Ishta: Blood Huntress of Baldur's Gate

Chapter Six: The Grove Part One

Sunlight seeped through the tent, bathing Astarion in a warm, golden glow that slowly stirred him awake. For a moment, he was disoriented as he gazed up at the canvas ceiling above. But then a smile spread across his face as he savoured the rare feeling of being well-rested.

The previous night's feeding had revitalized him in ways he hadn't experienced in days, maybe even weeks. His body felt supple and strong, his senses sharp and alert. He could hear birds chirping in the distance and leaves rustling outside with remarkable acuity.

As he stretched, a vague memory from his dreams tugged at his mind. There had been a nightmare—one of those dark, tormenting dreams that often left him feeling emotionally drained and vulnerable. Yet this time, the usual fear was muted.

Instead, a strange sense of protection lingered, as if someone had stood guard over him and chased away the darkness.

Ishta.

The thought of her name brought a strange mix of emotions. He could almost see her in the dream, standing firm and defiant, shielding him from unseen horrors. The details were hazy, slipping away like mist in the morning sun, but the feeling remained.

Astarion shook his head, trying to dispel the remnants of the dream. He couldn't quite understand why she would be in his mind, especially in such a protective role. After all, they were companions by necessity, not by choice.

Yet, the more he thought about it, the more he couldn't deny the gratitude that welled up within him. It was an unsettling feeling, foreign and unfamiliar, but not entirely unwelcome.

He sat up and looked around his tent—finding his shirt laying crumpled next to him where he had thrown it before falling into an exhausted sleep; too tired to meditate for a trance. He reached for it and put it on, the fabric comforting against his skin.

As he dressed himself in his leather armour, he thought back to the previous night's hunt. The thrill of chasing and catching a boar, satisfying his hunger in a way he hadn't been allowed to in years, was exhilarating.

He stood up, his movements graceful and fluid, and stepped out of the tent. The camp was still quiet, with most of the others still asleep or just beginning to stir. The morning air was crisp and fresh, carrying the scent of dew-soaked earth and leaves and the promise of a new day.

Astarion's gaze drifted over to where Ishta's tent stood, the fabric gently swaying with the morning breeze. He felt a strange pull towards it, a curiosity mingled with an unspoken sense of debt. He owed her something, though he couldn't quite define what it was.

Ignoring the feeling, he moved across the camp and knelt by the dying embers of last night's fire, poking at the ashes absently with a stick.

As he watched the flickering remnants of the fire, Astarion couldn't shake off the imagery of Ishta in his dream, her fierce determination and unwavering strength juxtaposed with the vulnerability he had felt in her presence.

Frustration bubbled up in his chest and he poked harder at the ashes. The last thing he needed was to fall into the trap of hero worship again. He couldn't ignore the similarities between Ishta and a certain Drow Ranger from stories and songs he'd overheard in taverns.

It was safer though to idolize someone from the pages of a book than to put all his hope in a real person who would ultimately disappoint him.

But as he continued tending to the fire, a part of him couldn't help but wonder if Ishta would let him down like all the others before her, or was it possible that things might be different this time?

Lost in thought, he was startled by the sudden rustle of movement behind him. Turning his head sharply, he saw Ishta emerge from the undergrowth carrying a bundle of kindling. She walked over to the campfire and tossed the assortment of sticks and pinecones onto the embers.