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I.
Astarion felt a tumult of emotions as his body crashed harshly against the rocky floor of the sewers. The rough texture of the stone rubbed against the fabric of his pants, leaving an unpleasant sensation that combined with the dense humidity of the place. The stinking fluids of the sewers began to soak into his clothes, causing the penetrating smell to invade his nose and the cold liquids to wet his closed fists. His eyes, forced to open and close repeatedly, tried desperately to adjust to the abrupt change in position. A sharp whine escaped his throat, but he knew he couldn't - shouldn't - focus on his own discomfort.
Baldur's Gate with its winding streets and constant flow of chaos, was a place he had learned to fear and respect. For over a hundred years of vampiric immortality, the city had been revealed to him as a place in perpetual transformation, unpredictable and dangerous. Violence was the pulse that moved this city, a principle that Astarion had accepted since he had been turned.
To him, Baldur's Gate was no longer a place where the lights of the halls illuminated the laughter of the nobles; it was a sombre place, full of shadows and hiding places where the unknown could lurk.
Roughness was nothing new to him, and his conscience had been shaped by the certainty that any being other than himself could harm him - he had facts to back up these conclusions. His well-trained instincts urged him to react quickly, his body tensing in preparation to strike.
But Astarion was no fool, he was a cunning, methodical survivor. He knew that not every fight could be won with an impulsive attack. It was vital, first, to understand who or what he was fighting, only then could he plan his next move.
So, taking a deep breath, he pushed aside the pain that was washing over him and looked up, wearing a carefully practiced mask of serenity. Though his body was still tense, he stopped puffing out his chest like a cornered animal trying to appear larger than he really is; he adopted a controlled stance.
Before him stood a female figure; an elf, like him, though imposing in her bearing. She was breathing heavily, but her panting was gradually calming, and her brown eyes met his. They studied each other in silence, weighing details, assessing possible threats. Astarion was quick to notice her strong, robust build, the muscles that stood out beneath her dark skin; her bare arms, marked by exercise and strength, revealed the obvious physical advantage she had over him. However, there was something else. Magic pulsed in the air around her, especially after what had happened moments before, telling him that he was dealing with a druid, one with the power to transform her body at will.
Astarion's jaw clenched, fighting the almost irrational impulse to bite. Thirst gnawed at him from within, a stinging need that clouded his senses, but he couldn't allow himself to show his true nature, not if he wanted to convince her that this had been nothing more than a misunderstanding, that he was a poor, unfortunate citizen, and that the dried blood stains on his shirt were nothing more than mud. The knowledge that he had nearly drained her, moments before when she was still in her animal form, loomed over him like a shadow.
A voice in his mind urged him to justify himself. After all, it was not his fault. Astarion had not eaten in weeks, and life in Baldur's Gate, with its constant surveillance, had prevented him from finding a moment of solitude. His only escape was the sewers, far from the gaze of his brothers and his master, Cazador. The rats that infested these underground tunnels were not his favorite food but it was the only one he knew; in times of need, the sour, putrid blood they contained was better than nothing.
Having said that, never in his years in this city would he have imagined that he would come across a druid transformed into one of those creatures. Druids in Baldur's Gate? The thought was almost ridiculous. Shouldn't they be busy in the forests, taking care of the trees and animals or some shit?
Yet there she was, staring at him with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. Their gazes remained locked, though now bewilderment had given way to a sort of silent truce. Astarion felt his own uncertainty begin to tangle with the hunger that consumed him. If there was anything more terrifying than open hostility it was uncertainty.
Putting aside his fears, he began to stand up, an excuse forming in his mind, he needed to talk, to negotiate his way out of this situation.
His thoughts were interrupted by the female voice, thick and fast, almost with a hint of unintentional humor. “Fuck, you must be hungry to want to devour a raw rat.” The sentence took him by surprise, and for a moment, he even was offended by the idea.
---
Baldur's Gate had, over the years, earned its reputation as one of the most diverse and chaotic cities on the continent. By the late 1300DR, the still-bustling streets showed no signs of having suffered under the passage of time. Merchants and townspeople mingled in the markets, visitors from far-off lands traded with the locals, and the streets were filled with sounds: the clink of coins, the distant shout of a vendor, the accidental bumping of hurried strangers. For those not accustomed to it, walking through the central avenues of Baldur's Gate without bumping into someone was a nearly impossible feat.
Tav appreciated the growth potential the city offered. Every day, new opportunities arose, and commissions were never lacking. For someone like her, who had to take care of her younger sister, the constant activity was a blessing. She knew that as long as there was work, there would always be food on the table for both of them.
But there were days, like today, when the city seemed to wear her down completely. The crowds became oppressive, the noise incessant, and the furtive glances of strangers made her skin crawl. After a long day of work, all she wanted was to get to her small rented room in a remote corner of the city and rest in the tranquility of her home.
Her legs ached from walking. Every step was a reminder of the weight she had carried all day, and the edges of her backpack had left a red mark on her brown skin, right where the straps rested on; sweat beaded on her forehead, slowly dripping down her cheeks due to the humidity emanating from the crowds.
No, she didn't hate people. Community life had its own charm, and she enjoyed meeting new people and helping out whenever possible. But sometimes she just felt overwhelmed.
It was at times like these that Tav turned to a less conventional alternative: the sewers. While the idea might seem repulsive to some, the underground tunnels of Baldur's Gate offered a quick and solitary route away from the bustle of the main streets.
The stench that permeates the heavy air of the sewers does not cause her any concern, by now, she had learned to live with the nauseating smells that pervade the underground passages.
However, what really worried her were the pools of corrosive liquids that spread unevenly across the damp, sticky floor, as well as the potential hostile creatures that inhabited these dark tunnels.
But even these dangers were manageable; her training as a druid - albeit short - has taught her simple and effective spells to avoid the occasional threat.
As she makes her way through the streets of the lower city, her watchful eyes search for an entrance to the underworld. Eventually, she finds what she's looking for: a rusty copper pipe, open on the side of a ruined house - not the safest of entrances, but it's the one she needs. Before approaching, the woman carefully examines her surroundings, looking for signs that she might be being watched or followed. She has nothing of value on her, but in Baldur's Gate, that doesn't deter thieves or drunks looking for trouble, and she doesn't feel like confronting anyone tonight.
Deciding that the way is clear, she transforms. The shadows shrouding the corner obscure her figure as her body changes, taking the form of a small, slithering, black rat. Her new appearance has many advantages: not only does it allow her to easily enter the copper pipe, but it will also help her navigate the winding, narrow corridors of the sewers, avoiding unwanted encounters with other underground denizens. Her body is agile, ideal for moving between cracked walls and broken drain grates. Sure, the path is longer than it would be with her normal form, as the small legs are not fast, but the reduced risk of being detected or attacked more than makes up for it.
Tav moves with the dexterity of a native creature. Each of her movements is calculated, instinctive. Like a rat that knows its home, she places each paw in the right place so as not to trip or fall into the traps of the environment. Darkness envelops her completely as she descends further and further down the cold metal of the pipe, but her new form gives her a different perspective, sharper, almost visceral. She can feel her field of vision changing, her senses heightened…Smells are more intense, sounds higher, vibrations in the ground more perceptible.
It is an experience Tav never quite gets used to, but she knows that this way of using her druid powers is essential to survival. Perhaps, in time, the druid would master these skills and make them part of her daily life.
After a few minutes of advancing in the darkness, the sewers welcome Tav. Dense, toxic green gases float lazily in the air, while the ground beneath her feet is covered in a disgusting mixture of stagnant water, mud, and substances she prefers not to identify. A chemical stench mixes with the aromas of putrefaction, creating an atmosphere that only underground dwellers can endure.
Having no choice but to continue forward, she ignores the feeling of disgust that each step produces.
Tav takes a few seconds to locate herself on her mental map of the sewers. She knows exactly where she is: if she keeps walking straight to the right for about twenty minutes, she should reach an exit close to the room where she lives with his sister.
Although the day has been long and tiring, it is not over yet. Tav moves automatically, like someone who has walked this path many times before, while her mind begins to wander.
She thinks about her sister, about the blonde curls in her hair, about the need to wash and braid them before they both retire for the night. She also wonders what provisions they have in the room. Will they be enough for dinner tonight and breakfast the next day? Maybe she should buy some cheese and some eggs before she goes back to the room. It's a constant worry, the need to make sure they both have what they need to survive, but it's become almost routine. So much so that her mind seems to disconnect from the present, getting lost in the calculation of small tasks.
As she moves forward, her rat-like paws step into puddles of corrosive liquid that momentarily sting her skin, but Tav doesn't seem to care at all. She's too absorbed in her thoughts, letting her body move along a path she already knows well.
In the midst of her reverie, a song she heard earlier in the central square settles in Tav's memory. It was a bard's melody, a simple tune that they repeated almost obsessively. Although she has forgotten the words, the rhythm continues to bounce around in her head, filling the eerie silence of the sewers. It is at that moment, just as she passes through a small wall through a narrow opening, that something happens.
Hands suddenly grab her, with a force she didn’t anticipate. Her tiny rat-like body is squeezed, almost crushed, as she is lifted into the air and brought close to what is clearly someone’s mouth. Tav can feel the desperate hunger in the air, a primal need to consume. She doesn’t feel the hot breath of her attacker but she can smell the urgency in the air. Panic takes hold of her in a matter of seconds, and for a brief moment, all she hears are the high-pitched squeals of the rat she has taken as her form. Time is short, and her heart is pounding as she struggles not to give in.
In a quick movement, Tav sheds her animal form and returns to her elven body. Her normal size frees her from the attacker's grasp, and she quickly stands up, taking a few steps back to put distance between them. In front of her, a crouching man looks at her with wide-open eyes, a mixture of horror and surprise. Their gazes meet in silence for a few long seconds. Each tries to assimilate what has just happened and their role in this unexpected encounter.
The man, or rather the elf now before her, is a thin, almost gaunt figure. His silver hair contrasts sharply with his red eyes, which glow with a disturbing intensity in the dimness of the sewers. From her perspective, he appears short and frail, though Tav recognizes that her judgment of height has been wrong more than once. He watches her like a trapped animal, unable to decide whether he should attack or flee. The man doesn’t appear to be armed, which lessens the sense of immediate danger, but still, Tav doesn’t let her guard down.
At first glance, he doesn’t look like someone who needs to feed on raw rats to survive; his clothing, though dirty and stained with reddish dirt around the edges, is fine, of a quality only nobles usually wear. The white shirt is wrinkled and worn, but the fabric still glistens slightly under the greenish light given off by the gases in the air. It’s as if she's looking at a disgraced noble, someone who has lost everything and been driven to the brink of madness.
The vine spell on the tip of her tongue seems like the most obvious solution, but something stops her. Instead of attacking, something inside her tells her that maybe she should help the man standing before her. Tav knows it's an absurd idea, but she can't help herself.
A former employer had once called her out on this character trait, describing it as a “hero complex.” It had been during his first year in the city, when she had offered to work overtime without pay in exchange for feeding a family in need. At the time, Tav had thought the comment was a compliment, but over time, she had come to understand that it was more of a warning, however, after three years of living in Baldur’s Gate she still has not managed to overcome this flaw.
The elf watches her with agitated eyes, as if he has not yet decided whether to react as prey or predator. His shoulders hunch, and his body adopts a closed and defensive posture, although he tries to appear confident. It is clear that he does not feel comfortable with her presence, but he does not seem ready to attack her either. As the seconds pass, the tension in the atmosphere decreases slightly, and Tav notices that the elf's labored breathing begins to calm little by little.
Finally, the silence is broken when Tav lets out an almost worried comment. “Fuck, you must be hungry to want to devour a raw rat.” The guy blinks a few times, his expression changing to a more affable one, flirtatious even, but with a dramatic tone typical of an actor, a performance similar to the one he sees in the taverns she frequents.
“Oh don’t be so critical, darling.” His voice is low. Tav wrinkles her nose, as if the entire stench of the place has just traveled up her nostrils.
Perhaps she should do just what the man suggests: not judge, not worry, stop thinking, go on her way and dismiss this situation as just another oddity of the lower city.
“You should at least cook it, they are animals prone to carrying diseases.”
Tiredness began to weigh on her shoulders like an invisible but crushing burden. It had been a long day, and the strange interaction with this stranger was not helping her exhaustion. A voice in her head, cold and pragmatic, told her it was time to leave, to get away from this place and this situation that only seemed to promise more trouble. There was nothing else to do here. He didn't want her help, and even if she was willing to offer it, she doesn't know how at this precious moment.
And…and she was almost eaten for Gods’ sake.
She couldn't afford to stay. She had enough on her plate already, with her sister waiting for her at home, and her own responsibilities weighing her down…There were more important things than feeding her curiosity about this strange man.
She also feels something, his ghostly appearance, almost intact, and those bloodshot eyes that never stop looking at her produce cold sweats down her spine.
With a final decision, she turned on her feet and began to walk away, her footsteps echoing dully off the damp walls of the tunnel. She didn’t look back, though she felt the elf’s gaze on her back as she went. Her instincts urged her to leave quickly, to not think too much about what had just happened. The sewers had a way of bringing out the worst in people, and she had no intention of getting caught up in that whirlpool of despair.
After walking for a few minutes in complete silence, and having left the elf and his disturbing gaze behind, she decided to transform again. Her muscles and bones compressed, her skin changed texture, and in a matter of seconds, Tav once again adopted the form of the black rat, elusive and discreet.
The next day, after a restless night and a short meditation, Tav prepared to set out again. She had decided to take the same underground route. However, this time she was more prepared.
Before leaving, she put some food in the pockets of her cloak, just in case. Something inside her still told her that the elf she had found the day before could be somewhere nearby, hungry and weak. She wouldn be lying if she said she had felt somewhat guilty about leaving a poor man like that, but prudence never hurt.
The ground was just as dirty and wet, but there was no trace of his presence, nor of his desperation. For a moment, Tav felt that it had all been some kind of illusion, a whim of her mind, exhausted by the city.
As she continued on her way home, Tav repeated in her mind that perhaps it had all been a foolish idea, a slip on her part. She shouldn't let herself be carried away by the insatiable curiosity that often got her into trouble. This time, it would be best to focus on what really mattered: her home, her sister, and the coming day that would surely bring new challenges.
II.
Astarion does not return to the sewers for a long time, not because an encounter with someone in those dark, damp passages would be uncomfortable for him, although he would certainly prefer not to experience such a situation again. The reality is that the days pass by in an endless and monotonous manner, a succession of hours that seem to blur into a single instant during which time he dedicates himself to capturing civilians for his master, to being punished for trifles that would seem laughable if they were not so painful, and to spending his free moments trying to make the wounds in his body heal, although his spirit never seems to rest. There is nothing left to do but accept it, none of the Gods hear his call he has already tried.
Hunger becomes a secondary concept, a mere echo in his mind, when his body is so weakened that the idea of chewing becomes almost ridiculous. On days when time seems to stand still, when he feels forgotten, when the palace servants look down at him as he passes and treat him with a respect that feels false and empty, the fear that something unexpected will happen overwhelms him. Such a brief, circumstantial, and seemingly forgettable encounter should not have a significant impact on Astarion's immortal life, but ironically, it does.
A part of him is restless, constantly questioning why he did not attack, why he did not kill the mortal who crossed his path. He tells himself over and over that the young woman does not seem to have noticed anything strange about him, but the fear that she will divulge any details about their encounter, that she will share information that reaches the ears of his fearsome master, consumes him. The idea that he must fulfill some penance for having left a nail loose in his life terrifies him.
Yet on the other hand, in a life where the days slip by without distinction, stained by the same pain and the same hatred, it has been the first time that he has spoken to someone directly and that person has not ended up in one of the decorated rooms of the castle, ready to sacrifice their body shortly after Astarion had given them their's. It is strange to him, the mere idea that someone outside his inner circle has looked at him and that the memory of his face - now forgotten - still lingers in his mind.
And during one morning, Astarion curses himself, aware that even to someone who does not know his name, he must seem weak and vulnerable in their memories.
The weeks slip by, and he disperses his memory in an attempt to survive, for thinking about what has happened does not help him at all. So he resumes submission to his master's orders, behaving like a terrified fawn.
---
Tav watches with a mixture of nostalgia and joy as her sister grows over the years. The differences that once existed between their bodies have faded away, now both seem equally mature. The relationship between them has also changed, evolving into a complicity that leads both women to go out together to the taverns of Baldur's Gate, more financially stable than twenty years ago. They used to dance until exhaustion took over, immersing themselves in a world of music and laughter.
Tav's sister has adapted to the hustle and bustle of the city, loving the crowds of people around her, and has slowly formed a group of half-elves with whom she can hang out alone, enjoying their company. Tav, however, can't help but feel like she's being left behind a little.
Although she feels young and should be able to keep up, over time, the city has lost the charm that once captivated her. The elf sighs, taking a sip of wine as her gaze focuses on the blonde streaks of Sikilia's hair.
It's not that Tav is bad at remembering faces, in fact, she's quite skilled at it, especially considering that she works for merchants and has to deal with a lot of different people. However, over the years she's learned that it's vital to choose who to remember in order to progress and who to forget so as not to hinder her path. So, when she sees a stranger enter through one of the back doors of the bar, her mind becomes confused, and although her gaze lingers on him she can't identify the familiarity of his timeless attire or his silver curls.
The man blends in with the other young people on the dance floor, matching them with movements that seem rehearsed.
As she takes a sip from her drink, Tav's mind searches through her memory.
Although she knows the man looks familiar, she can’t remember where from. He is undeniably attractive; his movements are graceful making him stand out among the roughness of the crowd. Then, the man approaches her sister’s group, becoming more visible in her field of vision. She can now see the wrinkles of his smile, the patterns of his clothing—too tight for such a warm environment, though he doesn’t seem to suffer from the heat–. Sikilia and the pale elf are talking and Tav frowns, sensing that something doesn’t fit.
The lively music played by the bards of the place doesn’t allow her to hear the content of the conversation, but she has lived long enough to read the flirtatious expressions of both of them; Sikilia has never been cautious with her choices.
Even though Tav knows she shouldn't meddle in her sister's affairs, maternal concern throbs in her head like a persistent migraine. She has had to take care of Sikilia since she was a child, and that responsibility has shaped her in an undeniable way. However, she realizes that it is no longer her place to intervene.
The woman watches as her sister approaches the man and he whispers something in her ear that makes her blush. Tav can see her shake her head in denial, but then they share a few more words, and Sikilia seems to accept what the stranger is saying. At that moment, Tav suddenly connects gaze with the man. His red eyes turn her stomach, and suddenly everything makes sense.
She remembers, she sees it clearly now. His skin, the length of his hair, the wrinkles on his face, his nails: everything seems intact, as if time has not affected him in the slightest… Tav knows that it is common for elves to age slowly, for their appearance not to change drastically over the years; but comparing images from years ago, he has not changed at all, like a well-preserved sculpture. Something about the stranger has a ghostly aura, a feeling that his presence is a bad omen.
The recognition is instantaneous; the man identifies her the moment he sees her. His eyes open briefly, and then he looks away, preventing her from investigating further, from discovering what is behind his smile. This gesture sends a shiver down Tav's spine once again.
Without thinking, she moves her body, somewhat heavy from the alcohol she has ingested, and begins to walk towards them. From a few meters away, Tav can see how Sikilia's blonde hair turns several times, undecided and confused on what's happening. From a distance, she can hear her questioning voice, who is unaware of the tension that has arisen in the air.
When Tav arrives at her side, interrupting the micro-scene, Sikilia prepares to introduce them. The druid places a hand on her sister's shoulder, trying to impose her presence on the stranger.
“Astarion, let me introduce you to my sister Tav… I know I told you she came alone but she really likes to sit among the people, mysteriously.” That's not… well. Her voice denotes happiness, her skin is hot to the touch and some sweat falls on her forehead after so much time of celebration.
But both elves do not stop looking at each other, the red eyes are accompanied by a sideways smile and suddenly he seems less interested in approaching Sikilia and more interested in how to get out of the bar that a few minutes ago he had treated so naturally as if it was his home.
“We’ve met before,” Tav interrupts, holding her gaze. Her tone cracks a little because she realizes that maybe this is all about her own prejudices, maybe she’s ruining her sister’s night based on some unfounded theory based on… a guy with empty eyes? There are a lot of people with unusual characteristics, but not all of them mean danger. Maybe it’s even the alcohol talking.
The girl under her hand tenses, glances at her sister's shoulder and face, and after deliberating for a few seconds turns back to the supposed Astarion, but before she could communicate what she was thinking the man has moved away far enough to leave the group of people and says goodbye in the same way that Tav did years ago, turning her back and walking away.
–--
Astarion is aware that he can sweat, and he does so with the same intensity that fear clings to his foot. The sensation is clammy and wet, a given away of his body that betrays his inner state.
That night, as he runs to another familiar bar, his mind is a whirlwind of nerves and anxiety, a cacophony of voices criticizing him, accusing him of not finishing a pending job he has been dragging on for years, of ruining a potential hunt. The reality that he has shared his own name with a mortal—who has lived to tell the tale—hits him like a hammer, crushing his sense of survival.
The atmosphere becomes oppressive around him. Shadows seem to lengthen, whispering dark secrets and mocking his vulnerability. With each step he takes, anxiety turns to panic, and his mind torments him with visions of what might come: Cazador’s wrath, the outburst of his punishment, the inexorable certainty of his failure. When he finally stops, his breath fails him, his chest heaving as if each inhalation were an unattainable luxury.
With each passing day that Cazador fails to mention his mistakes, Astarion feels trapped in a bottomless pit. Anguish suffocates him, and what was once fear now becomes a deep abyss of incomprehension. In his solitude, in the confinement of his chambers, he vomits not only the bile that rises in his throat, but also the pain of an identity that seems to slip through his fingers. The uneasiness of not understanding himself, of having become a stranger even to his own soul. Anguish and horror intertwine, leaving an indelible mark on his being, a shadow that follows him, an echo of the confusion that reverberates in his mind as he struggles to find meaning in his cursed existence.
III.
After years of tireless effort and wisely made investments, Tav finally managed to fulfill one of her dreams: buying a house for herself and her sister. Although the home was small, the spaces were masterfully arranged, allowing them to take advantage of every corner with impeccable functionality. The rooms seemed larger than they actually were, with each area carefully designed to fit their needs. Over time, she was even able to build a lounge in the back that served as a workshop, a space where they could both work and create.
It had been so long since they had been able to enjoy whole days without rushing, dedicating themselves only to breathing, to being present. It was a luxury they couldn’t remember having in years.
In that sense of calm that now, at last, they could allow themselves Sikilia had found a new interest in reading, immersing herself in the translation of ancient and forgotten texts, exploring lost worlds between yellowed pages. There was something comforting about seeing her so immersed in that task, so much so that Tav felt motivated to join her during those warm afternoons, encouraged by Sikilia’s silent invitation to share this newfound passion.
Tav knew how to read, having been taught by her father as a child, once she had begun to communicate with ease. Both of her mothers, despite living far from the bustling centers of commerce, had managed to maintain a small but impressive library in their home.
However, she recalls, she had never really enjoyed reading as a recreational activity. She had always valued knowledge, and when she read, she did so with a specific purpose: to learn, to discover something new, to advance her goals. Fiction, on the other hand, felt like a burden, something unnecessary, as if reading for pleasure were a waste of time. Poetry, in particular, made her feel impatient, as if the words were floating aimlessly.
But that had been when she was a child. Now after years of living and accumulated experiences she began to appreciate fiction in a different way. She no longer saw it as an empty exercise, but as a way to escape from harsh reality, a necessary outlet for the daily stresses that come with living in Baldur's Gate.
That afternoon, lying in a hammock in the small backyard of her house, Tav was turning the pages of a book she had bought just a few days before. The warm afternoon breeze gently caressed her skin, and the sound of the leaves of the trees moving in time with the wind created a calm melody that accompanied her as she read. The patio was her refuge, a space where they had planted their own food and where, among the small pots and vegetable gardens, she found respite. However, that particular day, what she had in her hands was a romance, something she would never have imagined reading openly, and the mere thought of it made her feel a little vulnerable.
She had bought it with some embarrassment, her cheeks flushing at the thought of what the shop assistant at the bookstall might have thought of her. She didn't consider herself a sentimental person anymore, even less so after... well, some past inconveniences. But there it was, the words slipping through her mind as the story slowly engulfed her. At that moment, the main character of the tale was being kissed by the love interest, and the scene suddenly changed tone. The lover's fangs digging into the protagonist's neck, the detailed description of the bite, the feeling of blood being drawn. It was so unexpected, so strange, that Tav frowned, bewildered.
She felt foolish, as if she had overlooked something crucial in the text. Was there something she hadn’t understood? Had she ignored some prior sign that this was the kind of story she was about to dive into? Driven by curiosity and a growing unease, she decided to start over, this time paying closer attention to the details, to the subtleties between the lines. Something about the description of the love interest unsettled her deeply.
The words on the page traced a pale, almost ethereal figure, someone who moved with the lightness of a shadow. The figure’s eyes were a deep red, as if they absorbed all the light in the room, leaving a trail of darkness in their wake. Tav read that description over and over again, an uneasy feeling growing in her chest. That face, those eyes, that paleness… they were strangely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place the image in her mind. Something inside her was stirring, as if her subconscious was trying to send her a warning, a sign that there was something else at play, something that was at the edges of her memory, but she couldn’t quite reach it.
Finally, she let out a sigh and looked at the hardcover of the book she had been reading. The gold-lettered title “Escapes of the Dusk” glistened in the sunlight, but this time, upon closer inspection, she noticed something he hadn’t registered before: two golden fangs etched into one corner of the cover. Her breathing stopped for a second. How had she not seen it before? That small detail, that symbol that now seemed to scream at her with disturbing clarity.
Suddenly, the story took on a new meaning. It wasn’t just any old romance; it was something darker, deeper. The scenes began to fit together in her mind, like pieces of a puzzle finally finding their shape. And as she stared at those golden fangs on the cover, a feeling of unease grew inside her, as if the book, with its words and descriptions, had opened a door to something that had been hidden deep within her memory.
Tav slammed the book shut, her heart pounding. The warm breeze no longer seemed so comforting.
IV.
Sikilia had dedicated several years of her life to the convent, where life was spent amidst prayers, rituals and a sacred silence that seemed to envelop everything. However, as the rain fell persistently on the city streets, Sikilia returned home, her footsteps echoing softly on the wet cobblestones.
The weather was unusually calm that day, as if the entire world was holding its breath. The rain, which usually brought with it an air of melancholy, felt comforting, like a gentle caress washing away the worries of the past. Tav had been focused on her own aspirations, devoting herself to the art of weaving and forging accessories. Over time, she had stopped working for merchants and had begun to become a supplier of materials, giving back to the community what she had learned in her years of effort and sacrifice. She had returned to dancing, a skill she had once loved, just as she had done in her home village more than six decades ago, when life was simple and the future seemed bright.
In the midst of this personal rebirth, she had begun planning her own “escape” from Baldur’s Gate, longing to explore new horizons where she could develop herself further. However, the return from Sikilia brought with it an unexpected change.
Opening the door to her home, Tav saw her sister come in soaking wet, her hair plastered to her forehead and her cheeks flushed from the cold. She didn't say anything, but the gleam in her eyes gave away that something wasn't right.
Sikilia looked at her sadly, as if the shadows of the convent followed her even on her return. In a trembling whisper, she confessed that she had left religious service weeks ago and that, although she had tried to make a living without depending on her only known family, she had not been successful. Tav could not contain herself; she held her tightly, carried her to the guest room - her old room - stroking her wet hair while singing a soft melody to her, as if that could make the nightmares that haunted her disappear. She prepared a hot broth to comfort her sister's body and soul, however, when she returned, she found her asleep, her face serene but marked by the tears she had shed.
As the weeks passed, the silence began to fade. One afternoon, Sikilia approached Tav, sitting next to her at the table. It was a simple act, but full of meaning. For hours, Tav listened to her sister communicate her worries and fears, words that flowed like an overflowing river. Tav couldn’t help but think that the few weeks her sister had spent on the streets were nothing compared to everything she had sacrificed to care for her, but she held back. It was a selfish thought.
The doubt continued to linger in her mind. “Why did you walk away from the convent like this?” she finally asked, her voice shaking as she said it. Sikilia tensed, her gaze turning to Tav with palpable horror. Her lips were wet, stained by her own tears and snot, and she struggled to gesticulate as she spoke. She began the sentence, but was interrupted several times by the treacherous hiccups that always came when she was nervous.
“Some people in the area started acting weird,” she began, anguished. “And then, people in the area started disappearing… I think they were ghosts.” She paused, her eyes meeting Tav’s, and in that instant, Tav saw the desperation and helplessness reflected in her gaze.
“They were like soulless ghosts, pale and haunting the convent… Like vampires, Tav!”
Vampires?
V.
Over time, the desire for her original plan returned, a desire to venture forth that had always been latent in her heart.
During their farewell, Tav left most of her money, or at least most of it, for the girl she had once raised and who now seemed older than herself. During their farewell, the woman told her, somewhat shyly, where that money would end up; she would find a way to build an orphanage in Baldur's Gate, a refuge for children who needed love and care, a place where hope could be reborn in the midst of darkness. During the hug they shared, Tav could only nod and smile, feeling that her sister was going to do a great job.
They promised to write to each other often and send small gifts, as if those small connections could overcome the distance that would soon separate them.
Once outside the city, the cool, damp air caressed Tav's face, but a deep loneliness settled in his chest. The feeling of having no one to devote herself to, to care for, made her feel like he was outside her own skin, she didn't know how to exist without devoting herself to someone.
Decades passed.
---
Daylight filtered through the camp, bathing Astarion in a golden glow he had not experienced in years. The burning sun was a warm caress on his skin, a reminder of the fresh air and freedom that was so elusive. Yet in his mind, a whirlwind of emotions fought to surface, each one more intense than the last. He had spent so many years—centuries—under Cazador ’s boot, suffering the bitter slavery and torture of a shadowy existence. The scars of his dark days still burned on his skin; every morning, those closed wounds reopened with the memory of his past, of the nights filled with suffering and the indelible marks it had left on his soul.
Despite having an alien worm in his brain, the anguish that should have been invading him felt distant, like an echo fading among the sounds of the day. Freedom was a luxury he had never expected to regain, but now, for the first time in a long time, he could breathe with ease- or an illusion close to it-. It was a new and disconcerting opportunity, and as long as Cazador still “breathed” his past would haunt him, but he couldn't let that stop him. He had made the decision to clear his mind, to live in this present so fragile and, at the same time, so promising.
The group they had formed was an odd lot, each with their own history, their own traumas. The leader, Tav, was too accommodating, overly kind, and often unopportunistic. Yet Astarion could not complain. No one questioned his habits, and there were times, especially in the evenings, when he allowed himself the indulgence of lying back on comfortable pillows while enjoying a good book, letting the others do the dirty work for him. This passivity, this shirking of his responsibilities, was a relief.
Yet deep down, there was something odd about Tav's gaze. A hint of distrust crept between her eyes, and when their minds connected, trying to probe her thoughts, Astarion was only met with questions about a strange familiarity she couldn't quite identify every time she looked into his red eyes.
As they moved forward, the team explored every corner of the land in search of food. They even came across a boar that had been left to dry by him a few nights ago.
The more they moved and the more commotion they caused, the fewer animals came near the settlement during the night and morning hours. Astarion felt his strength fading, growing weaker and weaker. He was used to not eating for long periods, but the only activity he had to do was wander around the night, luring potential victims to his master.
The days passed, and even though he managed to hunt down a few squirrels clinging to the trees, the pang in his stomach became increasingly unbearable. Fatigue made him dizzy, slowing down his search for a possible cure to the infection. Tav, with her observant nature, began to notice his deterioration. In a gesture of incomprehensible compassion, she began to allow him to stand guard more frequently at the camp. If he weren't feeling so hungry, he might consider this a sweet act, but instead it only made him feel weaker, more helpless. Hunger was a relentless enemy that undermined his confidence, wore down his body, and clouded his mind.
One day, as Gale began cooking for the group, Astarion listened to a conversation between Tav and the red tiefling who had joined them at the settlement just two days ago.
“And you don't miss Baldur's, soldier?”
“I haven’t been there in…” She took a deep breath, as if trying to do the math in her head. Astarion felt a pang of empathy; his race tended to lose track of time, making it difficult for them to remember exact dates. Sometimes, he even wondered about his own exact age. “I don’t know, actually. My sister runs an orphanage there. Maybe you know her. She’s a light-haired half-elf, Sikilia is her name. Now she is an old lady.”
The name, the possibility of the crossing paths at the city echoed in Astarion's head like a warning, a reminder of his own past. He struggled to remember what he knew, mulling over possible connections in his mind. The image of the past he had left behind haunted him as the rest of the night slowly slipped by. The pale elf imagined the few scenarios he might have crossed paths with her, all of them nocturnal, all of them ending with someone dead by his fault. After so many victims, so many years, he couldn't be faithful to his memory. He remembered the people, but the faces were interchangeable, the events resembled each other, a sea of confusion.
It was well into the midnight hour, as he sank into deep meditation, when a memory surfaced, one that wasn't laden with torture. It was blurry, not as important as his nightmares seemed, but there she was. First he saw her through a veil of horror, standing before him looking much younger, her hair short and her soul vibrant with energy and caution. Then he watched her from a bar, where her appearance had changed again, emphasizing the passage of time, with him accompanied by the woman he now recognized as Tav's possible sister.
When he woke up in a way he felt like a desperate man, consumed by his own hunger. Fate seemed to have chosen a perfect prey for him. He shouldn’t, he knew.
Tav was a useful woman, an ally who had proven herself valuable on more than one occasion. Yet there was something inside him that told Astarion it wouldn’t be long before she remembered as he had done, before she deduced that on that fateful night, he had been seeking to feed off her sister whom she seemed to hold in such high regard.
The thought twisted in his mind, tearing him apart inside. If she tried to punish him, who would stop her? Who would choose to listen to a pedantic vampiric spawn instead of their brave leader?
It was a survival act.
His stomach growled, a sound that echoed like a reminder. Nothing his mind was telling him was right, but the slight possibility that she knew everything deep down drove him to get up and walk to Tav's tent. The darkness of the night enveloped him like a cloak, and in his heart, a mix of fear and desire intertwined, leading him towards an abyss he wasn't sure he wanted to explore.
He shivered as he sat on top of her, unable to discern if it was out of hesitation or pure need. His cold body contrasted with the body heat emanating from the woman beneath him, and need clouded his judgment, overshadowing any consideration he might have had.
For a moment, he realized that this would be his first humanoid victim. His palate salivated as he brought his mouth to her neck, a mix of desire and terror taking over him.
He knew this was all wrong, even from a practical standpoint feeding on her, sucking her blood to death wouldn't prevent her from regaining consciousness in the process and, perhaps, killing him. Even if not her team could bring her back to life the next day. In no situation would he win, but he was so hungry.
All his doubts paled before the sweet melody that silenced his mind, the taste of Tav's skin, salty and warm. He felt weak, small, and a deep impulse filled him with determination: one bite could make him feel like a God. So, without thinking, he bit, hard and firm, fast. The reaction was instantaneous. Tav screamed, and pushed him away, throwing him to the side.
The pale elf blinked, focused for a moment as confusion clouded his mind. His tired, red eyes met Tav's brown ones, which were filled with horror and a confusion that seemed endless.
The woman brought a hand to her neck, feeling the trails of fresh blood that flowed from the wounds he had inflicted. Astarion broke eye contact immediately, his mind trying to flee the scene, desperately searching for an escape, a way out of this mess or perhaps a way to grab a weapon and cut her tongue out from her throat with it.
In front of him, the druid opens her eyes as if the shared past memories come like a buzz to her mind. She is not usually so expressive but her face twists in surprise and then… Joy? Excitement? Maybe she had gone mad. She smiles and laughs softly -even at times like this she is worried about not waking up the rest.
“Fuck it was so obvious you were a vampire I can’t believe it. Your skin, your eyes, your theatrics”... What?