The air hung heavy, sharp with the smell of rot, clinging to Astarion's throat as he gazed out across the twisted landscape that festered like an open wound below him.
Ghostly green mist curled upward from the cracked earth, writhing through jagged fissures as though something unspeakable was trying to escape. The trees that lined the crooked flagstone road in front of him looked more like tortured silhouettes of men than flora.
From atop the ridge he and his companions had chosen as their vantage point, Astarion squinted down at the caravan creeping along towards them, the uneven lantern light catching on crude shapes of goblins and the creature leading them.
It skittered forward like a nightmare come to life. The drider's upper half held an unnatural elegance - pale, sinewed skin stretched tight across a drow's upper torso, the flesh warped with chitinous ridges and fresh scars.
Its face, once elven and framed by bone white hair, bore too many eyes that blinked without rhythm, staring into places no sane creature dared look. The slick gleam of blood-streaked flesh caught the faint glow, highlighting muscle, scars, and thin veins that traced sickly patterns across its torso.
From the waist down, the elf's lithe body contorted into a grotesque arachnid shell. A bulbous abdomen swelled behind, armored and pulsing faintly in rhythm with its movements. Jagged, segmented spider limbs, thick with grime and dark ichor, extended outward like living spears. In it's hands it clutched a crooked staff topped with a flickering lantern, the white light slashing at the dark in feverish patterns.
Beside Astarion, Ashara crouched low, the sharp angles of her face highlighted by the faint blue glow of her Frostfire torch. Her whisper seemed to hover in the air."Seeing that thing up close… I don't blame Vaarl for running."
Astarion glanced at her, noting the glint of fascination in her eyes. The irony didn't escape him. Here was a woman who wouldn't blink at monsters, yet drop her into a crowded tavern with too many smiling strangers, and she'd tuck herself behind him like some waifish orphan. The thought amused him more than it should.
A faint groan broke the quiet. Rolan sat hunched over, one hand clutching his temple like he could squeeze the headache out through sheer will. "Please tell me I'm still drunk, and that thing is just a very detailed hallucination."
Astarion leaned closer with a theatrical whisper. "Oh, I've no doubt you're still drunk - however, that thing is very real, I'm afraid."
Ashara shot the tiefling a sideways glance, irritation wrinkling her nose. "Why is he even here? He's no use to us in this state."
Rolan's head jerked up. His bleary glare found her immediately. "I am sitting right here, you know."
"I know," Ashara said flatly. "And I don't care."
Astarion bit back a grin, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of their petty bickering. "Now, now, children. Let's save our hostility for the nightmare fuell down there, shall we?"
Rolan grumbled something incoherent, his eyes still on Ashara. "Look, if this is about me attacking Astarion, I already apologized for that."
Astarion raised a brow, lounging further into the incline of the ridge. "Now you mention it, I don't seem to remember you actually apologizing."
"The healing spell wasn't enough for you?" Rolan shot back, his voice thin with exasperation.
Ashara snorted, sharp as a blade being drawn. "No, that's just fixing your mistake."
Rolan glanced over her head at Astarion, who only shrugged, unwilling to lend a hand at softening Ashara's ire.
"Fine," Rolan muttered, his tone sour as spoiled wine. "I apologize for assuming the vampire traveling with a bunch of murderers was evil."
Ashara's eyes narrowed dangerously. "That's not a proper apology."
"Too bad. That's all you're getting," Rolan snapped back.
"Listen here, you pompous, walking wine bottle—"
The ridge echoed with a sudden bark of sound. "Oi! Are you lot gonna stop arguing and show yourselves, or are we gonna 'ave to drag you out by yer ankles?"
The words sliced through the squabble like an executioner's axe and the three of them froze. The goblins below were spreading out, torchlight spilling orange across the flagstones. Ashara broke the silence with a small, sheepish whisper. "Whoops…"
"Brilliant. So much for stealth." Astarion sighed dramatically, pressing his back to a nearby boulder as he peered down at the drider. It had stopped moving, its lantern swaying lazily as though waiting, its eyes turned toward the ridge.
The goblins' voices grew louder, closer, a mix of shouts and grunts. One gestured with its torch, the firelight dancing across the warped trunks of the nearby trees. Rolan pushed himself upright with a groan, his knuckles whitening on his sword hilt. "Do we really have to do this?"
Ashara turned sharply to him. "You are free to leave whenever you want." The words hissed through her teeth, barely above a whisper, but sharp enough to snap the young mages jaw shut.
Astarion smiled faintly, his amusement brief before he straightened. He swept dust from his coat and stepped boldly into view, hands raised in the universal language of Don't shoot me. His confident stride carried him down from the shadowed ridge, the heels of his boots whispering against the dead leaves underfoot.
"No need for alarm, my friends," Astarion called, his voice all false warmth and honeyed tones. "We thought you were Harpers lurking about - nasty lot. They've been hunting True Souls like my good self all over these lands."
The goblins faltered, their heads swiveling toward one another. The torches dipped, their flickering light revealing suspicion, confusion, fear. Astarion could practically smell their hesitation.
But the drider reacted differently. It lifted its lantern higher, the ghostly light spilling out, silver and unreal. Its twisted mouth stretched into something resembling interest, a cruel amusement tugging at its grotesque features.
"Someone in the dark, mistress," it called, the words scraping like shards of glass. "Step into the light! Let us see you."
From behind, boots crunched dry bark. Rolan and Ashara stepped into view beside Astarion, their weapons half-raised in uneasy readiness. Rolan shot Astarion a glare through the corner of his eye. "I hope you know what you're doing."
Astarion grimaced faintly. "So do I."
Together, they walked down the slope toward the caravan, brittle underbrush snapping like bones underfoot. The drider loomed larger with every step, its monstrous form towering over them, its lantern swaying hypnotically. Astarion forced himself to look up, his crimson eyes locking onto the creature's.
Then came the whisper. A tickle - familiar and unwelcome - scratched at the back of his mind, curling like smoke through a cracked window. Astarion reached for it cautiously, his tadpole unfurling toward the drider's fractured thoughts. The Absolute's whisper? Or the deranged echo of it's own ruined mind? It was impossible to tell. But amidst the chaos, a name surfaced like a drowned thing clawing for air. Kar'niss.
The drider hissed, almost happily, the noise crawling down Astarion's spine. "One of your True Souls, my Queen! How have they survived?"
Astarion slipped the mask of confidence over his unease and flashed a sharp, pointed smile. "The Absolute protected me, of course. And my… servants." He gestured vaguely behind him, his voice dripping with mock reverence.
Rolan let out a short, indignant scoff - low, guttural, and immediately regretted - though the goblins, thankfully distracted, failed to notice.
The drider stepped closer, his lantern swinging almost hungrily. "You blessed them too, my Queen?" Kar'niss crooned, his voice trembling. "Where is their lantern?"
Astarion's gaze flicked to the lantern Kar'niss clutched protectively, a ghostly glow seeping through its cracked glass. Inside, something fluttered - small, shapeless, and frantic. A curious piece of the puzzle. His eyes narrowed as he decided to take a gamble.
Bluffing imperiously, he tilted his chin. "Our wondrous Queen dropped me a message - divine whispers, you understand. She said you need to give me that lantern. It's very important."
For the briefest moment, the drider froze. Then his expression twisted. Kar'niss recoiled with a shudder, clutching the lantern closer like a child clutching a toy.
"But majesty," he whimpered, his many legs shifting in agitation, "you gave this lantern to me. You said it was mine!"
The drider's head jerked sharply, his neck clicking, as though trying to shake something loose. His mouth split into a deep snarl, revealing rows of jagged teeth. "No. We will keep your gift. Drive this false one back into the dark!"
Astarion sighed theatrically, realising he'd overplayed his hand. "Oh well," he muttered. "It was worth a try."
In a single movement, he flicked his wrist. The dagger he'd palmed shot forward, the blade glinting like a falling star before sinking into Kar'niss' chest with a dull thunk. The drider reared back, his shriek splitting the air, sharp and metallic.
Without pause, Astarion's hands dropped to his belt. Twin hand-crossbows - gifts from Jaheira - cleared their holsters. He raised both with fluid precision, fangs flashing in satisfaction, and loosed the bolts. The arrows struck true, burying deep into the creature's abdomen with the sound of punctured flesh.
Kar'niss howled, a sound that rattled through the air like a frenzied storm. Astarion's lips curled into a wicked grin as he stepped back, already preparing for the chaos to come as the drider unsheathed a gleaming longsword.
The drider turned with unnatural speed, the blade thrusting toward Astarion's midsection. He barely sidestepped, his reflexes keeping him a breath ahead of the strike.
"You'll have to try harder than that, darling," he taunted, though his crimson eyes narrowed, taking stock of Kar'niss's speed and reach. The creature was fast, far too fast for its size.
Rolan raised a trembling hand. "Ignis!" A spark of flame streaked toward the drider's back, striking harmlessly against its chitinous armor. Kar'niss didn't even flinch, his focus fixed entirely on Astarion.
The vampire ducked low, his feet sliding across loose gravel as Kar'niss lunged again. "For gods sake, Rolan - aim!" Astarion snarled, his breath ragged as he twisted past another sweeping strike. The drider's massive sword clipped his shoulder, the impact sending him spinning. Pain lanced through him, but he gritted his teeth, ignoring the flare of heat spreading down his arm.
Meanwhile, the goblins erupted into movement, snarling and cursing as they rushed forward, torches flaring.
Ashara was already on the move, her bow drawn and steady. The first goblin fell with an arrow buried in its eye socket, the corpse crumpling mid-sprint. The second barely managed a shout before another arrow lodged itself in its throat, silencing it in a gurgle of blood.
Her movements were quick and precise, every shot finding its mark. A third goblin - smaller and faster - charged closer with a rusted axe, but Ashara rolled cleanly off her perch, spun low, and fired point-blank. The arrow thudded into its chest with a hollow crack. It fell where it stood, twitching.
Astarion slipped through the chaos, movements fluid and predatory as he holstered the crossbows and drew his sword. "Rolan, if you're done nursing your hangover, I could use a distraction," he called out urgently to the tiefling.
Rolan groaned and stumbled slightly as he raised a trembling hand. His bloodshot eyes glowed faintly with magic as he cast Mage Armour over himself. The shimmering barrier hugged close to his form before fading into transparency.
Kar'niss snarled, his legs clattering as he charged again. Astarion ducked low, slipping beneath the drider's guard and slicing at the joint of one limb. Dark ichor spattered across the stone as the severed leg dropped, twitching. Kar'niss howled, spinning to lash out with his sword.
Astarion dove aside just as the creature's front limbs gouged deep into the spot where he had been. Pebbles and dirt sprayed into the air. "By the nine hells, someone please distract him!" he shouted, narrowly avoiding another swipe.
"I'm trying," Rolan growled. Another burst of fire erupted from his fingertips and struck Kar'niss square in the side of his face. The flames licked at his pale skin, leaving a charred patch across his jaw. The drider shrieked and staggered, his hands flailing protectively, though the fire did little to slow him.
"I will split you open!" the drider howled, lunging at Rolan.
The distraction gave Astarion the moment he needed. He darted forward, his movements quick, sharp, and deliberate - each strike aimed to sever. One swing sliced into a joint where the spider limb connected to the torso, black ichor spraying like hot tar. The drider howled, flinching, but Astarion didn't relent. He twisted, rolling beneath the drider's next strike and driving his sword deep into another joint.
Ashara dropped another goblin with a shot through the chest, then pivoted smoothly, her next arrow finding the neck of another as it lunged at her. She pulled the string taut again, sweat glistening on her brow as her movements remained sharp and precise. "Goblins are down!" she shouted.
"Focus on the drider!" Astarion barked back.
Kar'niss reared and thrashed, dislodging Astarion with a force that sent him tumbling. He landed hard, his breath catching as the drider loomed over him, blade raised high. Before the blow could fall, Rolan shouted, "Detono!"
The concussive thunderwave rippled outward, throwing the drider backward into a jagged rock face. A sickening crunch followed as two more of Kar'niss's legs snapped, leaving him crumpled and broken on the ground. The lantern clattered to the ground, its glow dimming as it rolled out of reach. Kar'niss froze, his many eyes fixating on it with an expression almost human in its despair.
"No…" he cried, his voice breaking. "My light…"
Astarion circled, his movements slow and predatory, his sword ready for the finishing blow. But the drider seemed to forget him entirely, his trembling hands reaching for the fallen lantern.
To his surprise, Ashara stepped past him, her sword drawn but lowered. She approached Kar'niss with slow, deliberate steps, her face calm yet unreadable.
Rolan wiped his mouth, panting and leaning on his sword. "Well? What are you waiting for? Finish it."
Ashara didn't answer. Instead, she sheathed her blade with a faint snick, stooped, and picked up the lantern. Its glow bathed her face as she turned back toward Kar'niss, who lay sprawled on his back, reaching out with shaking hands. The drider's many eyes reflected desperation, a sorrow that seemed endless as he looked up at her.
"Why…" he rasped. "Why has my goddess forsaken me? Did I displease her?"
Blood bubbled at his lips. He coughed weakly, his chest rattling, the sound of it raw in the stillness. Astarion frowned, uneasy. "Ashara, what are you doing?"
Ashara ignored him. She knelt beside the drider, setting the lantern down next to him. Kar'niss's many eyes turned up toward her, reflecting confusion, sorrow, and a glimmer of something… softer. Tears spilled from his elven eyes, mingling with the blood at the corners of his mouth. "It hurts…" he whispered, his voice trembling. "Make it stop hurting. Please."
To Astarion's shock, Ashara settled onto the ground and lifted the driders head into her lap. Kar'niss flinched at first, hissing in a feeble threat, but her gentle touch disarmed him. Her fingers brushed through the filthy strands of his hair, and she began to hum - a soft, lilting tune that drifted like a ghost across the battlefield.
Her other hand hovered over his chest, and blue light blossomed from her palm. The magic poured over him, soft and cold, as though winter itself seeped through her skin.
Kar'niss stilled beneath her touch, his ragged breathing slowing. "That song…" he murmured, his voice faint. "I've heard it before… in Menzoberranzan."
His broken, bleeding form trembled as memories seemed to stir behind his fractured eyes. "I remember… who I was before… before this curse…"
Astarion stepped forward, tense. "Ashara, this is—"
He stopped as he noticed the frost creeping up Kar'niss's body. Thin tendrils of ice snaked over his torso, glittering in the dim lantern light. His breathing slowed, each exhale turning to mist in the cold air. His face softened, as though peace finally found him.
"Thank you…" Kar'niss whispered. His last breath left his body like a sigh, and the ice climbed until it claimed his entire form. In moments, he was still, frozen solid, a fragile statue of frost and grief.
Ashara sat back slightly, her hand lowering to her side. She stared down at the drider's lifeless form, her expression hollow.
Astarion stepped forward, the soft crunch of his boots on frostbitten ground the only sound until his voice sliced through the thick silence. "What in the hells was that?"
His tone was sharp, though curiosity softened the edge, his crimson eyes narrowing as they flickered between Ashara and the frozen corpse of the drider.
Ashara rose slowly from where she knelt, her movements deliberate, as though the weight of what had just transpired was pressing down on her shoulders. She swiped her hands over her cloak, smearing away streaks of icy residue, before lifting her gaze to meet Astarion's. The calmness in her expression was disarming - tired, yes, but steady as a stone that had weathered countless storms.
"It was mercy," she said, the words quiet yet firm, as if they were an answer not just to him, but to some unspoken question within herself.
"Mercy," Astarion echoed, his lip curling slightly in disbelief. He gestured with a sharp flick of his hand toward the drider, still clutching the lantern in his frozen hands. "It was reckless. He could've hurt you in the blink of - well, an unsettling amount of eyes."
Ashara's lips twitched faintly, though her eyes remained fixed on the drider. "He had no strength left to harm me." Her voice softened as her gaze lingered, tracing the fractured, ice-crusted form. "In the end… I don't think he even wanted to fight us anymore."
"Right," Rolan interjected, his tone dripping with dry humor as he approached the drider, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes. "I wouldn't want to fight either if most of my limbs had been hacked off."
He kicked a chunk of severed chitin with the tip of his boot, the piece skidding across the stones.
Ashara turned to glare at him, but Rolan had already crouched to examine the drider's lantern, its light now dimming as if unsure of its purpose. Before anyone could speak, a voice - tiny, sharp, and unmistakably female - crackled from within, startling them all.
"Me oh my, oh my oh me! Won't you help me? Set me free?"
Rolan jerked back, blinking at the lantern like it might grow legs. "What in the nine hells?!" He turned his head slowly toward Astarion and Ashara, his brows raised. "I think there's a pixie in here."
Astarion straightened, his brows lifting in genuine surprise. "An honest-to-goodness pixie? Really?" His voice held a mix of incredulity and faint impish delight.
The voice wailed again, louder this time, its sing-song tone laced with desperation. "Oh please, oh golly, me-oh-my! You must release me or I'll die! This lantern only lights the way when I am hurting night and day!"
Ashara winced, her brow furrowing. "Uh oh. We'd better release her. Quick."
Astarion shot her a sideways glance, arching a brow. "Why the rush? We might need this lantern to avoid any awkward questions about how we managed to survive the shadows."
Ashara rolled her shoulders, the leather of her armor creaking faintly as she cracked her knuckles one at a time. She looked at him with the focused intent of someone about to start a barroom brawl.
"Trust me," she said flatly. "You don't want to get on the bad side of a pixie. If she gets out somehow and remembers that we refused to free her…"
"Fine," Astarion sighed theatrically, tossing his hands up. "Rolan, let her out. I'd hate for our deaths to be blamed on pixie vengeance."
Rolan muttered under his breath as he fumbled with the lantern's latch. The moment it clicked the lantern burst open in a flash of dazzling light. A streak of purple energy shot upward like a firework, swirling and sputtering until it coalesced into a small, glowing figure hovering midair.
The pixie blinked once, twice, and then threw her arms wide, releasing a shout that echoed through the clearing. "FINALLY!" Her voice was loud, coarse, and startlingly crass. "Been trapped in that coffin with no one but a mad drider and my own farts for company!"
Astarion, caught mid-scoff, froze, his expression flickering from smug amusement to wide-eyed disbelief. He blinked rapidly. "Oh my... That was quite a tone shift."
Ashara stepped forward, her gaze steady on the pixie, who was now hovering a few feet above them, hands on her tiny hips. "Did me a good turn there, didn't you?" the pixie said, jabbing a finger at Ashara. "What do I owe you?"
Ashara folded her arms, her tone direct. "Can you help us against the shadow curse?"
The pixie smirked, wings beating lazily as her glow flickered like a mischievous flame. "Oh, I can. But will I?"
"Yes, you will, you little shit," Ashara said flatly, her voice dropping like an axe.
Astarion's head snapped toward her, his eyes widening. He blinked, stunned into silence as a laugh threatened to bubble up in his throat. Did she just swear?
The pixie hovered closer, her glow intensifying as she sneered. "Oh, look at the little bint who thinks she's so tough! Well, you can kiss my glowing arse!"
Ashara's jaw clenched. Without missing a beat, she shot back, "And you can #%!."
Both of them were leaning in, noses nearly touching, their voices rising as insults flew like daggers.
"You dull fleck of light!"
"Half-wit hedge witch!"
"Glowbug in a dress!"
"Two-legged dung heap!"
The battle of words crescendoed, curses spilling from Ashara that would have made even a duergar sailor blush. Words flew faster than Astarion could process, a hurricane of vitriol and colorful imagery so absurd it left his jaw hanging.
Astarion exchanged a look with Rolan, a slow grin spreading across his face despite his shock. "This is fantastic."
Rolan, equally stunned, shook his head. "I'm not sure if we should stop this or cheer it on."
"I didn't even know she knew words like that."
The pixie reeled back suddenly, laughter bursting from her like a dam breaking. She clutched her sides mid-air, gasping as if the sheer force of her cackling had winded her.
"Shards!" she wheezed, spinning erratically as her wings fluttered. "I haven't had a roast like that in bloody ages!"
Ashara remained stoic, arms crossed, though her cheeks flushed faintly under the praise.
The pixie shot forward, tapping Ashara's nose with a glowing hand. "I like you. You've got spunk." A small metal bell materialized in the air beside her, glinting faintly with enchantment. "Here, take this."
The bell hovered, suspended by some invisible force, until Ashara reached out to pluck it delicately from the air.
"What does it do?" she asked, tucking it carefully into her pocket.
The pixie twirled in the air, her grin sharp and knowing. "Give it a shake, speak the magic words, and you'll get what you've earned - protection from the shadow curse. What more could a bunch of dinguses want?"
Ashara nodded, her voice softening. "Thanks."
"You're welcome!" the pixie shot back cheerfully before vanishing in a burst of golden sparks, leaving behind the faint scent of wildflowers and a trail of glittering motes.
Astarion exhaled through his nose, his sharp grin curling back into place as he turned to Ashara. There was a glint of mischief in his gaze, like a cat that had cornered something particularly interesting.
"Darling," he drawled, voice rich with amusement, "I don't know what surprises me more - the pixie's foul mouth or yours."
Ashara paused, an arrow halfway into her quiver, and turned to regard him with a nonchalant shrug. "There were pixies near where I grew up," she said, her voice matter-of-fact. "I learned how to talk to them - and how much they enjoy a good battle of insults."
The admission was casual, but Astarion caught the faint shift in her voice, the trace of something almost nostalgic lurking beneath.
"Fascinating," he murmured, stepping closer. He leaned in, his movements fluid and deliberate. "Now there's just one thing I'd like to know."
His narrowed gaze met hers, a teasing lilt curling through his words. "Do you know what any of those delightfully colorful words you used actually mean?"
For the briefest moment, Ashara's composure cracked - her mouth opened slightly as though she had an answer ready, but hesitation stalled her tongue. Then, very deliberately, she snapped her mouth shut. She looked down and away, suddenly very interested in the dirt at her boots.
"Not really," she admitted, her voice low, almost sheepish. "I picked them up from the pixies, but Onyx told me it wasn't a good idea to use them in public."
Rolan, still recovering from the spectacle, chuckled as he bent to wipe some stray ichor from his sword. "Well, I can agree with your earlier comment now." He glanced toward Ashara with a lopsided grin, the weariness in his face softening into genuine humor. "You're definitely not a lady."
Ashara shot him a look that danced on the edge of annoyance, though the faintest tug at the corner of her lips betrayed her amusement. A sound escaped her - soft, breathy, something between a snort and a chuckle - as she turned and strode toward the battlefield to retrieve her arrows.
The sudden quiet that followed was broken only by the whistle of wind through broken branches and the faint clink of spent arrows being pulled free. Astarion, watching her carefully, let his grin linger for a beat longer before turning to Rolan. His approach was soundless, his lean form sliding close with a conspiratorial air.
He pitched his voice low, to ensure Ashara wouldn't hear him. "Rolan, if you ever see her pick up a dictionary," he muttered, his tone deadpan but dripping with humor, "firebolt it at once."
The towering structure of Moonrise Towers loomed ahead, its sharp angles and ancient stonework clawing upward like the skeletal remains of some forgotten titan. The main gate - an immense arch flanked by two crumbling towers - looked ready to swallow anyone who dared approach. Thick fog clung to the base of the towers, slithering like spectral snakes around the flagstones.
Guards flanked the foot of the wide staircase leading up to the main entrance, standing stiff in darkened plate and blue robes, their helms obscuring all humanity. Around them prowled ghouls - ghastly creatures, skeletal and sinewed, their beady eyes glinting faintly in the dim light as they moved with predatory intent.
Ashara stared up at the massive stone steps, every instinct in her body screaming to turn and run. Instead, her gaze shifted to Astarion, who moved ahead with his usual poise - head high, shoulders squared, each step deliberate and confident, as though he belonged here. He walked with the casual arrogance of someone who expected doors to open and strangers to welcome him with open arms.
How does he do it? Ashara wondered, watching him with a mix of admiration and envy. He had a gift, one she could never replicate - slipping into a role so naturally it was as though the mask were his true face. A flicker of doubt pulled her gaze downward, where her fingers fidgeted absently with the fur lining of her cloak, smoothing it again and again.
Their disguises were convincing, if not particularly comfortable - clothing that the Harpers had scavenged from corpses a few days prior to her groups arrival at Last Light
Beneath her cloak, Ashara wore dark, fitted leather trousers tucked into knee-high boots, the sturdy hide reinforced at the knees and laces pulled taut. Her sleeveless dark red tunic, cinched at the waist with a pair of sleek belts, sat snug beneath a leather gorget—bearing the Absolutist symbol carved on it's surface. A quiver, well-oiled and polished, rested across her back alongside her bow, and fingerless leather gloves hugged her hands, trimmed with the bones of some unidentified creature. Even her hair had been brushed and slicked back into a severe ponytail.
The result was a far cry from her usual ranger leathers - and the fit was tighter than she was used to - but, according to Astarion, now she didn't look like an 'eccentric hermit.'
To her left, Rolan cut an imposing figure, though his scowl ruined the effect somewhat. He wore dark crimson mage robes, lined with golden stitched-in runic trim - robes that swept around his legs as he walked, and thick enough to provide protection without appearing ceremonial.
A few overlapping pieces of blackened plate, strapped across his shoulders and forearms combined with scaled metal gauntlets, lent him a rugged, battle-ready appearance.
And then there was Astarion. Of course, he managed to make his outfit look intentional, even stylish. His fitted leather armor hugged his form, a dark, tailored ensemble adorned with layered fabrics of midnight blue and blood-red that managed to look far finer than the ransacked gear should have allowed.
Every buckle and strap seemed purposeful, every seam clean, as though he'd commissioned the outfit himself. A crimson sash tied carelessly at his waist gave him a roguish air, while the Absolutist medallion on his chest looked like a mark of authority rather than blind servitude.
The man practically glowed with confidence, his silver hair catching the faint light like spun silk.
Ashara exhaled sharply through her nose, dragging her attention back to the castle ahead. She glanced toward the guards, their stillness unnerving, and then back to Astarion as he approached them without hesitation. He moved as though the very air bent to accommodate him - fluid and deliberate, each step planting itself like a statement.
Astarion reached the first guard, his smile spreading like oil across water as he came to a stop. "Greetings," he greeted smoothly, his tone disarming yet edged with just enough authority to imply he was one of them. "No need for concern. We're on important business for the Absolute."
The guards shifted, heavy helms tilting ever so slightly toward him, while the ghouls slinked closer, their heads tilting at unnatural angles as though sniffing for deceit. Ashara felt her pulse quicken, her grip tightening around the strap of her bow as she forced herself to stay still.
Rolan muttered under his breath, a string of words too low for her to catch, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. He was readying something, just in case.
One guard held up his hand, his voice sharp and commanding. "Halt right there."
He placed his hand near his head, closing his eyes for a moment. Astarion jerked his head slightly before also closing his eyes. Ashara guessed they were both communicating via the tadpole and shifted uncomfortably, fervently hoping Astarion didn't inadvertently reveal their intentions.
However, the when the guard opened his eyes again, there was a smile on his face. "Ah, one blessed like myself. What news True Soul?"
Astarion, unfazed, stepped closer to the guards. "Nothing much from the field I'm sorry to say. What news inside? Have any other True Souls come this way recently? Only we were separated from our illustrious leader - white dragonborn, goes by the name Durge."
The guard's smile lingered, toothy and unsettling beneath the shadow of his helm. "You're in luck," he said. "They entered Moonrise not more than a few hours ago. From what I hear, they created quite the impression."
Ashara didn't miss the subtle shift in Astarion's posture. His shoulders tensed ever so slightly, a flicker of tension that would have gone unnoticed by anyone who didn't know him. His smile remained firmly in place, sharp and calculated as he purred, "Oh, I'm sure they did."
As she shifted her weight, Ashara's attention snapped to Rolan as he stiffened beside her. His hands curled into tight fists, and she could see the faint shimmer of magic sparking across his knuckles. His stance was taut, his body leaning forward as though ready to launch into a fight neither of them could win.
Ashara's instincts kicked in before her mind could catch up. Her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist in a firm grip. The warmth of his magic pulsed faintly against her skin, and she felt him freeze, turning his head slightly to glare at her from the corner of his eye.
His sharp look was laced with irritation, but she held firm, her own gaze steady and commanding. Slowly, reluctantly, the glow in his hand faded, and she felt the tension bleed out of his arm.
The guards didn't seem to notice the exchange, their focus still fixed on Astarion as he spoke over his shoulder to her and Rolan. "I'm sure True Soul Durge will be busy introducing himself to all sorts of important people and won't want us interrupting. Perhaps this would be a good opportunity to familiarize ourselves with the layout of the castle."
Ashara caught the faint edge in his tone, the careful calculation hidden beneath his polished words. She knew Astarion well enough now to recognize the subtle maneuvering in his voice, the way he was already shaping the conversation to suit his needs.
He directed his attention back toward the guards, his smile still perfectly intact. "You have no objections to us taking a stroll around the perimeter, do you? It's more than likely where we'll be assigned, seeing as we made the mistake of getting lost."
The guard gave a gruff chuckle, his posture relaxing slightly. "Of course. We all have our part to play for the Absolute. Guard duty may not be as fulfilling as most jobs, but it's still important. Be careful round the west side, though - some damage left over from the last siege. Walls are a bit unstable and held together with vines, so mind how you go and keep an eye out for falling rubble."
Astarion inclined his head in an elegant bow, a flourish to the motion that made Ashara roll her eyes internally. "We will keep that in mind. Thank you," he said, his voice dripping with charm.
As he turned back toward them, his gaze landed on her - and her still-clasped hand around Rolan's wrist. His crimson eyes narrowed faintly, the look sharp enough to send a ripple of discomfort through her. Ashara quickly let go, her fingers twitching as if burned, and shifted her weight to feign casual indifference.
"Let's take a little walk around the west side, shall we?" Astarion said smoothly, his tone light but carrying a note of tension.
Rolan's scowl deepened, his irritation bubbling to the surface. "We're not going inside?" he asked, his tone clipped.
Astarion's smile turned sly, almost conspiratorial, as they began moving away from the guards and up the path. "Oh, we are. Just not through the front door."
Ashara fell into step beside him, her boots scuffing lightly against the uneven stones as she kept her focus forward. The tension between Rolan and Astarion still seemed to simmer just beneath the surface, but she knew better than to draw attention to it.
The jagged silhouette of the castle loomed larger with every step, its broken battlements and towering spires stretching skyward like the fingers of a corpse reaching for salvation. The further they walked, the quieter it became, the oppressive stillness broken only by the faint cries of distant carrion birds.
The ruined path stretched out ahead of them, ending abruptly where the stones crumbled into a gaping chasm. Darkness swallowed whatever lay beneath, the drop so steep it felt as though the earth had opened its jaws wide and waited for them to stumble.
Above, thick vines twisted across the remnants of stone, holding together sections of broken walkway as if the earth itself had risen up to cradle the ruins. Far above even that was a balcony, its crenulated parapets silhouetted against the faint, eerie glow of torchlight.
Ashara craned her neck to peer at the balcony, her sharp eyes following its precarious perch and connecting the dots to Astarion's intent. She sighed softly, her breath visible in the chill air.
"Are you sure you're able to reach that?" she asked, her voice low but tinged with skepticism.
Astarion scoffed, throwing her a sidelong glance over his shoulder. His expression radiated confidence, his grin as sharp as the daggers at his sides. "Please," he said, his voice lilting with mock offense. "This is child's play for a vampire."
But then his grin widened, a glint of mischief sparking in his crimson eyes. "Though," he added with deliberate slowness, "a little energy boost would certainly increase my chances."
Rolan, who had been quietly inspecting the edge of the crumbled path, scowled and straightened. His voice was a low growl. "You're not getting any more of my blood, leech."
Astarion pressed a hand to his chest, mock offense dripping from his tone. "But it was so delicious," he drawled, his grin turning wicked as he eyed Rolan.
Before Rolan could fire back, Ashara stepped forward. Her voice was calm, almost matter-of-fact, as she said, "If you need some, I don't mind."
Astarion blinked, his grin faltering for just an instant - a flicker of hesitation that Ashara caught and held in her gaze. She reached up, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear before tilting her head slightly to the side.
She smiled faintly, a touch of mischief dancing on her lips. "I won't bite back," she quipped lightly, "if that's what you're worried about."
For a moment, Astarion didn't respond, his gaze flickering over her face and neck like he was weighing something unseen. Then, his signature smirk returned, sharp and bright as a blade in the moonlight. He stepped closer, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders, the weight of them steady but unthreatening.
His voice softened as he leaned in, his breath warm against her skin. "It's not you I'm worried about," he murmured, his tone laced with amusement. "Onyx will probably bite my head off if he hears about this."
The mention of Onyx sent a ripple through her - a flicker of sadness that tightened her chest. She pushed it down, burying the ache beneath a steady smile. "I won't tell him if you don't," she replied, her voice soft but unwavering.
"Very well," he chuckled, leaning closer. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
Ashara shivered slightly as his fangs brushed her skin and she heard him murmur, almost tenderly, "I promise to be as gentle as I can."
"Go ahead," she whispered, her voice steady despite the way her pulse quickened beneath his touch. "I trust you."
The bite came swiftly, the sensation sharp and cold, like shards of ice pressing against her throat. She sucked in a quick breath, her fists clenching instinctively at her sides. But just as quickly as the pain came, it faded, melting into a strange, numbing warmth that spread through her veins like liquid silver.
Ashara felt his grip on her shoulders tighten for a moment, his fingers curling reflexively as he drank. There was a faint hum of pleasure that radiated from him, reverberating faintly against her skin, almost like a purr.
However he didn't linger long. With a deliberate slowness, he pulled back, licking the faint wounds to seal them before stepping away.
His expression startled her. His crimson eyes were wide, his chest rising and falling as though he'd just surfaced from deep waters. For once, he seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Then, breathless, he said, "That… that was incredible."
Ashara blinked, caught off guard by the awe in his voice. Her lips twitched upward into a faint smile, her earlier tension fading into amusement. "Must be my high-quality bloodline," she joked, her tone light.
Astarion barked a laugh, his composure snapping back into place as quickly as it had faltered. He smirked, turning to Rolan with a mockingly pitying look. "Your blood is a cheap wine in comparison to Ashara's."
Rolan crossed his arms, glaring at Astarion though the corner of his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement. "I don't think I've ever been quite so glad to be insulted before," he retorted dryly.
Ashara chuckled softly, the tension in her shoulders easing as the moment passed. Astarion turned back toward the balcony above, his movements more energized now, and flashed them both a dazzling grin. "Now," he said, adjusting his stance like a predator ready to pounce, "let's see how far this boost can take me."
Ashara slipped a coil of rope from her pack, the rough hemp fibers brushing against her palms as she studied the distance to the balcony above. "Do you reckon that's under fifty feet?" she asked, tilting her head as she gauged the distance.
Astarion took the rope from her, his movements smooth and deliberate. He glanced up, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. "No idea," he said with a nonchalant shrug. "Let's find out, shall we?"
Without waiting for a reply, he crouched low, his body coiling like a spring, every muscle sharp with intent. And then, with the grace of a panther unleashed, he leapt forward.
Ashara flinched, startled by the sudden burst of movement. Her breath caught in her throat as Astarion vaulted onto the first slab of broken pathway. He barely paused, his boots skimming the surface before he propelled himself upward again. He reached for a thick vine that jutted out like a lifeline, gripping it with ease and swinging upward with a strength that belied his slender frame.
His boots landed silently on a precarious slab of stone, which tilted dangerously under his weight, but he didn't hesitate.With another graceful leap, he propelled himself higher, climbing with the practiced agility that was almost feline in it's precision.
Ashara felt her heart climb into her throat as he reached the last stretch. With one final push, he launched himself upward, his body twisting midair like a ribbon caught in the wind, before landing lightly on the balcony edge. He straightened, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves, and turned to face them. With a theatrical flourish, he bowed deeply, one hand sweeping out to his side.
Ashara couldn't help but smile, offering him a silent, approving clap, while Rolan crossed his arms, his expression torn between irritation and admiration. "Show-off," he muttered, though the flicker of respect in his eyes betrayed him.
Astarion leaned casually against the parapet, tossing one end of the rope down to them, and Ashara reached out, barely snagging it before it could swing away. She anchored it to a protruding chunk of rubble, testing the tension with a few firm tugs before glancing at Rolan. "Ready?"
Rolan muttered something about vampires and their flair for drama, but followed her lead as they began their ascent.
The climb was arduous, the rope rough against her palms as she scaled the wall. The vines provided some handholds, but the loose rubble beneath her boots made each step a gamble. When she finally hoisted herself onto the balcony, her arms burned with effort. Rolan arrived moments later, still grumbling under his breath as he dusted himself off.
The air on the balcony was cold and carried the faint, acrid scent of burnt wood and ash. Weathered stone stretched beneath Ashara's boots, its surface marked by cracks and deep scratches. In the center of the balcony, a charred pile of clothing and objects smoldered faintly, the edges curling into ash.
Among the blackened debris, a shattered statue caught her attention - its features once intricate but now obscured by soot and fractures. The faint outline of Shar's visage was still visible, its surface marred by heat and damage.
Ashara felt a ripple of unease. The destruction of the statue felt deliberate, as if whoever had burned this pile had sought to erase something sacred. She glanced briefly at Astarion, who was already kneeling in front of one of the two iron doors at the far end of the balcony, his lockpicking tools glinting faintly in the dim light. His focus was unwavering, his fingers moving with practiced precision over the lock's mechanism.
Rolan stepped closer, his gaze lingering on the pile and the broken statue before he folded his arms and turned his attention to Astarion. "Who's to say Durge isn't behind this door any more than the main one?" he asked, his voice carrying a thread of skepticism.
Ashara adjusted the strap of her quiver, her fingers brushing against the cool leather. "And what if he's not alone?"
The final click of the lock echoed faintly, and Astarion straightened, his grin sharp as he pushed the door open. "Then it's fortunate," he said, casting them a glance filled with brash confidence, "that neither am I."
The stench hit Astarion like a physical blow the moment they crossed the threshold. It rolled out in a suffocating wave - a foul mix of rotting meat, stale blood, and damp decay that made Ashara gag beside him. Even Rolan winced, muttering a curse under his breath as he pressed the back of his hand against his mouth.
Astarion, however, simply inhaled sharply, his lips curling into a faint smirk.
"Smells like my old kennels," he said lightly, his voice laced with dark humor. "Nothing like a little nostalgia to start the day with."
Ashara gave him a sharp look, her expression hovering between disbelief and concern. For a moment, it seemed as though she might press him for an explanation, but she thought better of it. Instead, she adjusted the strap of her quiver and stepped further into the room, her movements careful and deliberate. Astarion followed, his usual saunter muted as he swept his gaze across the chamber.
The sight that greeted them was as grotesque as the stench had promised. Corpses littered the space, their forms twisted and broken, some hung from the rafters, while most had been piled haphazardly on the floor in one corner. The bodies ranged from relatively fresh, their wounds raw and glistening, to others in advanced states of decay, their flesh sloughing off their bones in sickening strips.
The wooden table at the center of the room was a centerpiece of horror. Limbs, torsos, and other unidentifiable pieces of flesh had been stacked haphazardly upon it, their jagged edges protruding like grotesque trophies. Around the room, tools lay discarded - rusted blades, saws, and jars containing viscous, unidentifiable liquids.
The walls were lined with tapestries, vibrant in another life, now muted and stained with blood. Pastoral scenes of serene fields and idyllic villagers looked grotesque in this setting, the contrast between peace and carnage an intentional mockery. Lit candles flickered in iron sconces, their soft glow doing nothing to dispel the sense of foreboding that pressed against Astarion's chest.
His gaze lingered on the table for a moment, his smirk faltering as his thoughts drifted unbidden to Cazador's mansion. The oppressive air of the room, the careless cruelty in the presentation - it felt all too familiar, like a memory clawing its way to the surface. He forced the thought back into the recesses of his mind and plastered on his usual mask of nonchalance.
Raising a finger to his lips, he made a show of tapping it in mock thoughtfulness. "If I had to make a guess," he mused, his voice carrying a faint note of amusement, "I'd say this room belonged to a necromancer."
"Wonderful," Rolan muttered, his voice heavy with sarcasm. He shot Ashara a pointed glance. "Ashara, don't touch anything."
Ashara, her tone bristling with indignation, turned her head sharply toward him. "Why are you only telling me that?"
Rolan, distracted, raised his hand and began casting a detect magic spell, his palm glowing faintly as he scanned the room. "Because there might be protective wards all over the place," he said, his tone clipped, "and I don't want you getting hurt, Lia—"
The name slipped out before he could stop it. His hand faltered mid-cast, the glow dissipating as his shoulders stiffened. The room seemed to hold its breath as Rolan froze, his back to them. His hands dropped to his sides, fingers curling into fists as he muttered, "Gods dammit."
Astarion felt the tension in the room shift. For a moment, he said nothing, studying the tiefling's heaving shoulders and the barely suppressed tremor in his hands. His gaze flicked toward Ashara, who stood motionless, her face softening as she watched Rolan struggle to regain his composure. Her hands flexed slightly at her sides, a nervous gesture he'd seen her make before, and her lips parted as though she were searching for the right words.
When their eyes met, Astarion gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod, tilting his head slightly toward the tiefling. Whatever spark of jealousy he'd felt earlier at the sight of Ashara holding Rolan's hand had faded, replaced by a quiet understanding. He had begun to realize that Ashara's heart was far too big for her body, that her desire to mend others often outweighed her own needs. And despite himself, he admired it.
Ashara stepped forward carefully, her boots skimming over the slick floor as she approached Rolan. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, her fingers light but steady.
Rolan glanced at her, his amber eyes glassy with restrained emotion. His lips twitched upward in a faint, bittersweet smile. "I guess all the arguing reminded me too much of her," he said, his voice thick.
Ashara's expression softened further. "What was she like?" she asked quietly, her tone gentle but inviting.
Rolan let out a shaky breath, his gaze drifting past Ashara as though he could see something none of them could. He hesitated for a moment before speaking, his voice tinged with a fragile warmth.
"She was… fierce," he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Always ready to put me in my place, never let me get away with anything. She'd argue circles around me, and when I thought I'd won, she'd find a way to flip it back on me." He paused, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "She was better than me in every way. Stronger. Smarter. Kinder."
Ashara stayed quiet, letting him speak, her presence steady and patient. Rolan's shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of his memories pressing down on him.
"She would've hated this place," he murmured, his voice almost breaking. "But she would've gone in first anyway. Always so damn stubborn."
The faint light in the room flickered as Rolan's words lingered in the air, heavy with memories that clawed their way to the surface. His voice had softened, cracking slightly, but his gaze remained locked on Ashara.
"You have that same stubborn streak," he said, his tone steadying slightly. "But you also have Cal's gentle heart. He was always trying to play the peacemaker between Lia and me. Hated it when we argued." Rolan's lips quirked into a faint, wistful smile. "I think they would have liked you."
Ashara smiled at him, the kind of soft, understanding smile that had always made her seem larger than life despite her slight frame. Her hand still rested on his shoulder, her presence steady and grounding. The sight of it sparked another sharp, unwelcome pang of jealousy in Astarion's chest. He clenched his jaw and turned his attention sharply back to the chamber.
"If you're done reminiscing," he drawled, his tone cutting through the quiet, "we do have a castle to infiltrate."
He felt Rolan's glare like the weight of a dagger between his shoulder blades but didn't bother acknowledging it. His sharp gaze roamed over the grotesque scene, taking in every gory detail with detached precision.
Rolan let out a faint huff and cleared his throat, raising his hand again. The faint glow of magic pulsed at his fingertips as he swept it over the room.
Slowly, symbols began to shimmer into existence above various objects - pale, glowing sigils floating like ghostly warnings. Astarion's gaze followed the path of one as it appeared on the floor before him, etched faintly in the air above a dark, bloodstained tile. He stepped over it with practiced ease, his movements fluid as he made his way toward a desk on a raised dais at the far end of the room.
The desk was cluttered, its surface buried beneath piles of parchment, brittle with age and stained by the humid rot of the room. Astarion let his fingers trail lightly over the edges of the papers, his sharp eyes scanning their contents. Symbols, diagrams, notes written in a spidery hand - likely the work of the necromancer who had once called this chamber their own. He frowned faintly, his concentration only half-fixed on his task as Rolan continued speaking to Ashara.
"The funny thing is," Rolan said, his voice subdued, "we weren't even related by blood. I was an only child until I was seven, when my father married a woman with two children of her own." He hesitated, his voice dipping lower. "Then the bastard promptly died a year later, leaving me with a family I didn't belong in - A brother and sister I didn't want."
The admission drew Astarion's attention, his hands pausing momentarily as his eyes flicked toward the tiefling. The tiefling's voice softened, and his gaze lifted to meet Astarion's directly, something unspoken passing between them.
"However," Rolan said, his lips twitching into a faint, sardonic smile, "I suppose you could say they 'wormed their way into my heart'."
Astarion's lips curled into a faint grin, the edge of his mouth twitching upward in acknowledgment. "Worms have a way of doing that," he replied dryly, his attention shifting back to the desk.
But then, his sensitive ears caught a sound - faint at first, like the distant scrape of metal against stone. His grin vanished in an instant, his posture stiffening as his head snapped toward the door at the far end of the chamber.
"Quiet. I think someone's coming."
Ashara and Rolan froze, their eyes darting toward the source of the noise. The sound of heavy footsteps grew louder, the rhythmic clink of armor and the creak of leather unmistakable.
Astarion's mind raced as he scanned the room, his gaze darting between the piles of debris and shattered furniture. There was nowhere truly safe to hide - but then his eyes landed on the desk. Beneath its heavy wooden frame was an alcove, partially obscured by crates and boxes filled with discarded bones. It would be cramped, suffocating even, but it was the best option they had.
Astarion gestured urgently, his voice barely above a whisper. "Quickly, under here."
The three of them scrambled for the narrow space, their movements frantic but silent. Astarion wedged himself against the back wall of the alcove, his knees drawn up to his chest as Ashara and Rolan squeezed in beside him.
The space was stifling, their breaths hot and shallow as they pressed themselves into the shadows. From his vantage point, Astarion peered through a narrow gap between the crates, his sharp eyes fixed on the door.
The heavy iron door creaked open, and his blood ran cold as four figures strode into the room. At their head was a tall, hulking figure clad in black armor, its surface dulled with wear but etched with intricate, menacing designs. A scarlet cape swept the floor behind him, its edges darkened with grime and dried blood.
The light caught the glint of pale scales as the figure's face came into view, a face that was a mask of menace, with sharp, angular features further sharpened by the faint glow of crimson eyes. They burned with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the shadows, cold and calculating yet brimming with restrained violence. The jaw tightened, exposing sharp teeth that gleamed like shards of ice, while jagged horns swept back, ridged and deadly, framing the figures head like a twisted crown.
A white dragonborn.
Durge.
