Eternal Fate

Prologue | The Pale Elf

The Pale Elf

Once again, I roam the gloomy streets of my hometown, Baldur's Gate. It has been 200 years since I last saw it in daylight — condemned to traverse these corrupt streets only in darkness. It was never a city that exuded warmth, but at night, the atmosphere becomes even more oppressive. My thoughts drift once again, sinking into self-pity. Why? I cannot change it anyway. A deep sigh escapes me as I carefully slip past a huddled homeless person lying in a narrow alley. At least I do not share that fate. My home is in a palace in the Upper City, where I live with my six "brothers and sisters" all serving our common master.

An involuntary frown creeps over me as I think of our master. It's not like we serve him willingly. Be that as it may, I approach my destination, the Elf's Song Tavern. On the way, I take a shortcut through the graveyard. The air is stifling, and the acrid smell of urine and decay invades my nostrils. I cautiously open the iron gate to the cemetery; it creaks in some places, rusty and loud. I try to close it quietly nonetheless, while my gaze scans the gloomy grounds. The state of the graveyard underscores the kind of city I live in. Graves are disturbed, hastily dug up, and carts with piles of corpses are stationed in some corners. On certain days, the wind carries the smell of death throughout the entire city. Disgusting. I breathe as shallowly as possible as I pass by the resting places with soft steps. Does the stench of death also cling to me? Am I alive? Am I dead? I cannot judge; that's what the so-called gods are supposed to do. Tsk, they've never done anything for me.

I pause in front of a gravestone. It tilts, overgrown with moss, which covers the majority of the inscription. In the upper corner, something is carved with a knife: "Vampires are real."  Bitterly, I stare at the stone — my grave. Nothing remains of the young elven man who was once buried here. I am a ghost wandering through the streets of my hometown. The memory of how a vile gang of bandits ruthlessly stabbed me down for a sparkling ring, just because I turned into the wrong street, still haunts me.

My hands clench into fists as I ponder who I could have been if I had just stayed home that evening. My current master arrived just in time to save me back then. At least, that's what I thought at the time, how young and foolish I was. Helpless, I lay on the ground as the bandits fled with my possessions. The stranger promised to save me if I consented. In that moment, I only begged for my life; any means would have been acceptable. Covered in blood and powerless, I lay there. His fangs sank into my neck, cold as shards of ice. My body convulsed in pain, and I didn't even had the strength to scream. My blood shot out of my veins, coursing through my entire body. A few moments later, numbness spread, and the stranger sucked every drop of blood from me. I slumped lifelessly, and then... then nothing. I awoke in this place where I now stand.

I reach with my hand into the earth at my feet. Grains are carried away by a faint breeze. My gaze refocuses on my grave. I imagine what it looked like when I fought my way from the darkness to the surface, and my savior awaited me, extending a helping hand. Completely covered in dirt, I couldn't comprehend what had happened to me. I felt the hole in my stomach, yearning to be filled with blood—an instinctual desire.

My savior handed me a dead rat, knowing exactly what I thirsted for. A proud paternal smile accompanied me as I greedily took the creature and sank my newly grown fangs into it. Unaware at the time that this would be my sustenance for the next 200 years—or rather, for the remainder of my eternal life. He led me to his palace, where I live and serve him to this day. My master. My savior. My tormentor. Cazador Szarr. Unintentionally, I whisper his name with disgust. Nothing remains of my former life except the name on this stone before me. Even that can no longer be read. I am now Astarion Szarr. Spawn of Cazador Szarr.

I never actually come here, even though it's the shortest way to the tavern from the Upper City. Today, however, I decide to pick up a withered rose from the ground and place it in front of my gravestone, a silent symbol of transience that I have long surpassed. Today, I have turned 239 years old. But what does aging mean when you're already immortal? Such customs as birthdays are only for mortals. I tuck my hands into my stylish coat, an heirloom from centuries past, and set off on my way.