Chapter Text
Your blue-roan stallion moves in an easy lop beneath you through the dense thicket of towering pine and evergreen trees. Snippets of the sky can be seen through the canopy. It’s darkening quickly, brimming with thick, dingy clouds. A storm is quickly moving in, and you wonder why in the Hells you decided that travelling through Misty Forest at this time of year was a good idea. You should’ve continued the main road, but a decade of travelling alone has left your tolerance for people withered. Well, that and you’re still tormented by flashbacks of your past. You may have escaped your father, but your addled mind still holds fragmented memories that burst forward like fireworks, causing you to lose control of your magical talents.
Sometimes, the consequences are humorous. A merchant or trader polymorphed into a sheep, an easy fix, but more often than not, you take life. Pull yourself together, wretched thing, you admonish yourself while easing Hethtalos into a gallop. You need to find shelter for the night before you get caught in the brewing storm. Rolling your hips with the stallion’s long strides and your hair whipping wildly around your face, your mind wanders, an often dangerous prospect.
You think of your friends - if you could call them that anymore. How many years has it been since you’ve seen any of them? It must be ten or eleven years. You’ve lost count at this point. You hadn’t even bothered to attend the reunion, not able to face them, but mostly, you weren’t able to face him. The pale Elf, your first love, gained and lost. In every face, you still see him, a ghost of your past that will not stop tormenting you.
Throughout your adventures, for lack of a better word, Astarion had been your rock, a safe place. He understood you and your blighted mind on a level no one else could. When the other became suspicious and wary of you, Astarion’s eyes never held a glimmer of pity or caution. Hells, when the others recoiled, he didn’t so much as flinch when you admitted to killing that bard.
"I think I must have killed her.”
It takes a considerable amount of effort to keep your eyes on your friends, and not allow them to draw down to the bloody mess at your feet. Your mind yearns to relish in it, and you flex the fingers of your dominant arm that still aches in pleasing pulses.
“The blood speaks for itself,” Shadowheart concludes, her brows pulled down, one slightly arched as regarding you warily. “Why?”
“I… I can’t remember.” Her blood is still sticky on your skin. You didn’t even try to hide it. “I don’t know why I did it.”
Shadowheart’s glower eases ever so slightly, “The parasite must be affecting you deeply.”
A convenient excuse. The worm in your head is sleeping peacefully. You know it is not the cause of your brutality. Something else lurks deeper and is far more ravenous.
“I… don’t know,” you admit hesitantly, “It could have been the tadpole."
“Even if it was the worm, this was peculiar indeed. I will be watching,” Shadowheart retorts, eyeing you with distrust.
An uneasy feeling settles in the air around you as all your companions scrutinize you through narrowed eyes, foreheads creased in deep scowls. You take a deep breath and stifle the giggle that wishes to erupt from your throat. Getting away with murder… Well, that was certainly something, but you must gain control of yourself. You cannot allow this darkness to strike again. You stare at the body blankly before you catch Astarion’s puzzled gaze in your peripherals. He’s the only one who does not look at you with caution, just curiosity. There is understanding in his eyes, a recognition. With a sigh, you walk on shaky knees to the stream and start trying to scrub the dried gore off your skin, a portrait of your sins.
Astarion’s voice makes you jump, “So… why?”
“I don’t know, Astarion,” you mutter, closing your eyes, trying to stop the surges of excitement you feel as the river water runs red. “I must have killed her.”
“Look, I know I have a casual relationship with murder - I don’t remember everyone I’ve killed, but I do remember everyone I’ve killed in the last 5 minutes!” His voice is raised slightly, but there’s no real anger in it.
Whirling, you grab Astarion’s arm and lead him into the forest, far enough from camp that no one else will overhear this little discussion of yours.
“Darling, if you wanted to scamper away for a cuddle, you hardly had to slaughter that minstrel,” he snickers.
“Ha ha, you are so very funny.” You roll your eyes at his taunts. You could actually use a lot more than a cuddle right now, but you’re not about to admit that. “I don’t remember anything, Astarion. I don’t remember my past, who I am or who I was. My memories are all just ash and meat. I woke up standing over her already mutilated corpse, but I don’t know why I killed her, okay?”
"I have had unusual symptoms from my parasite - perhaps this is a side effect of yours? I’m just not sure where this leaves us? It’s hard to trust someone who blacks out and stabs you to death.”
Your heart pounds in your chest, and the way he is eyeing you, he’s heard it kick up into your throat. Out of everyone, he is the one you want to lose the least. There is something so odd about him. He treats you well, mostly - perhaps with some disdain when you do something selfless. Yet, there is something so totally familiar about him - one monster recognizing another.
“If you want to leave me, I understand.” You say in a voice soaked in reluctance, scuffing your foot across the dirt, unable to meet his gaze.
Astarion looks taken aback, as if he expected you to try and force him to stay, “I could, but we have the same parasites - maybe it will happen to me next. At least together, we can keep an eye on each other. Even if the parasite caused your little “episode,” it better not happen again. People just can’t be murdered in camp,” he smirks, “some of us are important.”
You can’t help the wheezing breath that bursts from your lungs. Thank Gods, you think. Cocking your head to the side, you grin foxlike, “Yes, Astarion. You’ve made it very clear how important you think you are. I’ll be sure to kill the others before you.”
“That had better be a joke!” He scoffs, “Although, if you’re going to kill the Gith, do wake me for the show. I expect she will rip out your spine, but on the odd chance you may win, I wouldn’t mind a taste,” he winks, “if you catch my drift.”
“That thought experiment of yours might be going too far,” you laugh. “Don’t let Lae’zel hear you talking like that, or my spine will not be the only one ripped out.”
“Oh,” he giggles, his fangs glinting in the sunlight, “I do very much like spicy food.”
“Apparently, I like minstrels,” you shrug while bumping your shoulder against his, “Who would have thought?”
“Joking about your brutality already? My dear, a woman after my dead heart.” He smirks, bringing his hand to his chest. “Not to worry, I will alert all the bards and minstrels of your perversions long before you can do away with them."
“And here I thought you were the fun one in this little band of misfits,” you chuckle, shaking your head.
“I never said such a thing,” he snickers, “but thank you for noticing. We had better return to camp. I’ll help you, uh, clean up your little mess.”
Astarion takes a few steps before you can manage to speak again, “Astarion?” you whisper.
“Yes?”
“Thank you - for this and for not looking at me like the others.” Gratitude feels odd in your mouth, prickling your tongue.
He smiles brightly, “You’re welcome. I’ll keep an eye on you. We can look out for each other, you and I, to Hells with the others and what they think.”
As you walk toward the camp, you stop abruptly, “Astarion, tell me everything is going to be okay.”
“Darling,” his brows knit together, and he clicks his tongue at you disapprovingly, “That would be a blatant lie, and I am many things, but a liar is not one of them.”
“Lie to me,” you whisper, in a pathetically weak voice that makes you cringe.
Astarion slips his arm around your shoulder, and he purrs, “Everything is going to be okay.”
A shiver runs down your spine as you push away the reflection and exit Misty Forest. If memory serves correctly, which it often doesn’t, if you follow Delimbiyr River, there is a little town where you can probably find lodgings for the night. The thought fills you with dread, but you have little choice. You’ve been on the road for a ten-day without stopping. Hethtalos needs a break, and you’re in desperate need of a bath and additional supplies to continue your ceaseless and entirely pointless roaming. You’ve been wandering Faerûn for a decade alone. Sometimes, you pick up random work here and there; bounty hunting and mercenary work fit your skillset nicely and act as an outlet for your urges. You would be lying if you said that they had disappeared completely when you were revived. Those old impulses still rear up, but at least they no longer force you to black out. Blood, death and killing continue to thrill you, visceral and instinctive. It was what you were made for, after all.
The wind is starting to howl, and rain flattens your hair, drops dripping down your forehead as you trot down the main road of the little town of Secomber. People scurry through the muddy streets as they rush to get home before the storm, and shop owners pull in their wares hastily. Your eyes scan the buildings and land on the inn. It’s a small, two-story wooden building, the only two-story building in this place, with a big yellow door.
The citizens eye you warily as you hand off Hethtalos to the young stable hand and fill his palm with more coin than he probably sees in a year, “Take good care of him, please. He needs food, water, and a good rub down.”
The boy smiles broadly at you and nods so enthusiastically you’re worried he might break his neck as he leads Hethtalos away to the small stable near the back of the property.
In The Singing Sprite Inn, the walls are brightly painted, but the paint is old, discoloured and peeling. The mud-speckled floors groan under your feet as you approach the counter. An obscenely thin, frail woman greets you. Her skin is heavily creased with age, and her hair is long but sparse, patches of her scalp showing through the roots.
She flashes you with a gummy smile, “Good afternoon, dear. I take it you need a room?”
“Yes,” you hesitate before taking another step toward the counter. “For one night, please.”
“Of course, of course,” her dull, bloodshot eyes meander around the room, “Are you travelling with anyone else?”
“No,” you shake your head. “It’s just me. How much?”
“Oh,” her eyes widen, and her decrepit hand comes to her mouth. Her veins bulge out from skin so thin; you wonder how it isn’t translucent. “What’s a little thing like you doing travelling alone? It’s dangerous out there, you know. All manner of brigands, thieves and fiends on the road these days. It’s not safe for a dainty young woman like yourself to be out there all alone.”
Good Gods, you put considerable effort into fighting the urge to roll your eyes and scoff. If she only knew who she was speaking to. Donning a fake smile as sweet as honeyed tea, you chime, “Thank you for your concern. How much for the night?”
“Three coin.” As you hand over her coin, her hands tremble so ferociously that the coins slip between her fingers and drop to the counter repeatedly. The woman laughs lightheartedly as she tries to pick them up, only to drop them again. “These hands are not what they used to be.”
It’s so slow and laboured that it wears on your patience, and your mind starts to slip into your grim thoughts.
It would be better for this woman if I just ended her miserable life now. Put her out of her godsdamned misery, you think, while a cruel smile parts your lips in a half-snarl. Catching yourself, you shake your head to dislodge the ghastly notion that your ruined brain has conjured up, “My room? If you would not mind. I am rather tired.”
You need to get away from this woman before you do something horrendous. Again. You hate that you're revolted and equally thrilled at how vulnerable this poor wretch is. Hells, she would almost be too easy. You prefer your victims to give you more of a challenge. Killing this woman would be no more trouble than swatting a fly, a target unworthy of your talents, and yet you’re tempted all the same. You blink and grind your teeth, forcing those racing thoughts away. No. This is not who you are anymore… right?
Perhaps it is always who I will be. Maybe there is no running from your destiny, after all.
“Yes, you look spent. Room 5. Up the stairs, down the hall, on your right.”
Thanking her, you quickly step away and jog up the rickety stairs. Slamming the door when you get into your room, you gulp down the air and try to calm the noise in your head. A decade later, and you’re still just as broken as when you saved that damned city and fled it as soon as you could, vowing never to return. The room is small, and the mattress makes you cringe, dirty and probably flea-ridden. Your skin itches just looking at it. You’re more than likely going to end up sleeping on the floor because even that looks cleaner. Thunder booms outside, rattling the thin windows in their frames and rain splatters against the glass as if angry.
After getting settled, you go to the local tavern. If you must sleep here, you would rather be a little drunk. The Seven-Stringed Harp tavern is in even worse condition than the inn. A small ramshackle building that borders a pond. It looks like it’s made up of scrap boards from multiple sources. The building has too many oddly placed wings, with varying styles of roof that make it look peculiar. There is a glowing harp made of magic floating directly overhead. If nothing else, it makes the place easy to locate.
The interior is just as disorganized as the exterior. For such a sprawling building, it’s oddly cramped inside, with furniture clearly salvaged and mismatching. The ceilings are low, which only adds to your claustrophobia. It’s busier here than you expected, with merchants hocking their sales pitches and the townspeople stomping their boots and clapping to whatever hymn the minstrel is currently strumming.
Finding a spot as far from anyone else, you bring the flagon to your lips and cringe at the overly bitter and blatantly old ale. You’re not picky by any means, but even this is bordering on undrinkable. The ale gets more palatable the more you drink, and soon enough, your vision is blurry, and your limbs buzz. You almost laugh at yourself – a child of Bhaal reduced to nothing but a wandering nobody with nothing who gets drunk on stale spirits in some backwater hellhole.
My. How far the mighty have fallen.
Managing to stumble back to your room, you bathe in icy water that makes your teeth chatter and lay your bedroll on the floor, flopping down with a thunk. Closing your eyes, the room spins, and you grumble to yourself for being so careless.
It does not take long to push yourself into your trance, and you slip away into the festering wound that is your mind.
Air so hot it singes your nostrils fill and burns your lungs, but you barely notice the sensation. Fires eat everything around you as you walk through the dirt-packed street. Ash rains from the dark sky like a blizzard, and the sweet sounds of death skate around you, filling your ears and pleasuring your mind. You pirouette in the street as if dancing while you step over body after body and admire your handy work. Blood still drips from the ends of your hair, and your skin feels tight, caked in a crimson memoir of your destruction and devastation.
Bodies lay in heaps around you, scattered across the ground that is starting to become swampy as the earth refuses to be fed the blood of your victims any longer. You wonder why your father would send you on this errand. It is below your station to attack such unworthy targets. A small town, unnamed and unmarked, in the middle of nowhere. These people have never seen battle in their sad little lives. Hells, they barely have weapons.
Other acolytes of Bhaal race around you like rodents. Father’s orders to take them for training, but you could have dispatched this place alone. Your sister, Orin, would have been better suited to such child’s play, but you were tired of sitting idle anyway, and one does not simply say no to the Lord of Murder.
A man with a pitchfork hurtles toward you, face red with rage and blackened with soot, and you giggle at him happily. You pivot, lithe and limber, with wicked laughter. You continue this dance, a predator playing with their meal, simply for your amusement. You taste his hatred in his screams, and you relish it as if you were sipping a fine wine.
Another woman joins your morbid recital. She swipes a dagger at you furiously and is completely inept with the weapon. You were born for this dance of death, and it ignites your senses and makes your nerves hum with adrenaline. On the next dodge, you cast Bone Chill, strong enough to disadvantage the man but not enough to kill him. You are not done playing, after all. The man keels over, and the woman lunges. You twirl, grabbing her wrist with a snicker and using her momentum to throw her to the ground. You cast Scorching Rays and kill her without effort with a chuckle.
Too easy. These townsfolk are too easy.
The man howls, screaming the woman’s name into the sky. A wife? Sister? Friend? Lover? You wonder, but it matters naught to you. His pain only increases your elation further.
“Who are you?” The man chokes out, gruff and full of mind-caressing pain, “Why are you doing this?!”
A maniacal smile splits your face, and you laugh loudly, “Reason? Why, I need no reason to bring death and make the sky rain red, but if you must know,” you shrug, “I was bored."
Fire hails from the sky as you cast Fireball. Throwing your head back, you giggle and settle into a fit of exultant hysteria as you continue your dance in the sanguine lagoon of your making.
Screams wake you, and your eyes snap open. Fire rages, the air thick with black smoke. You wonder if you’re still stuck in your dream or memory. You cannot be sure which anymore. Reaching out to the fire, it licks your fingertips and scorches them.
Not a dream. Fuck. Not again, not this again. Leaping up, you grab the belongings that have survived the inferno. This is the reason you don’t stay in inns. How many times has this happened now? How many times have your dreams bled into reality while you were asleep, and your magic surged, causing death and ruin in your wake?
Too many. Gods. Too many to count.
Hovering your hand by the door, you can feel the heat radiating off the boards, and the metal handle is starting to glow red-hot. You will not be able to escape through the inn. Smoke stings your lungs, and sweat seeps from your pores in the smouldering heat. Coughing, you eye the window. The fall will not kill you, but it will not be pleasant. Tossing yourself through the thin glass, you plummet to the wet earth with a terrible thump. Lightning streaks above, cracking the inky expanse in half with bursts of light and rain torrents from the sky. Mayhem greets you as the townsfolk throw buckets of water, trying to stile the flames. It’s a useless endeavour.
Pushing yourself up, you take several steps back, eyes watering from the heat, or perhaps it’s your anger at yourself. You curse Withers for ever bringing you back and forcing you to live out this twisted, feeble existence you call your life. Why could that bag of bones not just leave well enough alone?
The townsfolk's shouts and the strangled cries of impending suffocation are starting to seep into your bones, melting them away like caustic acid. You stare up at the building, flames licking the heavens and smoke choking out the sky, and you can almost swear you hear your father laughing in your head. People pull at your clothes, begging you to save their husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers and children. Hands grabbing at you, tugging you this way and that. Their eyes are wild and white, glossed with tears, skin burnt white and blistered, soot and ash in their hair. You wonder why these people think you can save anyone until you realize you’re still brimming with magic, eyes glowing brightly in the darkness as the Weave shimmers over your skin in a radiant halo.
“I… I can’t,” you try to pull away, but their grip only intensifies, fingernails digging into your skin. “I’m sorry. I can’t. Please,” you beg, “Please stop.”
Distraught, your pleas mean nothing to them, and the frenzy of fingers and hands trying to drag you only increases. Your chest heaves, your heart a battering ram pulverizing your ribs. Panic is gripping you. All these people, their hands touching you, pulling you. All these voices and screams. It’s too much. It’s too much noise, and it takes you under. You feel it, the wave of your magic ripping you at the seams, and try to quell it, but your efforts are for naught.
Chain Lightening ejects from you in a violent flurry, streaming through all the citizens around you. They fall to the ground, skin still sizzling and smoking, eyes milky with their mouths open in the silent outcry of death. By the Gods, what have you done? What have you fucking done? Perhaps the sickest part is that small whimper in your mind that covets the massacre you’ve unleashed on these poor folk.
When you look up, all eyes are on you. “I’m sorry,” you sputter, taking steps back.
Frenzied people are starting to rally on you. You spin on your heel and run toward the stable, whistling loudly. Hethtalos appears from the gloom, galloping toward you, tail held high in the air. As the stallion passes you, you grip his mane, hurtle onto his back and urge him to bulldoze through the oncoming attackers, knocking them to the ground. You fly through the night at a breakneck pace. Hethtalos eats the ground beneath with long, powerful strides toward the Trade Way until you urge him to stop with your words.
“Easy, Hethtalos,” you coo, and the stallion’s ears flick around toward you. He slows into a walk, snorting loudly.
You lean forward and pat the horse’s neck, slick with sweat and steaming into the night. His nostrils flare as he pulls in deep breaths of air.
You’re so tired - of fighting, of this aimless wandering that feels like a slow death, but most of all, you’re tired of being alone. There’s nowhere to go that you are not endangering others. You have no friends and no family to speak of, and Gods, after a decade, you’re desperate for connection.
You howl into the night, angry and afraid. Is this how your father will remind you of what you really are for the rest of your life? Are you cursed to live out your existence as a ticking, unstable time bomb? Is there nothing else? Why do you go on living? What is the damn point of this?
You have nothing left to lose, nowhere else to go, and no one else to turn to. With a whimper, you turn Hethtalos toward the one place and person you’ve spent a decade avoiding.
Astarion.
A wayward pin pricks your skin as the seamstress’s apprentice adds another to the fabric swathing you with shaky hands. The girl’s eyes flick to you wide with worry. This is the umpteenth time this girl has been careless with her placement, but you don’t react. What is a pinprick to the skin? At the very least, it keeps you lucid in the moment, so you don’t have to continue agonizing over what you’re about to do. Ten years and your best plan is to simply show up on Astarion’s doorstep and ask for what? Shelter? Help? Him? You have no idea. You’ve almost surely gone mad.
“What do you think, saer?” The seamstress steps around you, pointing out different spots for the girl to place more pins.
Looking into the mirror, you gaze at yourself wrapped up in the vividly red silken dress with an asymmetric neckline that exposes one of your clavicles and the side of your neck. A conscious choice on your part - after a decade, you refuse to show up looking like a mangy stray. The silk flows over your hips and dusts the ground with a long slit up one side to expose your leg up to mid-thigh.
“Yes, this will do nicely,” you agree while scrutinizing your eyes. Gods, they look so much darker than you remember. When was the last time you looked in a mirror?
“Is there anything else we can assist you with? Perhaps different a different cut or colour?”
“I need an entire wardrobe, actually.” The clothing that made it out of your latest inferno is singed, dirty and filled with poorly mended holes. “Dresses, trousers, shirts, everything you can think of. I would say 10 or 15 outfits.”
The woman’s eyes bulge, and you can veritably see coins raining down over her dilated pupils. The apprentice stifles a groan, and you feel guilty. Poor girl. She will surely be doing the majority of the work.
“Absolutely,” the woman grins widely. “We have your measurements. It should not be a problem. We can have half delivered in 2 days and the other shortly after. Where should we deliver to?”
“The Crimson Palace.” A little presumptuous of you, perhaps. You have no idea what you’re walking into or if Astarion will allow you to stay there.
The woman’s eyes bulge and a sheen of sweat instantly veils her skin, “Oh… The Lord is rather picky about what his servants wear. If you are to be in his service, you cannot show up looking like this.”
“I am not in his employ.” You arch a brow at her. Picky about what his servants wear? Astarion would be strict about presentation, but the way this woman is staring at you makes your skin crawl. You could try to pry information out of the woman, but her lips are set in a thin line, and her jaw is tense. She’s purposefully not saying anything further, and you decide against pushing her. “I will pick up the rest if you do not wish to deliver there.”
“Yes,” she says a little breathlessly. “Yes. I think that would be for the best. If you are here for the Gala, you are quite early. I believe it is still a ten-day from now, but if you plan on attending, you will need a proper gown.”
“Gala?”
The woman almost sputters and looks at you like you’re an imbecile, “Yes. The Lord hosts a Masquerade Ball every day on the anniversary of the attacks. I believe this year’s event is upcoming. It is said that many of the heroes who saved the city will be attending. I would not know for sure, of course. These events are not held for people of my station, you understand.”
The heroes of the city? Does that mean that all your old companions will be in the city? Can you handle seeing everyone again? You disappeared without a word to any of them, even him.
The Gala is a very convenient excuse to show up though…
“Yes, the Gala. How silly to forget to mention I would need a gown for that.” You chime, pretending to know what you’re talking about. “Please make something spectacular. Coin is not an issue.”
“Yes, saer. We can make you something that will outshine even the brightest star.”
You smile widely, “I want to outshine the Gods themselves.”
Walking up to the door of the Crimson Palace, guards stop you, “No visitors. This is a private residence. If you have business with Lord Ancunin, you must request an appointment.”
You snort, Lord Ancunin. Ugh. Of course.
“Let me pass,” you chime with your silver tongue working its persuasive melodies. “Your Lord is expecting me. He will not be happy when I tell him that his guards retained me.”
The pair look at each other uneasily as your persuasion takes hold, “Oh… Yes. Of course.” The pair bow in perfected unison, and it’s only then you recognize compulsion at play in their listless eyes. “Please tell Lord Ancunin that we gave you no trouble.”
You’ve seen that look of terror before. Too many times to count. Astarion likely rules with an iron fist. Either that, or you’re far more intimidating than you give yourself credit for, even wrapped up like a present fit for a king in the flashy red dress that took two people to get you into. Your make-up is done to perfection in the style he would be accustomed to. Eyes lined in blackest black with a shimmering silver bordering your lower lash line. A dark maroon eyeshadow compliments the colours of your eyes and the dove-grey hue of your skin. Navy blue hair cascades down your back in a waterfall of waves, with one side pinned up to keep your lovely neck exposed.
The door closes behind you, and the weight of a decade weighs down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. So much has changed. Gone are all the tacky paintings and art he hated so much. The wallpaper has been stripped and redone in a deep purple and gold, although the style is similar to what it was before - dark and oppressive. New chandeliers, new wall scones, rugs and furniture. You’re shocked at how many people are meandering about the halls. Servants dust, sweep, and polish things that don’t even look dirty. An enormous portrait of Astarion hangs on the wall. Whoever he commissioned did an excellent job. It is nearly as beautiful as he is, but it still somehow does not do him justice.
It does not take a genius to understand what the seamstress spoke of when she commented on Astarion’s servants. They all wear matching black, red and yellow robes. Hells, it’s your robe - the last one he would have seen you wearing before you fled. They all wear golden collars etched with an inscription, but you cannot make out what it is from this distance.
A small, young man carrying towels stops before you and gives you a quizzical look while you stare in a mixture of confusion and awe, “Miss? Can I help you?”
“Where is Astarion?” You murmur while still staring into the striking red eyes of the painting.
“Lord Ancunin is indisposed. He is not taking visitors today. How did you get in here?” The boy’s eyes are crazed while he looks around, “You must leave. Quickly. Before he finds out! Oh, he’s going to be so angry!”
“Just tell me where he is.” You attempt to make yourself sound reassuring. “I will deal with his ire.”
The man drops the plush towels and frantically attempts to push you back to the door, “Please, saer. Leave quickly!”
“Do not touch me!” You screech, pushing him away a little too harshly.
More servants start to take notice of you and come in a rush to the man’s aid. They all beg you to leave, fingers fluttering over your skin, hauling at your dress. Gods, they are terrified of him. Maybe you should be, but that does not cross your mind. The only thing on your mind right now is getting these people and their filthy hands off you. You cast Thunderwave and send them all scattering backward, throwing them to the ground. You don’t check to see if you killed any of them before you start dashing through the halls. Hells, so much has changed, and you don’t recognize where you’re going. The layout looks different than you recall, but your memories are unreliable at the best of times, and after a decade, time has likely stolen details.
“Astarion!” You call out while people scatter toward you, throwing themselves at you from all directions. You dance around most of them gracefully as you regret wearing heels. “Astarion!”
A woman and a man halt your progress, and when you look into their sanguine eyes, black and red, you recognize spawn immediately, “Don’t fucking touch me!” You snarl at them.
Of course, they don’t listen to you. Why would they? To them, you’re nothing but an intruder in their Master’s home. The spawn start to drag you back toward the entrance as more servants come to help while you flail.
Too many hands. Too many fingers. Too much noise.
Magic is glowing on your fingertips when you hear his voice booming from the top of the staircase before you, “Unhand her. All of you.”
All the contact is immediately rescinded from your body, and they all drop to their knees on the ground instantly with their foreheads to the floor. You inhale sharply as you suppress the urge to kill them. Gods, you hate being fucking touched. Astarion stands with an iron countenance at the top of the stairs. He commands attention intrinsically, even yours. His expression is severe when his eyes meet yours.
“Alita?”