Blood Magic

Chapter 11

Content Warning: SA (non-graphic)

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111 days after turning.

The palace is alive with the undead once more.

What fun.

Everything is perfect according to Astarion's plan and my gruelling efforts. The musically-inclined spawn gather at a corner of the ballroom and tune up their strings and woodwind instruments. Wine bottles scatter the banquet tables, all filled to the brim with last night's conquests; according to my master, the palace is expected to be abound with vampires from all across Faerûn and beyond, so I needed to secure at least six tables worth of the city's most exquisite blood, which meant rallying several of my siblings to hunt the wealthy Upper City leftovers from dusk until dawn. A transport of exotic dancers and vampire escorts travelled from as far as Returned Abeir to join in the decadence and debauchery of the party.

And the theme is red, lacking in all originality.

Earlier in the day, I had foolishly spoken to Astarion about my concern of raising suspicion in Baldur's Gate with our recent bouts of hedonistic overfeeding. After all, the last elaborate gathering of vampires was merely a fortnight ago. To this, Astarion gave a tired reply, "If anyone dares to threaten us, we will simply consume them too," and walked away.

This is what this life is, I figure—consuming until no conceivable end because, for us, there is none.

I fulfil my life's purpose by drinking myself silly behind the band of undead bards, hoping Astarion forgets about his favourite spawn. They play well—so well, in fact, that I become very forgetful myself, and I soon find that the night is enjoyable. Because the dirty work has been completed already, the animalistic scene of predator capturing and consuming its prey is replaced with richly-dressed highborns, counts, and master thieves laughing with abandon and parading elegantly about the palace with one or two gold and glittering goblets in between their long, pristine nails. From my corner, I watch them flutter about—sometimes literally fluttering in air to quickly exchange social groups—and smile to myself about how this is what life as a vampire is. This is what Astarion was kept from all those years, forced to be in a far worse position than me. Astarion treats me with dignity, unlike Cazador, I convince myself, and even if he didn't, he would still deserve this night and the joy that radiates off the crushed scarlet lining the walls and floor. I deserve none of this night, really, even after all the hard work put into it, but I drink more anyway and find myself on a balcony a few hours before sunrise.

The night is cooler than those leading to The Netherbrain's defeat, but, unlike before, a serene peace washes over all parts of the city. I look to the recovering Upper City and send a silent prayer to ghosts—one for my father, one for my sister, and even one for the drow my father chose over us. They are buried under the rubble alongside my old bed and books, and I am here, caught in the eternal night's chill, never to find my family again.

I am unsure of whom to pity more.

The light of the crescent moon kisses my cheek softly, and I am taken from the thought of death to remember the living, wondering if any member of my old party is awake and delicately loved by Selûne tonight too. Shadowheart's voice echoes in my head from far away, wherever that may be, reassuring, "Wherever the moonmaiden's light touches, her followers will protect you from harm." I send up a prayer to the moon for Shadowheart, hoping that my thoughts of her find her in a good place where freedom has no cost.