#vampire ascendent

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter five: taste test

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter Four |🩸 Chapter Six

🩸Full Chapter List |🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter Summary: Naomi has words with her alleged ‘husband’.

Chapter CW: Chapter includes a brief discussion about fear of sexual assault having occurred. No sexual assault occurred.

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“When a vampire is created in the traditional manner…the new fledgeling instinctively understands much about the vampiric way of unlife, and about its own strengths, weaknesses, and needs. Not so the bride. Newly-created brides are generally ignorant of their own capabilities.”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

“You’ve forgotten yourself, sister.”

The voice chills her. 

Naomi’s legs dangle over the cliff’s sheer edge, clouded by the rising steam from the hot springs below. She’s spent her entire life down here in the thick heat of the Underdark, among the towering violet stalactites, in Eilistraeen temple nestled between them. 

There’s a razor thin slice of sunlight that cuts across the turquoise waters below, cast down from somewhere so high and far away, it might as well be a fantasy. Naomi’s never seen the surface, or the sun that boils above it. One day, she wants to.

She’s never felt the frost of winter, either. But she knows Calaerys. And with her brother always comes a cold dread that sinks into her bones and lingers. It always feels like she’s sitting on a precipice when they speak. It doesn’t help that, this time, she truly is.

“Then help me, brother,” she mutters numbly. “Lead me back into the light.”

His footsteps drag to a gritty stop behind her. Her shoulders stiffen as he looms, seething. Naomi’s fingers fret the neck of the fiddle poised within her grip. 

One of the priestesses had given it to Naomi after seeing her stare so longingly. Or, maybe, the woman was simply tired of seeing Naomi’s poor attempts at Sacred Flame. She’d never mastered even the simplest of cleric spells. But Eilistraee’s domain includes music, dance, and light. Not just bent knees, mumbled prayers, and blind devotion.

Today, she’s stolen away to solitude, hoping the nearby waterfall might drown out whatever mangled noise she can manage from the fiddle. She’s never played one before, and only has the faintest clue as to how. A pleasant tingle courses through her fingers as she strokes the strings aimlessly. It brings a thrumming sense of vitality that roots within her, resilient, defiant, even in the wake of her brother’s bitterness.

“I saw you with her,” Calaerys sneers. “You know she was once a Lolth-sworn.”

Naomi sighs, the seeds of a headache weighing heavy on her brow, and sets the fiddle aside. Gingerly, she inches back from the edge and stands.

“I know she was saved as a child, as we were,” Naomi answers brusquely. “I know she prays to Eilistraee every night as we do, and weaves her songs with the Dark Dancer’s praises. And I know it’s none of your concern who I choose to kiss.”

Her brother’s nostrils flare. She averts her eyes from his as she always does. As if that will protect her. Her gaze fixes, instead, to the trio of birds tattooed along his left cheek, keenly aware of the step forward he takes, and the lack of space for her to step back.

“Does our parents’ sacrifice mean nothing to you?!” He hisses. “And their parents before them? You and I are the product of generations of restraint, planning, resistance!”

Well, all that ‘resistance’ was futile, wasn’t it? Naomi grinds her teeth, keeping those words to herself. If not for this temple to Eilistraee and its followers, neither she nor her brother would be breathing at all. They would’ve died as children at the hands of the Lolth-sworn, the same way their parents did. The same way their entire sect did.

She and Calaerys are all that remains of the Reclaimants: the cult that thought they could pray their way back into Arvandor and the cycle of reincarnation denied to all drow. If only they could rid themselves of Lolth and any speck of her impure influence, daddy Corellon might decide to make them wood or high elves again in another, better life.

The pinch in Naomi’s gut is a guilty one. It’s accompanied by the twin sensation of relief she always feels when she thinks of her parents and their ilk. She wishes they didn’t have to die a bloody death for it, but she has no desire to follow in their footsteps. The temple to Eilistraee is far less exacting upon its followers.

The Reclaimants marked themselves so as to readily identify each other, and to pay tribute to the ascension they hoped to one day claim. Her brother’s bird tattoo is the same one that stained their father’s skin, or so Calaerys tells it. Their parents died when Naomi was still too young to remember them. Allegedly, the traditional marks were typically placed somewhere more easily hidden than one’s face. Calaerys’ pride wouldn’t abide such discretion.

“She isn’t for you!” Calaerys spits. “There are matches to be made here. Pure ones who have never fallen for Lolth’s tricks. You sully yourself with their filth! You stain our name!”

Suddenly, he jerks towards her. Naomi side-steps away from the edge only to be crowded against the rockface. It scrapes rough against her back, tearing the leather of her vest.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” She blurts, voice bounding off the stone. 

The thunder of the waterfall swallows the echo. No one at the temple will hear her. Naomi squirms, electric fear thrilling through her veins. Blunt force slams against her stomach, sending her back crashing against the ground. She’s too winded to fight the rope that binds her wrists.

“Get off of me!” She shrieks, twisting to no avail. 

By the time the stony ceiling above her stops spinning, it’s already too late.

The needle pierces the skin at the peak of her cheekbone. At once, it sears like hot coals. It quickly numbs into a dull, persistent poking. Naomi’s limbs grow heavy, and then limp.

Was father’s ink laced with a paralytic? Calaerys never said. She suspects her brother bent this tradition just to break her with it.

“You’ll never forget again,” Calaerys snarls in her ear when it’s done. She doesn’t need a mirror; she knows the marks he etched on her face match his own.

Naomi’s lips tremble. Sensation trickles back into her body in the form of scorching fire. The rage burns and builds in her belly, until it erupts in a broken, bloodcurdling shriek.

Calaerys seems to shudder before her eyes, the sound rippling across his skin and rushing through his ashen hair in a shockwave. For one sickening moment, his face shifts and thins. Naomi sees the polished white of his skull. His eyes are dark, vacant hollows. His skin pulls over it again like a mask. Her brother scrambles away from her, tripping in his haste to flee, pure terror painted on his face.

I’ll remember that look, she thinks, a savage smile peeling back her lips. Every time she sees her own image in the mirror, and the trio of birds tattooed on her cheek, she’ll remember all the ways Calaerys made her small. And how delicious it felt to finally see him cower because of her.

Naomi sits up abruptly, clutching the comforter to her chest. It’s so silky, it nearly slips through her white-knuckled grip. Her free hand flies to her left cheek, grazing over smooth skin. There’s no residual roughness, no lingering sting. 

Sheepishly, she lets her hand fall to her side. It was only a memory, after all. Her tattoo healed long ago, even though the ink of it endures. Calaerys can’t harm her from the grave. There’s no rocky roof above her head, only the delicate lace canopy of the massive four-poster she’s stranded in.

The luxuries surrounding her feel all at once foreign and familiar, as does the crimson stare of the vampire in the corner. He sits in a high-backed armchair with a festering frown. The sussur bloom thrums quietly on the side table next to him.

Her voyeur is displeased. 

“Was your trance unpleasant?” He asks, his voice decadently soft like the sheets she’s tangled in. He wears a deep crease in his brow and not one wrinkle on his dark brocade doublet. His silver curls rest perfectly coiffed atop his head, as if they haven’t moved at all since the last time she woke.

It’s more space than he granted her before. And still too close for comfort. She takes a brief scan of the room and finds it mostly as she remembers. The floor-length mirror is angled away from the bed, the brass frame gleaming with the silver leak of moonlight angling in from the vast, curved windows. The ornate rug, in the same shades of winey burgundy and bright turquoise as the bed, still blankets the smooth stone floor. And the far wall is still lined with dark polished shelves of leather-bound books.

There’s a subtle shimmer around a number of shelves she hadn’t noticed upon her first awakening. Dim light lines the closed door in the corner and the windowed one leading out onto the balcony. From here, she can just make out the faint banter of gulls. They must be near the Sea of Swords, though she can’t see anything in the darkness outside but a scattering of stars.

There’s nowhere far enough for her to run. Besides, his speed is uncanny. And even if it wasn’t, there’s the matter of his compulsion. The sussur bloom still stifles her magic. The only weapons at her disposal, then, are words.

“That’s a rather personal question,” Naomi says warily, “don’t you think?”

“Hm,” he hums with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Far be it from me to ask after my consort’s comfort.”

“Consort?”

Astarion’s eyes go round, like he’s just as startled by the word as she. It’s striking how the sharp angles of his face seem to soften with his shock. As if he’s someone else entirely. When she blinks, he seems to resettle again, a pitying smile lifting his lips, a knowing gleam entering his eye.

“Let’s start over, shall we? I’m Astarion. And I’m your--” 

--he breaks into an airy chuckle that sets her hairs on end--

“--husband, I suppose. It’s a rather quaint way of putting it, truth be told. A very mortal word. A bond between vampires is something far deeper. And ours is unique among them all.”

The v-word puts a frantic flare of nausea in her gut. But it’s another that tilts the room at an unsettling slant, dizziness swelling inside her skull.

Husband?!

He’s crazy. He must be. Unwittingly, her eyes flicker down to her left hand. Her brows shoot towards the ceiling.

The rose-gold band and its dainty laurel-leaf etchings are overwhelmed by the giant kite-cut amethyst at its center. The deep violet stone nestles into a vee of small diamonds that glitter around the thin circumference of a second band. If she squints, she can just see the engraving on it: aeterna amantes. It’s--

“Stunning, isn’t it?” He says smugly. “Of course, it could never eclipse or compare to your beauty, but I had to try to find something at least remotely suitable to symbolize our undying devotion.”

Naomi blinks rapidly, as if it will clear her head. As if it will make any of this make more sense. There’s a cruel humor in her alleged matrimony; Calaerys wouldn’t approve of this one, either. Reclaimants were meant to mate and procreate with other drow seeking ‘purification’. Or, if there was no unrelated, unwed member of the sect available, then with a drow deemed to be of ‘pure influence’. All in the hopes that if they failed in their dreams of entering Arvandor, then their children, or their children’s children, would be granted reincarnation. Every generation was intended to inch ever closer to reclaiming it.

But wedding a high elf? Oh no. That would be putting the cart before the horse.

Pain throbs through her gums. She grimaces at the panging reminder of her forgotten death, her fingertips coming to press against her aching jaw. Perhaps it isn’t so ludicrous that the man who apparently murdered her married her while he was at it. That if she forgot one such monumental occasion -- or wasn’t lucid for it -- she could certainly have forgotten the other.

“Yes, dearest,” he says, like he can hear her very thoughts. (Gods, can he?!) “You’re a vampire. But you needn’t grieve, nor fear the sun. You needn’t fear anything. You’ll see. Now, can we be civilized about this?”

She ogles him, flummoxed. It hadn’t even occurred to her to fear the sun, among the myriad of other terrors tugging at her. At least it explains, if only superficially, why they both can stand in it and be unharmed.

Be civilized, he says. Comply or be compelled is what he must mean. In the absence of alternatives, she reluctantly nods. 

“Good,” he purrs. A fresh ease relaxes his shoulders, his smile widening far enough, she gets a glimpse of his pointed fangs. The sight spurs an uneasy shiver down her spine. Instinctively, she shrinks back into the sheets as he stands. His smile falters.

“Join me, won’t you?” He asks, sauntering past her bedside with unsettling grace. The scent of his cologne carries past her nose, smooth as velvet, with the faint simmer of citrus. Something else cloys with it -- a faint, floral interjection that rouses a persistent itch in the back of her throat. She swallows, but she can’t seem to wet it again.

Naomi frowns as she tracks his path to the far wall, stacked top to bottom with books. As he approaches, he mutters something barely audible beneath his breath. The same shelves outlined in that ethereal blue glow reshape before her eyes, compressing their contents to form a rounded archway. Astarion steps through it into the room beyond, peering back at her expectantly.

It’s then, for the first time, she becomes fully aware of what she is -- and isn’t -- wearing.

It’s the same silver nightgown she remembers from the mirror, with the same dribbled, dark stain of her own blood along the draped neckline. Surely sleepwear has no need to sparkle so much. The billowy sleeves slouch off her bare shoulders, and the skirt’s long enough to come to her ankles. Sh hadn’t noticed how sheer it was before, when she was gawking at her reflection in terror. It’s like a veil of starlight coating her skin. Her freckles mingle with the glinting sheen of the fabric. It doesn’t so much cover her body as it illuminates it.

There’s nothing else beneath it but her.

Naomi’s eyes meet Astarion’s and narrow. She shifts, easing her legs over the side of the bed, gathering the comforter in her arms like some frouffy ball gown. She pulls it taut across her chest. The fabric practically melts against her, soft as butter. It must cost a fortune. It comes with her as she rises and crosses the room, dragging across the floor with a dull swish. She hesitates a few feet from the archway where Astarion still lingers, blocking her path.

With an exasperated sigh, he reaches into the chamber beyond and pulls out a decidedly opaque black robe. Hastily, she snatches it. At least he has the decency to turn away while she sheds the comforter and cinches the robe tight. It’s made of some sort of fur. Perhaps a bear. It’s dark as midnight, and brushes pleasantly against her neck.

“Come,” he says, stepping from the archway into a small but sumptuous vestibule. Hesitantly, Naomi follows. 

Initially, the brightness of the rooms burns. She shields her eyes with her hand, squinting against the light. It calls to mind her first expedition onto the sunlit surface. She’d relished the heat soaking her skin, until she woke flaking and freckled the following day. She regards her new surroundings with the same wariness, even after the ache from eyes fades.

It’s a stark contrast to the bedroom, where the only brightness was the occasional blue accent. The vestibule is white stone from floor to ceiling, and awash in shimmering moonlight. The same wide, curved windows line the exterior wall, with cushioned benches tucked against them. 

Ivory fur softens her bare steps, like a thick bed of snowfall. Another rug made from another exotic beast. There’s a candlelit hallway off the vestibule with a closed door on either side. Steam clouds her view of the wider chamber at the hall’s other end. She peels her attention away to her more immediate vicinity.

Instead of books on crowded shelves, two large canvases dominate the walls: a pair of twined skeletons on a bed of dark grass and pale flowers, and another of a seaside castle basking in a bloody sunrise. There’s a third space between them, where something else must’ve hung. Only a discolored, rectangular imprint remains there, now. Beneath the paintings are various pedestals with assorted treasures: a golden key, a jeweled goblet, and a silver amulet. The glint of it skewers her.

She knows that necklace. It used to live around her neck, and her mother’s before her. The icon of Eilistraee is cracked through the center, the Dark Dancer severed from the sword she holds above her head. 

Naomi stiffens, throat thickening around a raw, stinging dryness. These are trophies. Things he’s taken. Just like her.

“A-hem.”

Reluctantly, Naomi turns towards the vampire, who awaits her at a glass table set for two. There’s a porcelain pitcher and a pair of wine glasses atop it, filled red to the brim. The light-weight scent that wafts her way matches the floral notes that interrupted Astarion’s cologne before. The liquid is deep, dark, and viscous.

It isn’t wine. Her stomach sinks.

“You must be thirsty,” Astarion says with a sharp-edged smile. 

Her resounding silence outlives his patience. He shifts his feet, but it doesn’t quell the irritation in his voice. 

“Sit, my dear. Have a drink. You’ll feel better.”

Naomi raises her chin. “Aren’t you just going to make me?”

He tilts his head, his mouth forming a firm line. “We won’t be trying that again. It won’t do either of us any good. And deep down, I think a part of you knows that’s the only reason it happened at all.” He swallows, shaking his head as if to clear it. “For your own good.”

I don’t know that, or you, at all, she thinks helplessly.

Astarion circles to the table’s other side and pulls out the chair. Even with his spoken assurances,  she moves towards it sluggish and slow, drifting forward as if entranced. His knuckles brush her shoulders as he presses the chair in behind her. Naomi recoils from the touch. An anxious awareness lingers on her neck even after he takes his seat opposite of her.

The tabletop is small enough, they could easily clasp hands across it. Astarion’s wrists are half-way there, his elegant fingers folding around the stem of his wine glass, periodically twisting it. He nods pointedly towards the glass in front of her. Naomi tucks her hands deliberately beneath her arms.

“If you’re going to explain,” she says tersely, “start with how you forced me into trance.”

“I compelled you,” he says flatly. “Since I am your sire, and you are my bride, you obeyed to the best of your ability.”

Sire. Bride. Gods. Her skin starts to burn beneath her borrowed finery.

“What else has my so-called husband compelled me to do for him?”

His gaze goes sharp, and then round again. Lines sprout along his forehead and beneath his eyes. All at once, he looks aged a dozen years. His jaw slackens, lips parted around a low gasp of breath.

“That’s what you’ve been so scared of. Oh, darling. Any love we made before was entirely mutual. I’d never violate you.”

“Before..?!”

“Before you lost your memories.”

His face blurs into a smear of silver. She blinks fiercely, clearing the burn from her vision. Her stomach turns in a tumult of grief and relief. For the yawning gap in her recollection. For the harms that, according to him, haven’t befallen her. She believes him on that account, at least. Not merely because he looks appropriately horrified at the idea, but because even with all she’s forgotten, she remembers each of his other compulsions with crystal clarity.

The rest, she isn’t so sure of. 

She’s assumed, until now, Astarion had a hand in snatching pieces of her memory. That he tore them away with his teeth when he took her life. That she’d forgotten all the gorey details of their entanglement in the fog of trauma that obscured them.

Except the logic doesn’t quite latch.

Remember what you’ve forgotten, he implored when he first woke her. It was a compulsion, said with the same immutable force as the others before it. Except, it didn’t work. It didn’t take her will away. It didn’t return any memories like, it seems, he wanted it to.

If he wanted her to remember, he can’t have been the one to make her forget in the first place. But if he turned her…well, then he must’ve killed her, too. And, evidently, leashed her with the chain of compulsion that he can tug on every time he thinks it’s for her own good.

He continues, indignant now as he leans back in his chair. “You were attacked. Some vile wizard cast a spell and put you in this state. I never compelled you at all before. I never needed to. We are bonded, you and I.”

So he can’t be as powerful as he pledges to be, she thinks, if I came to harm the way he claims.

Her mind reels, but it catches on the growing sting on her throat. She winces at the sandpaper roughness of it. For a second, his gaze seems to soften with something like concern. It hardens in defiance when she speaks.

“Then I do have some things to fear, it seems,” she says coolly.

He bristles. “We’ve faced far worse and fared exceptionally well on every occasion. You’re perfectly safe here!”

She eyes him apprehensively. “What did you mean that we’re ‘bonded’?”

His mood shifts on a dime. He gestures widely with a proud smirk. “Look around you. This entire palace is ours. We share wealth, power, and so much more. My desires are yours, too. I know your needs as if they’re my own.”

Naomi stiffens, eyes skimming over all overwhelming opulence of her surroundings. Is this all she’s known while bound to this man? A few lavish rooms? Perhaps a few more? A gilded cage? His discretion and decisions about her wants and needs? The trappings might be more luxurious, but it doesn’t sound so different from the ‘brother knows best’ of her past.

No magic. No music. No life at all. The only sounds she hears are the grating hum of the sussur bloom and the steady thump of Astarion’s heartbeat reminding her that she no longer has one. Her fingernails bite into the beds of her palms.

She had her magic. She had music. Somehow, she had a glitzy little harmonica on hand in the throne room. It smashed to pretty pieces beneath the heel of Astarion’s boot. You’ll have another, he said, once you’ve come to your senses.

Is that what he expects? That she be on her best behavior, at his beck and call? That if she’s good enough, and plays her part perfectly, he’ll treat her? Like she’s some sort of--

“Drink, pet,” he purrs. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

A furious bravery thrills through her with righteous abandon. Naomi shoves the wineglass towards the table’s edge. A dark stain blooms in the snow white rug beneath their feet. Astarion watches her display with composed indifference. She goes rigid, pressing back in her chair, bracing for the burn of his ire and the compulsion sure to follow.

Instead, he merely utters a tired sigh. “So much for being civilized, eh?”

She grits her teeth. “You said you’d explain--”

“I have.”

“You haven’t! I don’t even know how we met! You say you didn’t kidnap me, but you certainly murdered me! And that’s about all I know of you!”

He inclines his head with an infuriating pout. The sultry dip in his voice doesn’t soothe; it’s a nuisance. “You may have forgotten me, my sweet, but I know you intimately.”

She scoffs. “Prove it!”

“As you wish,” he croons, eyes flickering with something unfathomable. “I know what it is you saw in reverie. You remembered your brother. How he hurt you. Didn’t you?”

A slow spill of dread sinks in her stomach, like sand collecting in the bottom of an hourglass. Unwittingly, she shakes her head.

“You told me how you danced and sang and drank the day he died. How you later came to the surface to sing in taverns and gradually made your way to the Gate. You said it was to start a new life, but truly, you had something specific in mind. You wanted to try your hand at theater.” He chuckles quietly, propping his chin against his palm. “You own one now, you know. My little starlet.”

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. “H-how did you--”

“Because you’ve told me before how you got your tattoo. I’ve lied beside you countless days and nights. I know what you’ve seen when you wake and touch your cheek. I know all your dreams, and your nightmares. All the threads that twine together to make my beloved bride.”

Such honeyed words for such a seductive fantasy. A happy one, maybe. He is breathtaking in more than one sense. Anyone with eyes would say as much about his straight, elegant nose, his high cheekbones, and the too-perfect curl of his hair. Even the velvet flex of his voice. His scent alone entices, every element of him beckoning like a crooked finger. Or coiling like a noose about to tighten.

But even this close to him, she’s devoid of any recognition, of any desire but to be somewhere far, far away. To leave Baldur’s Gate for (her own) good and never return, even after travelling so long to get here, and never seeing the stage she yearned for, or hardly any of the city itself.

He tells a pretty tale, but he doesn’t speak of the darkness that paid for it. Of the death -- her death -- that built it. And he doesn't say a thing about himself. Naomi’s throat bobs. She meets his smolder with a steely stare.

“All right,” Astarion sneers, with a melodramatic sweep of his arms. “Let’s play out this game you think you’re running. You’ve been kidnapped by the big, bad vampire. Do you think plucking his nerves like a petulant child is endearing? What exactly is this strategy?”

“Spite, mostly,” Naomi answers coldly. “Do you know what it’s like to be compelled?”

The glare he gives her is scalding. “Careful, dear.”

“How long have I been here?” She demands. “How long have I been a vampire?”

“You’ll be able to think far clearer if you drink, darling.”

Naomi’s eyes narrow. He’s so insistent on it. He could just compel her. He said he won’t. For now, at least, he seems intent on playing his part as the protective sire.

Or, maybe, he needs her to drink of her own volition. She knows little of vampires, aside from a few tawdry novels. But she recalls, vaguely, a myth warning against taking food and drink in a devil’s house. And something else about being stuck in the hells for six months each year, all because of a pomegranate.

Pomegranate. That’s the smell that’s been teasing her nose. Her eyes flit to the blood in his cup. Beneath the floral notes, the scent is tangy. Light. Luscious.

Her throat scrapes with a sudden heat. “If I do,” she rasps, “will you answer my questions?”

He purses his lips, falling quiet as he weighs her offer.

“You know,” she presses, “communication is typically key in most marriages. One would think you’d want your wife to know about her circumstances. For her own good.”

“A new vampire is a delicate thing,” he says evasively. “A bride even more so. You’ve forgotten three years in an instant. That makes you new all over again. You need time to--”

“Three years?!” She chokes.

“I think that counts as one answer, doesn’t it?” He grins darkly. “Hold up your end of the bargain, and you’ll have so much more.”

Naomi scowls. He pushes his glass across to her, gratingly slow. The blood within trembles.

“Go on, little love.”

The liquid ripples again as she reaches out hesitantly and takes the glass in hand. “What will happen if I don’t drink it?”

“I’ll give you that one for free,” he says tartly. “Vampires drink blood. If they don’t, they’ll be hungry. And agitated, and paranoid, and generally, bad company. Their mental faculties will become muddled. Eventually, they’ll fall ill, then feral, with pupils blown wide, and fangs aching something awful at the mere smell of blood. Does that sound relatable to you?”

Splat. Naomi flinches. Something wets her knuckles. She sees the moisture dangling there by a silver string and-- Gods, she’s…salivating. She wipes her mouth shakily with the back of her hand, scowling over the edge of the glass.

“I have the sense you’ve been trying to puzzle me out,” Astarion muses. “To outplay whatever villain you think you see. Let me help you, darling: having freshly fed wouldn’t have won you our little spat in the throne room, but you would have fared better. And you’ll fare better now if you stop starving yourself.”

Her gaze drops, heavy-lidded, back to the glass. If it will help, make her stronger, clear her head, then she’ll succumb to one sip. Just a taste. The scent of roses eases her eyes shut as she tilts the glass to her mouth.

It melts petal-soft against her lips with the tenderness of a lover. She gasps, long and lewd, like she’s writhing beneath one. The taste swells tantalizingly across her tongue. Soothing warmth trickles, syrupy sweet, down her throat, waking her nerves, rousing a tingle beneath her skin. The more she takes, the more taken she feels. She swears there’s fingers stroking through her hair. Good, she thinks, deliriously. It’s so very good.

The only thing better would be more. She feels the pull, as if whispered from the blood itself, coaxing her open. Take it. Take it all.

It’s then she manages to wrench away, slamming the glass down. A hairline crack sprouts in the tabletop. She pinches the stem in a vice-grip, mesmerized by the red trails dripping down the side of the glass to pool at the bottom. Only a few drops remain.

“Tell me how we met,” She pants, as if surfacing from vast depths.

For a moment, his eyes glisten. A mess of emotions plays across his face in an instant, each one vivid and fleeting. He flits through masks until he settles for a stony one. He blinks at her blankly once, twice, and then he jerks to stand, rattling the table as he goes.

“I’ll return later,” he says crisply, taking the pitcher with him, “with a meal more fitting for your palate.”

“What-- wait!” She scrambles from the chair, hurrying after him as he crosses the archway.

To her surprise, he freezes. She stops just short of barreling into his chest, a flurry of fear swarming in her stomach. 

He turns, peering down at her wistfully. “Why?”

“I-I thought we were getting somewhere,” she stammers. “I only want to know you, too. So you're not a stranger. So this all stops feeling so…strange.”

The arch of his brow is just as skeptical as she is. He searches her face while she wracks her brain for a more plausible answer. She has no idea what inspired her to rush after him when only moments before, she loathed his every word. All she knows is the sudden, overwhelming plea pressing on her mind: come back to me.

She hears it in her own voice, in her own head, but it feels starkly foreign. The yearning flares again, insistent, frantic, as he takes another step away from her. The noise that comes next puts her blood on ice. 

A deep, bestial snarl rips across the room. It didn’t come from Astarion; his mouth hasn’t moved at all. Naomi blinks feverishly, gaze dropping to see her hands clenched in a death grip around the pitcher he still holds. She gapes, aghast, but she doesn’t let go, even as she trembles like a leaf. 

Astarion merely tuts. “You’re never quite yourself when you’re hungry, love. But don’t you worry. We’ll fill you right up. Perhaps before you go for a stroll through the city streets, hm? We wouldn’t want you to make a mess out there.”

He lets go, and she staggers back, cradling the pitcher to her chest. Blood splashes over the sides, spattering at her feet, and soaking the front of her robe. It’s such a lush, vibrant color. Every drop, a precious gem. She’s so hypnotized by that ruby sheen, she hardly hears his parting words.

“There’s a bath for you, if you wish, and fresh clothes. Wear whatever pleases you. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She retreats to the far wall. Her back slides against the slick surface as she drops to the ground and lifts the pitcher to her lips. She gags in her haste to guzzle down its contents, red rivers running down her chin, tears streaming down her cheeks.

A/N: The unserious working title of this chapter was “Vampire’s First Juicebox”.

Now also feels like a good time to mention that while I may at some point continue Midnight Chimes, this fic is my primary focus, and I will be pulling in scenes/material/backstory for Naomi and her game timeline with Astarion as it makes sense to do so. This will effectively spoil what I had planned for MC, but after giving it a lot of thought, it feels important that these pieces are included in AN, as they are really vital to Astarion and Naomi’s journey in this story and I'm excited about working those elements (like the flashback included here) in.

Thank you so very much for reading! I hope life is being kind to you all. <3

[tsrmarina]

The dragonrider 🗡️

Here is the dragon in full size (well, almost full size 🥲). It’s a white vampiric dragon, Astarion’s spawn (neither Durge, nor a dragonborn)

[lazylittledragon]

Hello I love your bg3 content and your Dorian is so lovely! Can we get like an alternative reality with Dorian and Ascended Astarion? What would your headcannon be for them? 🙇

something like this, probably

[primopinku]

a little hc I have about Ascended Astarion cont (possible spoilers about act 3) under the cut

I've been thinking a lot about how once you ascend him about how once pure emotions get twisted by undeath. How love turns to hungry obsession (think Strahd and Tatyana). Even if you leave him, even after he coldly spouts cruel words at you in response, admits how he would have twisted your love for him (he def would). I couldn't help but think "is it really over? Just like that?", I get the sinking suspicion that it's not really over. Especially after he says you will regret leaving him so bitterly. Maybe he'll give you a couple of years of freedom, but in the end he will come for you.

Well enjoy this "supposed to be simple" sketch of Vampire Lord Astarion having a party, deciding whether or not to end it in a blood bath (nah but it's a funny thought. Being civilly minded is hard) because he doesn't like people touching his things.

[graveyardcuddles]

Spawn fans: arguing with Ascended fans.

Ascended fans: arguing with Spawn fans.

Me, a true Astarion Enjoyer:

[scarebluetales]

"I already hear the world whispering in sweet surrender."

I used a beautiful VP from DarkUrgeDiaries as ref and inspiration 🖤

[rielmayer]

I'm about to sin again 😩🔥

[annikvs]

Astarion wip

[anatheriaart]

Ascended Astarion as DnD Vampire Lord

[kawareo]

Can't believe I've never drawn the Ascendant before

[mrhrns]

Hear me out. So, the story is - during EA until patch 4-5 I think instead of normal vampire teeth Astarion had these tiefling jaws. I still remember how upset I was when Larian made it "normal" for him! Truly the most devastating nerf (jk) And I was sitting here and thinking... What if I'll return these fangs to Ascended Astarion, adding *just* the right amount of something Hellish for him. Cool idea? Cool idea, it's 3:50am and I just finished it-

Also had a little training with these angles, they are difficult as hells as well.

[crystalvfae]

never again to see the sun

[tsrmarina]

Alright, created a concept for Dragon Spawn with size comparison with Astarion 😅 Didn't find much information about vampiric dragons in DnD sources, sooo... came up with this good boy ✍️🥲

[cheekylittlepupp]

Astarion seeing his reflection for the first time in 200 years

that voice crack tho..

[justporo]

Ascended Astarion would let himself get painted nude and then obnoxiously send these paintings to Tav, who left him - like the medieval fantasy version of an unsolicited dickpic.

[egg-on-a-legg]

perks of undead boyfriend: you're finally warm enough for cuddles