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slothquisitor · 1 month

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What Moves in the Dark: Chapter Four

A post-campaign Baldur's Gate 3 eldritch horror AU.

Chapter Summary: Liv and Astarion continue their investigation at the Wide.

Read from the beginning.

Read on A03.

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Liv can’t get away from Astarion fast enough. She barely gets the shop door locked behind her and up the stairs to her apartment before she collapses on her hands and knees. She’s been shaky since the fight, since the rush of adrenaline had faded and the horror of what she’d done had sunk in. She’d volunteered to go get the Fist to get away from the harrowing scene as quickly as possible. Once she was sure Astarion wouldn’t notice, she’d ducked into an alleyway to pathetically retch against the stone wall.

There has always been much in Liv’s life that was out of her control, but her magic was never one of those things. She calls and it answers. She has spent her whole life learning magic, studying spell theory, practicing drawing on that well of power within her. Her magic is an extension of herself. There is something comforting about a spell, about the precision required. Say the right words, form the correct somatic gestures, and the outcome is always what is expected. She has always liked owning that sort of control.

So, of course, she had known that her magic could be used to destroy, to snuff out life. But it is one thing to know that and another entirely to hear a person’s screams as her fire scorches their skin, burning them alive. She had told herself it wasn’t killing when it was mind flayers, that it was in self-defense, that mind flayers might have once been people but weren’t in those terrifying moments when they transformed and attacked. But those cultists, she hadn’t even tried to reason with them. Did they deserve to die? They were people, with entire universes: friends, families, people who cared about them. When had she become judge, jury, and executioner?

It’s difficult to breathe on her apartment floor. Her heart is racing, and she can’t seem to get enough air. She wonders for a moment if she’s dying before she realizes dimly that she’s having a panic attack. It’s funny, even knowing what is happening doesn’t seem to stop it. She’s home and she’s safe, but she can’t quite seem to convince her body of that. It’s been months since the last attack like this, and she feels a profound sort of disappointment in herself. Why isn’t she past this?

She presses her hands more fully into the rough wood of the floorboards to the point of pain, feeling every bit of the wood grain. She focuses on her breathing, letting this thing run its course. At least she’s alone. There’s nothing worse than an audience when you’re falling apart.

When it’s finally over, she kicks off her boots, shrugs out of her cloak, and crawls right into bed. She doesn’t care that she’s still fully dressed because her bed feels safe and secure and she just needs a moment to come to terms with what she’s done. With who she is now.

Those cultists had come to them with the intent to kill them. And Astarion hadn’t hesitated to draw his daggers. She fought effectively, she can acknowledge that much. But she hopes he didn’t realize just how much it affected her. He’d known something was off, of that much she’s sure. He had stared at her like she was something fragile, liable to break. She can’t let him see just how out of her depth she is here, doesn’t want to risk being sidelined. She’s spent her whole life being told she’s not capable, not competent enough. Moving here, helping at the shop, it’s shifted things somewhat. She gets to be someone else, gets to be free from the expectations, or lack thereof. But she doesn’t want Astarion thinking she can’t hold her own. Because she can. She’s fine.

She’d tried to keep from looking at him. Her mother’s voice had been echoing in her head, telling her that her emotions are always evident on her face. Tomorrow night she’ll be better. A lifetime as a Vires has taught her more than just magic: she knows how to pretend to be unaffected.

But tonight she doesn’t have to, so she cries into her pillow until she falls asleep.

In the morning, she wakes up and opens the shop like she didn’t just kill two people the night before. She eats freshly baked blueberry muffins that Wynn sent with Kharis, and she lies when he asks her about her night. They have a few of their usual customers and some new faces, and Liv whiles away the hours studying books on healing magic and blood diseases, writing down notes, and wishing for a larger selection of tomes to choose from. She closes the shop, and Kharis bids her goodnight.

And the world doesn’t end. In fact, for all of her panic of the night before, she feels…steadier now. She’s not necessarily interested in getting into another fight, but she’s been thinking about how she could have incapacitated instead of killed, and the guilt has faded. It’s been replaced with a grim determination to do better next time, to not lose her head. To prove that she can do this.

With sunset not far off, she sets off for the Wide. The Upper City has a strict curfew, but it’s the warm season and a fine evening, so she expects the Bailiff won’t begin clearing the market until the stars appear in the sky. She’d been in such a hurry the night before that she and Astarion hadn’t made plans for where to meet, so she just wanders the crowds, looking for any sign of his silver-white hair.

The Wide is always busy, crowded with the din of people and smells and business. When she was a child, the Wide had seemed to be the most beautiful and glamorous of places. Colorful stalls to browse, exotic goods to buy, and above it all the beacons of the pole-carters weaving through the crowd, goods attached to tall poles that darted in and out of the maze of people.

The Wide is no less magical now, but it’s Liv who’s changed. The press of people no longer seems exciting, but rather oppressive, and the stalls are still beautiful, but she wonders if it might just be a lot less work to buy from somewhere else in the city. She’s not sure when the shift occurred when a place like the Wide is no longer touched by promise and possibility and instead feels irrevocably tainted with the grime of the city.

She’s turning a corner to wander down another crowded line of stalls when Astarion falls into step beside her with such a suddenness it makes her jump. “And here I didn’t think you’d show up.” He’s smiling, but it’s a sharp thing, full of briars and teeth. The comfortability they’d sunk into the night before is gone now. A small, quiet part of her that remembers exactly what he is whispers: run.

“It’ll take more than a few Bhaalists to scare me off,” she replies, voice firm and even. She keeps her chin high and maintains eye contact as if challenging him to tell her she’s not cut out for this.

Her response doesn’t seem to be what he’s expecting, his eyebrows raise in surprise. “Well, I believe we have a job to do and not much time to do it?”

“After you.”

Astarion leads them down a wide, crowded aisle. And she’s once again baffled at how she didn’t know him for exactly what he is when he first entered the shop. He moves with a preternatural grace that no one could mistake for mere mortal. He’s wearing the same clothing as the night she met him, fine and expensive, but this close she can see the way the golden thread of the embroidery is unraveling.

“So, say we do manage to find someone who meets our…parameters, what exactly is your plan then?” he asks lightly.

“I figured we’d talk to them, tell them what’s going on, and ask them for a sample.”

He laughs. “Darling, take it from someone who knows, most people aren’t quick to offer up their blood simply because they’re asked. Besides, do you really want to incite panic in the common folk?”

“Gods no. I didn’t think we’d tell them everything, just enough. But…I suspect if someone…meets our parameters they’ll also have other symptoms. I brought tinctures and potions and balms.” Her bag is packed with anything she might need, including needles and vials. She also prepped a few more offensive spells, just in case. But she doesn’t tell him that.

“So what? Free healing for blood?”

“I’ve heard of worse deals in the Wide.”

“And if diplomacy and bribing don’t work, I can always knock them out and drag them into an alley for you.” The smile he gives her is all fangs, eyes bright. She realizes then that there’s some part of him that revels in the chaos; he’d enjoyed the fight last night.

She’d been so caught up in trying to hide her own reaction, she hadn’t been paying attention to him. But now that she plays it back, she can see it, the smile he’d tossed her at the end, the self-satisfied way he’d drained the cultist before realizing she’d seen. She wants to ask him about it, but she doesn’t.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” he complains and then seems to consider his own words before turning to her more fully. “But really, you’re no fun at all, are you? This is three evenings we’ve spent together and you haven’t mentioned a single plan to move or engagement to reschedule. You’re too young to never have plans.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not that young, and how do you know that my social calendar isn’t just very flexible?”

But she’s simply confirmed his suspicions rather than refuting them and she knows it by the way he smirks and leans conspiratorily toward her. “Forgive my assumptions, what plans did you put off to be with me this evening then?” There’s an amusement in his eyes, and she wants to play along, laugh and joke and flirt back.

She doesn’t.

There’s something about the way he flirts that feels like it is borne more out of habit than any real feeling. So, she sidesteps it entirely. “Are you paying any attention to the people around us? The Bailiff is going to close this all down very soon.”

“Please darling, I’m very good at multitasking.” He puts emphasis on the last word, says it like a promise.

Somehow, she very much doubts that. “I could say the same about you though. You’ve also not complained about moving any plans around.”

“My social calendar is very flexible. As am I.” He flashes her a grin, to which she responds by looking unimpressed. He sighs and grimaces, waving his hand in defeat. “If you must know, since we defeated the Absolute, I’ve found myself a little at a loss for how to spend my time.”

Liv adds this moment to the tally she’s subconsciously keeping of the times he’s dropped the too-smooth facade, when she glimpses through the cracks something that feels real. That feels true. She refuses to wonder what game they’re playing or why she’d even want to keep this tally at all though. “Understandable. What were you doing before?”

He looks away from her, scanning the crowd. “Bending the knee to my master’s every whim. So no, I will not be going back to what I was doing before.”

She’s said the exact wrong thing, and she can feel his defenses building back up. She scrambles for some way to save this moment, to prolong the truth of it. “I’m sorry, I-”

But then he freezes, head twisting to the right. “There it is…”

“Really?”

He pauses and then turns down a crowded alley. “This way.”

She sticks close to him as he weaves through the crowd. He’s walking with intense focus, nostrils flaring as the people move around them like some slow-moving river. He pauses in front of a stall, covered in a canvas of deep blue. The counter is a collection of meticulously organized wooden plates and bowls and other carved goods. The two women at the stall look tired, bored even, as they converse quietly. There’s no one giving the stall a second glance.

“I think it’s her, with the dark hair,” Astarion says. “I’ll need to get closer to be sure.”

“We can just watch for a moment,” Liv says.

The two of them pretend to peruse the goods offered at a spice stall across the way while taking turns watching the women. No one makes a purchase at their stall, though a few people stop to admire a plate or utensil. While they watch, several young people dart in and out of the closed-off portion of the stall.

“What are they doing?” Liv asks under her breath.

“I’ll find out.” Quick as a whisper, Astarion makes his way toward the stall, but somewhere in the crowd, she loses him entirely. She doesn’t want to draw undue attention to him or the stall in question, so she continues to browse the nearby stalls, keeping an eye out for any sign of Astarion.

A few moments later he reappears at her side, flickering into view like a specter. “Well, what are the chances that the one person we find with questionable blood is also fronting a stall for the Guild?”

***

Astarion had thought it was going to be more difficult to suss out what was going on in that stall, but the second he’d slipped inside, he’d recognized the man at a table: Uktar. The same man who had told Tavren about Minsc and the Counting House. Bursar to the Guildmaster, and he was sitting in a stall taking payments run in by children who could skirt the marketplace more easily than any adult.

Uktar’s blood had smelled fine, it was just the woman’s at the stall that seemed off. Something about this is ringing alarm bells in his head, but he’s still not quite sure what about it feels off. Uktar hadn’t liked their group but had seemed at least marginally grateful to not have been killed by the Zhentarim, so he hopes that goodwill will extend a little further because Liv is already walking over to the stall.

He grabs at her arm, pulling her back towards him. “What are you doing? We need a plan.”

Liv pulls away a bit, and he releases her. “I have a plan; I’m going to talk with her.”

“Have you ever dealt with the Guild? This isn’t going to work.”

She sighs. “The first person who died was a runner for the Guild.”

Ah, he sees the connection now. She’s going to leverage it. It would be nice to have all of the information at some point, but it’s clear Liv is playing some things rather close to the chest. He tries to disguise his annoyance, but he’s sure he’s not successful at it. “Well then, you hardly need me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Without you, I wouldn’t even know they were members of the Guild.”

Before he can reply, she approaches the stall and offers a friendly smile to the woman. “Hello.”

The woman smiles in response, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’s glancing between him and Liv with suspicion while the other woman remains silent and watchful beside her. “Can I interest you in some hand-carved plates and bowls? Artisan made.” She sounds like the worst salesperson in existence. Is this really the best front the Guild can muster?

“I’m actually here to see if you might be Alfran’s friend?” Liv asks, her voice is light and the question is asked gently, but the effect on the woman is immediate.

The woman’s smile drops. “I don’t know who you’re referring to.” It’s a clear lie.

Liv’s calm demeanor doesn’t falter. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to scare you. My name is Liv. I’m a healer; I was treating Alfran.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” the woman replies simply.

The other woman is doing a better job of looking aloof, but it’s clear that this exchange hasn’t gone the way they expected. “If you’re not here to buy, kindly fuck off.”

This is going south very quickly. He’s pretty sure if this woman holds fast, Liv won’t press, and he’s getting impatient. “Come now, we’re not with the Fist. The disease that killed Alfran, we think you might also have it. Do you know him now?”

Liv’s glaring at him, but he simply shrugs. The woman’s demeanor changes from suspicion to fear. “What do you mean you think I’m sick?”

“This is much easier to explain somewhere more private.” Liv is oscillating between trying to calm the woman and looking like she wants to set him aflame. He flashes her a gleeful smile.

The woman nods to the back of the stall. “Come on back then. If you knew Alfran, then you know who we work for.”

They follow her into the back area that Astarion’s already explored. Uktar is sitting at a low table, small pouches of money spread out in front of him. He has a book open and a quill and is marking down amounts. His mask glints in the candlelight.

“Ah, you again. Come to sell me more keys?” Uktar says.

“You know these two?” the woman asks, clearly surprised.

Uktar looks between Astarion and Liv, but he’s difficult to read through the mask. “I know the elf. We’ve done business.”

“Well, good. Now we don’t have to kill you,” the woman says.

Astarion refrains from pointing out that he’s pretty sure that Uktar couldn’t hurt a fly since he’d cowered during the entire fight with the Zhentarim. But that wouldn’t help, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“I’m feeling at a bit of a disadvantage here,” Liv says with a strained smile.

“I’m Moira and that’s Uktar. Now tell me why you think I’m sick.”

“Your blood. It smells awful,” Astarion offers helpfully.

Uktar laughs from his desk. “I’d trust that one on that,” he says giving him a significant look.

Moira, for her part, seems to miss the implication. “My blood smells bad? How…”

Liv steps in then, guiding them away from this particular topic. “I think Alfran died of a blood disease. I’d like to take a sample of your blood if that’s okay. Have you been feeling odd lately? Headaches, dizziness, ringing in the ears?”

Moira shrugs. “A little, but that’s normal when my monthlies are approaching. Right? Listen, I can’t be sick, not like Alfran was. I’ve got to work.”

“That’s why I’m here, by the time Alfran came to us it was too late. We’re hoping we can help you sooner if you’ve even got the same thing. I’ll need to take a sample of your blood to confirm it. Is that alright?”

Moira nods. “Fine. What do you need?”

“Just access to your arm.”

Astarion doesn’t necessarily want to watch the process. Open wounds can be their own sort of challenge, but this woman’s blood is rank enough he’s not sure he’d even be tempted by it at all. Besides, he wants to see if it behaves like the other blood Liv has shown him. If they are in fact onto something.

Liv asks the woman banal questions he doesn’t bother paying attention to, but he realizes that she’s good at this…at people. She’s charming and comforting while still being genuinely warm. She reminds him of Tavren, of the way they were so quick to take care of people. Liv doesn’t owe this woman anything, but she’s kind and reassuring.

She’d surprised him by showing up at all after last night. He was sure that she’d been so put off by him that she wouldn’t. But she hadn’t just shown up, but she’d made some comment about the Bhaalists not being enough to scare her off. It was…nice. Seeing her with Moira, extending the same kindness she had to him, rankles. There’s nothing special about her care or warmth, it’s just the way she is. His immediate impulse is to be as cruel and unpleasant as possible, to see just how far her limits extend, but instead, he just shifts his attention off of her.

While she works, two more runners come into the tent dropping off pouches of gold to Uktar, and Uktar marks the names off in his book after counting the gold in each pouch. The amounts are small, and Astarion realizes what the money is for: protection bribes. These runners aren’t just to bring money, they’re to keep an eye out for thieves and likely alert whatever merc group is patrolling the Wide that day. The stall owners pay a tax for protection, and at the end of the day, the runners bring in the gold for the Guild.

It’s efficient. Clean. Astarion almost admires it.

“Was Alfran doing anything peculiar or special for the Guild? He told me he was a runner, but that’s all.”

“I’m not about to air the Guild’s business.”

Liv is bandaging up the woman’s arm, gentle as always. “Fair enough. Any recent injuries? Exposures to anything odd? Were you and Alfran ever in the same places together?”

Moira shakes her head. “Just here. I cut my hand open a couple of weeks back. All healed up now though.” Moira holds out her hand, revealing a reddened scar between her thumb and forefinger.

Liv reaches into her bag, producing a couple of bottles. One looks like a healing potion and the other he can’t identify. “You seem to be doing just fine, Moira. But, if you start feeling worse at all, I want you to drink both of these and then come see me. I’m at The Shadowed Quill, do you know where that is?” Liv is lying; this woman is sick. A part of him wants to call her on it in front of Uktar and Moira, but he can’t quite get the words past his tongue.

“Course I know about it. You should’ve led with that. We all know what you do for folks in the Lower City.”

Liv’s answering smile is the first he’s seen entirely free from strain. “We are trying.”

“But I’m not sick?” Moira asks. “Even if my blood..smells bad?”

“I wouldn’t take it personally, not everyone’s smells like a delicious bouquet,” he smiles, allowing his fangs to show.

“We’ll be going now,” Liv says. “Thank you for your help.”

Moira walks them to the tent flaps. “Thanks for doing what you could for Alfran. He was a good kid.”

Uktar steps close as Moira and Liv step back to the front of the shop. His voice is pitched low, barely louder than a whisper. “She’s not your usual ally, and I’d be careful with her if were you.”

Is Uktar really warning him about Liv? She’s handy enough in a fight, he supposes, but he’s still pretty sure he could take her out should the need arise. And it won’t because she’s too boringly nice. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t come back here. Either of you. I’ll be sure to send Moira to you if she needs anything.”

His curiosity is piqued, but what is the point of pushing? Uktar has clearly given him every bit of information he plans to. And Astarion trusts the bursar about as far as he can throw him, and that’s not far.

He follows Liv out of the tent and back into the crowded market. He waits until they’re very much out of earshot before he leans down close to her ear. “You lied to her.”

Liv looks up at him with confusion. “What are you talking about? No, I didn’t.”

“Her blood smelled just awful. She’s going to die, just like Alfran.”

Liv pulls the vial of blood from her bag with a shake of her head. “Her blood is normal, Astarion.”

He takes the vial and examines it. There’s not a single hint of tendrils. “Shit.”

“I’ll take it back to the shop and spend some time with it, but whatever’s wrong with her…her blood isn’t doing the same thing.” Liv looks lost, unsure, and disappointed as he hands back the vial. She looks like she’s on the verge of apologizing, and for some reason, he doesn’t want that.

“We probably need a larger sample size before we come to any conclusions, yes?”

She looks relieved and strangely grateful. “Yes.”

Then he gestures down another aisle. “Shall we?”

#astarion #tavstarion #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #bg3 astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x liv #what moves in the dark #slothquisitorwrites #eldritch horror au

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slothquisitor · 2 months

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What Moves in the Dark

The Netherbrain is defeated, and all of Astarion's plans for his future dissolve when his closest friends leave him for Avernus. Struggling to find purpose and a way to walk in the sun again, he meets Liv, a wizard working in an alchemy shop in the Lower City. She has her own reasons for wanting to help him, but their search for a cure is put on hold when a mysterious blood illness begins sweeping the Lower City.

Together, they team up to solve the mystery.

A Baldur's Gate 3 Eldritch Horror AU.

Read on AO3.

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Prologue

The chamber is silent as a tomb before the figure begins. Magic coils in the air, a snake poised to strike. Then, there is the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of blood as the figure mutters words for a spell under their breath.

There is something reverent about the ritual as if this spell was a prayer and not simply a plea. Even the fury held behind their teeth feels like a benediction. The words spill out, slick and oily in the air, carrying a power all their own. But there are no gods listening; there is no divinity here.

It is something else that awakens instead. Something that has been slumbering. Something old and patient and twisting. The figure knows not what it calls upon, but it answers anyway. The figure asks for vengeance, for power, but they will not find that here. It is not interested in vengeance.

It is only here to consume.

It reaches out, in the space between worlds, crawls between the words the figure chants. There is blood, so much blood, and blood has power enough. It will do.

The spell is finished, and the figure is not satisfied. It hasn’t worked; the world is unchanged. It doesn’t care. The figure leaves the room, climbs the winding stone steps to somewhere brighter, open, better. Suddenly the world explodes with variety and chaos and potential .

The figure announces that the spell did not work to the others present in the room. One reaches out, a hand placed on the figure’s shoulder. It startles at the contact, sends out a touch, and is suddenly torn asunder. It mourns, it cries, it reaches for that piece of it that is now gone forever. But then, it can feel this other self, like a phantom limb. It is more.

It reaches further and further, beyond itself, tumbling in freedom, in ecstasy. There is so much to find, to discover, to take. But there is another power in this place, a rippling sort of magic it intentionally skitters away from. That’s alright; it can be patient.

It retreats, pulls back slowly, and waits. And waits. And waits.

Until it doesn’t.

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Chapter One

Astarion stands alone on the docks. Behind him, his ruined city is celebrating and mourning and rebuilding. In truth, he’s not sure why he’s here, again. Ever since Gale had told him about Karlach’s engine, about Wyll and Tavren’s desperate plea to take her to Avernus, he’s wanted to return to the spot. He thinks he can make out the scorch marks in the planks of wood, and though he knows they’re alive and well and probably kicking ass in Avernus…his dearest friends are gone and he didn’t even get to say goodbye.

He hadn’t been far from his friends, but he might as well have been a world away because the sun was shining and he was no longer immune to it. They’d looked for him; he’d heard their shouts, but he hadn’t wanted to see them. He hadn’t wanted them to see him, weak, pathetic, just a vampire spawn once again. He’d stayed hidden, and waited alone until nightfall, unable to bask in the victory in the face of so much loss.

So he hadn’t heard the news until he arrived at the Elfsong, the air filled with desperate and fervent celebration. He hadn’t intended to join in, he didn’t feel he had much to celebrate, but then…four of his friends were missing from the group in the middle of the tavern. What was left of their group was accepting thanks and drinks and gratitude from casual moths. There were whispers in the crowd of the heroes of Baldur’s Gate gone to take on Avernus, to the Blood War, so he’d pulled Shadowheart and Gale away from the chaotic revelry and they’d told him everything. How Lae’zel had jumped on the back of a red dragon. How Tavren, Karlach, and Wyll had gone to the Hells.

His losses just kept stacking.

He’d stayed just long enough for a drink of mediocre wine, and then he’d slipped away, unnoticed. And now he’s back here, and he’s not sure why. Just hours ago he and his friends had celebrated their victory here, and had wondered at the tadpoles now gone from their heads. He wishes he could go back to the moment just before it all fell apart, when it felt as if the whole world was waiting for him.

And now? The world is still there, still waiting, but he’s not sure how to reach out and grab it on his own. He had hoped that once this was all over, they’d keep adventuring, keep finding trouble and causing chaos together. He hadn’t considered another future, hadn’t believed that they wouldn’t find some way to fix Karlach’s engine and move right along to the next heroic deed. Tavren had done so many impossible things, what’s an infernal engine after gods and hags and a giant Netherbrain?

He spends a long time on the dock in the darkness, until there is a light blue quickening on the horizon that tells him dawn isn’t far off. It’s depressing just how quickly the learned habits from two hundred years of retreats just like this kick in, but instead of Szarr Palace, he heads back to the Elfsong. He doesn’t know where else to go.

In the days that follow, their group dwindles even further. Halsin and Shadowheart depart the city too. Minsc and Jaheira are busy with the work of rebuilding, and he is left with only Gale for company.

“Wonderful news, I have managed to procure us new lodgings!” Gale announces one late afternoon while Astarion counts down the hours to nightfall in his room. It was probably practical for them to be moved out of the large room their group had shared and into smaller, private rooms, but Astarion is starting to hate the Elfsong. He’s counted the floorboards, found odd shapes in the stitching on the curtains, and wondered if this is all his life is now.

Despite not being charged a penny for their rooms, probably out of deference to their service to the city, he’s sure they’re quickly outstaying their welcome. Astarion doesn’t have anywhere else to go, so he’d decided not to worry about that particular problem until he has to. At least the Elfsong has an endless supply of wine.

“New lodgings?” Astarion asks. If Gale has gotten an apartment in some facsimile of forced domesticity for them, he’s not going no matter how much he hates this room.

“Rolan has kindly invited us to stay with him and his siblings at Ramazith’s Tower,” Gale says with a sense of accomplishment. “The help of another wizard will be most welcome as I puzzle out how to get the crown out of the Chionthar and returned to Mystra.”

Ah, so it’s charity. Fabulous. “No.”

“Oh come on, Astarion. You can’t tell me that you’re happy here trapped in this room during the daylight hours.” Gale is doing that thing where his words are earnest and his eyes are intensely focused. It’d worked on Tav, but it won’t work on him.

“I have no desire to be in the debt of a trio of tieflings we’ve rescued three times over,” Astarion replies.

Gale nods like he understands, and Astarion resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Rolan is a friend, Astarion. A friend offering his wizard tower that has plenty of room and many, many books. We merely skimmed the surface of the tomes that were in Lorroakan’s possession. Perhaps there’s something that might help us find a way for you to walk in the sun again.”

Astarion isn’t stupid. He can see what Gale is doing, dangling out hope and optimism like some second-rate trinket peddler. It’s clear that Gale will be going, and Astarion doesn’t want to be left behind again. So he grimaces and sighs. “Ugh. Fine. But there better be something in that book collection that is actually helpful if I’m giving up proximity to an endless supply of wine.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Astarion is pretty damn sure he’s going to regret this.

***

“Have you ever conducted an autopsy?” Kharis asks, his words softer and more gentle than Liv expected. It’s not a question she’s expecting, but then, her work at The Shadowed Quill hasn’t been anything she expected either.

“No,” she replies and immediately wonders if admitting this means she’ll get dismissed from the room, lectured about all the ways she’s useless.

But Kharis just nods understandingly, and Liv reminds herself he’s never made her feel small or useless. The dwarf sighs, his bright red beard shifting against his barrel chest. Liv hasn’t ever asked how old Kharis is, but when he looks at her like he’s doing now, his blue eyes carry the weight of many, many years. She doesn’t know what his life was like before he opened this alchemy shop in the Lower City, but she suspects it was not a kind one if the deep, jagged scar that bisects his left eye and cheek is any indication.

“That’s alright,” he says kindly, “it’s been a while since I’ve done this. I’ll just have you watch and take notes for me, yes?”

She’s grateful for the out. She’s never considered herself squeamish, but after the mind flayer incident a few days ago where she’d been forced to fight and kill no less than three illithid enemies, she’d found herself looking around at the death and destruction afterward, and she’d had to retch in the alley.

Information had trickled out in the days following the attack, and it had answered some of the questions she and Kharis had, but not all of them. The Shadowed Quill was not meant to be a clinic, and Kharis and Liv are not doctors, but they do trade in magical remedies, and sometimes when no one else has answers, people are desperate enough it doesn’t matter.

It certainly hadn’t mattered for Alfran, who lays on a table in their workroom, dead. Alfran had come in complaining of headaches, weakness, dizzy spells, and bouts of memory loss. They’ve seen a lot of that lately…now Liv knows some of those people were infected with mind flayer tadpoles because they’d all turned into mind flayers in one terrifying, horrible instant. But there are also people like Alfran, whose symptoms did not go away when a brain fell out of the sky. He’d died yesterday, and there had been nothing she or Kharis could do.

It’s only been six months since Liv left her family’s comfortable Upper City estate, but it feels longer for all the heartbreak she’s seen. Alfran’s dead and there’s no one else to care, no one else who’s trying to get to the bottom of it. No one else wants to help the other people with the same symptoms, and it’s all because they’re poor, and they live on the wrong side of the city. Before she came here, she knew about the cosmic unfairness of the universe, was intimately acquainted with loss and pain, but it’s another thing entirely to see it play out on the street she lives on.

“Ready?” Kharis asks her, scalpel in hand. Their workroom is not made for this sort of work. The counters and cabinets are littered with everything they cleared off the workbench to accommodate Alfran. Globes of light bob up and down slowly in the space, lighting up the room.

She smooths her hands down her apron and steps closer to the table, to Alfran. He was young, barely eighteen, his golden skin pale in death. He’d been a runner for the Guild, and Liv had held his mother’s hand while she wept over her dead son. It had been more than a little alien to see a parent mourn a child like that. When her sister had died, her parents hadn’t so much as flinched.

She picks up her notebook and quill. “Ready.”

Kharis murmurs a prayer to Lathander before he begins. Liv catches only about half the words, but glances away anyway, as if she is witnessing something private. She doesn’t put any of her faith in the gods, and has never believed they listened or cared. But Kharis’ voice is soft, his eyes as kind as they had been when he had asked Alfran’s mother for her permission to examine her dead child. Liv had been surprised at the care, and she’s surprised by it now too.

Kharis takes the scalpel to the skin and begins to carve in a diagonal down from Alfran’s shoulder toward the center of his chest. It takes a moment, but the cut begins to ooze with blood. Kharis draws back his scalpel in shock.

“That…that shouldn’t be happening.”

“What?” Liv’s heart is racing, there’s something in Kharis’ tone that spells danger.

Kharis peers down at Alfran’s body before placing two thick fingers against his pulse point. “He’s been dead nearly a day, all his blood should have been pooled at his back.”

Right, she’d forgotten. Liv is reminded that they are not doctors, not experts at this. They are scholars playing at medicine because there is no one else interested in a boy from the Lower City who died mysteriously.

And yet, the wound is leaking blood anyway, as if the blood is somehow still pumping through his veins. But it’s not, so this doesn’t make sense.

Kharis pulls his hand away from Alfran’s neck, before crouching to peer below Alfran’s back, which is lifted slightly by a block beneath his upper back. Liv crouches as well, though she must drop almost to her knees. The telltale mottling of the skin is there, indicating that the blood has pooled, so why is the cut Kharis made bleeding?

They both stand up at the same time and immediately freeze. The blood is no longer oozing. Instead, tendrils of it reach like the tiny weeds that sprout between the cracks in the cobblestones. “Step back, Liv,” Kharis warns, his voice unyielding. “Don’t touch anything.”

He mutters something Liv doesn’t catch, and a blue spectral pair of hands appears. Kharis himself has backed away, but he’s watching and directing the mage hands that pick up a specimen jar and carefully coax the blood into it, just like one might a spider onto a paper. The blood moves easily, as if wanting a direction.

“What in the hells.” Liv chokes on the fear, on the acrid stench of wrongness in the air. “What is that?”

Only once the bottle is sealed does Kharis examine the blood within, the way it branches and reaches and shifts. “I don’t know, but we need to burn that body immediately.”

***

If Astarion had to admit it, staying at Ramazith’s Tower is better than being cooped up in his tiny room at the Elfsong all day. There are a great many windows in the tower, but Rolan and Gale have enchanted enough of them to block out the sun so that he can move about the tower freely, even in the daylight hours. It had been a kindness he hadn’t expected, hadn’t known how to express his gratitude for properly, so he hadn’t said a thing about them.

There is plenty of space in the tower, and it’s easy to be alone. Which is what he tells himself he wants, even if he’s not sure that’s true anymore. He spends the first day or two mostly in his room, not wanting to be out and about the tower if it means acknowledging the kindness present. But by the third day, he’s figured out that Rolan might make a comment or two about the place being his, but no one is holding this over his head, no one is demanding a thing of him.

Gale and Rolan are busy working on recovering the crown, and Astarion has no plans, no direction for what he wants his life to be. He has longed for freedom for so long, for the ability to plan and shape his own life, his own destiny. And now that it is here, he is lost. His list of friends and allies dwindles by the day. He doesn’t know what he wants.

The only thing he does know is that he wants to walk in the sun again. Tavren had been sure they could find a way, just like they’d been sure they’d find a way to fix Karlach’s engine. Astarion had hoped they’d all be looking for the answer together instead of him alone, but he’s got a wizard’s tower at his disposal for at least the time being, and well, he might as well use it. He spends the long daylight hours looking through books and taking notes. It’s slow, boring work, but he’s hopeful that if he just keeps looking, he’ll find something.

“I found another tome that mentioned vampires down in one of the vaults,” Rolan says approaching the desk Astarion has claimed for research. The space is a mess, piles of books and scrolls and hastily scribbled notes. If the new wizard in residence of this tower is bothered by it, he doesn’t say so.

Astarion looks up from the scroll he’d been reading. “Who’s the author?”

Rolan consults the spine of the book. “Lysander Grimholt.”

Astarion points with his quill at a pile near the top of the desk. “Add it to that pile.”

“You mean there is a method to the madness?” Rolan asks with a cock of his head.

Astarion glares at the tiefling. “If you’re not here to help, you can go.” He’s not sure about the wisdom of ordering around a wizard in his own tower, but then, the tower only belongs to him because Tavren made it so. He discards the worry.

“Well, if you’re going to be rude then I won’t tell you about the lead Cal and Lia wanted me to pass along to you.”

“A lead?” Astarion repeats. He doesn’t mean to sound quite so doubtful, but it is what it is.

Rolan grins, and then the little shit shrugs. “Guess you’ll have to ask them since I’m clearly bothering you.”

There’s a lightheartedness to the exchange that Astarion might have appreciated a few weeks ago, but it falls flat now. “Just tell me what it is.”

Rolan gives him a complex look and his smile disappears. “There’s an alchemist shop in the Lower City, apparently they’ve been helping people with all sorts of magical maladies.”

“You think some Lower City magical swindlers are going to be able to help me?” Astarion scoffs.

Rolan sighs. “I wouldn’t mention it at all except that Lorroakan had complained about them taking business before, and seemed somewhat convinced that they were legitimate competition. Who knows? It might at least be worth a try.”

Astarion’s not exactly making loads of progress here. He’s found plenty of books mentioning vampires and chronicling how to kill them, but he’s found nothing else useful. Astarion is well-read, mostly out of necessity, he had so few avenues of escape for two hundred years, but he’s not a researcher or a scholar. Rolan and Gale have helped, but what’s the harm in casting a wider net?

“I’ll pay the little shop a visit this evening,” Astarion says. Rolan takes it as a dismissal, and Astarion watches him retreat. “Thank you, by the way. It’s…well it’s something.” Though what, he’s not sure yet. Rolan doesn’t turn, and instead waves a hand to indicate it’s nothing and continues on.

When he’s not annoyed at being in the wizard’s debt and trespassing on his hospitality, Astarion does actually like Rolan. He’s grumpy and gruff all to disguise his deep care for his siblings, and he has enough ambition to see an opening and take it. Like this tower that’s now his. Astarion can respect that.

He glances out the windows, to the bright and shining day just out of his reach, and gets back to work.

***

The Shadowed Quill is quiet this evening. They’ve likely seen their last customers for the day, and Liv should turn the sign around and lock the door, but she’s busy cataloging potions and spell components, and Kharis has stayed later than usual, examining the blood they’d pulled from Alfran. He hasn’t shared any theories with her yet, but she suspects it has less to do with secrecy and more that he is genuinely baffled.

She is too, if she’s honest. Curiosity has seeped the fear from the situation, and she’s been spending her off-hours poring over every tome they have on blood diseases and disorders. Nothing has explained the viscous tendrils that emerged out of Alfran. They’ve taken blood samples from two more people who’d come to them with similar symptoms, but so far, Alfran’s blood appears to be the only one behaving oddly. They haven’t told anyone about the strangeness with the blood, had given reassurances and promises to the others that they have no business giving. But the families can’t pay, so all they get is a cleric and a wizard with good intentions.

Liv knows why Kharis does it, the sense of responsibility and righteous duty compels him forward, but for her, it’s more complicated. She doesn’t know what it is she believes in, where she places her trust, she just knows that in the face of so much suffering, she can’t stand idly by. But she and Kharis help, they always help. And Liv tells herself that she’s adding some net value good to this world, and maybe it’s enough to balance out her past, her family name.

The bell over the door rings as the door opens and someone enters. “We’re actually closed,” Liv calls.

“Your sign out front says otherwise.” The elven man who steps into the shop is pale and wiry, all sharp angles. He’s dressed finely and his accent carries the inflated sense of self that so many Upper City types have. He’s also beautiful if beauty was something that could be balanced on a razor’s edge.

“I apologize, I forgot to turn it, but our hours are posted. You’ll need to come back in the morning.”

The man’s nose wrinkles in displeasure. “I can decidedly not come back in the morning.”

She knows his type: pompous, entitled, and rude when something doesn’t go their way. And yet, there’s something vaguely familiar about him, like she’s seen him somewhere before. Liv keeps her voice even, but firm. “Like, I said: we’re closed. We’d be happy to help you with whatever you need in the morning.”

“Do have any idea who I am?” the man asks, his voice rising steadily in both pitch and indignance.

If he’s a noble, she doesn’t recognize him. She shrugs. “No.”

“Honestly, it’s as if some people aren’t grateful at all. Look, I understand you’re closed, but I have a very restricted schedule when it comes to visiting tiny alchemy shops in the Lower City, so maybe you can just tell me if you can help me.”

Liv’s curiosity gets the better of her. “With what exactly?”

He seems genuinely surprised at her question as if he didn’t expect her to acquiesce. “I…well…I’m…you see….uh, what’s the best way to put this? I’m…I’m a vampire.” He rushes the end of the phrase, tacks a laugh on at the end as if he’s told her a joke.

And suddenly it all clicks into place. His too-sharp features, the pointed incisors she understands now are fangs, the air of danger that seems to bleed off of him. And then she recognizes him from the broadsheets. “You’re one of the heroes of Baldur’s Gate.”

He looks genuinely exasperated that it took her this long to get there. “Yes,” he says, drawing out the syllables. “I’m Astarion.”

“Thanks for protecting the city…I guess?” Liv replies, unsure exactly where he’s going with this. She’s interested in helping him, but he still hasn’t told her a damn thing beyond what he is.

He glares at her as if she’s being deliberately obtuse. “Can you help me or not?”

“With what exactly? You still haven’t told me your problem.”

“And he won’t. I’m afraid you need to leave.”

Both she and Astarion’s attention snaps to the doorway that leads to the workroom. Kharis stands there, axe in hand. Astarion raises both hands. “Now, I know I was a little rude, but this is uncalled for.”

“I will not ask again. We don’t help the undead here,” Kharis says, taking a slow step forward.

Astarion’s gaze catches on the rising sun etched into the axeblade. He sighs. “Rolan could’ve warned me you all worshipped Lathander. Well, then, I’ll be on my way.” He turns and leaves, the bell jangling in the silence that falls.

Liv turns to Kharis in confusion. “I thought we helped everyone.” She likes working for Kharis, but they both know that she’s overqualified to work in an alchemy shop. Now that she’s free from her parents, she’s been looking for a project or piece of scholarship she can use to get the hells out of Baldur’s Gate. Her family poisoned every last one of her connections when she left home, and none of the academies would even touch her. She’d genuinely like to help Astarion if she can, but even if she can’t, she’s not sure any researcher has ever worked this closely with a vampire. It’s sure to at least get her in the door somewhere.

Kharis lowers his axe. “Lathander teaches that all undead must be destroyed. I’m not interested in killing him, but well, I don’t have to help him either.”

Kharis rarely talks about his religious convictions, but Liv’s gotten the sense that they were acquired later in life and that he didn’t grow up in worship. She wants to bring up the questionable coincidence of strange blood and vampires calling all within the same tenday, but she knows it’s a losing battle. Kharis is stubborn and once his mind is made up, there’s no talking him out of it.

“I’ll finish up out here. Why don’t you grab us some dinner from Hattie’s?” Kharis suggests with an air of apology. Hattie is a giant of a half-orc who runs a food stall down the block, and after Kharis healed some bad burns for him, he gives them a steep discount.

“Won’t Wynn be upset you’re skipping dinner with him?” she asks.

“He’s working late. I’ll eat dinner with you, and then head home.”

Liv doesn’t argue the point because there’s an opportunity here. If she leaves now she might still catch Astarion on the street. Kharis won’t help, and that’s fine because he has his beliefs, but he didn’t forbid her from doing a damn thing. She’s the one who lives above the shop. Astarion could come by at night and she could help him, and Kharis wouldn’t be any the wiser.

“I’ll be back,” she smiles and then ducks out the shop door.

Astarion hasn’t made it far, but she still hurries down the street before calling his name, worried that somehow Kharis might be watching. When he hears his name, he pauses before turning, his face a mixture of surprise and disdain.

“I assure you I got the message; I won’t be back,” he says, voice tired.

“I’m sorry about Kharis. I didn’t realize just how…unyielding his beliefs were,” she says, closing the distance. It’s a pretty night, the moon is high in the sky, casting Astarion in moon-touched silver. “I have no such convictions. I’d still like to hear your problem.”

He looms over her, silver hair glinting as he cocks his head. His crimson eyes narrow, and she is reminded that she has chased a vampire down a darkened street. Alone. This close, there’s something preternaturally still about him, and she’s unsure how she didn’t immediately realize what he was.

“I’d like to find a cure for my condition .”

A cure for vampirism? That sounds more than impossible. But if she managed it? Well, that would be an accomplishment even her parents couldn’t ignore. She doesn’t want to give him hope where there is none, but she wants this. “I could try.”

“Really? I assume not out of the goodness of your heart. What do you want?”

She doesn’t want to tell him about her family, about the thorny complicated pieces of it. So she settles for something smaller, more immediate. “We’ve been treating people with a blood sickness, and then you come knocking. It can’t be a coincidence. I want some of your blood.”

He laughs, fangs flashing as he steps near. The angles of him are just this side of wrong, too sharp. There is a sense of otherness about him, but she is not afraid. “Darling, that’s not how this typically works.”

She doesn’t want him to know just how much she wants to work on his problem, so she shrugs and turns away. “Well, good luck then.”

“I didn’t say no.”

She glances over her shoulder, doing her best not to smile in victory. “Come back in an hour then.”

#astarion #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x liv #eldritch horror au #check the tw on ao3 besties #this is a bit different from my usual #what moves in the dark #slothquisitorwrites

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