Chapter Text
The orange light of the sunset gently caressed his face. Astarion, seated behind his massive solid wood desk, stared with a bored expression at the mountains of papers. They were letters, scrolls, and even some small account books, all neatly organized, coming from various parts of the Sword Coast. He let out a long sigh as he finished reading the last line of the report in his hands, feeling that even immortality would fall short for finishing all of it. Slowly, he stood up and walked toward the large window to appreciate the final rays of the sun. Years ago—perhaps a century back—the warm touch of sunlight on his skin would have turned him to ashes in an instant, a true nuisance and worry that no longer troubled him. But because of that, or thanks to that tragic past, he savored every second, every moment, to contemplate all the sunsets, twilight hours, summer days... all those pleasures that had been stolen from him for two centuries.
The sun finally disappeared behind the bay of Baldur’s Gate, and with it died the excuse he had found to avoid his mountain of paperwork.
A servant knocked rhythmically on the grand door, and Astarion immediately granted entry. A man of about five feet four inches entered, hunched over. Young, with harmonious features and black hair that fell gracefully over his shoulders. He spoke slowly and, by direct order, never raised his head.
“My lord, the guest you requested has arrived.”
The lips of the lord of vampires quickly curved into a smile, pleased with the good news.
“Very well. Ensure he is comfortably settled, that he has food... or whatever our guest feed on and his entourage. I will meet with them in a couple of hours“ he said, and before the servant could leave, he added: ”Ah, and summon Klaus and Norbert! Have them take care of this“ he said, pointing to the pile of papers on his desk. The servant nodded, bowed, and departed, always making sure his scarlet eyes did not meet those of his master.
Astarion looked back at his desk with a bitter expression. It was true that he was now one of the most powerful beings, whose influence and might extended for many kilometers, and soon it would reach far beyond. But if there was one thing about goals, it was that they became bland once achieved. Being the most powerful lord of the Sword Coast also meant having influence, presence, and knowledge of the situation in dozens of settlements. Reading dozens of reports from spies, informants, and allies. All of it tremendously tiresome for someone who only wanted to enjoy the perks of power while shirking the responsibilities. And while it was true that he could use his spawns for the tedious tasks, for some reason they always failed, always made a mistake—like not knowing how to prioritize, what constituted a threat, and what was a minor issue—which meant that, until he found a decent spawn, the great lord, the vampire ascended through the profane ritual, had to waste one day a week with his nose buried in books and papers.
***
“It is a pleasure to greet you, wise and powerful Thanatos,” Astarion said to his guest. Though his gesture was cordial, he did not bow his head. Why should he? He desired the services of the necromancer he had summoned from distant lands, but at every moment, with subtle gestures, he made it clear that he was a superior being—more powerful, more perfect.
The guest was little more than a skeleton wrapped in layers of fine fabrics. He attempted to sketch a face with bandages and jewelry, but no trace of flesh or tissue remained on that ancient frame. His empty sockets glowed with a faint green light, the only sign of “life” in that dark and formidable creature.
“Ah… so it is true… The rite of profane ascension was possible,” the skeleton replied to the greeting, leaning forward to examine more closely the powerful lord who regarded him with arrogance from the upper steps of the throne. He was receiving him in the grand ballroom of Szarr Palace—a place with which he was all too familiar, one that had served as his refuge in his early years as the new lord of Baldur’s Gate. Now, more out of habit than practicality, he continued to use these old halls and corridors to brew his trembling schemes.
“Indeed. Do I detect envy in your tone, Lord Thanatos?” he asked, a thread of sarcasm woven into his voice.
“Of course,” the skeleton answered without hesitation. “For years, we necromancers have avoided vampirism because of its side effects. And I’m not just speaking of the sun; everyone knows a vampire is not made in one bite—the master must grant that gift, or the spawn must seize it by force… Far too many drawbacks, if you ask me,” he said, closing his bone-white fingers over the intricate wooden staff he carried.
“But seeing you… it is good to know that at least one of you has succeeded in overcoming all those hardships.”
Astarion inclined his head, accepting the lengthy remark as a compliment, though part of him doubted it truly was.
“Do you regret not embracing vampirism as a path to immortality, then?” he asked, somewhat amused.
“Not at all,” the guest replied sharply. “As I said, too many complications, too many disadvantages. My method is far more efficient: I have not wasted a single second fighting my own creator, nor depending on others. And above all, I have not lost a moment of my time serving anyone, distracting myself with carnal whims. I devote my immortality, my existence, solely to the study and propagation of my knowledge—the purest and most glorious form of immortality,” he answered with pride in his voice, for he had no features with which to show emotion. Astarion wrinkled his nose but said nothing. It was clear that both disapproved of the other’s methods and purposes, but no deep understanding was required between them. Not for what the lord of vampires needed.
“Well… I believe you will not wish to waste more time. Will you accompany me? Then we can attend to the task for which I summoned you, my dear sorcerer.”
“About time,” the mage said simply, and with impatience he began to follow Astarion, who led him with graceful poise toward the old elevator that descended into the depths of the palace.
***
The gears halted with a deep metallic screech as they finally reached that gloomy basement—the very place where Astarion had completed the ritual that granted him far more than mere immortality.
“Is it not truly astonishing, don’t you think?” he said as he walked, gesturing toward the long marble corridors. He had restored some sections, but others still lay in rubble and dust, exactly as he had known them on the day of his ascension.
“This feels more like a sanctuary than a vampire’s nest,” the skeleton remarked, shuffling his feet behind his host.
“And you say you don’t know who built it?”
“I have a couple of theories: perhaps the master of my master, or the one before him. Either way… it no longer matters. But if your restlessness and eagerness to uncover the secrets hidden down here… we can surely arrange a price,” the lord of vampires commented, glancing amusedly over his shoulder at his guest, who remained impassive.
“Perhaps… First we’ll complete the initial commission; afterward, we might continue doing business, my lord,” he replied after a few seconds, his empty sockets scrutinizing every detail of the structure with poorly concealed fascination for the secrets lurking there—especially the mound of skeletons hanging inert in the suspended cells. Astarion couldn’t say for certain, but he could swear those sockets glowed brighter whenever the necromancer passed one of those grim cages.
They finally reached the main chamber: that platform linked by endless staircases, the rhomboid space where, despite having visited it many times, Astarion felt the hairs on his nape rise once more as he stepped inside.
“So… this is where the ritual took place…” his guest murmured aloud, stepping ahead and beginning to explore freely, no longer restraining his arcane curiosity.
“Indeed. Since the day of the ritual, everything has remained exactly in place. Every ash, every rune… all of it untouched.”
“Mmmhh,” was all the necromancer uttered as he continued walking, his sockets gleaming with barely veiled emotion. At last, he reached the far end of the rhombus, where the ashes, bones, and poorly dried bloodstain of the one who had been his master—his father—lay.
The necromancer bowed over the remains without touching them. Astarion lingered behind, merely watching, silent.
“There is truly very little to work with…” the guest lamented as he straightened, fixing his glowing sockets on his host once more.
“Besides, there’s the matter of the soul being in the possession of a lord of the hells… It won’t be easy to make him relinquish it… above all, it won’t be cheap.”
Astarion clicked his tongue.
“What could a devil possibly demand? Souls? I can offer dozens, hundreds if needed. Gold? I have vaults more than sufficient. I’m certain that, whatever the price, we can pay it—or find something equally valuable to bargain with. After all… it’s hardly such a rare or precious soul.”
The skeleton nodded silently, thoughtful, his bony fingers scratching at his staff—a gesture he made when reflecting.
“And that is the other great question… Why him?”
“Is it necessary for the ritual that you know?” the vampire asked, somewhat irritated.
“If I am to bring someone back from the other side, I need to know the reason,” the necromancer replied firmly, causing the vampire’s brow to furrow instantly. He clenched his fists, but after a second staring into those emotionless glowing sockets, he finally let out a huff of annoyance.
“Fine! I’ll answer your question, but I want no further delays.”
The skeleton nodded, so the vampire began to speak.
“After I was freed from my master, after he named me lord of this place… I started exploring old archives, old diaries. The past of my ‘father,’ and of the fathers before him. That’s when I noticed a pattern. In the ancient vaults of this sepulcher lies the storeroom with the belongings of former lords—those who came before me, and even before my predecessor. Among them I found records and… portraits.
There is something very interesting about these walls, my dear Lord Thanatos. Every vampire lord of this mansion has had… a ‘favorite,’ a spawn among their many children to whom they apply a special ‘love.’ In my case, I was Cazador’s favorite, but I also found portraits of his sire, Vellioth. And do you know what I discovered? That I am an almost identical version of him,” he said, unable to suppress a mocking laugh escaping his throat as he spoke it aloud.
“I always believed my selection as spawn had been more random. Imagine my surprise upon realizing that, in truth, I was merely a replacement so my ‘father’ could exact vengeance for the tortures inflicted by my ‘grandfather.’”
The necromancer listened, but even without a face he seemed bored by the lengthy explanation.
“So, what you want is just a body resembling your former master to torture him?”
“Oh no, that’s what he would have done. That’s what Cazador did, and what Vellioth did before him… and who knows, perhaps even Donnela Szarr cherished some resentment against Vellioth as well.
No, I have no intention of venting my rage on a stranger with a similar face. I want Cazador,” he said, and toward the end his words were almost a growl—a visceral, animal sound escaping his throat.