Chapter Text
Ancunín Palace, Upper City, Baldur’s Gate: 1498 DR
Astarion sat on his throne, holding court in a posture that seemed to mock both the seat and the setting: leaning on one armrest, chin propped up on his palm, one leg thrown over the opposite arm, and an expression that suggested he could not possibly be more bored.
It had been five years since the defeat of the Absolute, though this was no celebration of the occasion; just another fourthday night. The courtiers currently milling and drinking in his great hall comprised a variety of patriars gathered for the performance. Each one was dressed in exquisitely tailored and fashionable finery, as was required to be a guest in his home, and all were quite beautiful -- or at least knew well enough to try to appear so.
A quite fetching sun elf knelt before him holding a lute.
He looked down on her; her frame would do, though she moved too silkily, too subtly. The hair wasn’t quite right, either – more waves than curls, really, and it appeared no one had ever taught her about the importance of moisture to textured hair.
No matter.
“Look up, darling, and let’s see that pretty face,” he instructed her dispassionately.
The girl’s face was a study in adoration and trepidation. His nose wrinkled and his lip curled in distaste. Perhaps he should instruct Nocturne to have them trained in the dramatic arts moving forward. Of course it only made sense that they would worship him, but it broke the illusion for them to be so obvious about it.
She was pretty enough, he supposed, even if the eyes weren’t quite right: too round, he thought, and their hue was off by a margin wide enough to notice. At least the shade of her hair was quite close; there were even a few purple streaks for added effect. Unfortunate that they looked about as soft as desiccated straw. She wet full lips; freshly tattooed dots framed her brow. All things considered, certainly subpar, but perhaps her performance would save it.
After all, he’d learned long ago that perfection was singular, and until he could attain it he would have to make do.
He shrugged dispassionately, then waved his hand.
“You’ll serve, I suppose. Play."
She plucked the strings of a lute almost competently as she sang with barely a warble in her voice:
"Astarion, Astarion,
King of the stars,
Astarion, Astarion,
You’ll go very far –”
He physically recoiled at the song, his open mouth and widened eyes reflecting his horror to a level that would have been comical at a different time, in different company.
Leaning forward with marked disapproval, he cast a disbelieving look at Nocturne. The purple-haired Mephistophelean tiefling managed to somehow look appropriately chastised while still keeping her expression even.
"Astarion, Astarion,
and your magic face,
Astarion, Astarion,
stars all over the p--"
Turning back to this... creature, he cut her off.
“What is your name?” he asked with convincing curiosity, a brow arched.
“Z-z–”
“No,” he snapped. “Not that one. Your true name.”
“L-liandra Ruve'c, m-master!” she replied, apparently as quickly as she could force the words over her tongue.
“Eugh, she’s not even Baldurian, is she?” he sighed, leaning back in his opulent seat before he continued.
“Truly, I have no language for how appalling that was. It may not actually exist.”
He seemed almost thoughtful, having resumed his previous, languid posture, but now propping his chin up on his fist.
“That you had the audacity to make such sounds in my presence leaves me unsure if you’re unhinged or simply suicidal.”
The girl looked up at him with wide eyes, her previous nervousness replaced by abject terror as she now held the lute in a death grip.
“Liandra, be a dear and walk yourself into the sun, would you?” he shifted, turning his head to look at his nails, then flicking his fingers.
Despair but also heartbreak dawned on her face even as she rose to her feet mechanically, as though pulled by strings.
“Master! Please, no, Master, I’ll learn, I only want to serve–”
He rolled his eyes with a long-suffering sigh.
“Yes, yes, darling, I know. But for the love of the gods, please stop assailing us with that fox yowl you call a voice and do as you’re told.”
Her mouth immediately snapped shut before with all the grace and fluidity of a rusty construct, she turned and took herself toward the door. The golden hour was just beginning to wane, but it would only take a moment to resolve this little issue.
Nocturne opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand. After a few moments, there was a repeat of that wretched yowl, except now a scream, then blessed silence.
That done, he turned to the tiefling, lips pursed.
Now, at this point one might be thinking that Nocturne’s time in this mortal coil had also reached its limit, but it wasn’t so.
Nocturne was, despite this particular debacle, quite consistently competent in a wide variety of ways, and therefore quite useful. Astarion was neither a madman nor an idiot; good help really was hard to find these days.
But that hardly meant that it didn’t need correcting.
She’d been working for him long enough not to know not to speak. She stood at attention, her expression fairly neutral; the heavy swallow that had just bobbed in her throat was hardly noticeable.
Eugh, she really was high quality, wasn’t she.
“Darling,” he purred reproachfully, “I know that the task I set for you is hardly a simple one. There are so many moving parts, after all.”
Her posture relaxed just slightly.
“Even still, is it so much to ask that you not present to me creatures whose attempts at musical performance are more grating than the Phalar Aluve on the offensive? And that’s to say nothing of those lyrics . What in the Nine Hells were you thinking, darling?”
Nocturne opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head and waved a hand and she immediately closed it.
“No, dear, so sorry, I know that was phrased as a question but truly, I don’t care. You’ll spend the rest of the day and tomorrow in the kennels, then get back to it.”
To her credit, Nocturne only pressed her lips together for a moment before she nodded.
“Yes, my lord,” she said with a bow, then moved – far more fluidly than… whatever that sun elf’s name was as she removed herself and walked toward the door.
“Oh, and Nocturne?” he called just as she reached the exit of the grand ballroom.
She stopped and turned to look at him, her expression neutral.
“Yes, my lord?” she replied.
“Tell Godey you may have both a blanket and a pillow. After all, I do know you tried, darling.”
“My lord is ever gracious,” she replied in a tone that seemed entirely without irony.
He smirked.
“Am I not?”
The smile turned benevolent as he leaned back in his seat with a sigh.
“You may go.”
Nocturne bowed once more then took herself off to the kennels.
He waved his hand again to the courtiers.
“All right, off with you now to the grand ballroom,” he purred, though the ennui in his voice was unmistakable. “And don’t worry, the orgy will commence as planned; I’ll join you in a bit.”
He gave them a smile that did not approach his eyes, waving them off with a flick of his fingers; they exited the room in a buzz of anticipation and enthusiasm. After all, everyone knew Astarion Ancunín threw the best parties.
The room had emptied, and he was finally, blessedly alone… except for one young, red-skinned tiefling whose choice of outfit indicated compliance with Ancunín Palace’s quality requirements, but was still basic, dark, functional, lightweight leathers. Her hair was bound up in a ponytail, her face tattooed, and her flame-red eyes glinted shrewdly.
“Oi yer bitey lordship,” she greeted him with an abbreviated bow. With a huff of a sigh, he waved his hand to beckon her closer.
“What is it, Mol? Aren’t there enough pockets for you to pick in the grand ballroom?”
“You say that like there could be enough pockets to pick anywhere, boss,” she said with a smirk. “But I’m not here for that. I’m here because one o’ my boys saw somethin’ at the Mermaid that I figured you’d wanna know about sooner rather’n later.”
He looked at her, still bored, still skeptical. After a beat, he waved his hand with an impatient flick of his fingers.
“Well? Out with it, then. What could anyone possibly have seen in that spectacle of vermin and squalor that would interest me?”
Mol’s smirk grew wider, and she looked like a cat that had been waiting all day for the cream it’d just got.
“Well, not much, yer eternal fanciness… except maybe the entertainment for the evenin’.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Good gods, you can have your extra hundred gold if you spit it out in the next five sec-.”
“Tav,” she said instantly with a grin.
He put his leg down, both feet on the floor, as he leaned forward, his eyes cold.
“Mol, I do hope for your sake that this source is reliable. Because if on your word, I go down to that shit-infested hovel of a tavern and they were wrong, I promise you, you will not like the consequences.”
“Nah, boss,” she replied, now with complete seriousness. “When they told me, I went down there myself and seen her with my own eyes. It’s her. She’s doin’ a practice show right now, I caught her on the first set. Some of your old mates there, too.”
A slow smirk spread over his lips. “You don’t say,” he purred.
“I do, boss. You want me to send some o’ the boys to go get ‘er after the show?”
“You needn’t trouble yourself,” he replied, still smirking as he stood. “Speak with Salazon to get your coin.”
“An’ the extra?” she said, not moving.
“Mm,” he hummed, then removed a thick gold ring framing an improbably large, perfectly flawless ruby from a long, nimble finger.
“Here,” he said as he tossed it to her. “It’s worth far more than a few gold pieces, but then so was your tip. Well done, Mol.”
“Thanks, boss,” she said with a grin, and with that, went to make her way down to the grand ballroom.
When she was gone, he stood from his throne and stretched, raising his arms over his head; leaning first left, then right. That done, he began prowling toward another door that led him on quite a different path than the one to the grand ballroom.