Eternal Fate

Act 10 | A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

An insatiable hunger gnaws at Astarion's entrails, a primal instinct deeply rooted in his being, compelling him to seek what ensures his survival - blood. It's a craving that haunts him in the darkest hours of the night, when the veils of reason are thin and his animalistic urges rise to the surface.

The memory of the metallic taste of blood flows through his thoughts, igniting a fire within him that makes him a slave to his own greed. Every heartbeat, every breath reminds him of his imperfection, of the void in his being that can only be filled by the red elixir of life.

With a dull throb in his temples, Astarion slowly opens his eyes to find himself in the darkness of the nocturnal camp. The fire in the center has turned into a smoldering heap of charred ash, and the outlines of his sleeping companions blur in the shadows of the trees.

A soft snoring emanating from the bards reaches his ears, mingling with the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind. Letho sits motionless on a tree stump, arms crossed over his chest, yet his closed eyes suggest that he too has succumbed to sleep.

A sigh of relief washes over Astarion at the thought that even the night's guardian is trapped in the arms of Morpheus. Yet even in this apparent safety, he feels the urge that controls him, knowing that he cannot resist it.

With one last, scrutinizing glance at his sleeping companions, he carefully frees himself from his fur roll and reaches for his bow leaning beside him. A soft rustle, a fleeting breath in the darkness, and he disappears silently into the shadows of the thicket, driven by a hunger that only blood can satisfy.

Astarion unleashes his vampiric instincts, like a predator on the hunt he listens into the forest, trying to perceive every heartbeat that his ears can discern. Sharpening his senses, his gaze scans through the darkness, and his pupils have adjusted to the blackness, allowing him to see clearly even now.

A rustle, a grunt - the sounds of nature become a vibrant orchestra that awakens Astarion's hunting instincts. A wild boar, he suspects, approaches stealthily, and he spots it in a clearing, digging at the earth with its tusks.

As supple as a big cat, he crouches down, feeling the tension in his muscles as he draws the bow. His fingers grip the handle tightly, his gaze fixed on the target, and a precise shot breaks the silence of the clearing, bringing the beast down instantly.

The final scream of the boar pierces the air, causing the birds to startle from the trees, flying towards the moon. A brief moment of silence follows, and Astarion observes the spectacle before approaching his fallen prey. 

The steady pulse of blood flowing from the beast's wound fills the air with an intoxicating scent that enraptures Astarion's hunger. With a fluid motion, he sinks to his knees and sinks his teeth into the warm flesh of the wild boar, quenching his thirst and renewing his strength.

Finally, the opportunity to feast presents itself to Astarion like a banquet in the desert. The blood of a wild boar is far more than the usual small creatures he has fed on before. Even for an animal, it is a true blessing for his weary senses.

The journey has exhausted him, and his body cries out for more of the life-giving elixir than usual. With closed eyes, Astarion delves deeper into the experience, relishing every precious drop that wets his palate.

The taste of iron and earth, mixed with the sweet essence of life, fills his senses and revitalizes his weary body. It's an ecstasy that envelops him as he greedily feeds from the source of his survival.

For a precious moment, Astarion forgets the worries and burdens of his existence, immersed in the sensuality of the moment. It's a moment of cleansing, of renewal, where the darkness of his soul is penetrated by a warm glow.