Astarion's boots whispered against the gravel-strewn path, the uneven ground crunching softly beneath him as he wandered the outskirts of the Last Light Inn.
The torchlight struggled here, faltering as it licked at the edges of the encroaching gloom, casting jagged shadows that seemed to writhe on the walls. He adjusted the clasp of his cloak, the chill in the air brushing like a claw along his exposed skin. It wasn't the cold that made him uneasy, though. It was the lingering memory of the shadows.
They had moved like oil on water, limbs stretching unnaturally, mouths fixed in silent howls. They had been ruthless to fight, feeding on darkness, draining life the moment a torch guttered or a spell flickered out. He flexed his fingers, his palm brushing against the hilt of his sabre as if reassuring himself it was still there.
The memory of the Harper they'd lost crept in, unbidden. His final scream had been a gurgled thing, cut short as the darkness consumed him whole. Astarion grimaced, teeth gritting. Weakness, he reminded himself, had no place in the dark.
The Inn's grounds were quiet now, but the tension lingered. Despite saving the Harpers, Ishta and her group were treated like ticking time bombs. Jaheira, their leader, had been especially cold - her narrowed eyes calculating, her scimitars gripped with the kind of certainty that came from long years of hard decisions. She'd nearly ordered them all executed when the truth of their tadpoles had surfaced.
Salvation had come in an unlikely form - Mol, the tiefling whelp from the grove. She'd appeared as if summoned, her cocky smirk cutting through the tension like a knife. Her casual vouching for Ishta and the others had been almost unbearable to watch. And then, she'd turned to him, her grin sharpening. "Not so sure about that one, though. Real nefarious."
Astarion had chuckled then, more for effect than amusement, but the flicker of suspicion in Jaheira's eyes told him she'd filed the comment away, just in case. Still, Ishta's silver tongue had carried the moment, weaving a tapestry of reassurance so convincing that even Jaheira's skepticism softened - slightly. The druid's hard expression hadn't quite melted, but it cracked enough to let them through the gates.
Even now, Astarion could feel the weight of her suspicion pressing against his back, though she was nowhere in sight. He smirked, humorless. Being trusted had never been his strong suit, especially not by leaders like her, who read the world in lines of black and white.
Now, beneath the silver glow of the moonlight barrier that protected the inn from the curse, he pushed those thoughts aside.
The more pressing concern was Ishta's disappearance.
She had vanished not long after they had made camp, just as she often did when burdened by the weight of her decisions. And lately, those weights had only grown heavier. Among other things, the news about the tiefling refugees had been a cruel blow. Ishta had listened in silence as the Harpers recounted the scene - families scattered, some captured, others slaughtered.
She'd tightened her grip on her blade after that, her resolve sharpening to a lethal point. Moonrise Towers was no longer just a waypoint on their journey - it was a battlefield waiting to be stormed.
But tonight, she'd slipped away, leaving Astarion to hunt for her. His frustration simmered beneath the surface, but he buried it, letting a cool indifference settle on his features as he strode past the inn's outer wall, heading down a path that led under the stone bridge that served as an entrance to the inn's grounds.
Beneath it the river whispered, its ripples glinting in the moonlight like scattered silver, highlighting a figure sat against the stone. Astarion's boots crunched softly over the gravel as he approached, his steps slowing when he spotted Ishta. She sat tucked into the base of the arch on the inn side, her silhouette trembling with the faint, fractured sobs that carried through the damp air.
He lingered, half-hidden in the shadows. It would be easy to leave her to her solitude, to respect the unspoken rules of grief, but he couldn't shake the unease curling in his gut.
A sharp thud interrupted his thoughts as Ishta slammed her shoulder into the stone wall, a guttural cry tearing from her throat.
Astarion acted on instinct, hurrying forward and snapping, "Stop that!"
Ishta flinched, her head snapping toward him, and he froze. The moonlight exposed her face, and he wished it hadn't. Her golden eyes were swollen and bloodshot, the tracks of tears carving pale paths down her cheeks. Despair clung to her like a shroud, suffocating the fiery strength he had always admired in her.
"Please," she rasped, her voice cracking like dry earth underfoot. "For once, just leave me alone. Let me have my own private little meltdown without interruption."
The vulnerability in her tone disarmed him momentarily, and he almost obeyed. But Astarion had seen the ways her volatile emotions devoured her from the inside out, and he wasn't about to let them do so again. His lips curled into a wry, sardonic smile as he crossed his arms.
"I'm afraid I can't do that. You're sitting in my brooding spot. I discovered this charming little alcove earlier and planned to assault a few bridge walls myself."
Her laugh was bitter, devoid of humor, and she looked away, her jaw tightening. "What do you have to be angry about?"
"Oh, lots of things, darling," he replied, his voice taking on an acerbic edge. "I've got two hundred years' worth of pent-up rage, remember?"
Ishta's head dropped, her shoulders sagging further under some invisible weight. "I didn't mean it like that," she murmured, her voice tinged with guilt.
The biting retort he'd prepared died in his throat. He sighed and lowered himself to sit beside her, leaning against the cold stone.
His tone, when he spoke, was quieter. "I know. Neither did I. You might not realize this, but sarcasm is my finely-honed weapon of choice when faced with uncomfortable truths."
To his surprise, a soft snort escaped her. "Really?" she muttered, lips twitching despite herself. "That is a revelation."
He smirked, tilting his head to study her profile. "Oh, look, I see it's your weapon of choice too."
She turned to him at last, her lips curving into a sad smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm really not in the mood for banter tonight, Astarion."
"Fair enough," he said, adjusting his posture. "Then how about a serious conversation?"
Ishta stiffened, her hands twitching in her lap. "About what?"
"About how monumentally unfair it is that someone like Karlach - so brave, so bursting with life - gets dealt such a wretched hand by fate. She finally gets her engine cooled down enough to touch someone, after ten years of solitude, and now she's told she might die tomorrow, or the next day, or the one after that."
The dam broke, and Ishta slumped forward, burying her face in her hands. Her voice, when it came, was fractured. "I tried to convince her to go back to Avernus - just for a little while, just to stabilize the engine - but she wouldn't even consider it."
"Can you blame her?" Astarion countered gently. "That's like asking me to return to Cazador to patch up my ego."
"She wouldn't necessarily be going back to the same kind of life," Ishta argued softly, though her voice lacked conviction.
"True," he conceded. "But can you honestly expect her to take that risk?"
Ishta's gaze drifted across the water to where the edge of the moonlight barrier cut through the river. Her voice, when it came, was quiet and resigned. "This is why I've always kept people at a distance," she murmured. "Letting them in means you risk losing them. And it's worse than I remembered."
Her voice cracked, and she turned to Astarion, her eyes brimming with anguish. "Gale's already willing to blow himself to pieces for the greater good. Now Karlach's facing her own death sentence, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it."
Gazing into her tear-filled eyes, Astarion knew at that moment he would have cut out his own heart and given it to her, if he thought it could have eased her pain. He opened his mouth to say something, but she looked away again, her eyes fluttering closed as her head rested against the stone.
"But that's not the worst of it."
He waited, watching her expression carefully, sensing that this confession carried something deep.
"The worst part is..." She hesitated, her voice faltering. Then, in a single exhale, she let it out. "I would trade places with them in a heartbeat."
His stomach twisted uneasily, but he forced himself to keep his tone light. "Well, you do have an irritating tendency to throw yourself into self-sacrificing gestures. That's hardly news."
Ishta shook her head, her expression clouded with something darker. "No. You don't understand. Karlach doesn't have much time left, but she still wants to fight, to live her life to the fullest. And I... I have what could be an entire immortal life ahead of me - and I've been trying to end it for years."
The air turned cold, and a chill slithered down his spine, tightening his chest. He sat up straighter, the realization of what she was saying hitting him like a hammer on an anvil.
Her laugh was sharp and empty, cutting through the silence. "How much of a shit person does that make me?"
For once, Astarion had no quip, no witty retort. "Do... do you still feel that way?" His voice was careful, measured.
Ishta turned her head slowly, meeting his gaze. Her eyes, so hollow moments before, now carried a flicker of something else - uncertainty, perhaps, or a faint ember of hope buried under the ashes. "I don't know," she admitted softly, the words carried on a shaky breath. "If you'd asked me that a month ago, when we first all met each other, I'd have said yes without hesitation. But now..." Her voice trailed off, and she glanced back at the river, her brow furrowing. "I'm not so certain anymore."
Astarion tilted his head, studying her as though trying to unravel a puzzle. "Why though?"
She exhaled heavily, as though the weight of the answer was too much to bear. Her fingers toyed absently with the edge of her cloak, her nails scraping against the fabric as she spoke. "I used to be a champion of Mielikki - Goddess of the forest, the Supreme Ranger. I even wielded her Hornblades once, during a sacred mission in her name." A faint, bitter smile tugged at her lips, gone almost as soon as it appeared. "I heard her voice as clearly as any cleric."
Her eyes turned to meet his, and the raw pain in them sent a chill through him. "But do you know what she despises more than anything else?"
The answer hovered in the stillness between them, unspoken but already known. Astarion exhaled heavily, his shoulders sinking. "Undead," he said, his voice flat.
Ishta nodded, her expression tightening. "Even her very touch destroys them."
He leaned back slightly, bracing himself against the stone arch, his lips quirking in a sardonic half-smile. "I assume your becoming part vampire put something of a damper on the relationship with your goddess, then?"
A bitter laugh escaped her, short and sharp like the crack of a branch underfoot. "You could say that." Her fingers dug into the fabric of her cloak, twisting it as though wringing out her frustration. "I knew she wouldn't approve if I... if I just ended it myself. So I threw myself into every noble, impossible quest I could find. People praised me for being so selfless, for being the hero who always came to save the day. But the truth?" Her voice broke, the words laced with a venom born of self-loathing. "The truth is, I wasn't any of those things. I just kept hoping... hoping I'd die in battle and wipe away the shame of what I am."
Astarion arched a brow, the faintest glimmer of disapproval in his tone as he replied, "Rather a tad hypocritical of you to condemn Gale for having a similar plan, don't you think?"
Her lips twitched into a humorless smile, her gaze falling to the ground. "Why do you think I punched that pillar..."
"Ah," Astarion said, a trace of amusement curling his voice. "I see. Not quite as noble when viewed from the other side of the sacrifice, is it?"
"No," she admitted, her voice barely audible over the murmur of the river. "Not really."
He shifted, leaning back more comfortably against the stone, crossing his hands behind his head as he regarded her with a faint smirk. "I must say, I'm actually rather relieved you're not the selfless, paragon of heroism I initially thought you were. Turns out you're just as flawed, selfish, and delightfully messy as the rest of us."
Ishta let out a soft, mirthless laugh, leaning back beside him. Her shoulder brushed against his, her gaze distant. "Probably more so than you. At least you never pretended to be otherwise. You don't care what people think of you. Or your motives."
Astarion's smirk faltered slightly, a flicker of something more somber passing across his face. "That's... not entirely true," he murmured, the admission slipping out before he could stop it. "But yes, usually I don't give a damn. I find more fun in playing fast and loose with the rules - and I certainly don't intend to stop anytime soon."
"Good for you," Ishta said quietly, her voice carrying a sincerity that made him glance at her again.
His ruby eyes softened as he studied her, the tension in her posture, the way her gaze remained fixed on the water as if searching for answers in its depths. After a moment, he spoke again, his tone lighter, playful even, though the undertone was laced with something genuine.
"However," he said, drawing her gaze back to him, "much to my surprise - and, frankly, my dismay - I do care about what happens to my... friends." He let the word linger, watching her out of the corner of his eye for a reaction. "So if you think I'm giving up on you, Karlach, and - ugh - even Gale, then you are in for quite the shock."
That earned a faint huff of laughter from her. Encouraged, he turned to her fully, his smirk returning as he flashed one of his fangs in a mock-threatening grin. "I can be dangerously possessive."
Ishta finally met his gaze, her lips twitching in a faint, reluctant smile. "I'll keep that in mind," she said softly, before her expression clouded over again and her eyes dropped to the ground.
Throwing caution to the wind, Astarion leaned forward tentatively, his arms encircling Ishta's shoulders. She stiffened beneath his touch, her breath hitching. "What are you doing?" she whispered, uncertainty lacing her voice like a frayed thread threatening to snap.
He lowered his head slightly, speaking softly against her hair. "I'm giving you a hug," he murmured. "I've been reliably informed that it's what people do when they see a friend going through a hard time."
For a moment, she was motionless. Then a soft laugh escaped her, fragile but real, and her arms slowly came up to return the gesture. Her grip was tentative at first, hesitant, as though she might break him - or herself - if she held on too tightly. "Whoever gave you such wisdom?" she asked, her voice carrying a faint note of amusement, though it was tinged with weariness.
Astarion smirked, though she couldn't see it. "Oh, some random woman I met in the woods one day. And do you know," he continued, his tone conspiratorial, "she had the audacity to steal my dagger right off my belt and threaten me with it. The cheeky wench. Now I'm stuck chasing after her on whatever harebrained quest happens to strike her fancy."
He felt the tremor of Ishta's silent laughter ripple against his chest, her body leaning just a fraction closer into his embrace. It was a delicate shift, but enough to coax a smile from him. Her grip around him tightened, and he found himself holding her just a little closer in return.
"She sounds like a right pain in the arse," Ishta murmured, her voice muffled against his chest.
"Oh, she most certainly is," he replied, grinning into her hair. His grin widened as he added, "Ironically, she wouldn't let me be a pain in hers."
Her head jerked back slightly as she thumped him hard between his shoulder blades. Astarion couldn't help but chuckle, a rich, warm sound that carried through the cold air. "Sorry," he said, his tone unapologetic. "I couldn't resist."
His laughter lingered for a beat longer, then faded into a quiet sigh. He softened, his voice barely above a whisper. "But she's also the bravest and most compassionate person I know. I'd be... lost without her."
He felt it instantly - the way her body tensed, her arms loosening their hold as though his words had struck a chord she wasn't ready to hear. Astarion's heart clenched, a wave of panic rising in his chest. She began to pull away, and he scrambled for a way to deflect, to mask the rawness of what he'd just revealed.
"No, I mean I'd quite literally be lost," he added hastily, his tone lighter, almost flippant. "I still haven't the foggiest idea how to navigate this blasted wilderness on my own."
Her body relaxed slightly, but she still pulled away, her arms falling to her sides. Her gaze darted to the ground, then back to him, and for a moment, Astarion felt like a statue frozen in place.
Ishta's jaw tightened briefly before she forced a small, uncertain smile. The lingering unease in her expression told him all he needed to know. Any hope he might have harbored, however foolish, of deepening their relationship was slipping through his fingers like sand.
She wasn't ready. Perhaps she never would be.
Astarion leaned his head back against the bridge, closing his eyes briefly as he tried to steady himself - telling himself it didn't matter. For as long as she needed him, he'd stay. Even if she never saw him the way he wanted her to, he would endure the ache of it, if only to keep her from disappearing into her own darkness.
He forced his tone back to something light, playful, a familiar shield against vulnerability. "You know," he drawled, "for someone who punched a stone pillar in frustration, you're awfully delicate. That hit to my back was pitiful."
Ishta tilted her head, giving him a sidelong glance. "I'm still recovering from Jaheira's little truth potion," she replied, her voice laced with a faint note of distaste. "Klauthgrass always makes me feel sick."
He arched a brow, tilting his head in mock disbelief. "Then why, pray tell, did you drink it? Wait - don't tell me." He held up a finger as though the answer were some grand revelation. "It was the quickest way to earn her trust, wasn't it?"
Her silence and the faint raise of her brows were answer enough.
He sighed, the exasperated sound exaggerated but not entirely feigned. "I suppose it worked," he admitted begrudgingly. "Though I must say, I've never seen Karlach so giddy before - and that's truly saying something. She was practically tripping over herself, gushing about that sharp-tongued druid."
Ishta's lips quirked, a flicker of amusement breaking through the lingering shadows in her expression. "Like you wouldn't be the same if you met Drizzt Do'Urden?"
Astarion stiffened, sitting upright with exaggerated dignity, his jaw tightening. "I'd like to think I'd show a little more restraint and decorum."
"Oh, of course." Her voice was a perfect mimicry of his own lofty tone, her eyes glinting with mischief. Rising to her feet, she dusted off her hands and shot him a glance over her shoulder. "Well, I'll just have to introduce you to him one day and test that out, won't I?"
For a moment, the world around him fell away. Astarion stared up at her, his heart jolting in his chest as if she'd pulled it taut on a string. "You mean you actually know him?" His careful facade cracking with excitement before he realized it. He narrowed his eyes a fraction, suspicion creeping into his tone. "I don't believe you."
Ishta shrugged, her movements unhurried, as though she didn't notice - or perhaps delighted in - his sudden burst of interest. "He's Mielikki's champion too."
Astarion scrambled to his feet, brushing dirt from his trousers in an effort to regain his composure. "And I'm a Vampire," he quipped, his voice tinged with dry humor. "That doesn't mean I've had dinner with Strahd von Zarovich..." He paused, the thought striking him with sudden alarm. His crimson eyes narrowed. "Please tell me you haven't met him too."
The shudder that ran through her was almost imperceptible, but the grimace on her face wasn't. "Trust me," she muttered, "that's one Vampire even I have no wish to antagonize."
She turned away, her boots scuffing softly against the gravel as she began to walk toward the inn.
Astarion hurried after her, his long legs quickly closing the distance. "Oh no, we're not done yet," he said, his tone feigned indignation as he matched her pace. "How did you meet Drizzt? Where? Did you see Guenhwyvar too?"
Ishta stopped, turning slowly to face him. A single brow arched, her expression calm but for the faint curve of a teasing smile on her lips. She said nothing, waiting.
Realizing his excitement had betrayed him, Astarion immediately crossed his arms over his chest, his face shifting into a mask of practiced indifference. He gave a small, dismissive shrug. "Not that I care, of course. I'm merely curious. Purely academic, really." His nose tilted ever so slightly upward. "And I'm still not convinced you actually know him."
Her soft laugh carried on the night breeze, and she shook her head, her smile lingering as she turned back toward the inn. Astarion stood for a moment, watching her, his chest tightening inexplicably at the sight of her retreating figure. He followed at a more leisurely pace, the faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth betraying his attempts at feigned disinterest.
As the shadows of the bridge faded into the glow of the inn's lights, his mind whirled with images of panther-shaped shadows, legendary swords, and the ever-complicated enigma that was Ishta.
The low murmur of the inn ebbed and flowed like a restless tide, voices blending with the occasional clink of tankards and the shuffle of boots on warped floorboards. Ishta sat hunched at the bar, hand curled around her untouched tankard of mead. Her fingers traced the rim, movements slow and absent, as if grounding herself in the texture of the cold metal. Her thoughts churned, louder than the muted conversation around her.
Rolan's accusations still clung to her like nettles. The tiefling wizard's sharp words had landed with the precision of a practiced blade, each one carrying the bitter weight of grief and guilt. He'd swayed where he stood, more fury than balance, as he spat his blame.
She had made the best choice she could at the time back in the grove, advising he and siblings to stay with the refugees, trusting in the relative safety of numbers.
Now, they were prisoners of the cultists, and Rolan's grief had sought its outlet in her. Ishta had taken the verbal blows silently, knowing she couldn't afford to crumble under them.
The tankard in her hand shifted as her grip tightened. She'd already orchestrated a desperate plan to keep Rolan from charging off in a suicidal rescue attempt, relying on the tiefling orphans to assist her. The children had been disturbingly willing conspirators, slipping the sleeping draught into Rolan's drink with a skill that spoke of experience. Now, all she could do was hope their plan worked. Hope the siblings were still alive to save.
Ishta took a deep breath, letting the scent of old wood and spilled ale fill her lungs, before exhaling slowly. Her gaze returned to the mead, as though the answers to everything might rise to the surface if she stared long enough.
The air shifted subtly beside her, a warmth brushing against the back of her arm. She didn't look up immediately. She didn't need to. The presence was as familiar as it was steadying, like the first rays of sunlight after a long storm.
"Come to cheer me up?" she asked without turning, her voice flat, the words carrying the edge of a forced jest.
Halsin slid onto the stool next to her with practiced ease, his broad frame making the creaking furniture seem precarious. He rested his forearms on the bar, his steady gaze fixed on her.
"Do you need cheering up?" he asked, his tone light yet probing, like a hand brushing aside a curtain.
Ishta sighed, finally lifting the tankard to her lips and taking a long drink. The mead burned slightly, its honeyed sweetness masking a sharper edge beneath. She lowered the tankard and glanced sideways at him, her lips twitching in a faint, humorless smile. "Gods, do I ever."
Halsin's expression softened. "Then tell me what presses so heavily on your mind."
Ishta laughed, short and humorless. She ran a hand through her hair, fingertips lingering against her scalp as if the pressure could squeeze the chaos from her thoughts. "Where do I even begin..."
She inhaled deeply, forcing her words out in a clipped rhythm. "Let's start with two of my friends who are facing horrible, needless deaths. Then let's move onto the growing pressure to keep this group motivated and focused while it feels like the entire world has lost its mind. We're being hunted by Githyanki, cultists, living shadows - who knows what else - all while trying to unravel the mystery of these damn tadpoles."
Her hand moved to her eyes, rubbing hard as though she could erase her frustration with sheer force. "And while I'm dealing with my own demons on top of this melting pot of chaos, Astarion decides now is a good time to-"
Ishta stopped abruptly, aware of Halsin's gaze fixed on her, calm but interested.
"Carry on," he said, his tone as gentle as a nudge.
Her shoulders sagged. She leaned forward on the bar, the tension in her body finally surrendering to the weight of everything pressing down on her. "To develop some kind of... feelings for me."
Halsin tilted his head, his brow raising slightly. "Romantic?"
Her forehead met the bar with a soft thunk. She groaned into the wood. "I don't know. Maybe..."
Halsin's lips quirked in the faintest of smiles. "And this is an unwelcome development for you?"
Ishta sat up, her face a picture of fatigue and exasperation. "It's lousy timing, that's for sure!"
Halsin's brow furrowed slightly, his gaze steady as he waited. When she didn't continue, he spoke softly, "You didn't answer my question."
She stared at him, her fingers drumming absently against the tankard. The flickering light from the hearth reflected in his eyes, but his expression was patient, devoid of judgment.
For a moment, Ishta hesitated, unsure whether she had the strength to peel back another layer of herself.
"I've never been in a relationship, Halsin," she began, her voice low, almost brittle. "I wouldn't know romance if it hit me with a brick between the eyes. And Astarion has already pretty much confessed that he was just trying to seduce me in exchange for protection."
Halsin watched her with quiet attentiveness, his expression unreadable except for a slight narrowing of his eyes. "Interesting strategy for someone with his past experiences."
Ishta rubbed her temples, the pressure doing little to dispel the knot forming behind her eyes. "Don't get me started on that," she muttered. Her hand dropped to the bar, fingers drumming once before going still. "I guess it's all he knows... or knew. I think I finally managed to nip it in the bud with the whole 'oath of servitude' though."
Halsin's brow furrowed. His disapproval was subtle but unmistakable. "I am still not happy about that particular gesture of yours," he said, his deep voice steady. "However, you still haven't answered my question."
He leaned closer, his presence grounding yet insistent, his gaze piercing through her defenses. "Is the idea of Astarion developing genuine feelings for you unwelcome?"
Ishta's grip tightened on her tankard as she stared into its amber depths. The question twisted in her mind, and her stomach churned. She couldn't deny that she was extremely fond of Astarion, in ways she hadn't allowed herself to examine too closely.
But the thought of navigating the fraught terrain of a relationship while battling shadows, cultists, and her own fractured sanity made her chest tighten. She thought of his trauma, his struggles with identity and worth. She thought of her own - how her resolve was already stretched thin, threatening to snap under the strain. Could she bear the weight for both of them?
When she finally looked at Halsin, her eyes were dark with exhaustion and a hint of something softer, more fragile. "No matter how much I care about Astarion, a relationship is not something I want right now - and I'm not sure it ever will be. With him, or anyone else for that matter."
Halsin held her gaze, unflinching, the silence between them punctuated by the muted sounds of the inn. "If circumstances were different?" he asked, his tone measured but probing. "If you were not facing these threats?"
Ishta exhaled slowly, her breath shaky. She lifted her head slightly, squaring her shoulders, though the weight remained. "If I didn't have a tadpole in my head, I would have killed him, Halsin," she said, her voice raw but steady. The admission hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. "The very thing that has brought us together is the same thing that is keeping us apart."
Her fingers curled around the tankard, the cool metal grounding her. "When all this is over," she said softly, the words trembling at the edges, "if we're still alive... maybe I can allow myself the luxury of feeling something more than friendship towards him. Until then..." She hesitated, her jaw tightening before the next words escaped, clipped and resolute. "Yes, Astarion's feelings - whatever they might be - are unwelcome."
Halsin nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful but reserved. He didn't offer platitudes or advice, only the steady presence of someone willing to listen. The silence stretched between them, neither awkward nor comforting, but honest in a way that words could never be.
Then, sorrow struck Ishta without warning, a sudden, choking wave that rose from somewhere deeper than her own thoughts. It wasn't hers - at least, it didn't feel like hers. It settled over her chest, heavy and cloying, like a mournful echo of someone else's pain.
Her hand faltered on the rim of her tankard, and she turned instinctively, her body reacting before her thoughts caught up. The flicker of movement at the edge of her vision drew her focus - a cloak, dark and swift, vanishing around the corner near the doorway.
Her throat tightened. It could have been anyone, but her instincts gnawed at her with quiet certainty. Astarion. The possibility rooted itself in her thoughts, and she couldn't shake the image of his pale face caught in an unguarded moment, vulnerable and wounded. The weight of guilt settled in, curling around her chest like a vice.
Turning back to the bar, she grabbed the pitcher and refilled her tankard, her movements abrupt and mechanical. The mead sloshed over the rim, but she barely noticed. A cowardly voice whispered in the back of her mind, hoping that he had been there, hoping he had overheard enough to make an explanation unnecessary. But the thought turned sour in her stomach. She drained half the tankard in a single gulp, the sweetness of the mead doing little to dull the bitterness inside her.
She set the tankard down harder than she intended, her jaw tightening. The conversation was one she couldn't face tonight. Whatever happened, it could wait until the morning. For now, she drank, the weight in her chest refusing to ease, and told herself the mead would quiet her mind before the night claimed her.
The throne room of Moonrise Towers loomed vast and menacing, a monolithic cavern where light seemed to fight a losing battle against shadow. Tall, uneven pillars stretched upward like jagged fangs, their surfaces webbed with cracks and faintly glimmering veins of green light. The oppressive glow cast eerie, shifting shadows that danced across the walls, accentuating the ancient tapestries hanging in torn, moth-eaten disarray. Each depicted cruel, brutal scenes - acts of domination and subjugation that whispered of a god's malevolent power.
The air was thick with the sickly tang of burning incense, smoke curling lazily around the countless candles lining the chamber. The floor beneath Astarion's boots felt alive, the marble veined with a pulsating luminescence, almost as if the room itself breathed.
At the center, on a raised dais draped in dark banners emblazoned with the crest of the Absolute, sat Ketheric Thorm.
The burnished armor he wore gleamed in the shifting light, its surface a lattice of jagged plate and interwoven designs reminiscent of a ribcage. Etched across the black and silver metal were symbols of decay and dominance, and his chest plate bore a crystalline amulet pulsating faintly with violet light.
His weathered face, lined with age yet untouched by frailty, bore a sharp, unreadable gaze. His hair, long and silvered, was tied back, save for strands that fell loose over his forehead, framing a headband etched with arcane symbols. He radiated an aura of quiet menace, the kind that didn't need to be spoken to be felt.
A sharp pang of unease crawled up Astarion's spine as he stared at the man who had already died twice before his eyes - only to rise again, whole and unbothered.
Gaining entry into Moonrise Towers had been laughably easy. A quick meeting of the minds and the guards at the gates had welcomed them in - just in time to see how the leader of the Absolute dealt with non-believers.
His gaze flitted to the floor where the body of the would-be goblin assassin, its head freshly severed, still twitched. The viscera pooled beneath it, a grim reminder of how futile any defiance against Ketheric seemed. The other goblins, trembling like leaves in a storm, huddled together near the edge of the room, their eyes darting between their slain comrade and Ketheric's impassive form. The sound of metal boots striking stone echoed as Ketheric rose.
Beside Astarion, Ishta swallowed hard, her voice low, muttered just for him. "Jaheira wasn't kidding about this guy. I can't even begin to imagine what's powering his immortality."
Astarion tilted his head toward her, his tone dripping with whispered sarcasm. "Perhaps you should ask him? He seems approachable."
Ishta grimaced. "You first."
At that moment, Disciple Z'rell stepped forward, her presence a sharp contrast to Ketheric's brutal power. The half-orc was clad in flowing robes of deep blue edged with muted grey, the heavy fabric shifting like water in dim light. Her expression was calm, almost bored, as she gestured toward the remaining goblins. "What shall we do with the rest of them, my lord?"
Ketheric didn't so much as glance at the pitiful creatures. His voice, cold and dismissive, carried the weight of command as he ascended the steps behind his throne. "Dispose of the rest as you see fit. Or better yet - put those True Souls to use." He gestured toward Ishta and her companions without breaking stride, vanishing into the darkness above.
Z'rell inclined her head deeply. "Of course, my lord. Thank you." The moment he disappeared, she turned sharply to Ishta, her yellowed eyes narrowing. "You heard the General. The goblins are yours - deal with them however you wish."
Ishta crossed her arms. "What am I meant to do with them, exactly?"
Z'rell tilted her head, her expression distant yet faintly amused. "They are yours. Release them, kill them, or make them fight each other for your amusement. It matters not. Here, in the seat of the Absolute's power, your authority over them is absolute. They will obey any command. Report to me upstairs when you're done." With a final glance, she swept away, her robes swirling behind her as she ascended the stairs after Ketheric.
The air thickened as Z'rell's footsteps faded, leaving Ishta to face the three goblins. They huddled together, their ragged breaths loud against the silence. She stepped closer and her eyes narrowed as she gazed down at them.
"Which of you took part in ambushing the tiefling refugee caravan on the road further north?" Her voice was low, measured, but with an edge sharp enough to cut.
The goblins scrambled over each other's words, desperate to please. "We all did, your ladyship! Did a good job, too! Stuck 'em right good, didn't we? Valuable assets, us!"
Ishta's lips tightened into a thin line. Her voice dropped further as she leaned towards them, each word laced with quiet fury. "Wrong answer."
Straightening, she pulled her bow from her back and nocked an arrow, the motion smooth and practiced. The goblins stilled, their wide eyes fixed on the weapon. "If you can cross the threshold of the main door before my arrows find you..." She gestured to the chamber's massive double doors, just visible through the dim light. "...you get to live."
One goblin sputtered, his voice high and desperate. "You serious? We don't stand a chance!"
Ishta's fingers tightened around the bowstring, her voice cold. "Or I can shoot you where you stand."
The goblins exchanged frantic glances before bolting for the door. Astarion watched silentley as Ishta loosed her first arrow, striking the nearest goblin between the shoulders, the body collapsing with a strangled cry.
The other two split, weaving between the pillars, hoping for cover. Ishta moved smoothly, her second arrow already nocked. It flew true, embedding itself in the neck of the second goblin. He dropped to his knees, choking, before crumpling to the ground.
The third goblin froze, his hands raised in surrender. "Please! I'm begging you - spare me!"
Ishta trained her arrow on him, the bowstring taut. Her voice rang out, cold and clear. "Run."
The goblin's head shook violently. "No... no point. I know I'm a goner if I do," he rasped, the sound splintering in his throat.
Astarion lingered in the shadows, his gaze sweeping over the scene, sharp and calculating. The faint tremor in Ishta's bow arm didn't escape him, nor did the flicker of doubt in her eyes. The goblin's surrender had thrown her into an internal conflict he could almost see - the pull of vengeance colliding with the steady anchor of her moral compass.
It wasn't her style to kill in cold blood. But style wasn't the issue here. His eyes slid to the dark shapes gathering at the room's edges, the robed figures of cultists watching with thinly veiled interest. Their gazes felt like knives, pressing into the scene, waiting to see weakness.
In one smooth, deliberate motion, he unholstered one of his crossbows. The bolt flew before anyone could react, embedding itself with a clean, deadly precision between the goblin's eyes. The creature crumpled, lifeless, the final breath catching in its throat like a dying ember.
Ishta spun to face him, the anger in her eyes sparking like struck flint. Her lips parted, the beginnings of a furious protest forming, but Astarion caught her mind with his own, the tadpole's connection crackling between them like a whisper in the dark.
"We have an audience, Ishta," he warned, the thought cold and firm. "Mercy here would cost more than we can afford."
Her jaw tightened as the message sank in. She turned her head slightly, the faintest movement, enough to catch the watching eyes of guards, servants, and pilgrims scattered across the chamber. They loomed in the shadows like carrion birds, waiting for the moment to swoop in.
Aloud, Astarion's voice cut through the tension with a practiced nonchalance. "Apologies, darling. I simply couldn't let you have all the fun."
Ishta strode toward him, her steps measured but firm, her fingers white-knuckled on her bow. She grabbed his collar, yanking him closer until her face was mere inches from his. Her voice cut through the chamber like a whip. "If you ever steal a kill from me again, I'll gut you."
Then, in a lower tone meant for his ears alone, she muttered, "Thank you."
The faintest twitch of surprise crossed Astarion's face, quickly masked with a sharp grin. "Of course," he said lightly, voice carrying for their audience's benefit. "It won't happen again."
She released him, turning back to the rest of their companions with a steadying breath. Astarion stayed where he was, the faint pull of her whispered gratitude echoing in his mind even as the weight of the previous night settled in his chest. He tried to force the thoughts away, but the memory lingered - her words to Halsin, spoken quietly but cutting deeply.
Astarion's feelings - whatever they may be - are unwelcome.
The words had lodged in him like shards of glass, each replay deepening the wound. He had suspected - of course, he had. She was distant, careful, always keeping him just close enough to feel her warmth but never enough to bask in it. But hearing it spoken aloud had solidified a truth he could no longer avoid. Whatever hope he'd clung to was ash now, scattered and irretrievable.
He straightened, focusing his attention on her as she addressed the others. She spoke to Karlach, Wyll, and Lae'zel with the sharp clarity of a commander assigning roles. He allowed himself a faint smile at her choice of companions for this mission - intimidation embodied.
Karlach's towering frame and battle-scarred skin gave her the presence of a siege engine, unstoppable and imposing. Wyll's devilish horns and the practiced charm of a blade-for-hire lent him an edge of quiet menace. And Lae'zel... well, her scowl alone was enough to send most men running. Decked in gleaming black githyanki plate, she looked like a harbinger of death.
Even Ishta had transformed for the mission. Her usual earth-toned garb was replaced by armor of dark leather and fur, her figure blending seamlessly into the shadows. She was the epitome of a predator, focused and deadly.
"While I go and have a chat with Z'rell," she said, her voice steady but tinged with urgency, "the rest of you take a partner and do a bit of discreet exploring. Try to get a feel for the layout and find out where the dungeons are."
Astarion stepped forward, his voice cutting in smoothly. "Or... how about the three of them go explore, and I come with you? In case there are more people to kill."
Karlach raised an eyebrow at him, her lips curving into a sly, knowing smirk before turning to Ishta. "Sounds like a good idea. Safety in numbers, even for you, soldier."
Ishta's gaze flicked between them, her lips pressed into a thin line. After a beat, she sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly. "Fine, whatever. Just be careful, okay."
Astarion noted the faint reluctance in her tone, the subtle pause before her words. It tightened something in his throat, but he pushed it down, determined. Whatever her fears, whatever her walls, he wouldn't press. He'd follow, protect, and do what needed to be done - nothing more, nothing less.
As the group dispersed, he fell into step beside her, his movements light and effortless, his eyes scanning the darkened hall ahead. The ache in his chest remained, but he masked it well, focusing on the mission instead. Whatever lay ahead, there was no room for weakness.
The throne room swallowed the sound of their entrance, as Ishta and Astarion returned from their audience with Z'rell, its cold air curling around them like a predator's breath. The faint smell of damp stone and old blood lingered, faintly metallic, clinging to the shadows that stretched long and thin across the cracked floor.
Ishta's arms were folded tightly against her chest, her fingers digging into her sides. She kept her head low as she stepped further in, her thoughts tangling in the phantom echoes of Z'rell's voice, the half-orc's presence still slithering through her mind.
Astarion followed behind her, his movements tense and deliberate, each step landing a little too hard against the floor. The sharp edge of his anger was palpable, biting into the air between them. She didn't have to look at him to know his jaw was clenched, his lips pressed into that thin line that betrayed how close he was to losing control.
The others looked up from their scattered positions - Karlach leaning against a pillar, Wyll sitting on a bench, and Lae'zel standing rigidly near the far wall, her armored form imposing even in stillness.
Karlach's gaze settled on them first, her brow raising in that familiar mix of humor and concern. "So," she asked, voice rough but warm, "how'd it go?"
Astarion's laughter came fast, harsh and bitter, like the snap of dry branches underfoot. "About as well as you'd expect from an evil cultist bitch," he spat, his words cutting through the air.
Karlach tilted her head, her brow furrowing as her gaze flicked to Ishta. Her smile faltered, replaced by something half-serious, half-concerned. "Uh oh... that bad, huh?"
Ishta forced herself to meet Karlach's gaze, the tight smile she gave her feeling brittle, but it held. "I've met worse," she said, voice carefully controlled. "But I have to say being violated via telepathy is a new one for me."
The room shifted immediately. Karlach stiffened, her towering frame straightening with sudden intensity, the easy humor vanishing from her face. Wyll stood sharply, his boots scraping against the stone as he turned toward Ishta, his eyes narrowing with alarm. Even Lae'zel, who rarely betrayed anything but disdain, tilted her head slightly, her sharp gaze narrowing further.
"What?" Wyll's voice broke through the silence, low and tight.
Ishta raised one hand, palm out, as if trying to ward off their concern. The movement was small, almost automatic, but her fingers trembled slightly. "We met with Z'rell," she said, her tone measured, deliberate. "She gave us a mission to find a necromancer named Balthazar. He was sent to the catacombs beneath the Thorm family mausoleum to retrieve some kind of relic for Ketheric. Something he values so greatly he won't - or can't - leave Moonrise without it." She paused, drawing in a breath. "I'm betting it's the source of his immortality."
Karlach stepped forward, her movements sharp, almost dismissive as she waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah, we'll find it. Not the priority right now." Her eyes locked onto Ishta's, full of raw concern. "Are you okay? What happened?"
Ishta hesitated. She could feel all their eyes on her, pressing against the weight of the encounter she was still trying to bury. Her voice came out quieter this time, the words dragging like stones. "I made the mistake of asking if it was true that General Thorm is invulnerable, hoping to get more information." Her shoulders tensed as she continued, her gaze dropping for just a moment. "Z'rell told us that the Absolute's love for him had made him more than mortal. That he is unstoppable."
She took a shaky breath, her voice hitching slightly before she could steady it. "And then... she demonstrated the powers the Absolute granted her." Her fingers dug into her arms, nails pressing hard enough to sting. "The power to kill with her mind, and the power to... pleasure with a thought."
She shuddered, the memory uncoiling in her chest like a serpent. Z'rell's presence had filled her mind utterly, oppressive and inescapable. The sensations had shifted so rapidly - gentle strokes, kisses, and caresses morphing into claws, bites, and blades - that her pulse had raced, her body straining under the confusion of it. Pain had become pleasure, unbearable and overwhelming, leaving her gasping for breath as her body trembled in unbidden ecstasy.
Karlach's jaw tightened, her expression hardening into something that radiated violence barely held in check. "When we burn this place to the ground," she growled, her voice a low rumble, "I'm ripping her head off."
Astarion, who had been pacing restlessly behind Ishta, whirled, his voice cutting like glass. "Get in line."
Ishta turned slightly, catching the edge of his expression - a mask of rage so tight it seemed ready to crack. His hands trembled at his sides, his fingers twitching toward the dagger she knew he longed to use. The fury in his eyes burned so fiercely it almost masked the deep, shadowed hurt that lingered beneath it.
She exhaled, steadying herself. "Astarion nearly blew our cover," she said, her voice firm but not accusatory.
His glare snapped to her, ice meeting fire. "You should have let me disembowel that monster," he hissed, his tone low but seething with restrained venom she knew wasn't directed at her.
For a moment, the room stilled, the tension taut as a bowstring. Ishta held his gaze, her own anger flickering to life but quickly subdued. "And what then?" she asked quietly, the sharp edge of her voice softening only slightly. "We'd both be dead before we made it back here. You know that."
His expression didn't shift, but the tremor in his hand stopped. The fury in his eyes dimmed, not extinguished but pushed back, banked for another time. He turned sharply, his back to her, his shoulders taut with unspoken words.
Ishta let out a slow breath, the tension coiling in her chest loosening slightly.
Karlach cleared her throat, stepping into the lull with a casual tone that only half-masked her effort to redirect the conversation. "We found an alchemist or something in one of the side chambers. She's got potions for sale if we want to stock up before... whatever it is we're doing next."
Wyll folded his arms, his expression tense despite Karlach's attempt to lighten the mood. "We also found the entrance to the dungeons. Just had to follow the trail of blood."
Ishta caught the flicker of unease in his eyes, the way his jaw tensed ever so slightly. She stepped forward, her voice steady and reassuring. "If your father is down there, we'll get him out." Her gaze swept across the group, her tone sharpening with purpose. "If we're going to orchestrate a jailbreak, we need to stock up - healing supplies, extra weapons for the prisoners, whatever we can carry in our bags."
Astarion leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his smirk almost lazy. "Won't that sour things between us and our delightful hosts?" His voice dripped with disdain, but the edge of unease was there, just beneath the surface.
"I'm hoping for a discreet jailbreak," Ishta replied, her tone clipped.
Astarion scoffed, but this time he said nothing more, his eyes narrowing as he watched her.
Ishta's gaze shifted back to the group, her expression hardening with determination. "Karlach, Wyll, see what food and clothing you can acquire - just in case the prisoners have been starved or stripped. Lae'zel, weapons. Astarion and I will visit the alchemist."
No further discussion was necessary. The group dispersed with a sense of purpose, each carrying a gold pouch and a bag-of-holding. The muted shuffle of boots against the stone faded into silence, leaving Ishta and Astarion alone.
They moved through the dimly lit corridor, a faint hum growing louder with every step. The room they entered was a chaotic sprawl of glass beakers, copper tubing, and jars filled with liquids in every imaginable shade. The sharp tang of herbs and metal mingled with something darker, almost sweet, that made Ishta's nose twitch.
At the center of the room, a drow woman worked over a stone mortar, her hands moving deftly as she ground something into a fine, crimson paste. She wore an air of confidence, her posture straight and her movements precise. At the sound of their approach, she paused, straightened, and turned. Her gaze swept over Ishta, cool and polite, before landing on Astarion - and lighting up like a predator sighting prey.
A smile spread across her face, sharp and calculated, as she gave a slight bow. "Araj Oblodra," she purred, her voice silky and low. "Trader in blood and the sanguineous arts. It is a pleasure to stand before a True Soul." Her eyes flicked to Astarion, and her smile widened, a glint of hunger flashing in her dark gaze. "And your pale companion."
Astarion's posture stiffened, his crimson eyes narrowing as he assessed her. His usual veneer of charm didn't slip, but there was a guardedness in the way he tilted his head, his hands loosely resting at his sides, ready to move if needed.
Araj stepped closer, her movements smooth and deliberate, as though savoring the moment. "I never thought I'd see one in real life," she murmured, her tone almost reverent. Her gaze lingered on Astarion, studying his features. "I've read about your kind for so many years, but you are a finer specimen than any bestiary could describe."
Ishta felt her jaw tighten, her shoulders drawing back as irritation coiled in her stomach. She cleared her throat loudly, stepping forward to break the woman's focus. "Ahem. What does a 'trader in blood' do exactly?"
Araj's focus shifted to her, though the smile didn't fade. If anything, it grew more polished, a mask of charm over something far darker. "I trade in blood," she said simply, gesturing to the shelves behind her, where vials of red liquid glinted in the dim light. "And the potions that can be wrung from it. I'd be more than happy to make one for you - if you'd honor me with your blood."
She stepped back, spreading her hands in a gesture of mock humility, though her eyes gleamed with intent. "Just one drop, and I can brew a rather potent potion for you. The rest," her smile turned coy, "I keep for myself."
Ishta's jaw tightened, her arms crossing as she studied the drow. "What kind of potion are we talking about here?"
Araj shrugged with an exaggerated casualness that didn't match the gleam in her eyes. "No idea! But it will be unique to you - your blood essence and the Absolute's blessing intertwined. We can discover exactly what that means together, hm?"
Astarion's voice cut through, smooth but laced with suspicion. "And what, exactly, will you do with the blood you keep?"
Araj's smile didn't falter. "Research, naturally," she said, tilting her head in mock innocence. "A little experimentation, perhaps. I have an innate curiosity for all things sanguine."
Ishta took a slow breath, her expression hardening. "I'd prefer not to," she said firmly, her voice cold. "My people have something of a troubled history with this kind of experimentation."
Araj's expression shifted, faint disappointment flickering in her eyes before her smile returned, practiced and polite. "A shame," she said lightly, though the edge in her voice lingered. "But I do have other wares, if you'd care to browse."
Her gaze shifted back to Astarion, and her lips curled in a smirk that sent a prickle of unease along Ishta's spine. The drow's voice, sweetened with mock politeness, held the undercurrent of something far darker.
"Although," Araj began, her voice syrupy and deliberate, "perhaps there's one more thing we could discuss: your vampiric friend."
Astarion, ever the actor, tilted his head and let a playful smirk play on his lips. "Don't worry," he said lightly, his voice dripping with a practiced charm. "We're all friends under the Absolute. I won't bite."
"Oh, I'd prefer if you did," Araj said, her tone so casual it felt more like a blade slipped between ribs.
The shift in Astarion's demeanor was immediate, his flirty facade dropping into something guarded, his brows knitting in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"
Ignoring him, Araj turned to Ishta, her tone imperious, as though addressing a subordinate. "I assume he belongs to you?"
Ishta's arms fell from her chest, her fingers flexing as anger began to rise like a tide inside her. "Excuse me?" Her voice was low, measured, though her narrowing eyes spoke volumes. "He's his own person and quite capable of speaking for himself."
Under her breath, she muttered, "It's getting him to shut up that's the problem."
Araj's laugh was soft, patronizing, as though humoring a petulant child. "I'm sure he really believes that. How utterly adorable."
A headache began to bloom behind Ishta's eyes, the tension from the day building with every smug word the alchemist spoke.
Turning her attention back to Astarion, Araj's expression didn't waver. "Do you have a name, spawn?"
Astarion's response was automatic, his voice clipped. "Astarion." He raised a hand, as though to stop whatever line of thought the woman was about to follow. "But hold on-"
"Good," Araj cut him off, her words slicing through his like a knife. "Now, Astarion, I've dreamt of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl."
Astarion blinked, his disbelief apparent. "I'm sorry? You want to be bitten?"
"To feel your life's blood slipping away?" Araj's voice dropped into something akin to reverence, her eyes shining with a sick sort of hunger. "To dance on the edge between life and death? Yes, I want it. I'll even compensate you - a potion of legendary power that forever increases the strength of the one who consumes it. It's not for sale, but it's yours if you bite me."
Astarion's hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening. "I will have to decline."
The drow's smile vanished, her tone snapping into something harsh and indignant. "Excuse me? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you're squandering it."
Astarion's voice turned sharp, his words clipped with anger. "I gave you my answer."
Araj's eyes flicked back to Ishta, her expression disdainful. "Can't you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?"
The words hit Ishta like a slap, cutting through the last thread of her composure. The day's events - the violation of her mind by Z'rell, the mounting pressure to keep her companions alive, and now this woman treating Astarion like some exotic prize to be traded and exploited.
Her body moved before her thoughts could catch up, and the crash of glass shattered the air, vials splintering against the stone floor as Ishta slammed Araj backward onto the workbench. The clatter reverberated through the alchemist's chamber, the scent of blood and spilled reagents rising in a suffocating haze.
Ishta gripped the drow's collar tightly, her knuckles whitening as she leaned closer. Her voice was a low, venomous growl. "He said no. Back off."
Araj squirmed against the rough wood, eyes darting between Ishta's face and the chaos around them, her protests sharp and indignant. "What do you think you're do-"
Ishta silenced her with a rough shake that sent the drow's head snapping back. "No," she hissed, her voice tight and venomous. "You don't get to talk here. You listen. And you listen closely, because I don't intend to repeat myself."
The chamber grew still except for the creak of the workbench under Araj's weight and the faint crackle of a dying flame in a nearby brazier. Ishta's glare burned into the drow's wide, frightened eyes.
"Astarion is not an object you can barter for. He is not a tool, a slave, or a pet. He is a person. And you will show him the respect he more than deserves."
The weight of her words landed like a blow, and Araj's face paled, her previous haughty demeanor evaporating. She gasped softly, staring at Ishta as though seeing her for the first time. "You're... you're a vampire!" she stammered, her voice cracking.
Ishta froze for a fraction of a second, a chill running down her spine. She could feel the sharp ache in her jaw now, the weight of her fangs pressing against her tongue. A reflexive sweep confirmed it - they'd sprouted, unbidden. A quick glance at her reflection in a bottle revealed eyes of glowing crimson. Her heart sank momentarily, but then her rage surged, hotter and more focused. If her monstrous nature unnerved Araj, then so be it. She would wield it.
Her voice dropped into a silken, sinister purr. "Well, what do you know... you might just get that bite you wanted after all."
She bared her fangs, the sharp glint catching in the dim light, and leaned closer. Her breath was hot against the drow's skin, her voice sliding into something dark and taunting. "But I highly doubt you'll survive the experience."
Araj's breath hitched, her eyes darting to the side, and she let out a strangled gasp. Before Ishta could react, Astarion's voice cut through, strained but steady. "Ishta, I think you need to calm down... right now in fact."
Her head whipped toward him, annoyance flaring hot in her chest. "What are you-" Her voice faltered as she noticed his wide eyes, his expression stricken. Slowly, she became aware of something in the air around her.
Blood.
Streams of it, crimson and shimmering, floated in jagged arcs around her head. They twisted and writhed, tendrils forming sharp, blade-like shapes that hovered threateningly near Araj's face. The sight was almost mesmerizing, the way the fluid pulsed and shifted in rhythm with her ragged breaths
She turned her gaze to Astarion. His usual cool composure was gone, replaced with something that looked dangerously close to fear. His eyes flicked between the floating blood and her face, searching for answers she feared to give him.
Ishta's stomach lurched, and she abruptly stepped back, releasing Araj. The blood tendrils collapsed instantly, splashing down onto Araj in a wave of crimson. The drow coughed and sputtered, her hands flailing to wipe the liquid from her face and armor.
Ishta took another step back, shaking slightly, her arms hanging limp at her sides. The cold realization of what had just happened wrapped around her like a noose.
Araj staggered upright, brushing at her soaked leather armor with trembling hands. Ishta forced her breathing to steady, burying her unease beneath a mask of icy control. She stepped forward again, her movements deliberate. Araj flinched slightly, her startled eyes darting up to meet Ishta's.
"Here's how this will go," Ishta said, her voice smooth and steady, though a subtle edge of menace lingered. "You and I both know it's not 'True Soul' blood you're interested in. It's illithid-tainted blood. Blood you've been experimenting with, in defiance of the houses that purged your kin a century ago."
Araj's eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Ishta's glare silenced her.
"So, I'll make you an offer," Ishta continued, each word deliberate. "You can buy your life - and my silence about why you're really here among the Absolute's faithful - by doing one simple thing. Apologize to my friend for insulting him with your... trade offer."
Araj hesitated, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggled to regain control. She glanced at Astarion, who stood behind Ishta, his face unreadable save for the faint awe flickering in his wide eyes. His gaze remained locked on Ishta, his breath slow and heavy, as though the weight of her command had transfixed him.
Finally, Araj brushed at her blood-soaked armor, her movements stiff and jerky. She turned to Astarion, bowing low, her voice trembling slightly. "Forgive me, True Soul. I did not mean to offend you."
The chamber fell into a weighted silence, the crackle of the brazier the only sound. Ishta didn't move, her gaze boring into Araj as though daring her to try anything more. When she finally turned and began to walk away, the tension in the room loosened, though the lingering unease refused to dissipate entirely.
Astarion said nothing, and his sharp eyes stayed locked on Ishta as they left the room, his silence louder than any words. When they were far enough from the alchemist's chamber, Astarion came to an abrupt stop, his face twisting with incredulity.
"What in the sweet hells was that?!" he demanded, his voice sharp with disbelief.
Ishta froze, her breath catching in her throat. The memory of the blood tendrils floated before her mind's eye, the way they had writhed and pulsed, alive and violent. Her chest tightened as the scene replayed itself in sharp, vivid detail: the fear in Araj's eyes, the predatory edge to her own voice, the rush of something deep and ancient that she had unleashed. She swallowed hard, her voice dropping to a whisper full of dread.
"That.. was full Xindite Vampire."