On this excerpt, Astarion goes slinking (not skulking) by Baldur’s Gate, looking for contemporary blood for his grasp.
Excerpt:
It was a stunning night within the Decrease Metropolis of Baldur’s Gate, which meant that it was foggy however not truly raining, the rats weren’t swarming and nothing untoward with tentacles was arising from the ocean. The women, gents, and others of the night had been out in drive, the drunks had not but been turned out of the taverns, and Astarion was slinking by the shadows.
Slinking was a really particular form of motion, and to not be confused with skulking. Snakes slink, in fact, as do cats and cat burglars and most assassins. Thugs and bruisers and most of the people who break heads for cash skulk. (Wolves, curiously sufficient, can do both.) The distinction is within the fluidity of motion. In the event you see somebody skulking, you marvel who’s going to get their bones damaged, whereas if you happen to see somebody slinking, you marvel in the event that they’ve acquired any bones in any respect.
Astarion slunk previous the open door of an inn, the place raucous laughter poured into the evening. Too busy for his functions, and too loud. One on the following avenue was quieter, however he knew for a undeniable fact that it was the place the Flaming Fists went to drink, and the mercenary troop tended to get very sad when their individuals went lacking and had a bent to show over rocks to see what was beneath.
As one of many dwellers below metaphorical rocks—albeit a really good-looking one, thanks—Astarion was not inclined to fire up bother.
He saved transferring, making a gradual circuit previous the varied inns and taverns. Seven Sins was a tiefling bar, and he’d stand out like an orchid in an abattoir. The Hagstone was good—quiet, tastefully appointed, typically stuffed with males hoping to satisfy different males for dialog and presumably extra. It was so good, in reality, that he’d taken his final prey from there and figured he ought to give it just a few extra tendays earlier than he tried once more.
He paused thoughtfully throughout the road from the Toad’s Ghost, which was holding what gave the impression to be a poetry evening. That could be promising. You would virtually at all times discover somebody within the again, watching with glazed politeness and completely determined to depart. In fact, the draw back was that you just additionally needed to hearken to poetry. He made a psychological notice to return again in an hour if nothing else offered itself.
The fog was thickening, muffling the sounds of footsteps and drunken revelry. It barely stirred as he handed. A member of the Watch went by barely an armslength away, however the gentle of his personal lantern mirrored off the mist blinded him to Astarion’s presence.
Maybe I ought to make use of this fog…
He typically disliked taking individuals off the road, since inconvenient bystanders had a behavior of displaying up at simply the incorrect second. Not that any bothered to point out up for me when I was bleeding to demise in an alley, the curs. However with fog this thick, who would ever know?
He turned south towards the docks and continued his slink.
By the point he reached the Sea Tower district and the seedy neighborhood surrounding the docks, the fog was so thick that you may not lower it with a knife. You’d want an axe on the very least. The lamps that marked the doorways of taverns shone like lighthouses above the road. Voices echoed surprisingly off buildings, stretched and distorted, in order that it was practically not possible to inform the place the audio system had been, or what precisely they had been saying.
He paused throughout the road from Rat’s Run. In some ways, a wonderful place, stuffed with drunken sailors that nobody would miss. Excellent for selecting up a stranger and luring them again to Cazador’s palace. The proprietor was a really…fascinating…woman who owed him a favor and wasn’t above indicating when she would really like somebody killed.
He took out his glasses, put them on his nostril, and the mist instantly turned them opaque.
“I’m foiled at each flip, it appears,” he muttered to himself. The glasses had been exceedingly flattering, or so he had been advised by quite a few individuals, a few of whom had even gone on to dwell out their pure lifespans. Unable to examine in a mirror himself, he had been greater than a bit anxious. The glasses had been additionally host to a really minor phantasm, so small and innocent that anybody who sensed it might chalk it as much as vainness. Many individuals wore such charms—necklaces that magically disguised a double chin, earrings that smoothed a pocked complexion, that form of factor. (In a single memorable case, it was underwear that corrected the spelling of a decrease again tattoo, a truth which Astarion realized when the underwear got here off and he discovered himself gripping hips marked with the elven characters for “bladder an infection.” Fortuitously the human man below him had taken his shout of laughter for ardour and Astarion had excused himself afterward to go and snicker hysterically in personal.)
In Astarion’s case, his glasses turned his eyes blue. It was all properly and good to have purple eyes when the lights had been off, however when he went looking someplace properly lit, the glasses made life quite simpler.
He put the glasses away. The Rat’s Run could be there tomorrow and the following day and doubtless for the following hundred years after that. Tonight, he would discover a sufferer within the fog.
Astarion made his method alongside the waterfront, holding the buildings tightly to his left. The fog was even thicker right here, draped over the docks like a funeral shroud, and the very last thing he wanted was to misjudge a distance and stumble over the wall. The bay right here didn’t rely as working water but it surely was chilly and stuffed with all types of dreadful issues. Fish pissed in it. So did sailors. Astarion actually didn’t need to should squelch residence smelling like an estuary.
He handed one other spill of sunshine, from a bar, the place a halfling was enjoying an accordion in entrance of an viewers that didn’t appear to be accordion aficionados. I may most likely get extra applause by strolling in, grabbing that bard by the throat, and dragging them out.
A big piece of dock gear loomed earlier than him. It seemed like a crane, however being nautical, it was most likely known as a larboard mizzenpoop or one thing like that. Astarion didn’t really feel the necessity to muddle up his thoughts studying names for issues on boats. All of them seemed like tawdry intercourse acts, presumably carried out with a useless fish.
He leaned towards the mizzenpoop for just a few moments, letting his eyes modify to the fog. Small purple lanterns gleamed alongside the road, showing and disappearing because the breeze off the ocean twisted the fog into unusual shapes. Prostitutes, almost certainly. Arduous to do enterprise if the sailors can’t discover you.
Astarion didn’t hunt prostitutes, although they appeared like they might be straightforward prey. Not as a result of he was a superb man—it was to snicker—however the girls of negotiable affection watched out for one another, and they’d quickly have seen that those that went with a sure pale elven consumer didn’t come again. Immortality was all properly and good, however being tossed into the Chionthar River would imply a brief, brutal demise by working water.
Petras, who had all of the brains of an orange tabaxi, had tried to hunt prostitutes when he was newly made. Astarion didn’t know what had occurred, simply that Aurelia had discovered him in an alley, bloody and shaking and stinking of sewage. It had taken a good quantity of blood to get him healed up and coherent and he wouldn’t discuss it even now.
Fact be advised, Astarion had a sure fellow-feeling for prostitutes. The quantity of instances he’d used his physique to lure a sufferer into Cazador’s clutches most likely certified him for membership of their guild.
As if summoned by the thought, the fog round him flickered purple and a voice stated, “Hey. You there.”
Astarion swung round and noticed a purple lantern approaching him, held by a slender determine in garments which may have been revealing if he may see something however a top level view within the mist. He sighed internally.
“Madam, I’m flattered, however afraid that I’m not searching for firm this night—”
The prostitute got here nearer, lifting her lantern. “No. I’m searching for you.”
“Me?”
She nodded. She was small and waif-like and Astarion guessed she had not less than three knives on her particular person. “I’ve seen you right here earlier than. Along with your purple eyes.”
“They aren’t purple,” Astarion stated reflexively. “It’s a mirrored image.”
She stepped shut sufficient that he may see her skeptical expression. Her personal eyes had been large and brown and will most likely look liquid and adoring. In the meanwhile, they seemed like frozen agate.
“Ugh. Advantageous, you’ve caught me. My grandmother was a drow. An expensive girl. Had a outstanding method with a snake-headed whip.” Astarion let a faraway look cross his face. “Grandfather at all times stated that’s what attracted him to her within the first place.”
The girl snorted. “Put it aside for the marks.” Her accent was pure Waterdeep and her ears proclaimed half-elven ancestry. “I’ve seen you earlier than, typically with a consumer. Generally a consumer I do know.” She lowered the lantern a bit. “Then I don’t see them ever once more. Humorous, isn’t it?”
Astarion tensed. He may most likely overpower her, and nobody would discover within the fog, however all the explanations he didn’t hunt prostitutes nonetheless held. I may dump her physique within the bay. She’d wash up and it might appear like she simply fell off the dock within the fog. Gods, what a waste of effort, although. All that work and I nonetheless wouldn’t have something to deliver again to the previous man.
He may virtually odor her blood, however he knew higher than to dwell on it. Cazador’s proscription was clear. Thou shalt not drink the blood of clever beings. Astarion’s victims belonged to the grasp vampire alone.
He didn’t let any of that present in his voice when he drawled, “You make me sound like a harmful man, madam. I prefer it, however wouldn’t that make approaching me…unwise?”
The girl cocked her head. “Three individuals know I’ve been searching for you. I don’t come again, they know why.”
A chill sank into Astarion’s intestine. “And why, precisely, have you ever been searching for me? Apart from my very good attractiveness.”
“Want your assist.”
“My assist?” Astarion smiled at her, letting just a bit an excessive amount of canine present. “My assist doesn’t come low cost, my darling.”
She gestured over her shoulder along with her free hand. “There’s a human named Boris who drinks on the Inexperienced Eel. He fancies himself a sailor, however he’s the son of a service provider captain. Gained’t have him on the ships anymore. He’s a drunk and a bastard.”
“Sounds pleasant.”
The girl’s eyes bored into his, clearly unconcerned about their purple sheen. “He doesn’t pay sufficient to be as tough as he’s, and he’s getting rougher. He damaged Sheena’s arm final tenday, and the magistrates received’t even hear the case.”
“They wouldn’t,” Astarion stated. He wouldn’t have, when he was a Justice of the Peace. If a wealthy brothel proprietor had introduced a go well with, that will be one other matter solely, however a avenue prostitute’s phrase towards a service provider’s son? You’d want a signed eyewitness assertion from the top of the Temple of Tyr to even get within the courtroom door. “What would you like me to do about it?”
The girl from Waterdeep smiled beatifically at him. “I need you to make him disappear too.”