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Shhh. Just think sneaky thoughts.
Astarion isn’t far away now. He sees the hulking shape of it against the star-dusted sky. The wizard’s tower.
Get in, get the cloak, get back to Baldur’s Gate — those had been Cazador’s instructions. He made it sound easy. A nice, simple plan. Astarion’s enquiries around Waterdeep had told a slightly different story.
Everyone in the city had an opinion on the new Archmage, and they all conflicted. Some said he was a good man. Others said he was arrogant and power-hungry. Some said he was warm and friendly. Others said he was eccentric and isolated. Some said he was a champion of the people of Waterdeep. Others said he cared for nothing but his magic and his goddess.
No matter who Astarion spoke to though, there was one thing that everyone agreed on: no one entered Gale Dekarios’ tower but himself and his cat.
It made it extraordinarily difficult to assess what kind of obstacles Astarion would face when breaking in. There would be magical defenses, of course, but of what kind? Astarion is no wizard or sorcerer. A few spells cling to the dusty spaces of his brain, hangovers from when he used to be an elf. Likely none that would be useful this evening, however. Cazador has supplied him with a handful of scrolls and nothing else. Astarion feels as though he’s being set up to fail.
A shiver runs over his skin at the thought of what his master will do if Astarion doesn't bring back the cloak. He hopes it won't be the crypt again. He can cope with anything except the crypt.
Trying to ignore his persistent, underlying dread, Astarion creeps up to the front door of the tower. Not an ideal start but, as far as he’s been able to ascertain, there’s no other way in.
The door is arched at the top and made of a sturdy, indigo-tinged wood that looks like it might be Blueleaf. There’s a small cast iron keyhole but no other decorations. All in all, the door is relatively unassuming in comparison to the scale of the tower, which looms overhead, a grand edifice of sand-colored stone.
With a glance around, Astarion confirms that no one else is in the street. The tower is isolated in the far reaches of the Dock Ward, surrounded by warehouses and trade buildings that are abandoned at this time of night. It’s quiet and peaceful. Astarion can smell the sea. He finds himself thinking that this would be a nice place to live.
Stupid. A pipe dream. He's wasting time. Shaking his head, Astarion quietly slips off his pack and pulls out one of the scrolls. Detect Magic. All he has to do is read it, Cazador had said. Even someone as painfully brainless as Astarion could manage it, apparently.
“Magus ostende,” he whispers and flinches, expecting a noise or a puff of smoke or a show of lights that might give him away.
Nothing happens. The scroll glows momentarily and then crumbles to dust in his hands.
The door, evidently, is not protected by magic. Mind-boggling. Then again, Astarion has seduced a handful of lords and dignitaries in the past, political rivals of Cazador that he eventually lured to their death. He knows firsthand how lax powerful men can get about their personal safety when they think they’re invincible. Perhaps the wizard has grown cocky.
With a shrug, Astarion unclips a ring of lockpicking tools from his belt and gets to work. This, at least, is second nature. His mind flits into the spaces between the pins and springs as his fingers work. It’s a complex lock and he subconsciously hums with the enjoyment of manipulating its parts to his will. It takes a long time, longer than he’d planned, but, eventually, the cam rotates into place with a satisfying click.
Grinning, Astarion pushes the door open. Or, he would have done, if it was open. With a shimmer of purple, magic ripples across the door panels and the keyhole disappears. Astarion’s mouth drops open, rapidly followed by a low, dark laugh. It was a fake lock. He’s wasted all that time picking a fake lock.
Touché, wizard.
Teetering on the edge of irritation, Astarion pulls out a Dispel Magic scroll and uses it. There’s a brief pause, like the universe is inhaling, and then the door swings open.
“Ha,” breathes Astarion. Wizard 1 – Vampire 1.
Another shiver runs over his skin as he steps across the threshold and into the tower. His new friends in Waterdeep have assured him Professor Dekarios will be out at some Blackstaff event this evening, but there’s every chance the reclusive mage could have reneged on his plans. Astarion feels momentarily dizzy with anxiety at the thought of coming up against a powerful wizard in these dark halls. He would be instantly disintegrated, probably. Then again, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
Closing the door quietly behind him, Astarion gets his first look at the inside of the tower. It is… unexpected. He is standing at the head of a long, doorless, candlelit corridor. Too long, it seems, for the exterior of the building. Bloody wizards. At the end of the passage, he can just make out a doorway leading to some stairs.
He knows he needs to get to the higher floors of the tower. The letters Cazador intercepted said that the wizard is currently analyzing the cloak, so it’ll be locked away somewhere in his study, rather than in his vaults. From what Astarion has found out, the wizard likes to wax lyrical about his study — its wide balcony is his favorite place in the world, he’s apparently told people often. He loves to sit there of a sunset and watch the pink light glance off the terracotta rooftops of the fort on Deepwater Isle.
It’s a striking image. Astarion had tried to picture it for himself as he hunkered down in a fetid alleyway later that evening. Tried to imagine sitting on a soft seat and gazing out at the sea as the sun turned it to molten gold. Try as he might though, it was too difficult to remember the warm glow of a sunset. He’d woken from his trance as cold and miserable as he’d entered it.
But then he had set to work determining how high up the balcony must be for the wizard to be looking down on the fort, scribbling calculations in the muck like a madman. Setting aside the less-than-salubrious surroundings, it felt good to drag his brain kicking and screaming from its rut. The brain that had once been as sharp as cut crystal, that had earned him a place as a magistrate of Baldur’s Gate despite his relative youth.
It’s too painful to think about the before. Astarion forces himself to focus on the present. He’s worked out that the balcony must be at least five storeys up. He needs to head for the stairs.
His path forward is immediately arrested by the sight of a huge oil portrait. Gale of Waterdeep, apparently, if the small bronze label is to be believed. Astarion pauses, struck by his first sight of the man. The wizard is young, much younger than Astarion was expecting. He’s also… handsome.
Astarion had been picturing some sort of curmudgeonly old codger, but Gale Dekarios is eye-catching, straight-backed and broad-chested, all tanned skin and dark, curled hair. Unsurprisingly, he’s been painted sitting on his balcony at sunset, a book in his hand, a mysterious but enticing half-smile on his face, large brown eyes sparkling, one eyebrow slightly quirked as if in invitation. At his side, a red velvet cushion holds a beautiful russet and black cat with elegant, folded wings.
Gale looks like the sort of prince-type Astarion would have once dreamed of marrying. For a moment, the vampire allows his imagination to wander, staring at the portrait and picturing the wizard gently patting the seat next to him, handing Astarion a glass of wine as they settle side-by-side, thigh to thigh, the evening breeze balmy on their skin. Perhaps the flying cat would alight on Astarion’s lap, warm and comforting. Perhaps the wizard would read to him, narrating the pages of…
Astarion squints at the tome in the portrait. The Art of the Night.
Hang on, isn’t that a book about fucking? He’s fairly sure he’s seen a copy in one of the myriad seduction rooms at Szarr Palace. Astarion appraises the wizard in a new light. Imagine having this portrait be the first thing your guests see when they enter your home. Astarion chuckles to himself. Kinky fucker. Literally.
There are more portraits as he moves down the long corridor. They litter both walls, each one depicting the wizard and his winged cat in various activities. The next one shows them both strolling through a garden, apparently deep in conversation. The one after that depicts them horse-riding, the wizard atop a large stallion, and the cat on a pony. Astarion stares. The cat is wearing four little riding boots. He moves quickly to the next portrait: the wizard and the cat practicing fencing together. The next: a banquet, the wizard seated at one end of a comically long table, the cat at the other. The next: a ballroom waltz, the wizard crouched, the cat in a tiny purple gown. The next: a game of tennis. The next: synchronized swimming.
Astarion paces down the corridor, the paintings getting weirder and weirder until they culminate in one final, huge portrait. It’s exactly the same setting as the first image Astarion saw: the wizard and the cat on the balcony at sunset. Except, this time, the cat sits straight-backed and broad-chested, book in hand. Next to it, on the red velvet cushion, the wizard reclines in miniature. He’s stark naked, his modesty only protected by an artfully curled wing.
The snort Astarion emits echoes down the corridor and he claps a hand over his mouth. What the fuck is going on in this tower? Eccentric is certainly the right word for the wizard, it seems.
The portraits have led Astarion to the stairwell. From here, he can see that the stairs spiral upwards, their destination out of sight. A moment’s listening reveals no noise in the tower, so he hesitantly begins the ascent, moving silently up the sandstone steps.
After what feels like two storeys worth of climbing, he comes upon another door. This one is arched and purple-tinged, like the tower’s front entrance, but it has no keyhole. Instead, there’s a small bronze plaque next to the frame, engraved with a short stanza:
It is unique, besides the others,
A gift from fathers or from mothers.
Less a rain and more a hail,
A handle not of door or pail.
Apart from theirs, it’s only yours,
Speak it; it will open doors.
A fucking riddle, seriously? It must be infuriating living here. How in the world does this man get around his house? Do his guests have to solve a puzzle every time they want to pop out for a walk?
Astarion’s head tilts as he considers the lines. Unique, besides the others… Apart from theirs, it’s only yours… The rhyme makes no sense, he can’t work it out. He wills his brain to function, his internal voice merging with Cazador’s, as it so often does after centuries of mind control. Come on, you fool, think …
“Hello!” A voice in Astarion’s ear makes him jump into the air like a cat. Before he’s had time to assess the situation, his dagger is unsheathed, the blade instinctively arcing towards the unknown assailant, metal glinting in candlelight.
Nothing impedes the weapon’s journey. It passes right through the man who is standing behind Astarion, glowing slightly. Adrenaline pulsing through his desiccated veins, Astarion presses his back to the wall, holding out his dagger, panting hard more from habit than necessity.
In front of him is a projection; a simulacrum, possibly. It is of the Wizard of Waterdeep, hands clasped behind his back, a friendly smile on his coruscating face.
“I’m here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep!” The projection continues, unperturbed, its voice infuriatingly chipper. “You seem to be stuck on this riddle. Would you like a hint?”
“What??” Astarion stares at the thing. “No!”
The word is barely out of his mouth before it turns into a yelp as the bottom falls out of Astarion’s world. Where there were once solid flagstones beneath his feet, there is now only empty space, and his stomach flips as he drops like a stone. There’s a terrifying moment where he thinks he might fall forever, but then he hits something hard with a grunt, before rapidly skidding downwards.
It’s a slide. It’s a fucking slide.
Stealth be damned, Astarion shrieks the entire way down. The surface beneath him is glassy and he picks up momentum, traveling faster and faster, kicking his legs like a child, hands scrambling at nothing in an attempt to slow his descent, tearing the shoulder of his shirt in the process. After what feels like an age, he is unceremoniously ejected into the hallway of portraits, only his fast reflexes saving him from hitting the floor face first.
“What-” Astarion gasps to himself, stunned. “-the fuck?”
He leaps to his feet with an exasperated growl, running back up the stairs, taking them two at a time until he gets to the top.
“Hello! I’m here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep!”
“Now, listen here!” Astarion points his dagger with a shaking hand. “Open this fucking door!”
“I’m sorry,” the projection smiles politely. “I’m afraid I can’t do that! Would you like a hint instead?”
“No, I would not like a fucking hi-”
Drop. Shriek. Slide. Thud.
Astarion sits at the foot of the stairs, blinking rapidly, his behind bruised and sore. Then he gets up and tries again.
“Hello! I’m here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep!”
“Hullo, Gale of Waterdeep,” Astarion mutters, sullenly.
“No, no!” The projection raises a patronizing finger. “I’m not actually Gale of Waterdeep! I am merely a simulacrum, an approximation of his form and will, a magical creation crafted from the glorious Weave, controlled and created by the Wizard himself, here on his behalf to convey his-”
“I DON’T FUCKING CARE-”
Drop. Shriek. Slide. Thud.
Okay… Okay, this is fine. Astarion climbs to his feet, rubbing his aching lower back with a slightly maniacal laugh. He just needs a different approach is all. The fucking menace upstairs obviously dislikes rudeness. It’ll be hard, but Astarion is going to have to be polite…
Again.
“Hello! I’m here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep!”
“Hello,” Astarion hisses.
“You seem to be stuck on this riddle. Would you like a hint?”
“Yes. Please.” If voices could kill…
“Wonderful!” The projection claps its hands together. “Here is your first hint: This is a riddle!”
Astarion is still screaming that he fucking knows that as he hits the hard flagstones of the hallway below.
Again.
“Hello! I’m here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep!”
“Hello,” Astarion whimpers.
“That first hint seemed to be a bit too difficult for you! Would you like another?”
Astarion’s eye twitches. “Yes, please.”
“Wonderful!” The projection claps its hands together. “Here is your second hint: The password for the door will be revealed by working out the subject of the rhyme!”
Astarion rides the slide eight more times before the answer finally comes to him. A hail, a handle, a gift from fathers and mothers…
Again.
“My name!” He cries at the projection, arms extended in triumph.
Drop. Shriek. Slide. Thud.
Astarion trudges wearily up the stairs, ignoring the beaming grin of the projection and turning directly to the door. He hates that stupid face. He hates the Wizard of Waterdeep. He hates Gale Dekarios. He hates this stupid tower.
“Astarion Ancunin,” he growls.
The door swings open.
“You did it!” The simulacrum punches the air with jubilation. “Thank you for providing me with your name, little thief in the night. You may thus proceed to the next puzzle!”
No. What does it mean, providing it with his name? Does the wizard know he’s here?? Astarion panics. If the wizard knows he’s here and knows his name, that means he’ll probably have Astarion arrested, which means Astarion has to leave Waterdeep right now, which means he’s failed to get the cloak, which means he’s failed Cazador, which means the crypt, the crypt, the crypt-
Astarion turns tail and flees back down the stairs, nearly tumbling down them in his haste. He skids into the corridor of portraits, sprinting, the passage extending seemingly endlessly before him. It takes an age but he finally reaches the entrance to the tower, grabbing at the handle.
The door shimmers like a mirage before disappearing entirely, shifting into a blank wall of cold sandstone. He’s trapped.
The vampire feels like his scream of rage and frustration must be audible across the entirety of Waterdeep. He almost hopes it is, maybe then someone will come and rescue him.
For now, however, it seems like the only way is up…
“Hello! Are you ready for the next puzzle?”
Back at the top of the stairs, in front of the newly open door, Astarion bites back the ‘fuck you’ that trips up his tongue, instead offering the projection a hostile nod.
“Wonderful!” The projection claps its hands together. “I hope you like dancing!”
Hells. In trepidation, Astarion follows the beckoning simulacrum through the door.
He finds himself in a vast ballroom. The space is incomprehensibly huge, dizzyingly so. The ornate painted ceiling is studded with crystal chandeliers that cast a glinting, glimmering light across the pristine parquet floor. And every wall is lined with gilt-framed mirrors. There are hundreds of them, each one a reminder of who Astarion is. Of what he is.
“What’s this then?” he asks Gale’s projection miserably.
“Welcome to the Hall of Mirrors!” The simulacrum spins on the spot with a grand, sweeping gesture of its arms. “This is a dancing puzzle!”
“What does that fuc-” Astarion’s bruised coccyx stops him more than anything else. “What does that mean? Please?”
“Kindly direct your attention to the start of the puzzle and read the instructions!” The wizard’s projection strides off to the first mirror and suddenly there are thousands of him everywhere, the reflections repeating back on themselves, stretching out to infinity, filling the room with a purple glow. Then the simulacrum disappears, leaving Astarion alone.
He reluctantly traces its steps, walking over to the first mirror. Engraved into its surface is a set of intricately carved instructions.
Welcome to the Hall of Mirrors! To progress to the next floor of the Tower, you must accurately recreate my mother’s favorite dance: The Morena Macarena!
Astarion whines to himself in disbelief but keeps on reading.
Unfamiliar with the dance? Fear not! I have had each step engraved into a series of mirrors. Simply match your reflection to the shape depicted on the mirror to progress!
Beneath, in much smaller text:
Dances may be recorded for quality assurance and public humiliation purposes.
“What the fuck?” Astarion whispers for what feels like the hundredth time this evening. “What the fucking fuck?”
He moves to the next mirror. As described, it has been engraved with a humanoid shape. The shape appears to be in some sort of squatting position, one hand extended. Astarion looks around wildly.
“Um… I’m going to have a spot of trouble with this one, unfortunately,” he says to no one. “My particular… characteristics are going to make this difficult for me.”
There’s no answer.
“Helloooo??”
Nothing.
“I cannot see my reflection!” He cries out to the empty room. “What am I supposed to do??”
“Hello!” The simulacrum pops up next to him, making him jump. “You appear to be having trouble following basic instructions! Do you require assistance?”
Astarion laughs then. He can’t help himself. His cackle rings out across the cold wooden floor, ricocheting and rebounding off the gleaming mirrors.
“You’re messed up, you know that?” He shakes his head at the simulacrum.
The wizard’s projection gives him a knowing smile, eyes twinkling. Then it straightens up, face going carefully blank. “I’m sorry, I’m having trouble understanding right now. Could you try again?”
Astarion groans. There’s nothing for it. He’s going to have to do the Morena Macarena.
Step by step, hoping it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t have a reflection, Astarion bends and contorts his body into the various shapes carved into the series of mirrors, moving across the ballroom from one step to another — right arm out, left arm out, right palm up, left palm up, right hand to left shoulder, left hand to right shoulder, right hand to right side of his head, left hand to left side of his head, right hand to left hip, left hand to right hip, right hand to right buttcheek, left hand to left buttcheek. Bend knees, wiggle, jump 90 degrees to the right. Repeat ad nauseum.
After a few cycles, he knows the dance well enough that he doesn’t even need to check the mirrors. Halfway through, music starts up out of nowhere and the projection begins to do the dance with him. It’s openly laughing at him but somehow Astarion is laughing too. He hasn’t danced in fucking ages. Mooched around a dancefloor twirling some unsuspecting bint on his arm, sure. But jumped around like this? Like an idiot? Probably not since he was a child-
The music cuts out without warning. Astarion and the projection have reached the end of the ballroom. Astarion almost feels sad.
“Would you like to know a fun fact?” The simulacrum’s tone is jolly.
“Sure, why not.” Astarion runs a hand through his hair, which he can feel has slipped out of its usual style with his gallivanting, a few curls drooping over his forehead and into his eyes.
“This door-” The wizard’s projection indicates the exit to the ballroom, now in front of them. “-has been unlocked the entire time.”
The giggle that escapes Astarion’s throat sounds manic even to his own ears.
He beckons the simulacrum over, his voice low and only slightly deranged. “Would you like to know a fun fact?”
The projection leans in. “Yes, please!”
Astarion smiles — politely, of course. He’s learned his lesson after all. “When I find you,” he whispers. “I’m going to fucking murder you.”
“I’m sure your feelings would change if you only got to know me better.”
The simulacrum’s voice suddenly sounds different. More solid. It also seems to be coming from behind Astarion, not from the projection in front of him.
Astarion wheels around and, as he does, the entire ballroom disappears before his eyes. It’s replaced by a wide expanse of desert that stretches out on all sides, a huge, pale moon hanging in the sky overhead. The sand under Astarion's feet is purple and it glitters in the moonlight. A soft breeze stirs his hair as a figure approaches across the dusky dunes.
“Wha-”
“Hello!”
Fucking hells. It’s the wizard’s projection again. Astarion can’t take a moment more of this stupid fucking simulacrum. He contemplates taking off across the sand but he has no idea which direction he’d go. There is nothing and no one as far as the eye can see, just miles and miles of desert and the stupid fucking simulacrum. Astarion wonders if he’ll die here with only this infuriating, glowing bastard to keep him company. He wonders if he cares. He wonders if he’s losing his mind.
When the wizard in front of him steps forward, however, he leaves real footprints in the sand.
“I’m Gale of Waterdeep,” Gale of Waterdeep smiles. “And you must be Astarion Ancunin.”
It’s him. It’s really him.
Astarion stares in response. Gale Dekarios is dressed in fancy purple robes, embroidered with gold, his hair bound back into a half bun, fine jewelry glinting on his fingers and at his neck. He’s wearing the same enigmatic smile he had in his portrait, chin tilted and brown eyes glinting.
Noting Astarion’s gaze, the wizard looks down at himself. “Forgive my attire. You’ve taken me away from a party, Astarion.” There’s a note of reproach in his voice.
“And where have I taken you to?” Astarion tries to sound unfazed but his own voice is hoarse from all the screaming. “Where the fuck am I?”
He braces himself for the slide again but, to his relief, his feet stay rooted firmly to the purple sand.
The wizard chuckles. “I thought you’d probably had as much as you could take of the tower. Normally, when the laughter starts, death is but a word away!”
Astarion blinks at him, horrified. How many thieves have died in that tower, driven mad by this lunatic’s machinations… But the wizard is still talking.
“And so… Welcome to the Plains of Purple Dust! We’re in the middle of the Raurin desert, in the Hordelands.”
Astarion gawps. “How…?”
“Well, I have a bit of a confession to make,” Gale grins. “I’m afraid you never really made it into my tower at all. The very first door you passed through was a portal. The entrance to my tower can detect anyone who isn’t myself or Tara; if it finds a stranger, it transports them here: to the desert and the little illusory House of Fun I took the liberty of creating.”
Vertigo strikes and Astarion's legs go weak. He sinks to his knees as his brain attempts to process what he’s hearing. Oh gods, oh hells. The ballroom door wasn't the portal, the front door was. None of it was real…
“Did you not wonder how you entered my home without my permission?” Gale asks, cheerily.
Oh gods, oh gods, of course. Of course he wouldn't have been able to get in without being invited. It's been so long since he went to someone else's home that he'd forgotten… Astarion rocks on his knees as a series of facts crystallize in his mind: Cazador is right, Astarion is painfully brainless. His master was setting him up to fail and it was so obvious. Worse, the wizard somehow knows he's a vampire.
“Who’s Tara?” is all Astarion can think to ask, trying to keep Gale talking, not that the man needs much encouragement.
Gale’s face brightens. “Tara is my dearest and oldest friend! She’s a tressym; I believe you would have had some time to admire her in our series of imaginary portraits! I’m rather proud of those if I say so myself — quite the feat of creativity on my part!”
Astarion’s head is reeling. The paintings… the paintings were all fake. And the hallway and the stairs and the door and the riddle and the ballroom and the mirrors and the chandeliers and the music… it was all fake. He never made it into the real tower, it was all an illusion-
The wizard squints at him. “Are you… crying?”
“You’re evil,” Astarion croaks. “You’re a psychopath.”
Gale tuts. “That’s rather rich coming from someone who was trying to rob me. Although…” The wizard looks him over, a touch more kindly than before. “If my sources are to be trusted, you haven’t come to rob me by choice, have you?”
Astarion’s cold, dead heart stutters. “Your sourc- what?”
“Truth be told, Astarion,” Gale sighs. “I knew you were coming. Strangers asking questions will always raise suspicion in Waterdeep, and I have a network of eyes around the city who know it’s in their best interests to keep me informed.”
White noise fills Astarion’s brain. Not only has he been caught, but he was caught right from the very beginning, without even realizing. He never stood a chance. When the wizard is done torturing him, or whatever he plans to do, Cazador is going to flay him alive.
Hopefully, Gale will kill him now instead. Astarion tries to imagine how it'll happen. A classic stake to the heart, perhaps? Or maybe the man will drench him in holy water, or cut off his head. Maybe the wizard will leave him here in the desert until the sun comes up. That might be nice, to feel its warmth one last time as he burns to a crisp…
When Astarion doesn’t say anything, Gale continues. “Reports of a red-eyed stranger only making enquiries after dark? It didn’t take me long to piece together your story. It was your ring, in fact, that fully gave you away in the end.”
Astarion stares blankly down at the gold signet on his right hand. The Szarr seal. Cazador makes him wear it when he’s away from home. It burns him if he ever has thoughts of escape. The skin around the ring is swollen and blistered. Astarion idly wonders when he started thinking of the palace as home.
“The seal is distinctive. My spies made note of the details; I was able to trace the crest to your master and make some enquiries of my own. Discreetly, of course. Have no fear; I have not given you away.” Is he being… kind? “I determined that you must be one of Szarr’s spawn. No doubt compelled to act according to his wishes, am I correct?”
Astarion nods dumbly.
“Then I am glad I followed the course of action that I did.” Gale laces his hands behind his back, pondering out loud. “I contemplated the best way to proceed for some time. I considered alerting the City Watch to your presence and having you arrested. However, in truth, I was curious to meet a vampire spawn…”
Astarion sees it then, the way Gale keeps glancing down at his fangs, the interest in the man's eyes. Interest Astarion can use to his advantage.
“I see…” Years — centuries, really — of conditioning kick in and Astarion shrugs, purposefully allowing his torn shirt to slip from his shoulder, baring half of his smooth chest.
Victory. Gale’s gaze flicks down to the pink nipple now exposed to the night air, so Astarion idly reaches up to roll it between his finger and thumb.
“And now that you’ve met me,” he purrs, parting his thighs and sitting back on his heels. “Whatever will you do with me?”
For the first time that evening, the wizard looks disconcerted. He frowns before approaching slowly, hesitantly. Up close, he really is rather attractive and Astarion feels his nipple harden involuntarily under his fingertips. Perhaps this won't be the worst encounter he's ever had.
Gale lowers himself to the ground, kneeling on the sand in front of Astarion and tentatively reaching forward. The vampire braces to be felt up, or even hurt. It's always the quiet ones who like to pinch or slap out of nowhere.
But, instead, the wizard’s hand ghosts over the tear in Astarion's shirt.
“Consuo,” he murmurs.
Astarion watches in wonder as his shirt restitches itself and Gale takes hold of the collar, pulling it back over Astarion's shoulder, covering him up again.
“What is it you’ve been sent to steal, Astarion?” The wizard sounds tired and sad. He sits back on his heels too, so they’re knee to knee.
“The Cloak of Dragomir.” It comes out of Astarion’s mouth before he can help himself, those kind eyes pulling the honesty from him against his will. “It’ll let him-”
“Walk in the sun…” Gale nods slowly, seemingly lost in thought. “And tell me, Astarion-” His name sounds so pretty when spoken by that voice. “What else does your master know about the cloak?”
“I don’t know,” Astarion shakes his head. “I only know he intended to wear it.”
The wizard nods again before fixing him with an intense gaze. “And what did you intend to do, Astarion Ancunin?”
“I- I had thought about taking the cloak for myself-” Astarion winces as the ring on his finger sears into his flesh.
Gale glances down, his jaw clenching at the sight of Astarion's hand. Then he gently takes it in his own.
“Magus discutere,” he whispers.
It’s the same incantation Astarion used at the tower door. Dispel magic. The vampire watches, dumbstruck, as a small gasp of red mist ekes out of the ring, before disappearing on the breeze.
“Confractus,” Gale continues and the ring cracks down both sides, splitting in two and falling into the sand, now no more than a couple of useless lumps of broken metal. The extent of the damage to Astarion’s finger is revealed, the skin charred and lumpen. He hadn’t realized it had got that bad. Hadn’t realized how many times he’d dreamed of escape.
Gale murmurs one last spell — “Te curo” — and the blistering on Astarion’s finger is gone, taking the awful, aching pain with it.
Astarion stares, his cold hand still resting in the wizard's warm palm, and Gale meets his gaze for a moment before clearing his throat and gently setting Astarion’s wrist back into his own lap.
“You could take the cloak for yourself,” Gale studies Astarion's face. “However, you should know that it severely hampers many of a vampire’s… natural talents. An important one being the ability to regenerate at speed.” The wizard's next words are careful, deliberate: “You might say it makes the vampiric wearer easier to kill.”
Gale seemingly waits until he can see the understanding in Astarion’s eyes, before speaking again. “If I were you, I’d let my master take the cloak while I stole something altogether more… useful.”
“Oh?” Astarion’s ears are still ringing with this new development. The cloak makes its wearer easier to kill…
Gale waves his hand lazily in the air and Astarion sees a glint of something gold flicker between his fingers, spinning and twisting over his knuckles.
Shifting on his knees, Astarion tries to get a closer look. “What is it?”
“A ring of mind shielding.”
Astarion’s stomach catapults with the implication. Cazador, weakened by the cloak. A ring of mind shielding. No more control…
“And how might one acquire such a ring?” he asks weakly, eyes tracing the item as it rolls back and forth in the wizard’s hand.
“Well,” Gale grins. “You could fight a wizard for his...”
Astarion laughs. “Something tells me I wouldn’t make it out of that confrontation with my sanity intact. Any other suggestions?”
The wizard chuckles again before tilting his head, the ring disappearing into his pocket. “You could strike a bargain instead…”
Aha. Back on familiar territory. Astarion’s face breaks into a seductive smile. “That can certainly be arranged, darli-”
He’s cut off by the wizard’s flustered gesturing. “No, no. Nothing like that!”
“Oh.” The man is confounding. “What then? I have nothing else to offer…”
The sad truth of that hits him square in the chest but the wizard is raising that damned finger again.
“Not so, my fair friend! I was watching you before, you know. Of course, you stood no chance against an imaginary tower, but you are otherwise an incredibly skilled thief: stealthy, agile!” Gale clears his throat again, obviously embarrassed about something. “I find myself in need of ah- a steady supply of magical items — the majority of which are usually… well-guarded, shall we say. And stealth is, regrettably, not one of my strong points.”
“Okay…” Astarion tries to read the wizard’s face. The man is clutching his chest in apparent anxiety. He seems genuinely self-conscious. Astarion wonders what he needs a steady supply of magical items for. Wizard stuff, most likely.
“In return,” Gale continues. “You may borrow — and please note the emphasis on borrow — my cloak and my ring, that you might… divest yourself of your current leadership. Freeing you up to enter my employ instead.”
Astarion’s eyes narrow. “Swap one master for another, you mean?”
“Not at all,” Gale shakes his head, his eyes large and solemn. “I merely require your help with the items; you need have no other contact or communication with me beyond that. Though you may take a room in my tower, should you need it, until such a time as you find yourself a more satisfactory abode in Waterdeep.”
Mind reeling, Astarion considers this most surprising of propositions. A few hours ago, he was attempting to rob the wizard. Now the man is asking Astarion to move in with him.
“All this, just in exchange for stealing you a few magical items now and again?” He clarifies, searching the wizard’s eyes.
“Yes.” Gale hesitates, before adding: “With the additional favor of allowing me to study you, if I may be permitted-”
“Study me??” Astarion nearly jumps to his feet but the wizard raises his hands in supplication.
“Only a suggestion! As I said, I have never met a vampire before and I am eager to add to the limited knowledge that exists in the field. Nothing… untoward, of course. I would discuss all avenues of research with you beforehand. I am merely curious as to whether or not I might be able to establish a cure…”
“A cure.” Astarion feels lightheaded.
“For vampirism, yes,” Gale nods earnestly. “It’s never been done before, but that could be because I have never tried.”
He shoots Astarion a roguish grin and the vampire can’t help but give him a bemused smile in return.
“So,” Gale climbs to his feet again, with a quiet groan at his creaking knees. “What say you, Astarion Ancunin? Does this arrangement sound satisfactory?”
He holds out his hand and Astarion regards it for a moment. Then he nods. What else is he going to do? “Yes, okay.” He reaches up to take Gale’s hand but the wizard slips the gold ring onto his finger instead.
There's a rush of magic, a sensation like a soft cocoon enveloping his very soul, and Astarion's mind becomes… quiet. He can't help but let out a little, tearful gasp.
Gale is watching him closely. “How do you feel?”
“Free,” Astarion breathes.
“Wonderful!” The wizard claps his hands together. “In that case, allow me to extend you a formal invitation to my tower. Myself and Tara would be delighted to have you as our guest!”
This time he does help Astarion to his feet, and Astarion is grateful for it because his knees are still weak.
As Gale mutters an incantation, opening a glowing portal back to Waterdeep, something niggles at the back of Astarion’s brain. “You said your tower gets rid of anyone who isn’t you or your cat?” he asks.
“Tressym,” Gale corrects automatically, before pausing. “Pardon?”
“No one ever enters your tower beside you or your ca- tressym? No one?”
“Yes,” The wizard is hesitant, as though he’s unsure of Astarion's meaning.
Astarion is about to inform him how sad that is when comprehension apparently dawns on Gale's face.
“Aha, I understand your concern! I will, of course, update the defenses to allow you in.”
“Right,” Astarion smiles. “That was my concern.” Good gods, how can a person be so smart and so dense at the same time?
“Right,” Gale echoes, with a smile of his own. “Shall we?”
He holds out his arm and Astarion takes it, feeling — not for the first time this evening — as though the floor has dropped away from under his feet. This time, however, it’s in a good way.
The two of them step into the swirling mass of arcane light before the portal disappears with a pop. Then the purple desert is empty once more, save for the moonlight and the faintest echo of an excited voice on the breeze.
“Look, it’s Tara!”