Chapter Text
Astarion was jaded to the core.
He was so infernally bored that his daily—or, was nighttime a better word?—routine seemed a senseless undertaking he wanted to avoid at all costs. It was all the same, the risible performance of lust, predictability, and humdrum. Gaudily dressed people trying to attain their preposterous goals. Artificial conviviality slithering between the tables. Hideous music thundering in the ears—
Had he been alive, he would’ve called in sick, feigning the worst case of pneumonia known to humanity and staging the ensuing miracle of recovery. Had he been alive, he would’ve concocted a lovely, not-quite-believable story where he saved a cat, a child, or a wizard in distress from an unnamed threat, and the entire city would've fallen for it. Had he been alive, he would’ve said he had his reasons, and no one would incriminate his actions. After all, he was a magistrate. A very respectable magistrate, revered by all citizens of Baldur’s Gate. Well, maybe the Gur were an unlucky exception, but really, who would’ve listened to a bunch of crazy folks who did nothing but deceive the kind denizens of the city by foisting their fortune-telling bogus! He was still better than them.
Or, rather, had been.
Astarion huffed and reclined on the counter, gazing into a glass of wine. He had ordered the drink a few hours ago and pretended to sip the Ithbank every now and then, but the crimson liquid didn’t ebb. Gods, how did he want to slough off this rotten task, hightail from this hellish shithole of a tavern, and recede into the gloom, feigning defeat!..
Unfortunately, the news about his smashing defeat did not sound even remotely plausible. None of his carefully cherry-picked pick-up lines was ever nugatory. None of his tantalizing gestures was ever accidental. None of the unctuous notes in the dulcet voice with a penchant for taking a seductive edge was ever misplaced. In short, Astarion was aware of his bedazzling looks, and he didn’t miss a chance to put his charms to good use.
So, even the dumbest spawn of the lot, Pale Petras, wouldn’t buy it.
Swerving his ruby eyes to the diverse crowd, Astarion idly scanned the throng of people teeming in the tavern, eyeing each visitor with ill-concealed contempt. They all came here to get a harlot. Their intentions were crystal clear. Those who missed Sharess’ Caress on the way to Baldur’s Gate always sought a sufficiently respectable establishment to tend to their physical needs and caprices. Taverns like this didn’t scream brothel, but they very well could be one—such inns only pretended to specialize in food and drinks. If you wanted additional entertainment to go with a bottle of Ithbank, you needn’t even get up to ask for assistance. Maybe all places in Baldur’s Gate were the same. Call it a hallmark, if you wish. Whatever.
Ah, how he loathed it. Endless strings of people, loudmouthed whores, artificial smiles, whistles emitted by an invigorated lumper, and hackneyed advances of a lame artist. Oddly enough, one of them had managed to captivate Lady Jannath. What did she find in this pathetic idiot? His pitiful attempts at courtship didn’t even look ludicrous—they were outright deplorable. Surely, some women had no taste, and appreciation of art played little role in personal proclivities and preferences.
Astarion examined the visitors again, this time with a modicum of curiosity. Harlots, wantons, rummies, and lost travelers looking for a place to stay over the night didn’t deserve a mere scrap of his attention; they all seemed so unbearably dull they wouldn’t even serve their only purpose: to be a decent banquet for a true connoisseur.
Astarion’s lanky fingers circled the edge of the glass brimmed with gold. To hells with it. Cazador had no illusions regarding the spawns’ attitude: if he ever had a good trait of character, it was his relative sobriety. For all his intimidating bluster, he never deluded himself into believing that any of the spawn truly admired him or his teaching methods. He could do nothing about that. He could imagine the most ferocious tortures, contrive the most vicious trials, devise the most ruthless and savage ordeals, but no torment could change Astarion’s or, for that matter, Petras’ mind: Cazador was detested by his own very spawn. He could not be vanquished, true, but he would never be venerated either.
The sad thing was that this fact didn’t afflict him or undermine the current status quo: you couldn’t just inveigle a goblin and offer this lovely specimen on a plate.
Especially, if you had his looks. Petras might just be the perfect fit for goblins and the like, but Astarion, on the contrary, was too well-groomed, too cultured to attract such foul prey. His victim might not be immaculate, but it had to be good. After all, this victim must please the perverse and exquisite taste of the abhorrent tyrant who always reveled in torturing others. In torturing his own very spawn.
On a side note, if his today’s target turned out better than acceptable, he might be spared. Maybe even rewarded. Ah, to see Petras’ disgusting muzzle contorted by jealousy and hunger when Master tossed a scant commendation Astarion’s way. What a sight, really. Truly remarkable. One of the few genuinely fascinating things in this moldy, decaying, dismal, and grim castle that needed a monumental revamp ten centuries ago.
Maybe Cazador would even go as far as offering him a handful of human blood he could savor for days to come, highlighting the peculiar, ever-changing aftertaste sticking to the palate—
Hells. This was unnecessary.
Irked by his wild imagination, Astarion felt the tang dissipating on the tongue, dispersing and morphing into the feeling of egregious thirst he was too familiar with. The mere inkling of the scene he had started to envision was too much for him to bear.
Luckily, his train of thought was interrupted by a faint squeak of the double doors. A mere mortal wouldn’t have noticed that, and the screech of the old hinges would’ve drowned in the raucous tumult of the tavern, but as someone with a preternaturally acute sense of hearing, this indiscernible sound became a cue—a new visitor.
A new potential victim.
Reacting to the creak, Astarion jerked his head to see who was coming.
He expected another run-of-the-mill drunkard, another adventurer, perhaps, but his eyes stumbled over a particularly unusual sight, practically extinct in notorious Baldur’s Gate, the city of the depraved. The man, faltering at the threshold of the tavern, made a strong contrast to the local vermin.
The unwritten rule of Cazador’s—never hunt the rich—shaped up in Astarion’s head. Not that the miserable vampire lord cared about the benefits they could bring to the city. The reason was so quotidian it shouldn’t be explained: he didn’t want to leap directly into a predicament. The well-to-do would get alarmed immediately if one of their ilk vanished without a trace. One thing might lead to another, and inadvertently, his vampire lair might be exposed to the public, which would eventually entail a spectacular execution of all seven spawns and their lord at the helm. Therefore, most of the time the spawns were bound to choose the safest option of the unsafe: stray travelers, opulent merchants from overseas, prominent guests visiting local galleries, foreigners, loners with means... In a nutshell, everyone who looked presentable enough and whose absence would not be noticed. Evidently, the young man didn’t fall into the category, but something in his demeanor betrayed a novice. Inert, palsied by the picture unfurling before his eyes, he looked utterly vulnerable, as if he never belonged to the city in the first place. Maybe he was a foreigner, after all. Well, he had bumped into this lovely little nest, so he was either desperate or looking for a crepuscular adventure.
Either would do.
Consummate seducer, Astarion swept his eyes over the tall, slender figure, dressed in an embroidered doublet. Clearly, an aristocrat; but for someone with his ancestry, the man struck with his baffling innocence. Where the hells was he hiding while the entire city indulged in vices, flaunting them all the way, spurning church and succumbing to repudiation of decency? Was he enchained deep under the dragon’s den waiting for his eighteenth birthday? This outstanding display of chastity looked almost unnerving: magistrate in the past, Astarion dealt with venality and corruption on a regular basis, not always on the side of justice. And for his entire career, he had never faced virtue as a concept.
Not that he broke a sweat trying to find one, though. Now, Madame Virtue seemed to have found its way into this man’s body and blindsided Her erstwhile servant. The red eyes transfixed on the visitor in a most unsettling way.
As if sensing someone’s stare, the man awkwardly froze on the doorstep, hesitating. Apparently, he wasn’t a frequenter. Or, quite possibly, he apprehended to spot a familiar face. Nevertheless, determination took over. He adjusted his doublet and headed to the counter where Astarion was already waiting, revising his best flirting techniques.
When the man scampered up and ensconced himself in a chair, the vampire gave him a sidelong look. Undoubtedly young. Almost too young. Shy. Fine manners, genteel conduct, and expensive clothing. Quite the dapper. Upper class. Anemic, beautiful visage, revealing nothing but utmost confusion as if he’d just pulled at the wrong leverage and opened the portcullis that led to the tabernacle of depravity he had never suspected existed. Dark, glossy hair. Eyes, too naive for such a terrible place. However, despite outright perplexity writ large on the features, Astarion could make out a peculiar emotion on the chiseled face with high cheekbones: he discerned opaque resolve.
Now, this was interesting.
The vampire lingered for a while, watching the man acknowledge unusual surroundings. What an oddball, Astarion snickered to himself. The visitor's tall, unbending frame effortlessly blotted out the shoal around: not a smidgen of vice mangled this aristocratic face; not a trace of rapacity warped his behavior. He looked so blatantly gullible, so disgustingly innocent that something in Astarion went prancing and bristling; his nature rampaged for no reason at all. Other victims, potential or otherwise, instigated nothing but vague vexation and vapidity; this one ignited emotions that pertained to the darker side of his enigmatic persona. Astarion felt an inexplicable urge to rectify what the city had failed to do: he wanted to corrupt this straightforward chastity. He wanted to taint this innocent body. He wanted to cover it with sin and filth it hadn’t previously known.
He wanted to own this man.
The visitor ordered a drink and curiously looked around, though not without fear in the scintillating eyes shadowed by the long eyelashes. Seizing the opportunity, Astarion jumped off his chair and languorously sauntered towards the man with a cunning lopsided smirk.
“You shouldn’t order wine here, darling,” Astarion drawled in his mellifluous voice dipped in honey, inconspicuously taking a seat beside the man. He deliberately stayed clear so as not to repel the stranger. The vampire was careful to maintain the right distance in order to avoid any occasional physical contact, but he juxtaposed himself close enough to sense the unusual warmth the man’s body exuded. Astarion was reluctant to admit that this warmth was something he craved, so he preferred to think that life itself rubbed him in the wrong way, even though he couldn’t quite pinpoint why it affected him so much. He'd grown accustomed to the gloom of the woeful castle dominating the landscape of Baldur's Gate. Nothing could get under skin—nothing but the sickening purity that slapped him in the face.
Well, maybe this exaggerated purity wasn’t the reason. Maybe it was a memo from the distant past where Astarion could still relish the sun, enjoying the warmth permeating his very bones. Maybe it was inner commotion he hadn't dealt with before. Maybe he needed to delve deeper to grasp the gist. Either way, it was unsettling, but he had to sustain a certain level of intimacy before he decided to act on the offensive.
“It tastes like vinegar.” Seeing mild confusion on the beautiful face, the vampire added, “You’d better find other places for exquisite drinks.” Astarion examined the man from head to toe and narrowed his crimson-colored eyes. “But I’d wager you’re already aware of the fanciest places in town. I wonder what brings you here, my dear. This is not exactly the establishment for men like you.”
“Well,” the stranger coughed, obviously uncomfortable, his fingers squeezing the glass. “I am… Damn. I was just trying to… find somewhere quiet. Somewhere… where nobody knows me.”
“You have very peculiar ideas on quietude, darling,” Astarion raised his thick eyebrows. “But I admire your hiding skills. Hiding here is by all means smart. No one would ever bother to attend a tavern like this. It’s good in its own way, and the public is fairly decent. However, I assume your lot prefers Sharess’ Caress. Am I right?”
This time Astation had no intention of embarrassing the man, but the innocuous remark hit home: the man's pallid, almost ashen cheeks turned pink. The vampire would be lying if he said he wasn't surprised: this genuine fluster was a long-forgotten emotion. If it ever existed in his world at all.
“My name is Astarion.” The vampire finally introduced himself in a languid drawl that seemed to have deepened to the consistency of molasses, his face flashing an artificial smile.
The man seesawed. He was obviously disconcerted by such unequivocal and blunt advances shot point-blank. Never before had he encountered someone so distinctly interested—and alluring. Astarion was bewitching, spellbinding, almost; his manners weren’t immaculate but nonetheless remained irresistible. He possessed a peculiar air of appeal described in ancient tomes depicting powerful witches and seductive goddesses that could reduce mere mortals to servile, sycophantic, blabbering mess eager to satisfy every whim. This new visitor had his pride in the right place, but with a mounting sense of misgiving, he was slowly discovering that he might have developed obsequious tendencies. He did want to talk to this mystifying person, smiling so cunningly. He did want to give him his name.
“Sebastian,” the visitor replied after a moment of hesitation and extended his hand for a handshake.