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“Mnh… no, stay back…”
With the haste of an overburdened pack rothe, Wyll stirs from his afternoon doze… or was it morning? Evening? It wasn’t easy to tell time of day in the Underdark, let alone any passage of time at all.
“No! Get off—get away!”
Ah. So he had heard something.
Wyll comes to full awareness with a few blinks. He takes his greying, wide-brimmed hat and sets it down on the slightly spongy ground. The whole of their makeshift camp is bathed in a dim, pulsating glow—from the peach-colored mushroom stalks that tower overhead, creaking ominously like centuries-old drawbridges, to the jagged fields of stone that reflect the sickly blue light of the iridescent flora. A warm orange lights up the mix of rock and grass on the ground, accompanied by the flickering of the fading bonfire light at the camp’s center.The light highlights the occasional spore cloud that mosies its way through camp, and then dust over the dirt like a pixie sprinkling a mushroom circle.
He’s not sure if the circle he’s plopped himself down on had grown while he slept, but he brushes specks of spongy pollen away as he rises to his feet. He picks up his rapier, humming with infernal enchantments, and clicks the latch in place on his belt. He doesn’t think he’ll need to use it, but with the way Astarion was snapping at everyone and practically foaming at the mouth earlier—a man could never be too careful in times such as these.
Wyll approaches the vampire spawn’s tent, just in time to see Astarion convulse and tear himself out of his bedroll like it was on fire. He’s a blur of white hair and pale skin as he leaps to his feet like a startled doe. The little wooden nightstand Astarion just insists on keeping around jostles dangerously as he carelessly runs into it, knocking bowls and wine glasses from its surface.
Wyll winces at the sound of shattering glass, and keeps a hand on the hilt of his rapier. For safety. “You alright, Astarion? Talk to me.”
The spawn’s eyes are wild, breath coming in short gasps as he whirls around with no particular sense of direction. Surely he’s not entirely all here, Wyll thinks. At least, not in his right mind. He’s mostly drenched, apparently having soaked his cream-colored shirt with sweat. His fingers twitch. Pupils dilated in fear. He fails to meet his eye like a wild beast.
“Easy. Easy, I said,” Wyll’s voice is calm yet firm, like cooling steel fresh off the forge. “Just relax.”
“He was here— Maste— Cazador was here—“ Astarion sputters out, emphasizing each word with an accusatory point of the finger. “Can’t believe he came himself—“
“A dream,” Wyll says decidedly. Lest he’d failed to protect their camp from a particularly sneaky vampire lord. “Probably from the blood you had. Remember?”
Astarion’s fists clench and unclench erratically, still failing to meet his gaze. And gods below, he just won’t stop twitching like that. Wyll wonders briefly if he’s seeing a window into Astarion’s old life—wonders if that twitch was a nervous tick ingrained in him before he turned. He finds himself feeling sorry for him, despite the whole… blood-sucking thing. Astarion’s condition was only an instinct, Wyll reminded himself, like any monster or devil had. Unless, of course, these symptoms were of the mindflayer variety.
The grip on his rapier tightens.
Forcing his thoughts back to the present, the warlock sees Astarion’s chest heaving as his breaths slow down. He can see the gears turning, as his hysteria slowly gives way to rationale. He blinks his weary eyes, nods, then nods again—like he’s convincing himself that it's time to calm down. He runs a sweaty palm through his unruly head of hair and lets out the shakiest of breaths.
“All good?” Wyll questions.
The pale elf sways, fingers twitching against his damp nightshirt. He nods. Although the way those red eyes looks right through him, Wyll could very well be shouting from the rooftops of Wyrm’s Crossing and it’d be just as effective.
“Where’s Tav?” Astarion slurs, tilting slightly, like his spine can’t quite decide which way is upright.
“She’s gone off with Shadowheart and Gale. And our new bear friend,” Wyll says. “To seek out that magic tower, remember?”
Despite his clear-as-day recap, not a word seems to get through. The vampire’s eyes are glassy, the crimson color now a muted mahogany underneath drooping eyelids. His skin’s somehow even paler than the normal pearly white hue. Even his usually well-coiffed hair is a complete rat’s nest. And not a quip nor well-timed insult have yet to pass through his trembling lips. Vampire spawn were dead creatures, but this man looked downright ill.
“…I want Tav,” Astarion mutters dazedly.
Great. He’d have to be gentle here. He recalls one of the youngest tieflings back in the Grove—the one with the curly horns and green eyes that’d gotten a sick stomach. The girl bore a striking resemblance to the man before him now. He could make this work.
“Yes, I know. She’s become good friends with you, after all. Only natural to miss her,” Wyll assures calmly.
The iridescent lights of the Underdark swirl in the cavern above them as Astarion stares blankly, silent as death. The light plays on the spawn’s features, darkening his gaunt features and hollowed cheeks until he looks even more like a corpse.
Wyll pushes down the uneasy feeling in his gut and continues. “But she’s away at present. She’ll be back from the tower soon enough. We’ll just have to be a little patient.”
Astarion says nothing. Hardly even breathed. Wyll knew the elf could slip into shadow easily, staying nearly immobile right before the kill—he’d seen it first-hand in the darkest depths of the goblin camp, after all—but this… stone-stillness is a little unnerving. Like looking at someone breathing their last breath, but stretched out into an infinite loop.
Perhaps not unnerving. Just disturbing.
“Let’s get you back in your cot, yeah? That bad blood’s really done a number on you,” Wyll says, ignoring the way Astarion’s gaze appears a hundred leagues away. “You’re looking worse by the minute.”
“I’m fine. Just peachy,” Astarion mutters, continuing to stare at nothing. “Just… need blood. Better blood.”
“Blood’s what got you into this mess in the first place,” Wyll informs him. “And I’m not letting you have a drink of me. Not while you’re like this.”
Astarion scowls, clarity shining in his crimson hues quite suddenly. “As if I asked. I have standards , Wyll Ravengard.”
Ah. Now there was that usual devilish attitude. Never thought he’d miss it. Wyll might have a chance of reasoning with him now, and he doesn’t want to lose his window. Tav asked him to watch over Astarion while the drow’s poisoned blood worked its way out—so by the gods, he would do it. No matter the task at hand, nor its difficulty. He takes a step forward, his leather boot sinking slightly into the mossy ground of their camp. “Listen, Astarion can you—“
“No, I’m not going to suck your Blade,” he says flatly.
“Wasn’t going to ask that,” Wyll sneers, finding he’s already wishing for the woozy, loopy Astarion again
“Then, you want me to go take a walk in the sun? Is that it? Because unless your other eye’s gone bad, we’re in the Underdark, darling.”
Wyll shakes his head slowly. “Not that, either.”
“Is that so?” the vampire drawls as he inspects his long nails. Casually, as if Wyll wouldn’t notice he was in a full-blown panic mere moments before. The warlock can’t help but feel a cold shiver creep up his legs as he notices the nailbeds are tinged with a sickly black color. “Then what, you just want to chat?”
“All chatted out, I’m afraid,” Wyll replies dismissively.
“Shame. I was hoping for some intelligent conversation.”
“Guess you’ll have to wait ‘till Tav’s back for that, then,” Wyll says as he feels his face turn hot. “But if you’re quite finished hazing me, at least let me walk you back to your cot.”
Astarion merely tsks. “I’d really rather not spend more time with you than I have to. Especially not someone with that… ghastly taste in headwear.”
“Hey, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing than getting back to my nap,” Wyll says, “but you don’t have to shoulder this alone. You really don’t. Not unless you fancy crawling back to your tent.”
“Like you give a shit what happens to me,” Astarion hisses.
Wyll pauses. What was he implying with that? He pins him with his good eye. “What’s that mean?”
The spawn’s still swaying on his feet, but he spreads out his hands like he’s giving a stage performance. “Oh, I saw how easily you skewered that tiefling girl. The big one, on the shore. Don't give me that look—I was there.”
Wyll finds himself at a loss for words. Why would he bring this up now , of all times? He hears the groaning of the giant mushroom stalks above, towering over him like silent judges to his crimes.
A devil , he tells himself weakly. Pleadingly. She was just another devil. Another pair of horns to add to his collection.
Astarion sways along with his spiralling thoughts, nearly toppling over but he catches himself by grabbing on to the rim of his mostly-useless full-length mirror. “No questions asked. Not a single hum of hesitation. Nothing!” His nails scrape against the glass, joints shivering like leaves in autumn. “If it weren’t for our fearless leader, I’d be next on your little list!”
A chill runs through Wyll’s spine. Gods below—Was that really what Astarion thought of him? Some mindless killing machine that was soon to turn on him? He wonders just how long this has been on Astarion’s mind. Many creatures had met the edge of the Blade, but… that woman. Karlach. Did Astarion know how heavily her death had weighed on his soul? How much sleep he’d lost over the past few days? The visions of Avernus that flashed through his mind when they first met… He swears he can hear Mizora’s sickening laughter in the furthest recesses of his mind.
“Last we spoke, you weren’t a devil,” Wyll says, his leathers squeaking as he crosses his arms. He can’t let his guard down. Not now. “I mean, you were certainly acting like one after you took a sip of that drow’s nasty blood—but you’re free from my list at present.”
“Oh, I’m so relieved you’re not going to violently murder me and chop off my head . ”
“Astarion…”
Astarion squares his shoulders, seemingly ready for some kind of cocky follow-up. He opens his mouth to spit it out but instead he erupts into a series of coughs that quickly evolve into borderline dry-heaves. Wyll frowns at the display.
“Alright, that’s enough, I think,” Wyll says sternly as he raises his hands to support his weight before he falls. “Let me help before you collapse into—“
And then there’s steel at his throat. Ah . A dagger. Astarion’s grip on the hilt trembles, made slick from the sweat of his palms–but it doesn’t make it any less deadly. After all, Wyll’s seen the sparse amount of mercy given to the spawn’s enemies in battle. And that’s when he wasn’t using his fangs. Wyll swallows harshly as he stares into the vampire’s eyes, unafraid to meet his gaze. Red eyes pierce into his like two uncut, jagged rubies.
His voice drips with vitriol and poison as he hisses , “Don’t touch me.”
Astarion isn’t joking. And Wyll’s become rather attached to his neck.
“Message received,” Wyll concedes after a few moments, gloved hands slowly rising up in front of his chest. No use arguing. He’d certainly be of no use to Tav if he was dead with two fang-sized holes in his neck. If Astarion didn’t want help, he could die right there if he so pleased. Might even be convenient if the monster slayed itself this time around. It’d be hard to explain to Tav exactly how Astarion perished on his watch—in the middle of camp, no less—but Wyll wasn’t going to risk his own death over it.
Astarion drops the dagger—actually drops it into the dirt—and sags his shoulders soon after, as if the thing held the weight of an owlbear. The spawn’s hardly recognizable now, all shakes and shivers and sweat. And that distant, faraway look in his eyes. It’s almost… sad. Something twists in Wyll’s gut. Perhaps he’s being a tad harsh on the lad.
“We’ll set you up with a nice bedroll and some potions to hold you over,” he offers politely. It’s the least he can do to try and save some aspect of this. “If bedrolls suffice for you. I actually wasn’t sure if you preferred sleeping in stone, like that tomb we found. Or a coffin. Would you like to go back to the coffin—?”
Astarion’s eyes turn wild and he snarls. Wyll can’t know what he said that triggered a transformation, but it hardly matters now. He’s got half a second to throw a hand up—coats himself in a splash of mage armor—before there’s fangs in his neck and a spray of blood across his eyes. The noise he makes is a mix between a grunt and a howl, and gods why did Tav have to fuck off with the entire godsdamned camp?!
Wyll falls backwards with a pained cry, crushing a patch of mushrooms and sending glowing specks of dusty blue everywhere. He kicks his leg up on instinct, earning a pained howl from somewhere above him. Wyll manages to uncross his eyes just in time to see the retreating form of a blood-crazed vampire spawn as he disappears into the darkness. Away from camp. The one place Tav instructed to keep a certain vampire spawn in.
“Hells,” Wyll curses.
—
Astarion coughs, lungs filling with arid air and spores.
He has never felt such agony—starbursts behind his eyes, heat and bile surging in his gut. It feels like his skull is caving in on his brain and his veins drip with lava. The tadpole squirms inside his head violently, as if knowing its home is about to collapse. The ungodly scraping he felt inside. What was happening? Was it the mindflayer parasite? Why was he being punished? Wyll had said… something. Something about blood, or maybe justice. He seemed to talk about justice a lot. Had he done something terrible that garnered such retribution from the Blade? The monster hunter?
His nails scrape against iridescent stones. He must’ve fallen again, because he’s scrambling to right himself. Their camp… which way was camp? Was he going or leaving? He can’t think right now above the pounding in his ears. The dull thrumming in his skull. The scraping. Endless scraping.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
Every sense is throttled through a coin-sized hole into his brain and even then, he couldn’t dream of conjuring a single coherent thought. He hears the roar of a beast somewhere far off, and the endless chittering and skittering of many-legged insects. The sounds scrape against his skull, crisp and underwater at all once. He sees them in flashes. The face of Cazador. Of Tav, with her friendly waves and sunny smiles. The slackened face of the drow with his strange cultist leathers and blood that tasted of hellsfire. The Blade of Frontiers with a wooden stake in his hand, plunging into his dead heart. Scraping against his rib cage.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
“You are mine,” Master reminds him.
He slips on a patch of moss, digs his nails into a nearby mushroom stalk to catch himself. Its spores assault him in a sickly cloud of violet.
“I h-aven’t—“ he sputters, lungs betraying him as he coughs again. Where is he? “Haven’t disobeyed—“
“Liars get the coffin,” the voice echoes, like it’s coming from the very depths of the Underdark itself. “Would you like to go back to the coffin, pet? It must miss you dearly.”
His eyes dart to the deepest shadows cast by the rocks, searching desperately for a pair of red eyes. For surely he’s watching from the darkness. Always watching. Waiting to strike and drag him back to the palace for his punishment. The waiting was always the worst. Like a motionless spider right before it darts to bite. The moment right before the pain.
Scrapes his nails against the lid of the coffin. To no avail. Forever.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
He writhes. Coughs. Laughs. It’s all so hopeless. So absurd. He thought he could just leave? He’d told himself time and time again that it was impossible. Who was he to a true, whole vampire lord? A little ship of mindflayers couldn't hold a candle to his Master’s power. He almost misses it—the protection.
A shiver runs through his spine. Now that he’s thinking clearly, he does miss Cazador. At least he’d given him a place to stay. Food, sometimes. Sometimes not. He should just go home, already. That flood of relief when Master had finally, finally opened his coffin after an eternity was like ambrosia to his senses. They’d embraced, and he knew it was finally over . Master would know what to do. Always knew. Master would keep him safe—
His knees give out and he finds himself dry-heaving on the cold stone. His body desperately trying to expel something that’s no longer in his stomach. He can’t remember what it was.
The air is thick with spores and death. It’s far too much.
He runs.
—
This way, this way! Scratch tells him. I can smell his perfume. And his sweat. Was he always so sweaty?
Wyll’s crimson robes brush against the tall grass as he hurries down the dimly lit path. The very-combustible mushrooms bathe everything in a warm, orange aura—which would be beautiful, if not for the given circumstances. He’s got to find Astarion before he gets himself hurt. The literal pain-in-the-neck aches, dripping with blood down his neck. He hears the sound of the white dog’s nails as they click across stone and dirt, and the occasional sniff as it gets lungfuls of Astarion’s scent. Wyll’s briefly reminded of the fox hunts he used to partake in with his father, back in the day. And later the devil hunts across the wilds. He realizes he hasn’t really hunted a monster that he intended on rescuing.
Could she have been rescued?
Wyll pushes down the lump in his throat. He finds his voice again, tongue coated with the musty taste of ritual magic, and directs it at Scratch, Anything else after him, do you think?
Don’t think so, Scratch communicates , I’m only getting one scent!
The pair dashes around a corner, careful to steer clear of a cluster of Timmask spores. He gets a lungful of something else, though. It’s an acrid, dusty taste in his mouth like swallowing chalk. He sputters a cough, his lungs immediately rejecting the cloud of disgusting spores. He’s suddenly quite envious of Scratch’s short stature as the canine dips low underneath the cloud.
He covers his mouth as he lets out a few more sputtering coughs. How much further? , he asks Scratch.
The lavender’s getting stronger , his companion replies. We should be getting real close!
He hears the shrieking of bats as a pack of them flies overhead. Hissing and screaming across the sky, like legions of imps howling through the fires of Avernus. He can hear their laughter even here. The screams . The agonized cries of a devilish warrior with fire in her heart. The hiss of steam as the fire dims as it’s snuffed out by his blade. He couldn’t get it out of his mind. Still can’t, even now. The visions of Karlach’s desperate escape attempts assaulted his senses. He’d told himself they were just a trick. Invented fairy tales to fool him.
But the only fool here was himself.
He’d be of no use to anyone soon. For what good was a Blade that went unneeded? Cursed to forever sit on the mantle to collect dust. He’s not sure why Tav even kept him around. Surely he’d be better off—
“Stop—you s-stop right there!” someone shouts in a cracked voice.
The Blade nearly trips over himself in surprise. What was he thinking? Someone’s in need of his help , he can’t get down on himself now. Surely… something was affecting his mind. He’d never think such reckless thoughts in the heat of a pursuit. Scratch skids to a halt before he does, pointing his nose in the direction of the voice. Wyll digs his heel into rock to stop his own momentum, and follows the dog’s gaze. His quarry stands mere yards before him, standing on what appears to be a cluster of rocks surrounded by glowing purple mushroom stalks. What’s he doing? Wyll thinks in surprise. Surely Astarion realizes how godsdamned close to that cliff edge he is.
“Hey, hey! Careful,” Wyll warns the elf as he eyes the massive chasm threatening to swallow the vampire up. “Take it easy—“
Astarion’s unruly white locks batter his forehead as he looks around like a wild beast searching for prey. He looks terrible. Borderline feral.
“Astarion—“
“Fuck off!” comes the shrill reply. “I’ll tear out your eyes, I swear to the gods!”
“What’re you—“ Wyll huffs a breath and holds his arms open. “Mate, it’s that blood talking. You aren’t yourself right now. Come here so we can—“
Astarion takes a step back, pure terror in his eyes. He shakes his head, batting the looming spores every which way as they swirl around his pale face. Amid the ominous groaning of the giant mushroom stalks above, Scratch whines deep in his throat.
Hells. “Fine, don’t come here, then. Just talk to me. And perhaps give me a little peace of mind and move so you don’t fall to your death.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Astarion says, the hysteria rising in his voice. The tone is strange and frenzied. Not at all like the pompous one used so often to charm the locals over the past weeks. He’s breathing so raggedly Wyll fears his lungs will burst. “You can’t, not anymore. I’m free now.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Wyll counters, his patience beginning to draw thin. “I’m trying to help you.”
“Like you ‘helped’ that Karlach woman?” he shouts back with an accusatory finger. Wyll realizes for the first time all the nails on his right hand are missing. Stained with dark blood . “By running her through like a dog? Is that your idea of saving someone?”
“No, I…” Wyll bites his lip. He looks down, hiding his gaze behind the brim of his hat. But he can’t hide, can he? Not when Astarion’s confronting him with fervor as hot as the fires of Avernus. When his voice trembles like he’s absolutely terrified. No, he can’t hide any longer. Not from this. Not from what he’s done.
“I… regret it. What I did,” Wyll admits, and now he’s the one whose voice is shaking. “It didn’t feel right. Keep wondering ‘what if’. There might’ve been another way. One that I was too blind to see.”
There’s a pause, save for the haggard breathing. Wyll turns his gaze up again to catch Astarion looking at him strangely. Almost like he’s really seeing him for the first time that night. Or day. Damned Underdark.
“I’m a monster hunter, Astarion. It’s true,” he says. “But I’m not a monster. At least… I don’t want to be. And the last thing I want is to frighten good people.”
Good people like you, he thinks. But hells, is he too afraid to say such a thing out loud.
The vampire’s lips twist as he considers his words, like he’s deciding on whether to scowl or smile. All the while sweat drips down his forehead like the poor lad’s mind’s aflame.
“You… truly regret what you did?” Astarion finally asks.
Wyll takes a deep breath. Squares his shoulders. “Yes. I do,” he states wearily. “I don’t fight for glory. I fight to save lives. And in that moment, I took one. And it didn’t feel right. ”
In the dim light, Astarion’s shoulders sag downward. Wyll thinks perhaps he’s… relieved? Something like that. It’s so hard to tell in the darkness. But it appears that the words torn from his heart had an effect. The tension in the air lifts for a moment, and finally—finally Astarion takes a step forward.
Then the dirt crumbles beneath his bare foot. Followed by the rest of the cliff face. The spawn’s eyes widen as he staggers—and then he’s tumbling off the edge. The sound of rock and dirt cascading into down into the abyss, along with Astarion’s shriek echoes across the cavern. Scratch barks in alarm as the pale elf’s body plummets out of sight.
“ Voco ad Inveniam!”
The arcane gate roars to life. Wyll curls his fingers, using all his strength to heave the door into existence because, gods below, he’s not letting this happen. Not letting another die—another in need of help— in such a horrible and fantastical manner. The blackness of the void appears before him, and raw arcane energies kiss his skin. Wyll locks his jaw, bracing himself against the force as it knocks his wide-brimmed hat clean off. It takes so much just to stand upright against it. And for a terrible, horrible second, Wyll hears no one from the other side. Just the sound of pure magic roaring in his ears.
Then he’s struck—knocked off balance by one bratty, beautiful vampire spawn as he soars through his side of the portal. It’s enough to blast through his concentration, sealing the gate shut but not before Astarion collapses on top of him in a heap of limbs and sweat. Whole, in one piece.
Gods, gods! Are you alright? Scratch yelps from beside him.
Wyll groans, the wind completely knocked out of him. “Astarion—you alright?”
The vampire mirrors him with a wheezy groan of his own. Well. He’s alive, at least. That’s a good start.
“Come on, let’s get you upright, you lunatic,” Wyll says.
Astarion blinks up at him, his eyes clearing, the red shining with their usual brightness. “Thank the gods you’ve lost your hat.”
A laugh escapes from Wyll’s chest. He lets his head thud into the dirt.
—
Wyll combs his fingers through Scratch’s fur as the pup dozes in his lap. A rest well-earned, in his opinion. And an extra helping in his dinner bowl wouldn't hurt, either.
Or would it be his breakfast bowl? Damned Underdark.
Near the fire, Astarion lies dead asleep on his cot. Wyll was shocked at first, seeing him collapse into a heap upon their arrival back at camp. The warlock thought he kicked the bucket as soon as he laid down—but some gods above seemed to grace them, however, as Wyll confirmed the spawn’s eyes were indeed moving around behind those thick white lashes as he dozed. He needed the rest—desperately, it seemed. Didn’t so much as stir while Wyll checked him over. He deemed it a blessing in disguise, really, as he could then easily clean and bandage the wounds from the missing nails on his right hand. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten those injuries, and out of privacy, he deemed it best not to ask. He’d let Astarion share that particular tidbit when he was ready.
He shouldn’t have been so hard on the lad, he thinks now, in hindsight. It was common sense to be suspicious of vampires, but he could see now that the Blade of Frontiers was probably terrifying to someone like Astarion. And that wasn’t what he wanted to be at all. Maybe Astarion would respond better to less monster hunter, and more monster friend.
But that would be a battle for another time, another day. One thing is certain—he’ll sure have one hell of a story to tell Tav when she gets back to camp.