Chapter 3 – Astarion
The good news is that Astarion’s charming, but alarmingly frail and undeniably weird new friend can, in fact, handle himself in a fight, despite his near-sighted, sun-struck squinting and his tendency to faint. He’s also decent at staying unseen and unheard, even without his magical cloak. They had no trouble sneaking up on the congregation of four-legged brains inside the disemboweled mind flayer ship. Even with Astarion to assist Talven’s aiming, his fire spell missed—but ended up turning the lot of the monsters to ash by hitting some flammable spillage instead. Pure luck, obviously. But then he managed to smack one of the grotesque little beasts so hard with his staff that it took to the air. Which happened to save Astarion from getting clawed, or bitten, or worse, as he stood defenseless, having already knocked an arrow. He proceeded to shoot the thing mid-flight, entirely deserving of his friend’s compliments and awe, but it had been a close thing.
The fight seemed to put Talven in high spirits. When Astarion inquired about his “heat”, he merrily replied that he had “discharged” it. Whatever that means. At least he no longer smells like smokepowder.
The bad news is that he seems to be the headstrong, overconfident sort who won’t listen to reason. Astarion told him to stay away from the wounded mind flayer—the only one they’d found alive—but nooo. He had to approach the creature within striking distance—perhaps because he can’t see very well in daylight and hasn’t had enough of the tentacle freak-show last night. Not that Astarion cares to understand him. But he does care to keep him alive, at least till they have a better grasp of the situation. They’d found goblin tracks and broken traps, and who knows what else lurks in the woods? Fine shooting and knifeplay aside, sunlit nature is hardly Astarion’s element and he’d rather have some backup. Yet here’s his friend, just standing there, while that mangled thing stares at him with unveiled malice and a hunger so deep and desperate Astarion can almost relate.
“Step away, darling, and let us end its misery,” he says, trying to keep the nerves out of his voice and doing a poor job of it.
Talven doesn’t reply. Instead, he steps even closer.
As Astarion reaches to take him by the arm and drag him out of reach of those grubby tentacles, the tadpole quivers in his brain. Plunged once more into Talven’s consciousness, he’s nearly overwhelmed by panic. Both Talven’s and his own. Because Talven’s not in control of his body. The mind-flayer is compelling him to come closer, closer—on your knees, boy!—and there’s no choice, there’s nothing he can—
No. No! Astarion shakes his head clear—Talven’s already bending over the mind flayer—and stabs the thing between its beady little eyes.
The mind flayer lets out a ragged wail, twitching in its final throes.
Talven staggers back and sits with a heavy thud. “Gods,” he moans. “It nearly had me!”
“You don’t say.” As Astarion yanks the knife out of the wound, a geyser of luke-warm, silver blood sprays his face and splatters his doublet. He stares down in disbelief. He has not kept that thing spotless for thirty fucking years, and all throughout the horrors of last night, to have it ruined by stupidity. He backs off, disgusted, while anger rises in him like boiling water. “Next time I tell you to be careful, you should bloody well listen!”
“Yes,” Talven says. “That was foolish. I thought… I thought we could question it. I tried to probe its mind and…”
“I’m well-aware of what happened next, thank you very much.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? What use are your regrets to me? If you want to live—if you want us both to live—don’t be sorry. Be smarter!”
To his credit, Talven seems undaunted by the tirade. He uses his staff as a crutch, getting up, but slips and falls right back on his bottom.
Astarion helps him up, with an annoyed click of the tongue added for good measure.
For a few moments, they stare at the mind flayer’s carcass, going nowhere, saying nothing. Then Talven sighs and bends to collect his straw hat. He looks silly in it.
His anger spent as suddenly as it swelled, like a teenager’s passion, Astarion is nauseated by the self-loathing that follows in its wake: for losing his temper and sounding just like—well. Like him. He wrinkles his nose. “Let’s get out of here. I’m sick of this place.”
#
They pull a wizard out of a rock face and free a githyanki from a trap and somehow the day isn’t over yet. Talven proves his worth as a companion on both occasions: with his knowledge of magic and with his silver tongue, persuading the tieflings to give up their catch. He and the wizard keep eying one another like two predators intent on the same herd of cattle, their chatter amicable enough but laced with mutual mockery. The gith, Astarion remembers from the ship: both her slender frame and her massive, two-handed sword. She seems to have a plan for getting rid of the tadpoles.
But the further the sun leans towards the west, the more anxiously Astarion wonders: does he want to be rid of the tadpole? It seems beyond doubt that the disgusting little worm is responsible for his ability to walk in the sun and approach running water. And perhaps there’s more it could do for him in time. Obviously, he would rather avoid turning into a soulless monster, but what if it can be prevented? The gith says they should all be showing symptoms of the parasite’s growth by now: sweating and bleeding, fever and delirium. It’s fortunate she didn’t witness Talven’s episode of “heat” that morning, or she would’ve cut him in pieces. But apart from the occasional intrusions into one another’s thoughts, they all seem to be… fine.
Astarion would be more than fine if not for two things:
First, the hunger. It has come back with a vengeance. The fat crow he had caught and drained on the beach had barely made a dent in it, and that was before all the fighting and hiking for hours on end. He might not be strong enough to hunt for something more substantial even if an opportunity presents itself to sneak away from the group. And they’ll expect him to eat with them. What then? Ugh.
Second, the growing fear of the night. The wizard theorized, and the tieflings confirmed, that they’re somewhere between Elturel and Baldur’s Gate. He doesn’t know how far Cazador’s influence extends, but nothing short of ‘the other end of the world’ could make him feel reasonably safe from it. Glancing nervously at the setting sun, it’s all he can do to stop the worry from showing on his face and in his gestures.
In contrast, Talven seems more alert, more confident, even taller, the darker it gets. His movements gain a new elegance, a purpose, and his gaze becomes direct and discerning, the way Astarion remembers it from the previous night. They mostly followed the gith so far, but now Talven takes the lead, no longer leaning on his staff. I’m a creature of the night, he said. Astarion snorts, remembering other things he said that might also turn out to be true. You’re in trouble. Maybe I can help.
Could he? Astarion didn’t believe it then, but now… No, there’s no use deluding himself. Could and would are different things, and no one is going to make his welfare a priority while the threat of the tadpole looms over them.
At last, the sun sets. They light a fire in a clearing by the river and spread their meager possessions around it: a couple of smelly blankets, a moldy goatskin, and the bedroll (which he claims for himself). The wizard and the gith sort through the food supply, counting the biscuits, the carrots, the apples, most of it from that overturned cart down on the beach. Talven boils water in a battered tin pot, still in his silly hat, working his charm on their new companions with his myriad questions and his easy smile.
Astarion sits in their midst, hugging his knees so the others wouldn’t see him trembling, and awaits the call of his master.
“Aren’t you going to join us?” says the wizard, making him jump. He drifted off, searching the labyrinth of his mind for a safe place to hide. Panic oozes from his skin. He’s about to say something—possibly something monumentally stupid—but then he realizes the question wasn’t for him.
Talven shakes his head. “Can’t eat. Too nervous.”
Nervous? Astarion blinks at him like he’s never seen him before. Talven shrugs apologetically. “I doubt I’ll sleep either.”
“Good,” says the gith. “You can keep watch.”
Astarion sets his jaw. So much for sneaking away to hunt. The wizard’s looking at him now, brows raised, but when Astarion shakes his head too, saying nothing, he just shrugs and leans into his meal.
Well. That went better than he expected. And the call still hasn’t come.
He allows himself a small sliver of hope.