A Servant of Tymora
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Astarion’s mouth twitched into a half-smile. He began to lean in again, seeming to revel in his position, his power over the distance between them.
“Do all clerics have such sordid hidden desires whilst pretending to holiness?” he murmured and shifted his weight slightly, deliberately, reaching out for Athanasius’s chin and playfully forcing him to look at him. And those wiry hands of his allowed for no resistance, their vampiric strength surprising to him still- though perhaps the addled state of his mind might have contributed, too.
Athanasius managed a wry smile in return.
“My goddess led me to you, I suspect, that I might satisfy them. Quiet a turn of fortune, if you-“
Astarion leaned in suddenly to interrupt him with a kiss, his eyes flashing… and their tadpoles connected with a cold, writhing sensation.
Series
- Part 1 of A Servant of Tymora
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“Why… I’m going to stab him of course.”
Minthara looked unimpressed - he could clearly picture the arch of her eyebrow beneath the mask in his mind’s eye.
“Of course,” she muttered, “I should have expected as much.”
“Well,” Astarion fumbled, “it’s simple, isn’t it? Cazador often selected victims from these parties, those who lingered on the sidelines or otherwise wouldn’t be missed – we wait for him to take the bait, we follow him – or whoever he sends to fetch his meal – and we stab him.”
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The party tries to infiltrate a masquerade ball at Szarr Palace, unbeknownst to them on the very eve of the Rite of Profane Ascension. Things go sideways very quickly.
Series
- Part 2 of A Servant of Tymora