Chapter Text
The tavern sign creaks in the cool, windy night of the Lower City. The rain is calming into a drizzle after a full day of pouring torrent. Muddy puddles litter the roads and alleys of Baldur’s Gate. An errant step into one has already soiled your boots and the hem of your heavy cape.
You’re the only traveller on the road making your way towards the infamous den, hopefully looking like one with the promise of a cheap pint or blithe time on your mind. Though with the current dreadful weather, no one looks up from their feet or pays any mind to the hood covering your face.
And that is exactly why you chose tonight.
In your hurry, you fail to notice the pair of red eyes peering down from the tavern’s upper floor window to the street. They are already calculating possible openings for a temptation and chances for seduction.
Astarion is beginning to feel nervous as he turns away from the window. This streak of cold, quiet nights is proving difficult for someone looking for, well… people to meet. If only he hadn’t agreed to the stupid bet with Petras and Dal on top of drawing the shortest stick. Travellers and tourists don’t go out in this weather unless they absolutely have to. He wouldn’t either if he had a choice.
When no one else enters the tavern for a while after you, Astarion decides to take another look at the night’s menu of patrons downstairs. It has been slim pickings so far, but there must be someone, who even barely passes the bar to be served for his Master. He cannot return empty-handed. Not tonight.
Astarion descends the stairs leisurely, an empty wine cup dangling between his slender fingers. He walks towards his usual stalking spot in the corner, a vantage point from where he can see the faces of those walking in, but before he can sit down, a commotion by the bar draws his attention.
You are arguing with the burly bartender and apparently trying to hush the towering man with frantic motions. He says it’s not ‘that kind of establishment.’ And he rather loudly tells you to order something or get lost. You shy away for a bit, gathering yourself and making sure your scarf covers the lower half of your face. Some of the other patrons are already shooting curious looks at you. The attention is the last thing you need.
And thus, Astarion alters his course to prowl closer.
He scans your voice and frame, even though it’s difficult to make any conclusions as you’re dressed in something resembling a loose and large potato sack with a hood. Quite the fashion statement, Astarion sneers and almost turns on his heels, just as a glimpse of something golden catches his eye.
Astarion’s gaze narrows and he can’t help the slight curve of a smile forming. So you were trying to pawn off something at the counter. How silly of you to think that any local establishment that happens to be located in a side alley would be willing to do some side hustle as a fence. In Astarion’s experience, this kind of situation usually means a delicious damsel in distress and someone with no touch into the reality of Lower City life.
Perfect.
Astarion has never heard of anyone finding gold at the bottom of a potato sack, but with the unlucky streak he’s had, he is willing to give it a try.
“Is there a problem, darling?” Astarion says in the smoothest, most calming tone his 200 years of experience in the art of seduction can provide.
The golden glimpse – a ring with an intricate pattern on its surface – disappears into your cloak with such sleight of hand and speed that Astarion almost wants to applaud.
“Of course not,” you mutter, glance at him, do a double take because burning Hells, he is gorgeous, and turn away quickly. This is just the kind of attention you were trying to avoid by choosing the not-so-complimenting outfit.
There is something familiar about you, but before Astarion can look more closely, the grumpy bartender clears his throat rather loudly.
“Is there something I can get you?” he asks, clearly telling Astarion to mind his own damn business.
“Well, since you’re asking, you could stop treating this lady so boorishly and pour us both a glass of red,” Astarion says and places his empty cup on the counter along with the required coin.
“I don’t–”, you start but Astarion silences you with a worried look that says ‘let me handle the brute’.
The bartender glares at the pair of you before picking up the coin and turning around to find a bottle of wine.
You swallow the rest of your protest and fiddle with your scarf, compulsively lifting it to hide the lower part of your face.
And it truly is an exasperatingly familiar face, Astarion thinks, tapping his slender fingers on the counter. He knows who you are, for some reason. Or knows of you. He just quite can’t put his finger on it. But, there is one thing he knows:
When he is hunting for a bag of blood for his Master’s supper, meeting someone Astarion thinks he might know is always a bad thing. Random travellers, excitement-hunting tourists and the dregs of society make for the best prey. No one will miss them for days.
“Now, would you do me the honour of telling me your name?” Astarion asks sweetly, settling into his most irresistible smile.
You tug the hood lower over your face, avoiding the inspecting stare, but Astarion can clearly see how your eyes are darting around, looking for ideas for a false story.
“T-Tav. I’m, uhh, a merchant. Selling… the local farmers’ crops down by Waukeen’s Rest.”
Potato sack woman, indeed, but also the saddest display of deception Astarion has seen in years. Your voice, however, doesn’t ring any alarm bells of familiarity, so he might as well continue.
“Nice to meet you, Tav . My name is Astarion,” he purrs.
The bartender sets down two cups of red wine with a grunt and a glare, and walks away to serve the patrons by the other end of the counter.
Astarion takes the wine cups and offers one to you. You accept it but don’t drink.
“What shall we drink to?” he inquires.
You shift on your feet, uncomfortable with the situation. It is not quite the reaction Astarion is used to receiving when pointing his charms and full attention at someone. You’re avoiding his gaze, hiding behind the hood and scarf. How annoying.
“Darling, is something the matter?” Astarion asks in a hushed tone that almost convinces you to trust him a little. He leans slightly closer, just into your personal space. “You obviously didn’t come here for a drink.”
Maybe it’s his uncannily sharp skills of perception or you’re just that obviously desperate, but the jury of your mind is frantically trying to reach an agreement – and, unsurprisingly, it turns into Astarion’s favour.
You turn to fully look at him. It’s his first win of the night, but still far from winning the bet. Astarion’s expression stays neutral with a very convincing hint of artfully crafted worry.
“I need to get out of the city. Tonight,” you say so quietly that barely any sound leaves your lips.
Astarion leans closer like a co-conspirator. “Is that why you were trying to pawn off that ring of yours?” he asks and sips the wine.
You freeze. “No. I wasn’t trying to–”
Astarion hushes your rising panic. ”You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” He draws an exaggerated thoughtful look at you and whispers: “In fact, I could help you.”
Your eyes narrow. “And why would you do that, good sir?”
“Oh, I like to call myself somewhat of a humanitarian,” he replies coolly, swirling the wine in his cup.
You still eye him suspiciously. Your scarf gradually falls, revealing red-painted lips. “Apologies for my wariness, but how exactly do you plan on helping me? The gates at the main road are closed for the night,” you point out.
Astarion shoots a humorous look at you. “Darling, there are other ways to leave the city besides the main road.”
You arch a brow at the suggestion. Unbeknown to each other, maybe both of your fortunes are about to take a turn.
“Such as?” you ask.
“Why spoil the surprise?” Astarion smiles irresistibly, leaning towards you, but you coil back.
“Can’t say I like surprises. Especially tonight,” you say and Astarion realises that he started reeling his catch in too early.
He places the wine cup on the counter and looks you in the eyes. Yours are surprisingly pretty – also beautified with skillfully applied makeup that doesn’t add up with the potato sack outfit. How curious. There must be a scandalous story to this and Astarion ponders forsaking his mission for digging out the details to sate his curiosity. If he hadn’t been on such an unlucky streak already, he probably would’ve changed his mind and actually pried for the whole story. It’s been years since anything piqued his interest like this.
“Very well then,” Astarion sighs, acting all exasperated at having to spoil the surprise. “My family happens to possess a portal for, ah. A quick escape.”
You twitch at the word ‘escape’ as your heart jumps – the reaction is so easy to read.
“Go back to the city? I barely made it this far,” you say quietly, brows furrowing.
“What do you mean?”
You realise you said too much and shut up for a moment. “Nothing. It was just a misunderstanding.”
Astarion would smile if the situation wasn’t so delicate. You’re too easy to manipulate.
“A misunderstanding? With who?” Astarion asks innocently with the appropriate amount of concern.
Just as you’re looking around for an escape from replying, the only door of the tavern is suddenly swarmed by three very loud Flaming Fist soldiers. Everyone turns to look at the door and you realise too late that your scarf has fallen again.
“There she is!” one of the soldiers yells and points directly at you.
You jump up from the bar stool and dash towards the stairs. Astarion turns curiously to look from you to the soldiers, but is suddenly met with the business end of a longsword.
Two of the soldiers run upstairs after you, the fugitive, as the largest one of them growls at Astarion: “What’s your business with her? And keep ‘em hands where I can see them.”
“Saer, surely there’s been a misunderstanding–” Astarion feels the sting of irony as he parrots your words. “I have no idea who the lady is. I was just buying her a drink.”
The soldier looks up at the bartender who shrugs and agrees: “He paid for them.”
As a testimony, your untouched cup of wine still rests on the counter. The soldier sheaths his sword.
“Now, this has been a tad too exciting an evening for myself, so if you’ll excuse me,” Astarion says and gets up to leave. He doesn’t fancy the idea of being thrown into a cell for the remaining night. Prison breaks are so exhausting and usually include wading through the sewers. Eugh.
The soldier doesn’t hear Astarion muttering as he is already marching after the others. But, he doesn’t even make it to the stairs when the heels of something quite large resembling a sack of potatoes land straight on his head. The man instantly falls flat on his bum from the impact, his armour rattling loudly.
You dash past the thunderstruck vampire spawn, spewing mild, ladylike profanities as you go and leave a faint blue stream of light in your wake. Your eyes lock with Astarion’s as you turn by the door to check if your pursuers have already recovered.
Astarion can’t help but burst into a fit of laughter.
On the following evening, he sees that the front page of the Baldur’s Mouth is graced by a photo of ‘Tav’, who turns out to be a progeny of the Caldwell family. And so he has his explanation for why you seemed so familiar and were carrying around a gold ring that is worth a house in one of the less classy neighbourhoods of Baldur’s Gate.
As for what you were running from, the paper offers no satisfactory explanation.