight of the subject. "Onyx is the same. I think it has something to do with our connection to Fenrir. His magic predates the Weave."
Astarion tilted his head, considering her words with an intensity that made her shift slightly under his gaze. His crimson eyes narrowed just enough to make her uneasy, though not uncomfortably so. "Interesting..." he murmured, the word trailing off like a thread left dangling.
Ashara squirmed slightly under his intense gaze, feeling as though he were peeling back layers she hadn't meant to reveal. Desperate to break the tension, a thought popped into her head, and she seized it. "Wait a second... If vampires can't enter homes without an invitation, what's the point of learning to pick locks? Seems kind of redundant, doesn't it?"
Astarion blinked, his focus momentarily broken by the unexpected question. He arched a brow, the corners of his lips twitching upward. "Not every door has a home behind it," he replied smoothly, his voice carrying a note of triumph as the lock clicked open beneath his fingers.
Standing with practiced elegance, he pushed the door ajar and gestured theatrically toward the darkness beyond. "Case in point... this one would be considered to be situated in a public area."
Ashara chuckled, shaking her head. "This is why I like talking to you," she said, stepping toward the doorway. "I get to learn all sorts of interesting things I'll probably never use."
Astarion narrowed his eyes at her, his expression a playful blend of suspicion and mock offense. "Was that sarcasm or just plain insulting?"
Grinning slyly, Ashara pushed the door open wider, letting the dim torchlight spill into the space beyond. "Both," she teased before slipping through the threshold, her boots barely making a sound on the worn stone floor.
Astarion followed close behind, shaking his head but unable to hide the faint smile tugging at his lips. "Charming," he muttered, though there was no mistaking the amusement in his tone.
The chamber beyond opened up before them, its cavernous expanse lined with worn stone pillars that stretched toward the vaulted ceiling above. Dust motes swirled in the faint moonlight that filtered through cracks in the ceiling. Faded tapestries clung stubbornly to the stone walls, their colors long drained by time. The hall had likely been a dining room once - perhaps a place of feasting and revelry - but now it was deathly still, filled with an eerie sense of foreboding.
Ashara stepped cautiously, her gaze sweeping over the peculiar statues scattered around the space. They were life-sized, their craftsmanship exceptionally detailed. Elves, humans, orcs, and other figures stood in various poses, some damaged and crumbling.
Ashara barely glanced at them, her focus drawn instead to the faint flicker of torchlight emanating from beneath the door at the far end of the chamber. Her boots echoed softly against the cold stone as she crossed the room, each step carrying a subtle sense of urgency. Behind her, she could hear Astarion's soft footfalls pause, and when she glanced back, she saw him standing stock still, his gaze fixed on one of the statues.
"Astarion?" she called softly, her tone curious but edged with impatience.
He didn't respond immediately, his expression darkening as he studied the frozen figure - a young elf woman with her arms raised defensively, her face twisted in silent horror. Something about the statue made his lips press into a thin line, but before Ashara could ask what was wrong, she reached the door.
Spying a rusted key already inserted into the lock, she grinned faintly. "Convenient," she muttered under her breath, her fingers wrapping around the key. It turned with a satisfying click, and as she began to pull the door open, Astarion's voice rang out sharply behind her.
"Ashara, wait! Don't open that door!"
She froze, turning in surprise to see Astarion sprinting toward her, fear etched across his face. "Why, what's wro—"
Her words were cut off as something slammed against the door, flinging it into her with brutal force. The impact sent her sprawling to the floor, her breath knocked from her lungs. She barely had time to recover before a grotesque creature emerged from behind the door, its leathery wings unfurling with a rustling sound.
It stood nearly four feet tall, its gnarled, reptilian body covered in patches of mottled scales and feathers. Its serpentine neck twisted as its beady, malevolent eyes locked onto her, and its beak opened to reveal rows of jagged teeth. The creature let out a shrill, piercing screech that reverberated through the hall, its spiny tail lashing behind it.
Ashara's stomach dropped as recognition dawned. "Cockatrice," she hissed under her breath, her mind racing. The statues scattered around the room suddenly made horrifying sense. She cursed herself for not realizing it sooner. "Don't let it bite you!" she yelled as she scrambled to her feet.
"I wasn't planning to!" Astarion shot back, his voice laced with sarcasm even as he drew his sword.
The cockatrice lunged, its talons scraping against the stone floor as it leapt at Ashara with terrifying speed. She dove to the side, the creature's beak snapping shut inches from where she had been. Rolling to her feet, she drew her weapon and turned to face it, her heart hammering in her chest.
Astarion darted to her side, his sword gleaming in the dim light as he slashed at the creature. The cockatrice screeched and twisted, its movements unnervingly swift as it evaded the blade. It lunged again, this time at Astarion, who sidestepped with practiced grace. His blade struck out, nicking the creature's wing, but it retaliated immediately, its spiked tail whipping toward him.
Ashara leapt forward, swinging her sword to intercept the tail, the force of her strike sending vibrations up her arms. The creature hissed, its attention flicking between the two of them as it reared back, its wings flapping wildly, and darted behind a statue of a snarling orc.
Its movements became a blur, the scaly monster weaving between the frozen statues like a hunter using the cover of a forest. The torchlight flickered wildly, shadows leaping across the walls as it disappeared behind a pillar, only to reappear on the opposite side of the room.
The cockatrice struck again, this time aiming for Ashara. She managed to deflect it with a swift swing of her blade, but the force of the attack sent her stumbling back. Before she could recover, Astarion lunged, his blade finding purchase along the creature's wing. It screamed, its movements becoming more erratic, and for a moment, it seemed they had the upper hand.
And then a second screech split the air.
Ashara's stomach dropped as another cockatrice burst from behind a toppled pillar, its wings outstretched as it zeroed in on Astarion. He spun too late. The creature struck with terrifying precision, sinking its beak into his calf. Astarion cried out, stumbling as the venom began to take hold.
The gray pallor of stone began creeping up his leg, spreading like frost over glass. Ashara's heart seized, but she had no time to react. The first cockatrice reappeared, screeching as it dove straight for her. She swung her blade wildly, managing to force it back, but the second creature was already moving again, circling like a vulture.
"Astarion, stay still!" she shouted, her voice cracking with panic as she tried to position herself between him and the cockatrices.
"I don't think that will be a problem," he bit out, his movements slowing as the petrification spread up his thigh. His sword clattered to the ground as his hands braced against the wall, his legs no longer responding.
Before she could reach him, pain lanced through her thigh. She gasped, stumbling as she looked down to see the first cockatrice's beak embedded in her flesh. It released her with a snap, hissing as it backed away. Horror washed over her as she watched the stone begin to creep up her own leg, freezing her muscles with terrifying speed.
"No, no, no!" she gasped, her voice shaking as she tried to take a step, only to find her leg immobilized.
A loud creak echoed through the chamber, drawing Ashara's gaze toward the far door. It swung open with deliberate slowness, and the sound of measured footsteps followed. A familiar voice, smug and dripping with satisfaction, filled the room.
"Well, well," the voice drawled. "Looks like you decided to take me up on my offer of a good time after all."
Ashara's heart sank, the voice sparking recognition like a dagger to the gut. Her gaze shifted toward the figure entering the room, her breath catching as the final wave of petrification climbed toward her chest. She didn't need to look at Astarion to know he recognized the voice too.
"Oh, for fu—" Astarion began, but his words cut off abruptly as his lips turned to stone, freezing his expression in a mix of frustration and defiance.
Ashara's vision darkened as the stone claimed her fully, and the last thing she heard was the mocking laughter of Cassius echoing through the chamber.
