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Moonrise Towers was tall, spacious, and thick with a deathly chill that seeped through your clothes and gripped your bones.
It reminded Astarion of home. He hated it.
The party split up to search the place. They were in no real danger and it was less conspicuous than moving in a large group. Astarion stuck with Jarn as always, his… “partner” of sorts. The two were to scope out the main floor while the others searched the basement.
It didn’t take long for the pair to find the alchemist. A drow who introduced herself as Araj Oblodra. A trader in blood, she said. Funny, certainly not a trader of her own with how horribly it stank even from so far away.
The vampire hung back, letting the warlock twist her silver tongue and haggle prices down to a fraction of their original cost. The woman made him uneasy. He tapped his foot, eager for the interaction to end.
“Perhaps there’s one more thing we can discuss,” Oblodra said just as Jarn was about to leave, her voice sickeningly sweet, “your friend. He’s a vampire, no?”
“That obvious, hm?” Jarn mumbled, still counting the coins in her pouch.
“Oh don’t worry, we’re all friends under the absolute. I won’t bite.” And he really wouldn’t. The mere thought of her blood in his mouth made him retch.
“Oh I’d prefer if you did.”
What?
“I assume he belongs to you?” she asked the tiefling, as though he was a mere trinket.
“You should accustom yourself to traditions of the surface, under-elf,” Jarn warned, her voice soft despite the clipped tone, “most don’t take kindly to being mistaken for a slave.”
“Ah, of course. Keep them in line by making them think they are free. A classic of our teachings too. How utterly adorable.”
Jarn frowned, but the drow had turned away from her. She addressed him directly. “You. Do you have a name, spawn?”
The following conversation confirmed Astarion’s worst possible nightmare. The vile woman was the type to desire fangs at her neck. He’d met a few in the past. Most of them didn’t survive the night.
He refused her of course. Firmly. Whatever potion she offered meant nothing in the face of having to taste her putrid blood.
Oblodra was not one to back down. “Ugh, can’t you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?” she demanded.
Jarn idly tapped her fingers, considering. “That potion, what does it do?”
A cold shock of horror came over the vampire. No, not this.
“It is as I said. A unique mix that permanently increases one’s strength by a considerate amount. Buyers have crossed mountains and seas for a mere drop. I offer you a vial, free of charge, only an idiot would pass on the opportunity.”
Jarn’s eyes narrowed slightly. Astarion knew it meant she was trying to tell if the drow was lying. A tense moment passed. And then, seemingly satisfied with what she saw, she turned to Astarion.
“A potion of such power could greatly aid our journey.”
Please no, not again.
“I’m sorry, but could you excuse us for a moment?”
Without waiting for the drow’s response, he pulled Jarn across the room and just out of earshot. She followed without protest.
“Are you actually asking me to do this? Trading me for some… some potion? ”
Perhaps it was his fault for expecting anything different.
“I’m surprised you’d turn down something like this, Astarion.”
“Because there’s something wrong with her blood ,” he hissed, “I can smell it from over here. It’s rank.”
“Is it? Strange. I don’t sense anything different,” she mused, “is it toxic? Or poisonous, like Gale’s?”
“Nothing that would kill me. But it would be hellishly unpleasant, and I do not, do not, want the fetid sludge flowing through her veins inside my mouth.”
Why was he being honest? Why didn’t he just lie?
“Hm…” the warlock stared at the floor. Her lips twisted, a shift hidden by the spider tattoo over her mouth; she was thinking.
Astarion cursed himself. Cursed that he ever let himself hope. Of course, of course Jarn would never pass on such an opportunity. She was obsessed with power, often complaining about her physical weakness. He never blamed her for it. He, too, sought the safety that came with strength. And yet somehow, somehow in the past tenday he forgot something important; that just as he’s been using her for her strength, she could do the same to him.
One word from her and he’d do it, wouldn’t he? He’s seen that wicked mouth at work. He’d be utterly defenseless.
Maybe it won’t be so bad. Just a moment of discomfort, a little disgust. He could push through…
Jarn’s voice, clear as ringing bells, cut off his train of thought.
“Alright.”
His eyes snapped up to meet hers, awash in a mix of horror and dread and cold acceptance. But instead of the steel hardness that he expected, her eyes were wide and expressive. She blinked twice rapidly, then glanced at the door.
Oh gods, thank the gods.
“He’ll do it, but I need a guarantee of your goods.”
As Jarn approached the drow to talk business - ensuring that the potion was real, it seems - Astarion smoothly closed the door beside him. It wouldn’t stop the wandering scrying eye, but it’ll be enough if they were quick.
“I swear on the House Oblodra. To deal in such petty deceptions would mean the ruin of…”
Her voice cut off. In fact, every sound in the room cut off, as though a switch had been flipped. A silencing spell.
Near the table of potions and vials, Oblodra’s mouth moved soundlessly, confused, too surprised to react. Jarn did not hesitate.
She raised her hands, palms filled with eldritch energy. She grasped the drow by the neck (that neck, that cursed, offending neck) and her mouth formed words that carried the weight of death, unimpeded by her own silencing curse.
DOLOR
Four beams of concentrated eldritch blasts, fired point-blank. The blood trader never stood a chance. Her throat exploded , spilling blood and gore all over the table and floor. How her head remained attached was a mystery. Astarion thought he caught a glimpse of spine.
The drow’s body dropped to the floor, dead weight, though not quite gone yet. Her weak fingers clawed at the stone floor, desperately dragging herself toward the edge of the silence bubble. Jarn stopped her, straddling Oblodra’s torso to pin her in place. If she weren’t on the verge of death, she might’ve managed to throw the warlock off. But now, all she could do was watch helplessly as the warlock drew her dagger and, with focused precision, severed her spine.
It was all over in a matter of seconds.
The smell from the slaughter assaulted Astarion’s senses, but he powered through. The tiefling remained seated upon the corpse, a wild look in her eyes. The hand on her dagger twisted , cracking the spinal cord that it skewered. Her blazing eyes gleamed, mouth twisting unnaturally, as though stuck between a grimace and a grin.
Her chest heaved. Without sound, Astarion couldn’t tell if she was simply breathing hard or laughing.
Still, they had to clean up the mess. A simple hand resting upon the warlock’s shoulder snapped her out of her distracted state. The two collected what they could from the woman’s corpse, before dragging it to the side of the room behind some stacked crates. Luckily, only Jarn’s knife and hands were bloodied, and those were easily cleaned with a bottle of water. They left the area quickly and were halfway across the tower before Jarn stopped focusing on her silencing spell.
The two adventurers found an empty balcony to catch their breath, away from prying eyes. Killing was a familiar dance for them both, and even the warlock’s little bit of indulgence was nothing new, but Astarion was shaken.
“You… Thank you. For not forcing me to…” the words got stuck in his throat.
“Yeah,” she said, “yeah, of course.”
There was a sense of unease in her posture. Her still-wet fingers twisted together, her eyes refusing to meet his. There was something she didn’t say, and if he noticed it, she wasn’t trying to hide. She wanted him to question her.
“But you wanted to,” a statement, not a question.
She let out a long sigh through her nose. “If she was stronger, somewhere more visible… I don’t know.”
She lifted a small, nondescript bottle to examine under the moonlight, its surface still smeared with blood.
“It would’ve been worth it. Power like this isn't easy to come by. Impossible, even.”
“She was vile .”
“Then it’s a good thing you didn’t bite her, hm?”
Yes, yes he was grateful that she didn’t force him. But that hesitation. Those awful, grueling moments standing at the door, watching her consider her options, preparing to force himself through yet another action he hated for someone else’s sake. Being sold again, by another.
“Let’s not dwell on what-if’s, alright? Darling,” she pocketed the potion, “it felt wrong to lie and say I wouldn’t have done it. But I didn’t. And that’s what matters, is it not?”
This was all too much, “I suppose.”
“Great!” chipper once again, like snapping a book shut on a particularly ugly chapter, she put all the discomfort behind her. “Come on, let’s go find the others.”
It was fine. It was fine, like she said. She didn’t use him, not like- no, don’t think about that. She didn’t sell him like some others in the past, she even took care of that horrible woman.
Jarn was nice, despite all her jagged edges. She protected him. That was the deal, wasn’t it? A fine deal, a good deal. Protection, and she doesn’t even ask for much.
(And that nagging feeling, that “what-if”, was just him overthinking things. It doesn’t matter what she might’ve done in another world. She didn’t .)
Astarion followed his partner back into the towers. If he ignored it hard enough, maybe everything will be fine.
He couldn’t quite shake the horrible taste in the back of his throat, though. As if he’d bitten that drow after all.