theunderdarkarchives

[theunderdarkarchives]

He loves the sun.

[theunderdarkarchives]

Part 35: A Name Worth Dreading

Dinner was quiet, the kind of silence that felt too heavy with thought, stretching out between the flickering candlelight and the weight of old parchment. The grand dining hall had been too empty for a meal meant for two, the vastness of it feeling wrong, so instead, you had carried your plate—thick, spiced soup, fresh bread, roasted meats—back to the study.

It felt fitting to eat among Cazador’s old records, the remnants of his obsessive paranoia still scattered across his study. The scent of parchment and ink mixed with the warmth of your food, though you hardly paid attention to it, your focus locked on the fragile pages that could hold the key to what you were looking for.

Astarion had returned not long after, arms laden with tomes and journals, his usual grace undercut by a sense of purpose. He barely spared you a glance as he dropped them onto the desk with an elegant but deliberate thud, sending a fine mist of dust curling into the candlelight.

"Well," he drawled, brushing off his hands with mild distaste, "I must say, rifling through Cazador’s private records was every bit as insufferable as I expected. Pages upon pages of self-congratulatory musings and tedious scheming. Riveting."

You barely looked up, flipping another page of your own book. "No warnings scrawled in blood? No dark revelations of his true genius?"

Astarion snorted. "Oh, worse. Turns out he was a journaling type. The dear diary sort." He plucked a tome from the pile, flicking through its yellowed pages with a lazy hand. "It’s almost disappointing. I always imagined his secret thoughts to be much more horrifying."

You huffed, setting your spoon aside. "And yet, here you are. Reading them anyway."

He smirked, but his eyes remained focused, scanning the pages with something more than casual curiosity.

"If he documented everything the way I suspect, then yes," he murmured, "he would have left some mention of whoever we’re looking for."

That was the hope, at least.

The two of you fell into silence, poring over the pages, sifting through years of meticulously recorded plots and alliances. Cazador had been obsessive in his cataloging of rivalries and perceived threats, his paranoia woven into every entry, every name scrawled with either venomous disdain or strategic caution.

It wasn’t until Astarion’s hand stilled against the parchment that the weight of the moment shifted.

His fingers hovered over a particular passage, his expression sharpening, his crimson eyes narrowing as he traced something just at the edge of the margin.

You caught the movement immediately.

"What?"

A beat of silence. Then, slowly, Astarion exhaled, pressing his fingertip lightly against the brittle page, his voice quieter now.

"That."

You leaned in, following his line of sight—

And there it was.

The sigil.

Etched carefully into the corner of the page, its ink aged but still bold, its design intricate—something far older than the usual noble houses Cazador had dealings with. It was deliberate. Recognizable.

And beside it—a name.

Your stomach twisted.

"That’s—"

"Murloch," Astarion finished, his voice eerily flat.

You snapped your gaze to him, searching his expression. "You know him."

He didn’t answer immediately. His fingers curled slightly against the edge of the book, his gaze flickering over the text as if confirming something he had already known but had long since forgotten.

Then, finally— "Yes," he murmured. "I remember him."

You studied him carefully. "How well?"

Astarion exhaled, leaning back in his chair. His smirk returned, but it was wrong—colder, measured. "Too well."

You clenched your jaw.

Your gaze flickered back to the sigil, to the name carefully preserved in ink, untouched by Cazador’s usual dismissive annotations. "What was he to Cazador?"

A sharp laugh left Astarion’s lips, humorless. "An equal. Or as close as Cazador was capable of acknowledging one." He tapped a finger against the crest, his eyes darkening. "Murloch wasn’t some desperate fledgling clawing for scraps, nor some lesser noble bartering for power. He already had power. He was established. And he wanted more."

A chill ran down your spine.

"And Cazador?"

Astarion’s jaw tightened slightly. "Cazador respected him," he admitted. His voice was carefully neutral, but there was something tense beneath it. "As much as he could respect anything. They were… allies, in a way. No formal titles, no official declarations, but Murloch was always there. Always watching, always just at the edges of whatever game Cazador was playing."

Your stomach twisted.

The thought of Cazador acknowledging anyone as an equal was unsettling enough on its own.

"What did he want?" you asked, voice quiet.

Astarion drummed his fingers lightly against the book. "Expansion," he murmured. "Control. Unlike Cazador, he had no interest in keeping to Baldur’s Gate. His ambitions stretched farther. He wasn’t satisfied with ruling from the shadows—he wanted territory. Land. Influence." His gaze flickered to you. "And he was patient."

That was worse.

You swallowed hard. "Then why haven’t we heard of him until now?"

Astarion smirked, but there was no warmth in it. "Because he never wanted to be heard." He tilted his head. "He wasn’t one for theatrics, no grand displays, no petty power struggles. He was… quieter. Controlled. He played the long game, watching, waiting—letting others burn themselves out before making his move." His eyes darkened slightly, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface. "And Cazador let him."

Your fingers clenched around the edge of the desk.

"So why is he surfacing now?"

Astarion let out a slow breath, his gaze flickering back to the sigil, his fingers tightening slightly.

"Because," he murmured, "if he’s making himself known again, it’s not by accident."

A thick silence stretched between you, the weight of realization settling deep in your bones.

Murloch.

A name buried in time. A presence that had never truly left.

And now, he was resurfacing.

Astarion tapped the sigil once more, his voice lined with something colder, more certain.

"Well, darling," he murmured, "it seems we have our answer."

You exhaled slowly. "And our next problem."

Astarion’s smirk curled sharper.

"Exactly."

[theunderdarkarchives]

Part 34: Buried In Dust And Silence

The cellar.

It was the logical next step. Astarion had locked away most of Cazador’s wretched legacy down there—if any records of the sigil remained, they would be hidden among the scraps of power hoarded in the dark. It was the place where Cazador had kept his secrets, where he had plotted in shadows and silence.

But it was also where everything fell apart.

Your breath hitched, fingers curling against the desk before you could stop them.

The last time you had stepped into those depths, it hadn’t been the same palace. It had been Cazador’s, his presence thick in the air, his power hanging like a noose around Astarion’s throat. It had been the final battle, the moment of reckoning, where everything you had fought for had come to a head.

And it had been where Astarion had made his choice.

Your throat felt dry. You could still remember the way he had stood at the center of it all, drenched in the weight of victory, power thrumming through his veins. His eyes—gilded with something terrifying and new.

You could have ruled with me.

Your fingers curled tighter.

Astarion stilled beside you, watching you carefully. His usual smirk was absent, his sharp tongue curiously silent. He was waiting. Watching the way you weren’t meeting his gaze, the way your breathing had changed, the tension in your shoulders.

"You don’t want to go down there."

It wasn’t a question.

You forced yourself to exhale slowly, unclenching your hands. "It’s just—too soon," you admitted, voice quieter than you wanted it to be. "The last time we were down there, everything changed."

Astarion’s lips parted slightly, but for once, he didn’t offer some quick retort. No sharp-edged teasing, no casual dismissal. He only watched you.

And then he nodded.

"Then we won’t."

Your head snapped up, blinking. "What?"

He shrugged, too casual, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "We won’t go down there. Not now." His smirk returned, albeit softer this time. "I don’t feel like watching you have a very dramatic breakdown in the middle of my archives, darling."

You exhaled sharply, something close to a laugh slipping past your lips. "I wasn’t—"

"Oh, you were." He stepped closer, tilting his head, voice dropping just slightly. "And I won’t have you ruining my fine floors with your existential crisis."

Despite yourself, you rolled your eyes. "You’re impossible."

"Yes, but I’m also right."

A beat of silence stretched between you, his expression unreadable before he suddenly straightened.

"Come," he said lightly, already moving toward the door. "You should eat something."

You blinked. "Eat?"

Astarion sighed, exasperated. "Yes, darling, I do recall that mortals require sustenance on occasion. You, particularly, seem terribly prone to fainting spells when running on empty." He gestured vaguely toward the grand stairwell. "Go upstairs. There should still be something edible in the dining hall. I’ll be up shortly."

You frowned. "And where exactly are you going?"

Astarion waved a hand dismissively. "Just… something I need to check. Briefly."

You narrowed your eyes. "You’re not going to the cellar, are you?"

His smirk widened slightly. "Now, now—when have I ever done something you explicitly told me not to?"

You deadpanned.

He grinned. "Fine. Once. Maybe twice. But this is different." His voice dropped slightly, something serious flickering beneath the humor. "There’s something I want to check before we go digging deeper. But I won’t be long."

You hesitated, the weight of the night still pressing against your chest, but finally, you nodded.

"Alright," you murmured. "But don’t take too long."

Astarion’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he hummed, turning toward the hallway. "Go, eat. I’ll find you soon."

And with that, he was gone.

[theunderdarkarchives]

Ascended Astarion and his consort at the masquerade

[theunderdarkarchives]

Part 33: A Cage Made to Fit

Astarion pulled a thick leather-bound book from the shelf, flipping it open with a practiced ease, his fingers brushing against the brittle pages as if they might whisper their secrets directly to him. His expression was unreadable, sharp crimson eyes scanning the text with that quiet focus that meant he was already somewhere deep in his own head.

You leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, eyes drifting lazily over the towering shelves of meticulously kept records. Cazador’s presence still lingered in the way everything was arranged—too pristine, too precise, too controlled. Even after his death, the ghost of his obsessive order clung to the palace like dust in the corners, refusing to be swept away.

"You know," you mused, tilting your head slightly as you studied the shelves, "for someone who despised being kept in a gilded cage, you certainly chose to live in one."

Astarion barely spared you a glance, still absorbed in whatever passage he was scanning. "Ah, yes. But the difference, darling, is that now I hold the key." He turned a page idly, voice light but edged with something deeper. "And a cage is only a prison if you lack the power to leave it."

You huffed softly, gaze flickering to the high ceilings, the grand architecture, the sheer opulence of it all. "Still feels like his presence is everywhere," you muttered. "Doesn’t it bother you?"

Astarion stilled for half a second—just long enough for you to catch it—before he let out a sharp exhale, snapping the book shut and setting it aside. He turned to face you fully, his smirk curling at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes had lost their humor.

"It did," he admitted, voice quieter now. "For a time. But the thing about ghosts, dear, is that they only linger if you let them." He gestured vaguely toward the grand space around you. "I’ve made it mine in ways that matter. The dungeon is sealed, the thralls are gone, the wretched stench of his pathetic ambitions scrubbed from every wall. New personnel, new order. Everything that made this place his is either locked away or burned."

Your gaze flickered toward the grand windows, the opulent furniture, the still-too-perfect arrangement of everything. "Doesn’t feel like much has changed," you muttered, though there was no heat behind it.

Astarion let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes. "Oh, forgive me for not throwing extravagant revels in the halls every night. I have made changes, you know." He gestured loosely with one hand. "A few… tasteful adjustments. Rearranged furniture, replaced the most insufferable portraits, sealed the dungeon doors shut with enough magic to make even the gods themselves think twice."

You arched a brow. "And Cazador’s private collection?"

Astarion smirked, but something in it was tighter. "Safely tucked away where it belongs. Buried in the cellars—where I can choose to forget it exists until I need a reminder of what not to become."

Your fingers drummed lightly against the edge of the desk. "And yet, here we are. Digging through his things anyway."

"Well," Astarion drawled, "old habits die hard. And unfortunately, so do secrets."

You exhaled sharply through your nose, letting your gaze drift back to the shelves. He wasn’t wrong. As much as Astarion had tried to scrape Cazador from the bones of this place, some remnants couldn’t be erased. The past had its way of clinging, embedding itself in the foundations.

"So what’s next?" you asked, eyeing the various books and scrolls scattered around.

Astarion tapped his fingers against his chin, eyes flickering with thought. "We keep searching. But if we don’t find what we need here…" His voice trailed, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

You frowned. "The cellar."

He grinned. "Ah, you do catch on."

You sighed. "You just said you locked everything away down there."

"I did. That doesn’t mean I burned it all." Astarion shrugged, already reaching for another book. "Some things are worth keeping, if only to remind me of how far I’ve come. And, well… if there’s any record of whoever owned that sigil, it’s likely among the things I chose not to destroy."

Your fingers brushed over the spine of an old ledger, scanning the title. "And if you had burned it?"

Astarion gave a theatrical sigh, shaking his head. "Then we’d be left with a terribly tedious mystery, now wouldn’t we?"

He flipped open another book, his smirk widening. "But I didn’t, darling. And for once, that seems to have worked in our favor."

The silence stretched between you, thick and unspoken, as the weight of your own words settled in.

[theunderdarkarchives]

Little tribute to this drama queen ❤️

[theunderdarkarchives]

Part 32: Breadcrumbs and Unsettling Familiarity

The dust had barely settled, but the frustration still simmered beneath your skin. The entire investigation in Rivington had been too short, over before it had even begun. You had barely scratched the surface, barely had time to search for anything useful before Astarion had ended it with a blade.

Taron hadn’t moved from the doorway. His shoulders were tense, his hands curled into fists at his sides, as if he were waiting—for what, you weren’t sure. Maybe for something to reveal itself in the aftermath, for the dust to settle into a pattern that might give him an answer. But the house remained silent, the air thick with the absence of what should have been here.

His sister.

"I know this wasn’t what you wanted," you said finally, quieter now, your own frustration shifting into something heavier. "I know you were hoping we’d find her."

Taron let out a rough breath, shaking his head. "I just…" His voice faltered, his jaw tight. "It all happened so fast. It barely even fought. It just… left nothing behind." His eyes flickered to the thin layer of dust still clinging to the floorboards. "What the hell was that thing?"

Astarion let out a sharp exhale, inspecting the ring between his fingers with mild interest. "Something that wasn’t alive, for one," he muttered. "No instincts, no hunger. Just… obedience."

Taron swallowed hard. "And if there are more like it?"

You met his gaze, firm but steady. "Then we’ll find them. We’re not done with this."

Taron hesitated, his fingers twitching before he nodded once. "And if I hear anything else?"

You pulled a small, folded piece of parchment from your coat, your handwriting hastily scrawled across it. "Find us. We’ll be in the city."

He took it, his grip firm, though his expression remained unreadable. He lingered for a moment longer, like he wanted to say something else, but instead he just gave you a sharp nod. "I’ll keep my ear to the ground."

Astarion sighed dramatically, already turning away. "Fabulous. Now, if we’re quite done mourning our lost interrogation, we have an actual lead to follow."

You shot him a glare, but he only smirked, already striding ahead. With a final glance at Taron, you followed.

The streets of Baldur’s Gate stretched ahead, the air thick with the familiar scents of damp stone and distant torch smoke. The Lower City was quieter now, but it never truly slept. There were always figures moving in the dim firelight—shadows slipping through alleyways, late-night dock workers finishing their shifts, merchants setting up for early morning trade.

And yet, despite the familiar hum of the city around you, something about the night felt different.

Astarion had been quiet since leaving Rivington. His fingers still toyed with the ring, rolling it over his knuckles, gaze unfocused. The usual arrogance, the easy smirk, had faded into something else.

"You’re frowning," you remarked.

He scoffed lightly but didn’t look at you. "I do that sometimes, darling. Terrible habit, I know."

"You recognize it," you guessed.

His fingers stilled.

"...I’ve seen it before," he admitted, voice quieter than before. "I know I have. I just can’t place where."

You frowned. Astarion didn’t forget things. His memory was precise, honed by centuries of survival and observation. If this sigil was familiar to him, it had to be buried somewhere in his past.

"Then we check the palace," you said. "If you’ve seen it before, we’ll find out where."

Astarion hummed in vague agreement, slipping the ring back into his pocket. His pace quickened slightly, his movements more purposeful now as the towering spires of Szarr Palace came into view.

The gates groaned slightly as you stepped inside, the air colder here than in the rest of the city. The palace walls loomed tall and imposing, the remnants of its past master still lingering in the architecture, in the heavy silence of its halls.

Astarion barely hesitated as he pushed through the grand doors, leading you toward the study with unusual urgency. He wasn’t just indulging curiosity—something about the sigil had unsettled him.

The study was exactly as you had left it, its towering shelves packed with meticulously kept records, Cazador’s obsession with control spilling into the way he documented everything. Astarion exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. "Well. Time to see just how insufferably thorough Cazador truly was."

You crossed the room, glancing toward the shelves. "If he kept records of other vampires, we should start there."

Astarion smirked faintly but didn’t argue. He moved toward the nearest set of shelves, fingers skimming over the spines of leather-bound books, eyes scanning for anything that felt right.

You could feel it, even before he spoke again—that sense of recognition creeping in.

Something about this sigil, about this ring, was tied to something Astarion should have forgotten.

But he hadn’t.

And now, you were about to find out why.

[theunderdarkarchives]

Part 31: The Smile Before Dust

The house was still. Too still. It had the feeling of a place abandoned in haste, as if the occupants had expected to return but never did. A chair was pulled slightly away from the dining table. A cup of tea sat half-finished on the counter, its contents long since gone cold. The air was thick with dust, yet the candle in the center of the room burned low, wax pooling at its base—recently lit, yet untouched by a living hand.

Something was here. Or had been.

Astarion moved through the space with practiced ease, his crimson gaze flickering across every shadowed corner, every unlit hallway. He inhaled deeply before exhaling with mild irritation. "No blood," he murmured. "No signs of a struggle." His fingers drummed idly against the hilt of his dagger as his gaze flicked toward you. "But someone was here. Recently."

Taron's breath was unsteady as he glanced around the small home, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "My sister wouldn't have just left," he muttered, his voice low, tight with barely contained frustration. "She was here. I know she was here."

There was a creak, barely more than a whisper, the sound of wood shifting. A draft? A failing structure? No—something deliberate. Something waiting.

You tightened your grip on your weapon just as the shadows at the farthest end of the room moved.

It was fast. Too fast. A blur of movement that barely registered before it was on you, red eyes dull, devoid of rage, devoid of hunger. It didn’t snarl or hiss, didn’t lunge with the reckless abandon of a feral creature. It fought efficiently, each movement calculated, its attacks measured.

It wasn’t fighting on instinct.

It was fighting because it had been told to.

Astarion intercepted it in a blur, his daggers flashing in the dim candlelight. The spawn twisted unnaturally, jerking away from his first strike before it even landed, as if it had known where he would strike before he did. It made no sound, no growl or breath—just silence, something watching through it, something using it as an extension of its will.

You moved next, your blade catching the creature’s shoulder, cutting deep—but it didn’t react. No pain. No faltering. It only shifted weightlessly, pivoting toward the door, running.

Astarion moved faster.

He cut it off in an instant, one fluid motion slamming it back against the far wall, his dagger driving deep into its chest. The spawn stiffened, red eyes flickering.

And then, just before the light faded from them—

Its lips curled.

Not in pain. Not in fear.

In a smile.

Then it crumbled into dust.

Gone. Just like that.

The room fell into an unnatural silence, broken only by the faint rustle of settling ash. You exhaled sharply, your pulse still pounding, then turned to Astarion, blood still rushing through your veins, still humming with adrenaline and frustration.

"You didn't have to kill it."

Astarion sighed, flicking the dust off his blade with an exaggerated air of indifference. "Oh, but I did."

You stepped closer, jaw tight, hands curled into fists at your sides. "We could’ve interrogated it!"

He scoffed, turning his full attention to you now, his smirk sharp but devoid of humor. "Interrogated what, exactly? Did you see its eyes? That thing wasn’t alive. It wasn’t even a proper spawn. It was a mouthpiece. A corpse that someone else was using."

You clenched your teeth, anger simmering beneath your skin, but he wasn’t wrong. The way it had moved, the way it had anticipated your attacks—it hadn’t been acting alone.

But now there was nothing left of it. No trail to follow.

"No body, no evidence," you muttered, running a hand over your face. "We have nothing now."

Astarion hummed, his expression shifting, something contemplative flickering behind his gaze. "Well. Maybe not nothing."

He knelt, fingers sifting through the thin layer of dust that was all that remained of the creature. You frowned, watching as his fingers brushed over something solid.

A glint of metal.

Slowly, he pulled it free—a small ring, tarnished with age, its band engraved with an unfamiliar sigil.

He turned it over in his palm, his smirk fading into something far more serious. His fingers traced the design, eyes narrowing in thought.

You stepped closer, frowning. "What is it?"

Astarion didn’t answer immediately. He turned the ring over again, his expression unreadable, his silence stretching long enough for unease to settle deep in your chest.

Then, finally, his voice came quieter than before. "...I've seen this before."

Your breath hitched. "Where?"

His lips parted slightly, his fingers curling around the ring, but he hesitated. Then, finally—

“…Back at the palace."

You stared at him, your stomach twisting with something close to dread.

Astarion exhaled sharply, slipping the ring into his pocket before standing. "I need to check something."

Your pulse quickened. "So, we go back?"

He met your gaze, something unreadable in his crimson eyes.

"Yes," he murmured. "We go back."

[theunderdarkarchives]

Astarion Ancunin in Baldur's Gate 3 (2023).

[theunderdarkarchives]

Part 30: Whispers in Rivington

The tavern was quiet. Too quiet.

For a place that should have been bustling with early drinkers and tired farmers, there was an unnatural stillness in the air. The few patrons inside sat hunched over their drinks, casting wary glances at the door as though expecting trouble to walk in at any moment.

Which, to be fair, it just had.

You and Astarion strode toward the man at the far end of the room—your contact, the guard Wyll had mentioned. He was broad-shouldered, dressed in simple city watch armor, his dark hair tied back in a loose tail. There was something tired about him, though—his eyes heavy, the way he nursed his drink slow and deliberate, like a man who had seen too much and didn’t know what to do about it.

As you approached, he exhaled sharply and muttered, “Figures Wyll would send someone like you.”

Astarion’s lips curled. “Oh? And what exactly does that mean?”

The man raised a brow at him, then at you. “You’re the ones who saved the city,” he said simply, his voice low. “Some folks say you all disappeared after the war. Thought you’d gone and left the rest of us to deal with the mess.”

You crossed your arms, leveling him with a look. “And yet, here we are.”

The guard grunted, shifting in his seat. “Yeah. I can see that.”

Astarion sighed, dragging out a chair and lounging into it with an exaggerated sprawl. “As charming as this little reunion is, I’d very much like to hear about what’s been lurking in the shadows out here. You know—before we both die of boredom.”

The guard hesitated, his fingers tightening around his cup. His eyes flickered toward the few remaining patrons before he leaned in slightly, voice dropping lower.

“People have been going missing.”

You exchanged a glance with Astarion before looking back at the man. “We already know that much. What exactly is happening?”

The guard exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face before speaking again.

“It started a few weeks ago. At first, it was just drifters—people who weren’t from around here. Travelers, a merchant or two. We figured it was just bad luck—bandits or something worse picking off easy targets on the road.”

He paused, swallowing hard.

“But then it started happening to locals. Families. Kids.”

Your stomach turned.

“They don’t just disappear,” he continued. “They’re taken. No bodies. No blood. Just… gone.”

Astarion’s expression darkened slightly. “And you’ve seen nothing? Heard nothing?”

The man hesitated again. “There have been… rumors.”

You arched a brow. “What kind of rumors?”

The guard shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers tapping against the table. “People say they’ve seen things moving in the fog at night. Shadows. Figures that aren’t quite right. Some of them swear they’ve heard voices calling out—voices that sound like their loved ones. But when they go to check, there’s nothing there.”

Astarion frowned, his fingers drumming idly against the armrest of his chair. “Illusions, maybe? Some form of enchantment?”

The guard shook his head. “I don’t know. But no one’s been able to track them, and those who’ve tried don’t come back.”

A pit formed in your stomach.

You leaned forward slightly. “Who was the last person taken?”

The man tensed.

“…My sister.”

Silence.

Your throat tightened.

“She disappeared three nights ago,” he admitted, voice low. “I should’ve been here. Should’ve done something, but…” He shook his head, jaw clenched. “I don’t even know where to start.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of his words. “We’ll find her.”

The guard’s gaze lifted to yours, searching, uncertain.

“…Wyll said you’d say that.”

You exhaled, pushing back from the table. “Then he knows I mean it.”

Astarion sighed dramatically, standing as well. “Ah, look at that. You’ve got them all inspired and hopeful now. How noble of you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Are you coming or not?”

Astarion smirked. “Oh, darling, you know I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

You turned back to the guard. “We’ll start at your sister’s home. Maybe there’s something there that can tell us what happened.”

The man hesitated, then nodded, standing as well. “I’ll take you there.”

You exchanged a glance with Astarion before following the guard toward the door.

The morning sun was still rising, casting long shadows across the village as you stepped outside. But despite the light, the weight of something wrong lingered in the air.

Something was lurking here.

And whatever it was, it wasn’t finished yet.

[theunderdarkarchives]

Part 29: Setting Off to Rivington

The morning air was crisp as you stepped out into the streets of Baldur’s Gate, the city already stirring with the restless hum of merchants setting up their stalls and the distant clang of blacksmiths beginning their work. You adjusted your gear, fastening the last strap of your belt as you exhaled, trying to push the lingering heat of that morning encounter out of your mind.

It was easier said than done.

Astarion, naturally, was in a delightful mood.

He strode beside you, all smug satisfaction and casual grace, clearly still reveling in his victory. Every so often, you caught the glint of his amusement out of the corner of your eye—his lips twitching just slightly as if barely restraining another comment that would undoubtedly make you want to shove him into the nearest canal.

“You know,” he mused, stretching lazily as you passed through one of the quieter streets, “I must say, I quite enjoy our mornings together. There’s something so... entertaining about seeing you flustered before breakfast.”

You shot him a glare. “I am not flustered.”

Astarion gasped theatrically. “Oh, of course not, darling. You were merely in a great hurry to flee my chambers. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the way I caught you red-handed.”

Your jaw clenched.

You refused to let him get to you.

You would not let him win.

So instead of engaging, you rolled your shoulders and focused on the road ahead. “Let’s just get to Rivington.”

Astarion chuckled but didn’t push further.

The two of you made your way through the Lower City, weaving through the crowds with practiced ease. The familiar chaos of Baldur’s Gate surrounded you—street performers drawing small clusters of onlookers, traders loudly haggling over imported goods, the smell of fresh bread mingling with the less pleasant scents of a city that never quite rid itself of the stench of unwashed bodies.

It wasn’t long before you reached the outer gates leading toward the lower outskirts, where the city bled into the sparser outskirts of Rivington. The air changed as soon as you stepped beyond the main gates—the city’s noise fading into something quieter, more subdued.

The road stretched before you, lined with patches of farmland and scattered homes, the remnants of an area still rebuilding after the war.

Astarion glanced around, his smirk fading slightly as he took in the scene. “How charming,” he murmured, though there was no real mockery in his voice this time. “I can’t say I’ve had much reason to linger out here before.”

You nodded. “It’s not like it used to be. Before the war, this was just a quiet farming village. Now… it’s different.”

And it was different. There was a tension in the air, subtle but present. People moved a little too quickly, eyes darting toward the road like they expected something to come creeping out of the woods.

Something wasn’t right.

You exchanged a glance with Astarion, and he arched a brow. “I take it you notice it too?”

You nodded. “Let’s find our contact.”

Wyll had mentioned a local guard—someone who had been keeping tabs on the disappearances. If anyone knew what was happening in Rivington, it would be them.

As you made your way toward the heart of the village, a few wary glances followed you. The people here weren’t as openly afraid as they had been during the war, but there was an unease, a quiet fear simmering beneath the surface.

It didn’t take long to find the meeting spot—an old tavern at the edge of the village, smaller than the ones in the city, with a worn wooden sign hanging loosely from its hinges.

Astarion wrinkled his nose. “Another tavern? My, we do have a habit of attracting trouble in places like these.”

You smirked. “Maybe this time we’ll make it through without getting into a fight.”

Astarion chuckled. “Oh, darling. I highly doubt that.”

With that, you pushed open the door, stepping into the dimly lit space. The scent of ale and old wood filled the air, the handful of patrons inside glancing up briefly before returning to their quiet conversations.

At the far end of the room, a man in simple guard’s armor sat nursing a drink, his gaze sharp as he watched you approach.

You didn’t need to introduce yourselves. He already knew why you were here.

And judging by the look in his eyes, he wasn’t going to tell you everything right away.

Something was very wrong in Rivington.

[theunderdarkarchives]

"Blood Bound",

what can I say? I love Astarion, I love the tragedy and stubbornes of his story. I love seeing him defeat and hunt down the source of his pain in ways I never can with mine, but wish I could.

Also I've been staring at this old timey Absinthe add in my bedroom so I thought I'll try something art decoesque.

Prints available on my Ko-Fi

[theunderdarkarchives]

Trying to get more used to posting on tumblr

[theunderdarkarchives]

Part 28: Morning Temptations

The night had been long.

Sleep had refused to come, leaving you restless, tangled in the sheets, thoughts running circles in your mind. The teasing whisper of Astarion’s breath against your ear, the deliberate way his fingers had toyed with your sash—it had left something smoldering under your skin, something that refused to be ignored.

You had tried, at first, to push past it.

But then your fingers had drifted lower, the frustration bubbling over into something else—something desperate, something reckless, something that had left you trembling and gasping in the quiet darkness of your room.

And even when it was over, even when you lay there catching your breath, your body thrumming with the aftermath, the heat of Astarion’s touch still lingered like a ghost beneath your skin.

He had done this to you.

And, by the hells, you weren’t going to let him get away with it.

-

The palace was unusually quiet when you finally roused yourself, slipping out of bed and pulling on your clothes. You dressed with purpose—tightening the buckles of your doublet, adjusting the high collar just so. If you were going to face Astarion after last night, you’d do it looking composed, unshaken.

Even if your body still remembered every damn second.

You stepped into the corridor, stretching out the stiffness in your muscles. Normally, Astarion would have already been awake, lingering in the halls or making some offhand comment about your morning routine. But today? Silence.

That was unusual.

Frowning slightly, you made your way toward the wing of the palace he usually occupied. The door to his chambers was cracked open just enough to suggest he hadn't expected anyone to come looking for him.

You pushed it open slowly, stepping inside.

And there he was.

Still asleep.

Astarion lay sprawled across the grand bed, his body half-draped in silk sheets that had slipped dangerously low around his hips. His shirt was nowhere to be found, leaving the pale expanse of his chest exposed to the dim morning light filtering in through the windows.

For a moment, you just looked.

He was beautiful like this—unburdened, unguarded. His curls were tousled, lips slightly parted, one arm lazily thrown over the pillows. If you hadn’t known better, you might have thought him human, lost in a rare moment of true rest.

But you did know better.

And after last night? Oh, you owed him for that.

You smirked, stepping closer, deliberately quiet. He had teased you mercilessly, left you lying awake with nothing but the memory of his hands undoing your robe, of his voice dripping with amusement and dark promises.

Time for a little payback.

You reached out slowly, trailing your fingers over the bare skin of his shoulder, down the curve of his collarbone, light enough to barely be a touch at all.

Astarion stirred slightly, brow furrowing, but he didn’t wake.

Emboldened, you let your fingers hover lower, barely skimming the sharp plane of his stomach. His skin was likely cool to the touch, but beneath it, you could feel the quiet hum of life, the slow rise and fall of breath that was purely for show.

Then, just as your fingers trailed almost a little too low, almost touching his abdomen—

“Careful, darling,” came a sleepy, drawling voice, thick with amusement. “You might start something you’re not ready to finish.”

You yanked your hand back as Astarion’s eyes fluttered open, dark red and lazy with mischief. His smirk was slow, knowing, far too pleased.

He stretched languidly, arms lifting above his head, the movement drawing even more attention to the way the sheets clung just below his hip bones. “How forward of you,” he purred, watching your face with predatory delight. “Couldn’t help yourself?”

You scoffed, trying to mask the heat creeping up your neck. “Just returning the favor from last night.”

Astarion hummed, shifting onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. “Oh? And what favor would that be?”

You clenched your jaw. He wanted you to say it.

He wanted you to admit what he had done to you, how he had left you aching, how you had spent the night chasing relief he had deliberately denied you.

Fine.

You lifted your chin. “You know exactly what you did.”

His smirk widened. “Do I?”

You took a step back, needing to put space between you, but before you could turn, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.

And then—he inhaled.

A wicked, slow breath, crimson eyes flickering as if tasting the air itself.

A pause.

Then, his smirk sharpened into something dark.

“Oh, darling.” His voice dipped into a low chuckle, his fingers tightening around your wrist just slightly. “You smell divine this morning.”

Your stomach dropped.

Your throat went dry as his gaze lifted to yours, playful but hungry, his smirk a blade pressed against the delicate edge of your composure.

And then, worse—so much worse—his thumb brushed over your knuckles, his head tilting ever so slightly.

“And here I thought you were simply restless last night,” he murmured, eyes glinting. “But no... I recognize this scent.” His voice dipped lower, conspiratorial. “Tell me, darling—were you thinking about me?”

Heat flooded your face, all the way down your neck.

You yanked your hand away. “I’m going to breakfast.”

Astarion laughed, actually laughed, and gods, it was infuriating.

“You’re welcome to run, love,” he called after you as you stormed toward the door. “But I’ll still know.”

You didn’t look back. You refused to look back.

But you could feel his eyes on you the entire way out.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t wrong.

[theunderdarkarchives]

Part 27: Restless Nights

Sleep refused to come.

You had tried—closing your eyes, shifting positions, forcing your mind to quiet. But the silence of Szarr Palace was oppressive in a way that the chaos of Baldur’s Gate never was. The stillness wrapped around you, too heavy, too present.

You sighed, rubbing your face before swinging your legs over the side of the bed. There was no point in lying there. If sleep wouldn’t come, then you wouldn’t chase it.

Pulling on your robe, you tied the sash loosely around your waist and padded into the corridor. Maybe fresh air would help.

Or maybe you had simply known, deep down, that you wouldn’t be the only one awake.

Astarion stood at the grand window at the end of the hall, bathed in silver moonlight. His coat was gone, his linen shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease at the skin beneath. He cradled a half-full glass of wine in his fingers, though he didn’t drink—just idly swirled the liquid, his crimson eyes distant.

He didn’t turn immediately, but his lips curled faintly. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You leaned against the opposite side of the window, crossing your arms. “Something like that.”

Astarion let out a soft chuckle, finally glancing at you. “Strange. You used to sleep through just about anything—raids, battles, the occasional explosion.”

You scoffed. “I was exhausted back then.”

“And now?”

You hesitated. “Now it’s different.”

His gaze lingered, unreadable. “Yes,” he murmured. “I imagine it is.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The torches along the palace walls flickered in the distance, casting long shadows over the courtyard. The city below wasn’t entirely asleep—Baldur’s Gate never truly rested—but from here, it felt distant. Almost unreal.

Then, softly, Astarion spoke again.

“You’ve been restless for a while now.”

You frowned slightly. “You don’t know that.”

He chuckled, low and knowing. “Oh, please. You think I haven’t noticed?” His voice dropped slightly, quieter. “You never used to wake so easily. Now you listen for things even in your sleep.”

You swallowed. “Old habits.”

“Or new scars,” he countered.

The words settled between you, heavier than the silence before them.

You exhaled, tilting your head back slightly. “It wasn’t just the war.”

Astarion was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, he set his glass down on the ledge beside him, fingers lingering on the stem before he turned toward you fully.

“No,” he admitted softly. “It wasn’t.”

Something in your chest twisted.

You turned to face him as well, the flickering candlelight catching in his eyes. The space between you suddenly felt too small, too fragile, thick with the weight of things left unsaid.

“I never wanted it to end like that,” you murmured.

Astarion’s fingers stilled.

Then, after a pause, he let out a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “Neither did I.”

There was something raw in his voice—something that made your breath hitch.

You weren’t sure who moved first.

The space between you shrank in a heartbeat. His fingers barely brushed against yours, hesitant, testing. You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

His touch was light—so light, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

Your pulse stuttered.

Then, after a moment too long, Astarion sighed, straightening. “Come,” he murmured, voice softer now. “You should get some sleep.”

You blinked, still caught in the haze of whatever had just passed between you. “I’m fine.”

Astarion smirked, but there was no sharpness to it, only quiet amusement. “Oh, darling, don’t argue. You may be resilient, but even you need some rest.”

You hesitated, but he was already turning, guiding you gently down the hall with the ease of someone who had done it before.

The silence stretched between you again, but this time, it wasn’t quite so heavy.

When you reached your door, he lingered just outside, watching as you stepped inside.

And then, just as you turned to say something—anything—Astarion moved.

Suddenly, he was behind you, close enough that you felt the ghost of his breath against the back of your neck.

Your body tensed, but you didn’t step away.

Cool fingers brushed against your waist, slow and deliberate. And then—before you could react—his hands found the sash of your robe.

Your breath hitched.

Astarion tugged at the knot with maddening ease, undoing it in a single slow pull. The robe loosened instantly, the fabric parting just enough to tease at the skin beneath.

A low hum left him, something deep in his throat. “You’re always wound so tight,” he murmured, his voice smooth, knowing.

His hands lingered at the edges of the robe, his fingers barely grazing the exposed skin of your sides.

Your heartbeat thundered.

He leaned in, lips a breath away from your ear. “Wouldn’t it be so much easier to just let go?” Softly pulling the robe off your shoulders, reveailing the straps of your night gown.

Your mouth felt dry.

It would be so easy—to lean into this, to let him continue, to feel his hands on you again in a way that was neither battle nor betrayal.

But you knew Astarion.

This was a game to him. A carefully measured move, meant to tease, to push, to see what you would do.

You swallowed, ignoring the heat coiling low in your stomach.

Then, with great effort, you finally spoke.

“Goodnight, Astarion.”

His smirk pressed against your skin.

A beat. A hesitation.

Then, with agonizing slowness, he released you.

He stepped back, the warmth of his presence vanishing too quickly.

The sash of your robe hung loose now, barely keeping the fabric together.

He only smirked, crimson eyes half-lidded as he took a slow step toward the door.

“Sweet dreams, darling.”

And then he was gone, slipping into the shadows with the same ease he always had.

You exhaled sharply, your hands tightening into fists at your sides.

Sleep would not come easily.

[theunderdarkarchives]

[theunderdarkarchives]

Part 26: The Szarr Palace – A Night in the Shadows

The streets of Baldur’s Gate were still alive with the pulse of city life as you and Astarion made your way toward Szarr Palace. The winding alleys and familiar stone pathways blurred past, lanterns flickering against damp cobblestone as merchants packed up for the evening.

Astarion walked beside you with an easy confidence, his steps unhurried as if this was nothing more than a leisurely stroll. But you knew him too well to miss the subtle shifts in his posture—the way his gaze flicked toward the rooftops now and then, the way his fingers tapped idly against his belt where his daggers rested.

He was always watching. Always aware.

“You’re quiet,” he mused, tilting his head toward you. “That’s never a good sign.”

You smirked slightly. “Maybe I’m just savoring the peace before we throw ourselves into another mess.”

Astarion let out a low chuckle. “Ah, yes. Because nothing about our lives ever isn’t a mess, is it?”

You rolled your shoulders, adjusting the weight of your satchel. “Not for lack of trying.”

The palace came into view as you turned the final corner, its grand facade looming over the quieter part of the Lower City. Unlike the noble estates that gleamed with opulence and warmth, Szarr Palace remained cold, its towering presence wrapped in the kind of eerie silence that made most people avert their eyes as they passed.

To you, it wasn’t new anymore. You had walked these halls before. Stood in its echoing chambers. Yet every time you crossed the threshold, there was a part of you that braced for the chill that came with it.

Astarion didn’t hesitate. The great doors swung open at his touch, the darkened halls swallowing you both as the city’s noise faded behind you.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, candle wax, and something deeper—something old. The grand hall stretched before you, lined with towering bookshelves, crimson banners draped along the walls. A fire crackled faintly in the hearth, though it did little to chase away the cold that seemed woven into the very bones of the palace.

Astarion moved easily through the space, slipping into the role of its master with a grace that was both effortless and deliberate. You followed, setting your pack down near one of the heavy chairs.

He disappeared down one of the side halls without a word, leaving you alone in the vastness of the room. You exhaled slowly, running a hand along the spine of one of the old tomes stacked on a nearby table.

Time stretched in the quiet. Then, soft footsteps signaled his return.

Astarion reappeared, his coat exchanged for something darker, looser—less of the carefully tailored elegance he usually adorned. He moved with the same fluidity, but there was something more natural about him now, like shedding the layers of the outside world had allowed a part of him to breathe.

“You’re making yourself at home again, I see,” he mused, eyes flicking toward where you stood.

You arched a brow. “You did say I could.”

His smirk was slow. “That I did.”

He moved past you, pouring two glasses of wine from a decanter resting on the side table. He handed you one without preamble, raising his own slightly before taking a sip.

You hesitated briefly before following suit. The wine was rich, smoother than what you’d had at the tavern earlier, but you could taste the bite of something sharper beneath it. A familiar signature of the luxuries Astarion surrounded himself with now.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, almost absently, you murmured, “Feels strange, doesn’t it?”

Astarion tilted his head, watching you over the rim of his glass. “What does?”

You gestured vaguely. “This. Preparing for something together again.”

Astarion hummed, swirling his drink idly. “It is rather nostalgic, isn’t it? Though I imagine this time, you’ll have far fewer opportunities to set things on fire.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “No promises.”

He chuckled, but his gaze lingered on you a second too long. “Still,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “It does remind me of before.”

You met his gaze, something tightening in your chest. Before. When battles had been fought side by side. When glances exchanged across the battlefield had carried weight, when there had been no betrayal to wedge between you.

Astarion exhaled, shaking his head slightly as if shaking off the thought. “Enough reminiscing. We should get some rest before tomorrow.”

You nodded, draining the last of your wine before setting the glass aside.

He led the way down the hall, the candlelight casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. The guest quarters were familiar now—you had stayed here before, though the circumstances had always varied.

At your door, you paused, glancing toward him.

Astarion smirked. “Try not to vanish in your sleep, darling.”

You rolled your eyes but returned the smirk. “Try not to bite anyone in yours.”

His lips curled, but there was something softer in the way he lingered.

For a brief second, neither of you moved.

Then, with a sharp but quiet exhale, he stepped back, his expression carefully composed once more.

“Goodnight,” he murmured.

You nodded. “Goodnight.”

And as you closed the door behind you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting—unspoken, unresolved.