Chapter Text
What in the sweet Hells had she been thinking?
This lamentation had been bursting forth from Tav more and more frequently over the past few weeks. It is at the forefront of her mind now, as she pointedly ignores the tapping at her shoulder which has been growing increasingly insistent as the minutes tick by.
It had all started innocently enough. In the wake of Cazador’s defeat and the subsequent release of his thousands of spawn, Astarion had discovered a long dormant thirst for knowledge. Everything from sword-sharpening to proper owlbear husbandry was now of interest to him, and his companions had been eager to enlighten him on their favorite subjects. It was endearing, really—such a change from the casual aloofness he’d maintained for so long. Even Lae’zel had made time to instruct him in rudimentary swordplay, though Astarion had bowed out after barely half an hour, declaring the field too physically demanding for his tastes. Most of his newfound interests were similarly fleeting, as he moved excitedly on to the next novel topic.
Tav hadn’t hesitated to show him a rudimentary cantrip when he asked, walking him through the incantation and proper summoning gestures for Mage Hand. She assumed it would catch his attention for a few hours at most, before he flitted on to the next new thing.
Instead, Astarion seems to have settled on “using Mage Hand” as his new defining personality trait.
Every evening after they had finished their investigations in the City for the day, he summoned the hand to practice his control. First, his focus been dexterity. The hand was made to scrawl simple lines in the dirt, pick up and throw Scratch’s favorite ball, hold cutlery. As Astarion’s confidence grew, he used the Hand for damn near everything. Goblets of wine floated above everyone’s heads when he wanted a refill. Countless lockpicks had been mangled in his attempts to use it to open chests he had lugged back to camp. One day he’d stood outside his tent for nearly an hour trying to clumsily button his shirt with the thing.
And the teasing. By the Gods, the teasing.
His favorite trick was a simple tap on the shoulder, at first. The victim would look up, see no one nearby, and then hear Astarion’s airy peals of laughter floating across camp. This had evolved as he tinkered with the hands appearance. Some nights it was blue, others purple, sometimes even covered in feathers. Tav had nearly shrieked when a skeleton’s hand brushed against her cheek on a day he was feeling particularly impish.
The wolf’s paw drawing aside Shadowheart’s tent flap in the middle of the night had been a bridge too far though, and after a good tongue-lashing, Astarion had settled on sculpting the summon into an impressively accurate rendition of his own hand.
And so when the ‘tap tap’ of elegant fingers alights on her shoulder this evening, Tav pretends not to notice. She’s grown rather tired of her lover’s games, and today’s fruitless searching has left her irritable.
“Oh you’re no fun,” comes Astarion’s pout from beside the fire. “Come on darling, I think you’ll want to see this.”
Reluctantly, she turns to the source of the tapping. An ornate red envelope greets her, balanced between the elegant fingers of the Hand. Tav’s full name is penned across the front with ostentatious flair.
Curiosity thoroughly roused, she plucks the item from the Hand and makes her way to where Astarion basks in the firelight like a pampered housecat.
“What’s this” Tav inquires, idly running her fingers over the envelope. The engraved lettering and the thick weight of the paper is pleasing to the touch. It’s not often she gets to handle something so disposable but which had so much money expended in its creation.
“An invitation if I had to guess, my love. One of Gortash’s tin men waylaid me after my hunt this evening and bade me deliver this to you.” Astarion raises onto his elbows and lifts an elegant brow. “Well? Open it! I have to know what this is all about.”
Everyone in camp has taken notice of the small commotion by now. Tav finds herself delicately opening the envelope with the entire party watching in rapt attention. She reads the contents aloud for the benefit of her audience:
Lord Enver Gortash cordially invites
Tavira Clearwater and one esteemed Guest
To an evening Gala at Wyrm’s Rock Fortress
The invitation is dated for two days hence.
She looks up to her companions, reflexively chewing at the inside of her lower lip in contemplation.
“Interesting. This could be a good chance to gather some information. Maybe we could even convince someone to spill the location of your father, Wyll.” Her eyes dart over to the warlock. “It says I get a plus one—”
Only the space of a single breath passes before she’s bombarded with excuses for being unable to attend.
“Too many of those party-goers will only know me as the Duke’s disgraced son! And with these horns, I’m bound to cause a stir.” Wyll looks a bit panicked at the thought.
“Sorry soldier. I’m not exactly the fancy type, and if you put me in the same room as Gortash I can’t guarantee I won’t lose my cool. What little of it I have, anyway,” Karlach shrugs.
Gale has mysteriously disappeared, while Jaheira and Halsin make polite but extremely firm declinations. Lae’zel simply levels a glare at Tav so full of disdain that she thinks she might need a tenday to fully recover.
“I’m not interested in attending, but I can help with your dress and makeup. Selune knows you need the help,” Shadowheart chuckles.
Astarion sidles in front of her, making it clear he wishes to be the focus of her attention. His grin is wide and wolfish.
“That would leave you with my good self. And you’re in luck! I would be delighted to accompany you. It’s high time for me to make my debut to Baldur’s Gate high society, now that I’m a free man.”
His gaze runs over Tav, head to toe. She suddenly feels quite aware of her bedraggled camp clothes, repaired so many times they’re more patch than original cloth. Shadowheart had mentioned makeup as well. Had she ever worn any? Not in her recollection, certainly. It hadn’t really been something she’d bothered with, since her occupations had always revolved around more… practical topics.
“Time to put all that gold you’ve been hoarding to good use,” the vampire purrs. “Tomorrow Shadowheart and I are taking you shopping. We’ll make you the envy of all the lords and ladies of the Upper City.”
His voice drops low and velvety as he leans in, soft enough that she knows this is meant only for her. “I’m going to enjoy watching you be admired and fawned over, darling. Especially knowing that later I’ll get you all to myself.” He adds a soft growl to his words which he knows she’s weak to, breath fluttering against her neck.
Then he pulls back, laughing as Tav turns nearly as red as Karlach. She can only hope she’ll make it through all this without making a complete fool of herself.