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In two hundred years, Astarion’s life had been a singular note of torment. Variations on the theme, but always the same. He went out. He used his body. People came back. If they didn’t come back, he would be whipped. If he missed coming back, the pliers would be taken to his fangs and fingernails. He would dine with his victims, or he would get flayed.
Always Baldur’s Gate. Always the same haunts. Like a ghost trapped reliving its life over and over and over again. The same cycles. The beats. The same paths. The same torments.
And then a mindflayer tentacle ship had abducted Astarion.
Different! Very, extremely different, that! The shock of it had Astarion near stupid for a day. He just wandered around blinking at trees. He sort of forgot he had to feed himself blood. Why would he still need blood? He was outside. In the daylight. In the sunshine.
Astarion’s brain couldn’t process that, so he’d sort of sat in the grass and stared at things for, oh, nine hours? Nine hours seemed about right.
And then a squirrel had gotten too close to him, and Astarion had snatched it up for food on instinct. Okay, if you asked Cazador, squirrels and rats were entirely different things, but Astarion had managed to sort of mentally juggle the concept that squirrels were simply rats with bushy tails, and if he was only allowed to eat ‘vermin’ then surely a squirrel counted as one.
The blood helped. If nothing else, it confirmed he was a vampire and not alive again, and also not a ghost. He’d been abducted. A worm had crawled around his eyeball and burrowed into his brain. His skull felt heavy, and he had the absolute mother of all headaches, but he was not dead yet.
The horror of the worm in his skull actually helped him focus. He probably needed it extracted before it wriggled around his brain too much. In theory spawn could heal through any brain damage, but in practice, there was Astarion, who couldn’t remember any of his old unlife and a considerable amount of his time as a spawn. He woke up screaming but wouldn’t remember why. He lost large chunks of time without realizing it. He couldn’t string plans together to save himself.
Well, okay, that one had its uses. If Astarion didn’t know what he was going to do next, there was no damn way Cazador could compel it out of him.
Still. Clearly Astarion should have a healthy fear of what the worm could do to his brain, and that meant— Something. Something bad. How did he get a worm out? He didn’t want to dig in there with a knife. That would probably be self-defeating.
Was there a worm removal spell? There had to be. People got worms in their legs from bad water in Baldur’s Gate. Surely someone had invented a spell about it.
The next day he actually found people, other would-be victims. Astarion found out the tadpoles turned you into a mindflayer, but the process was being delayed mysteriously.
Okay.
A few of the others seemed perplexed by Astarion’s non-reaction, but oh, what? They weren’t acting normally? Oh, the tadpoles weren’t normal? What in the bloody Hells about this was normal? And now Astarion was traveling with other living people, including a space alien. An alien! From the Astral Sea! Astarion didn’t know things lived there. All he heard was the occasional astral dreadnought that ate nasty little wizards that thought they could defy the laws of physics, like, escaping to a place without apex predators.
And now they were set to find some druids? Astarion found himself deeply skeptical about the efficiency of druids versus transformative parasitic aliens.
It took a few days to hunt the druids down, as druids weren’t fond of things like signs, or roads, or small little shops where one could buy a spare set of clothing. Everyone was dressed in what they’d been kidnapped in, which had gotten coated with illithid slime and char. They’d tried taking turns washing themselves and the clothing in the river, but they didn’t have soap. The wizard’s magical cleaning cantrip didn’t cover slime. It never did; Aurelia had Prestidigitation and Mending, but those only covered minor stains and tears. Astarion had to learn the old-fashioned way, but the surface level things went to her.
Gale could dry the clothing faster though, so they didn’t have to wander around dicks out and vulnerable, as they didn’t have spare clothing.
Astarion tried to keep turned, so no one could see his back. He didn’t want questions. He didn’t want answers either. He’d somehow managed to go all this time without finding out what sort of vile, degrading humiliation Cazador had written on his back. He didn’t want his little fun surrealist shitshow bubble popped now.
The druids, as it turned out, were flocked by refugees from some other city which had bad things happen to it. Astarion did not disbelieve them, but the amount of Bhaalspawn attacks that only happened at Baldur’s Gate and never anywhere else in the world proved that the Gate was uniquely cursed, thank you very much, and it was, in fact, a source of civic pride. Ha, oh, Watersdeep had a mad wizard underneath? What wasn’t underneath the sewers at Baldur’s Gate? Gale could piss off. He didn’t know anything.
(Shadowheart was in firm agreement with Astarion on this. They shook hands and everything. They would win the worst city contest.)
At least around the refugees Astarion was able to steal supplies and coin. The goblins didn’t have any coin, and their supplies only worked for if you were three feet tall. The clothing here all had the special tailoring for the lower garments for the fitting of tails, but Astarion could fix that. It was one of the few things he could fix, because the druid’s healer ended up dead, and the druids sort of, oh, found out? And then assumed the group was with the refugees.
So, on one hand, the refugees were no longer in danger of being thrown out of the grove.
On the other hand, there were fewer of them, and no more druids.
The refugees were thankful though, enough to where Lae’zel finally got her directions.
“It’s been six days,” she said, face scrunched up like one of those inbred fancy patriar teacup dogs to get around the animal size limit in Baldur’s Gate. “We should have transformed already. I had considered culling you, but this is an anomaly. There are exact symptoms for each day, and yet if it were not for my own memories, I see no signs of infection among any of us.”
“There’s definitely something strange going on,” Shadowheart said. “I am not pleased by the lack of answers, but it’s hard to be upset that I’m not turning into a monster. Gale. Do you have any expertise on this?”
Gale didn’t end up contributing much to this conversation because he was ‘depressed’ by ‘the number of dead people’.
Astarion, tentatively, sidled forward. “Speaking of which, apparently the goblins on the road are looking for some kind of ‘weapon’ that was supposed to be on that ship. They made it sound like it was portable and that some sort of ‘Absolute’ would reward them for finding it. Should we be looking for that?”
Okay it hadn’t been a goblin on the road that said that. It had been a goblin in a cage, who thought she could order Astarion around like he was a dog. She was still there. Fuck her and fuck anyone for trying to order Astarion around ever again.
Lae’zel said something that was definitely a swear. “I presumed all of the ghaik machinery would have been destroyed in the crash. I combed the site, killed survivors. I found nothing.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not there,” Shadowheart said with a curious frown. “I know it’s a day detour, but it would behoove us to at least take a look.”
Astarion wanted to groan about going all the way back, but…
Things were so, so weird. And far more dangerous. He’d found out the hard way he wasn’t regenerating anymore, a glad trade for the gift of the sun, but still. His unnatural vampiric strength had been sapped as well.
Astarion wouldn’t think of himself as weak or useless, simply that his skillset hadn’t favored combat. He knew basic self-defense: a charm spell! And then failing that, the fine art of sprinting way faster than most people could manage, trusting his regeneration to fix whatever holes his body had gotten riddled with.
See, if you killed someone, Cazador always found out. He’d ask, every tenday, if there had been any rules any of the spawn had broken. And Cazador didn’t want a body trail. He was a paranoid, scheming bastard; and prey too rich, or any other kinds of bodies, meant the rack. What if someone pointed the finger at Szarr manor?
So Astarion had a handful of magical spells that were useful—most of which he couldn’t touch right now—and a weathered perfection in an assortment of skills: lockpicking, unlockpicking, how to not get caught by the Flaming Fist, how to to know when someone was interested in his body, how to leave people wanting. Also, how to mend clothing far beyond repair into usefulness. What cloth could be fixed, and what was scrap, and then how to turn scrap cloth into useful things. How to take three copper and produce three silver out of it, and how to steal three copper in the first place to make the three silver.
Fighting back was strange and terrifying, and Astarion had the dim giddy hopes of some sort of magic wand that allowed Astarion to fireball his enemies, because that just sounded like fun. And also like something that wouldn’t take Astarion a long time to learn, or in this case, unlearn. His brain had hissed and fought and bit savagely when Astarion had killed one of the druids, because that was a person, and Cazador would find out, and then Cazador would hurt Astarion again and again and again.
Astarion didn’t know how to unlearn 200 years by snapping his fingers and wanting really hard, but, if he had some sort of death laser weapon (of course it wasn’t going to be a death laser), perhaps that would help him make the jump with more grace than the clownfest he’d exhibited earlier.
At least the group had bought the idea that he’d been a magistrate and didn’t know self-defense. That hadn’t seemed suspicious.
“But you’re an expert tailor?” Shadowheart had asked, as Astarion had quickly patched some of their stolen clothing to actually fit their frames.
“A man needs a hobby where he gets to stab something repeatedly that’s not going to press charges,” Astarion had said, and Shadowheart had laughed at that. That had been a win. She hadn’t been that charmed by him so far, but normally he didn’t need to charm everyone, just find the people that would be charmed by him.
Lae’zel had made it clear that Astarion would find a way to be useful in battle, or she would not drag him along to safety. Gale at least seemed bleeding heart enough that he kept vouching for Astarion to stick around.
“I’m not the most useful myself right now,” Gale said with a wince. “My spellbook is gone, but, ah, it seems I still have some of the residual knowledge from there earlier. I’ll try mapping it out and figuring out the Weave on the fly.”
“We don’t have the finances for a spellbook anyway,” Shadowheart said flatly. “Considering we barely got here without starving.”
But with so many dead refugees and druids, there was plenty of food and supplies. They were able to load up with gear and food alike, and then the group turned back the way they came. Another night of hiking through the wilderness, with Lae’zel growing sharper every time Gale asked for a rest.
Astarion probably needed Gale to stick around. Astarion could hide his limits behind Gale’s, and then if anyone died for being useless, it’d be Gale first.
—
At the crash site they split up, looking for any sort of weapon on their own. They didn’t find anything in the ship, but things had scattered, and they were picking through the wilderness surrounding the ship.
An hour of searching, and then another. Astarion considered doubling back to their meeting point, but he didn’t want to deal with Lae’zel’s tongue. Though, maybe they found whatever weapon this Absolute was looking for. Maybe they found the, what, flaming raging poisoning sword of doom, and then Lae’zel would call dibs and finally behead Shadowheart and just sprint in a non-stop juggernaut dash to the creche.
That sounded about on par for the course lately.
And then Astarion saw something. A flash of light, the glint of metal. There and not, at the edges of the river.
Astarion paused.
It wasn’t going to be some super weapon was it? No. Don’t be ridiculous. That didn’t happen. Astarion wouldn’t magically stumble upon the weapon a cult leader was searching for—
“Except I might,” Astarion said out loud, stupidly. “I got infected. I’m here in the sun. Might as well.”
So Astarion strolled to the beach and kicked around with his shoe, unearthing what looked like…
Well…
A flaming raging poisoning sword of doom.
Astarion stood there for a moment, blinking stupidly in the sunlight. The sword remained, glistening and tempting, like harpy song. Astarion wasn’t a smith. He didn’t know if there were fancy metals. This looked like fancy metals, all black steel in sharp geometric swoops for the hilt, and then the blade twisted on itself and went from a strange pulsating red steel to glowing yellow-gold at the tip. It looked like one of those mantlepieces you would see in the patriar homes, except the surprise was that not only was it functional, it was some incredibly rare magical sword passed down through the generations.
“Okay,” Astarion said. “This might as well happen to me.”
So, Astarion reached down to pick the sword up.
Pain lanced through his skull, splintering his consciousness. He screamed, dropping the sword, falling backwards into the sand and scrambling a second away, but the pain was already gone as quickly as it had come. The echoes still vibrated slightly. It sounded like, surely not screaming. Swords didn’t scream.
Vampires didn’t walk in the sun either. Tadpoles always turned people into mindflayers.
Okay.
Astarion gingerly scooted next to the sword, leaving a divot in the sand.
“Don’t do that,” he said crossly. And then he grabbed for the hilt again.
Pain, again, exploded through his skull, but Astarion was determined to master this. He needed this weapon, and if he could just find the off switch somewhere—
The screaming stopped.
Oh. Well that was easy. You just thought of where the off switch was! Right! That’s how all the mindflayer machines worked. You had to mentally connect to the device and then think on or off, will it to work. Astarion was getting the hang of this illithid stuff.
Hello?
Astarion screamed this time and dropped the weapon again. The flaming raging poisoning sword of doom fell to the sand.
He stared at the sword for a moment.
Picked it up a third time.
A wave of fear, fear, fear crashed over him, nerves so thick Astarion nearly vomited.
“Stop that!” Astarion scolded, shaking the sword for good measure. “Stop! Stop screaming. Where is the off button for screaming?”
Hello? Hello?
Hells save him.
“Yes hello I hear you,” Astarion said, exasperated. “Can you hear me? No more screaming! That hurt.”
For a moment, there was silence.
I am sorry, the sword said, in a rich smooth man’s voice, calm and confident, as if he hadn’t screamed and clawed and cried at the insides of Astarion’s brain. I hadn’t seen anyone in so long.
There felt like an itching sensation behind Astarion’s left eye. The world shimmered for a second, like the eye shorted out, but then his vision returned to him.
That probably was a bad sign. Swords shouldn’t be able to affect his vision, unless it was cursed. Ugh. Actually, with the design, this was clearly a cursed weapon of some sort. But maybe that was good? Cursed weapons normally had the really potent magical effects and were very good at killing people. Which was, by the way, what Astarion needed this sword to do for him. He eyed it over.
Looked magic.
Astarion didn’t have anything else. What paltry few magical spells he learned, he couldn’t figure out how to cast through the tadpole. No Identify for him.
“What did you just do?”
I’m using one of your eyes, the sword explained. I can’t see or hear anything without a wielder. Normally I would ask permission, but it has been a while since someone has wielded me. I needed to see the sky or I was going to start screaming again. As you requested for me to not do that, I felt comfortable taking that liberty.
“Oh, well, that makes sense,” Astarion said. It probably wasn’t a great sign that the sword could see out of one of his own eyeballs, but that did seem to be sort of how it went. Swords like this were always cursed in some regard, but if you were able to work around the curse, they could kill like twelve vampires in five seconds or something stupid like that.
It really didn’t seem possible Astarion had found such a sword. But, the sun beat down on Astarion’s shoulders, so. Why not? Maybe Tymora was having a nice orgy, and luck kept spilling out everywhere.
Still, something had to counterbalance his fortunes: his sword apparently had trauma.
Well, Astarion understood that trauma. It seemed rather cruel to make a sword that could think but couldn’t see or hear without a wielder. Just sort of constantly in a theoretical metaphorical tomb. That was probably by design, encourage the sword to be wielded and not curse people as heavily.
Alright. There was only one thing for it.
Astarion was going to seduce this sword.
Astarion knew how seductions worked. People craved sympathy. More than that, they craved being understood. Astarion could understand this sword. Sure, Astarion didn’t have a plan for the sex part of the seductions, but that was future Astarion’s problem. If the sword was seduced by Astarion, he would be less likely to curse Astarion. Easy.
“I spent a year in a tomb once,” Astarion said. “Ah, vampire. Sire got upset with me. I’d honestly choose just about any other torture over it.”
Yes. Yes. You understand. I need to see. It’s very comforting out here. And very bright. Why is the sky blue?
Astarion frowned. “The sky is always blue? Well, or gray, or dark. Where are you from?”
The Hells.
Okay.
“So what are your qualifications? What can you do?”
Is… this an interview?
“Yes it’s a sword interview,” Astarion lied. “It’s how things are done up here.”
Ah. I did not know. Continue, please. I assure you that I’m a very good sword to have around.
Some part of Astarion’s mind wanted to put a pin in that, to see what other lies he could make the cursed devil sword from the Hells believe. If he truly hadn’t been to Faerun before, then the possibilities were enormous enough to get horny about.
“Do I need to be worried about any ex-owners running around trying to kill me?”
As much as it pains me to admit it, yes in all likelihood. There were a number of devils who wanted to use me for evil ends. It was hard to get an imp to steal me so I could find my way elsewhere.
Shit.
Astarion did not fancy a large powerful devil trying to behead him to get back the devil’s emotional support murder sword. And also, that implied the sword had some ability to control people? Influence behaviors or bodies? Probably a red flag there. Astarion neatly checked that in the mental red flag box, along with ‘devil sword’ and ‘has control of my eye’ and ‘trauma’.
“Do you not want to kill people?”
I didn’t say that. I merely don’t want to be a weapon of mindless destruction. They crafted me too well. Devil-forged, yes, but my purpose is to kill evil. They simply thought I would only see it in demonflesh, and not the rot that spreads through the Hells. There is a rush in killing devils and demons, but all those in those planes only had bitter means for wielding me. Wield me well, and I will kill for you. In return, I ask you kill for me as well. You perform your part well, I can bless you with protection.
The sword almost sounded smooth, but there were undercurrents of desperation. The sword really didn’t want to be alone again.
Astarion knew that feeling. A small flame of empathy flickered in his chest. There truly was nothing like isolation to make one into a maddening, ravening thing that would do anything if only it meant someone stayed.
Astarion made an exasperated noise. “Well, I suppose fair is fair. I’m not really devil-killing material, you know, but! I would like to be. I’m not entirely sure what you mean by hunting evil, but I suppose we can workshop this. I’m not really trained with swords overly well. I was hoping you would do the heavy lifting.”
I can help you, but I have no hands to wield myself with. You will need to be them.
“Well I can’t do everything!” Astarion said. “I need some help here. Wait. You said something about protections?”
Yes. I can make you utterly immune to all charming and fear effects from devils and many other monsters, as well as warding you against their blows. It will be much harder for them to hit you while you wield me. Again, it was designed for demons in mind, but then my—ah, maker, we shall call her—realized it proved effective against all her political devil enemies as well. And from there, even further. I have a number of potent spells at my own disposal I can cast without you needing to worry about them, but this is my main offer to you: protection from monstrosity.
“Which ones?” Astarion asked. “For how long? Answer me sword!”
My name is Wyll, but my title is the Blade of Avernus. For your question, permanently. As long as you wield me, as long as I maintain our bond, as long as you work as my hands, my blessing will lay upon you. If you use me for ill ends, my protection vanishes, and I will find my way into other hands.
Astarion would kill anyone the blade wanted. Or not kill. Whatever. Who cared about a choosy sword?
“Which ones, Wyll? Which monsters?”
All fiends from the Lower Planes and celestial in the Upper. Every fey and elemental, every aberration from beyond the stars, and all the unhallowed dead that exist. If you are asking about your sire, then yes. I can ward you against him. He cannot compel you as long as our souls remain attuned to each other.
Astarion sat down in the sand, still holding the sword.
Now that was a god orgy.
Granted, these were all rather large claims for a person in a sword to make, but one, it was a raging flaming poisoning sword of doom. It looked like it could do everything Wyll had promised and then some extra more. Second, he knew the cult was apparently looking for a powerful weapon, enough to send an army after.
What else could they be searching for?
“Who do you want me to kill?” Astarion asked.
True monsters. You’ll see. I’m looking forward to working with you.
Oh yes. Astarion was going to seduce the fuck out of this sword.