Chapter Text
As much as Church hopes to return to the Goblin Camp to continue their search for Halsin, Zevlor’s runner from the grove quickly changes those plans.
Leaving the camp under the ever-watchful eye of Withers, Shadowheart leads half of their camp to continue searching for Halsin, while Church leads the other half in pursuing Kagha’s mysterious contact. It’s an odd group — Wyll, Lae’zel, and Astarion. He had hoped to keep Karlach close to him, but there was no way he was going to let Lae’zel and Shadowheart be stuck together without his supervision. He had hoped that Astarion would go with Shadowheart to help with any stealth or lockpicking tasks, but the elf insists on joining his group instead.
“You only got into Kagha’s chest because of me,” the rogue says pointedly. “What if there’s some other lock or trap? It may be all that stands between you culling that snake and bringing the whole grove down on top of us!”
There are some… distractions along the way towards the wetlands. Believing themselves to have found a shortcut, they instead find themselves inside the cave of a territorial owlbear and her cub. Church barely talks them out of her claws with a series of magic-assisted chirps, hoots, and growls. At the very least, they snag a bit of Selûnite treasure on their way out… for which Church is quite grateful Shadowheart isn’t present.
“Didn’t that Auntie Ethel character say that she lives down this way?” Astarion remarks as they return to the trail. “Perhaps we could call on her. I don’t know about you, but I could use a laugh…”
As soon as they enter the lush, green wetlands, it immediately becomes apparent to Church that the whole area isn’t what it seems. The sun shines warm and idyllic, with sheep happily ambling around the puddles and streams. But there is a far too familiar, otherworldly odor that slips through the lovely veneer.
“Oh,” Church sighs. “This reeks of Fey magic.”
“How do you—?” Wyll begins, already leaning down to pet one of the sheep.
“Because I live it,” Church mutters. “Sorry, friends — enjoy this for two seconds more before it’s gone.”
He reaches for the Weave, drawing away the illusion like a gooey curtain. The sunlit wetlands melt into a putrid bog, the rank odor permeating the party’s nostrils. What was once serene bird calls and trickling water gives way to buzzing, croaking, and the sickly belching of stagnant waters. Most notably, the sheep in front of Wyll is now a surly-looking Redcap, glowering up at the visitors — knife in hand.
“...bahhhhhhhh,” he growls, not having realized he no longer looks like a sheep.
Church rolls his eyes, before taking a deep breath and unleashing it in an even louder, “BAAAAAAAAAAAHHH.”
Wyll, Lae’zel, and Astarion watch, impressed, as the grumbling Redcap stands down. He tromps away grumbling, but not before shooting over his shoulder —
“Tainted bitch!”
Church blinks after him, taken aback.
“Well, that was rude,” Astarion remarks in scandalized amusement. “What the devil is he referring to?”
“My… patron is not exactly beloved among the fey,” Church frowns. “But also generally not very well-known. Curious.”
“Is this another one of your so-called ‘warlock problems?’” Lae’zel mutters to Wyll.
“‘Warlock problems’ indeed,” Wyll affirms. “Devils are one thing, but an archfey? You would be surprised what sort of hells they can unleash on their own.”
—
It’s a miracle that between swatting at insects Astarion can notice any of the swamp’s traps at all. Thanks to him, the trek through the swamp is miserable, but survivable.
After fending off a few wood woads and multitudes of mud mephits, they manage to recover the Shadow Druids’ incriminating message to Kagha, stowed within a crevice of an ancient tree. It should be enough to discredit Kagha from leadership, and potentially keep the tieflings from getting expelled from the grove. If successful, it would certainly buy them enough time to figure out their next move.
Church wants to hurry back to the grove, but the ever-shifting swamp keeps their trek slow and cautious. It certainly doesn’t help that they are all positively encrusted in caustic mud and splinters.
“Hold—!” Wyll whispers sharply. “There’s someone ahead.”
Sure enough, a man with a veritable mane of hair sits upon a rock nearby, his pack open beside him. He glances warily around as he maintains his heavy crossbow.
“Is this another fey?” Lae’zel growls warily.
Astarion wrinkles his nose. “No. Something fouler.”
Even amid the putrid bog, there is another scent in the air — something rank, metallic, and sickly sweet emanating from the man.
“Ah, stranger!” calls the man, genially. “Forgive the aroma.”
He stands as they approach, smiling.
“Powdered iron-vine,” he explains apologetically. “An old hunter’s trick — most monsters will think twice before making a meal of me.”
“You’re… a monster hunter?” Astarion pipes up lightly from behind Church. “I’m surprised — I thought all Gur were vagrant cut-throats!”
Church shoots him a tired look. He’s encountered a few Gur in the past himself, and they were a friendly, albeit righteous lot.
But the man simply chortles. “And more! We steal chickens, curse your crops, seduce your daughters — the list goes on.” He gestures down at himself. “I wish I had half the power settled folk think my people possess. Alas, I am a simple wanderer. A simple wanderer and a monster hunter. But I’m no witchdoctor or cut-throat.”
“What monster are you hunting?” Church asks curiously. He smiles back at the hunter, but through the tadpole he feels how tense Astarion is, despite the rogue maintaining a nonchalant pose and expression.
Astarion sniffs. “Something terrifying, no doubt. Dragon? Cyclops?” he smirks mockingly. “Kobold?”
“Nothing so dramatic,” the man chuckles. “I’m hunting for a vampire spawn.”
Church feels a sharp, cold burn in his chest. He exchanges a quick, nervous glance with Astarion as the elf’s amused expression instantly drops.
The hunter continues, none the wiser. “His name is Astarion, but I fear he’s gone to ground.” He gestures up the inclined path. “I hope the hag of these lands can help me flush him out, if I can afford her blood price.”
A hag? That certainly explains the fey magic, but Church will have to put a pin in that for later…
While Church feels anxiety emanating from Astarion, he also feels another stronger emotion alongside it — curiosity. And so, the warlock reaches inward towards the fey magic in his bones, summoning it forth to coat his tongue in a charm as he speaks. “Well, we have been fortunate enough not to meet any vampire spawn on our travels, let alone an… Astarion, was it? Perhaps he is long gone?”
The man’s eyes unfocus for a moment, but he nods, defeatedly. “Perhaps,” he concedes. “But at the very least I can pick up his trail. I have no choice but to find him.”
“And when you find this ‘Astarion,’ what do you intend to do?” Church asks, cautiously prodding for information. “Kill him?”
“Not this time,” the man says, fiddling with his crossbow as his brow furrows. “My orders are to capture him.”
“Oh?” Astarion says, lightly.
“Stop talking!” Church tries to warn him through their parasites. “You’re drawing attention to yourself…!”
All he receives back is annoyance as a wincing Astarion continues to ask, “And bring him where, exactly?”
There is the briefest stammer in the elf’s forced, casual tone.
“Baldur’s Gate,” the Gur replies. “My people wait for me there.”
Church winces as he feels Astarion’s panic bleed into his mind. He sees fleeting images of armed Gur, slicing at him, stomping upon him… The elf maintains his cocky, confident stance and expression, but beneath it all…
Church feels Astarion’s terror.
Whatever happens, this man cannot take him.
“He won’t take you,” Church reassures Astarion, but he allows the parasite to broadcast itself to the uneasy Wyll and Lae’zel as well. “I won’t let him.”
Their own minds pulse in cautious support.
Church continues to tangle his tongue into the Weave.
“If you’re a monster hunter, then you know hags,” Church tells the Gur, the persuasive charm layered thick upon his voice. “Is a curse truly worth finding only a mere spawn? Why don’t you just go home?”
The man frowns before chuckling, bitterly. “‘Going home’ is simply not an option, until I have completed my task.” He sighs, gravely. “Believe me, I know the risks of making a deal with a hag, but for the task entrusted to me? It would be worth whatever blood price.”
“Well, ah…” Church stammers a little. “Don’t you have friends or family who would miss…?”
“Hang on—!” the man says sharply, raising his crossbow. His eyes narrow at Astarion as he fights against the fog of the fey charm. “You fit the description I was given… hells, how —?”
Twin bursts of eldritch blast erupt from Church’s hands in an instant, smashing the man backwards against the rock.
“Church!” Wyll exclaims in dismay. “No, this isn’t—!”
“Reckless!” Lae’zel scolds him in disapproval.
But when the tiefling warlock looks over to Astarion, his mouth is grim and his eyes are black and smoky as he wordlessly gives the vampire spawn the smallest of nods.
“Excellent,” Astarion breathes, flicking out his dagger.
The Gur pants, staggering to his feet.
“You—!” he yelps, firing a bolt from his crossbow. Astarion parries it easily as he knocks the Gur prone, yanking his head back by his hair with a vicious grin.
“Wait!” Church shouts, far too late.
“You should have gone home,” the vampire spawn snarls, before plunging his fangs into his neck.
Instantly, Astarion chokes and gags, reeling backwards from the Gur as the man groans, his neck spurting pungent blood.
“Hells, what?” Church exclaims from nearby, but Astarion merely snarls as he dives back at the man, plunging his dagger into his heart, his stomach, his eye socket…
The hunter has already stilled completely long before the elf is done with him.
Astarion pants for a minute, and then he doubles over and retches. The blood that he spits out sizzles black upon the earth.
“Astarion?” Church calls, alarmed as he approaches him. “What’s happening?”
“...fucking Gur!” Astarion groans.
And then he collapses.
—
Back at camp, even after Shadowheart has healed him, Astarion still looks exhausted — grayer and paler than before, his veins inflamed and stark against his skin. As the others chat and collect their food for the evening, he gazes resentfully from where he sits outside of his tent.
Church feels conflicted about the conversation to come, but in his heart he knows it needs to happen. He approaches the vampire spawn, a bowl of stew in hand. “Hey?”
“Well, hello,” Astarion greets him, loftily. “What can I do for you?”
Church gestures at him. “How are you feeling?”
Astarion opens his mouth, and then he begins to rethink his words as he complains. “Like garbage, if I’m honest. I still feel that vile blood inside of me, somehow.”
Church hums sympathetically. “How… did it taste?”
“I don’t know! Perhaps something like… pure bile?” Astarion grimaces. “The worst part was the feeling — like the blood just burned me all the way down.”
“He… did tell us first thing about the ironvine,” Church reminds him, pointedly. “He was prepared, being a monster hunter, after all.”
Astarion huffs a laugh. “Not anymore, which is all that matters, really.”
“Do you have any idea why he was hunting you?” the warlock asks him, tentatively. “Or who gave him his orders?”
Astarion is silent for a moment.
“Yes,” he finally mutters, grimly. “It seems Cazador wants me back.”
Church shivers a little. He remembers the high-pitched laughter and searing blade in his shared memory, still. “You’re sure Cazador’s behind this?”
“It was him, I’m sure,” Astarion insists, bitterly. “Only he would know to send the Gur after me.”
Church hesitates. “During the conversation...you showed me something about that, didn’t you?”
Astarion nods. “It was a group of Gur that attacked me that night in Baldur’s Gate.
“I would’ve died had Cazador not appeared and saved me,” he admits in a mumble, glancing away.
“‘Saved’ you… by turning you into a vampire slave?” the warlock raises an eyebrow.
“Well, he didn’t mention the ‘slave’ clause at the time,” Astarion scoffs, flourishing a hand. “And now he sends a Gur monster hunter for me? It’s a message. He’s reminding me of his power.” His eyes go distant, before hardening once more. “Even in the middle of nowhere, he can reach me. And he wants me back.”
“But why would he want to capture you alive?” Church asks. “Why not just kill you?”
“Maybe he wants to make an example of me. To show what happens to runaways.” He chuckles, darkly. “It wouldn’t be the first time. He likely thinks death would be too good for me.”
Church frowns, poking at his dinner. “Well, you’re not alone anymore.” He looks up at Astarion, eyes blazing and earnest in the low light of the distant campfire. “Astarion… we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye. But I swear, you’ll be safe with me.”
Astarion laughs derisively out loud at that.
“‘Safe?’” he exclaims, scornfully. “Nowhere is safe from him. No one. Not you, and especially not me.
“Do you even know the power a vampire lord possesses? He can change shape; turn into mist; call wolves to do his bidding; shrug off blows like they’re nothing,” he titters, hysterically. “He could walk into our camp tonight and kill you with his bare hands. And you’d be lucky if death was the worst thing that happened to you.”
“Fine, then,” Church says, taking a bite of his stew. “But you’d be stupid to think I’d simply let him take you back. So, what would you suggest we do instead?”
“First, we have to — uh…” Astarion waffles. “...I don’t know!” he says petulantly. “If we kill his lackeys, he’ll just send more. We just have to be vigilant. Keep our wits about us. And kill any monster hunters on sight.”
Church sighs, setting his bowl down on the ground and staring at it, contemplatively.
He can’t hold off any longer.
“Astarion,” he says softly. “I… need to tell you something.”
The elf raises his eyebrows at him, a bemused smirk flickering to his face as he leers at the tiefling. “Oh? And what’s that, you sweet thi—?”
“I know you didn’t tell me the whole truth.”
The spawn blinks at him, his smile disappearing.
“...what?”
Church hesitates.
He had waited for Wyll and Lae’zel to drag Astarion away, out of earshot, before he reached into his pack and slipped on the Amulet of Lost Voices. With a resigned whisper and gesture, he raised the Gur hunter into the air. The warlock knew that he wouldn’t like the answers, but still he spoke to him.
His name was Gandrel.
“Why did you need to find Astarion?” he asked.
“Our children…” he had rasped. “He knows… where they are…”
Church asked him another question.
And another… and another…
The tiefling looks into the elf's eyes, searching.
“Where are the Gur children, Astarion?” Church asks him, quietly.
Astarion blinks at him, eyes round and startled.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think Cazador sent him,” Church says, troubled. “We made a mista—”
“You don’t know shit!” Astarion spits at him, staggering to his feet. But then he groans, collapsing back down to a seat upon the ground.
Church continues to watch him, a crease in his brow. The warlock isn’t angry. He isn’t frustrated. He’s just… tired.
And he can tell that Astarion feels tired too — not just exhausted by the Gur’s poison, but by… everything. The fear of him grips the vampire spawn still.
“...I brought them to Cazador,” he admits, not looking back at the warlock. Church nods.
“I thought that might be the case,” he admits, softly. “So they’re dead?”
“Almost certainly,” Astarion sighs in reply.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” the vampire spawn says lightly, dismissively. “I did what I had to in order to survive. I always have.”
“I know,” Church replies quietly. “I saw. But I’m still sorry.”
He’s no longer particularly enthused about eating more of his dinner, so he just sits there beside Astarion in silence. The elf shifts in his seat, wincing. The tiefling hopes that his company is, at the very least, not unpleasant.
“Clearly you still need to rest,” Church says, changing the subject. “But… I was wondering…” he hesitates. “Would… blood… help you?” He clears his throat as he clarifies, “My blood.”
Astarion perks up a bit, cautiously. “Perhaps... are you offering?”
“Yes,” Church says, before he can change his mind.
“Well, then,” Astarion says coyly. “You sweet thing. There is nothing I’d like more.”
He leans conspiratorially, confidently towards the tiefling, as if the previous conversation hadn’t even happened. “I shall come by your tent tonight, when you’re all snugly wrapped in your bedroll, and we can have a little privacy…
“And this time I’ll make sure I’m quiet,” he adds, reassuringly. “We don’t want to disturb your rest.”
Church eyes him nervously. “...I’d rather be conscious, if it’s all the same to you.”
Astarion regards him, amused. “But of course you would,” he smirks knowingly. Church flushes.
“Astarion. This isn’t for me, it’s for you,” he insists, stiffly.
“Oh yes,” the elf replies idly. “But who says you’re not allowed to enjoy it too? Anyways, later on, when we are… at rest, I will eat you right up.” he smiles at Church’s mortified face. “Just enough to give me strength, and just enough to leave you wishing for more.
“Now, off you go,” Astarion waves him away, haughtily. “And finish that food of yours. You’ll want to keep up your strength up, after all.”
—
Church paces anxiously by the campfire long after most of the others have retired to their tents.
Astarion has been gone for a while now…
The tiefling gives up on waiting and heads back to his tent. Surely he’s not already there?
With a wave of a hand he illuminates the inside with a cantrip. Empty — for now.
Perhaps the elf is simply bathing, or even hunting for an appetizer.
Church sits nervously atop his bedroll, fidgeting. After a long minute, he picks up his journal and flips to a sketch he’s been poking at of Karlach — raging, resplendent, and aflame. He simply can’t do justice to her muscles…
“Why hello, darling.”
Astarion slips into his tent, blinking lazily down at him. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”
Church closes his journal and looks up at the elf, unimpressed. He has been waiting long, and Astarion knows it.
“Come on,” the tiefling says tersely, tilting his head to the side as his heart hammers. “Just do it.”
“You sure know how to set the mood,” Astarion says dryly as he crouches down beside him. As he moves, the fragrance of him wafts from his clothes, already making Church lightheaded in anticipation. “Not going to lie down?”
“…I’d prefer this,” the tiefling says stiffly, pulling down his collar. He hopes he won’t have to wash blood out of it. Again.
Astarion shrugs.
“It’s all the same to me,” he murmurs, scooting close. “Relax, darling.”
“I am relaxing,” Church grumbles through gritted teeth.
Astarion hums dubiously, his gaze oddly wary and sincere as it levels with Church’s.
“Trust me, from experience… it’ll hurt less if you actually relax.” His hands reach up to cradle the tiefling’s jaw and grasp his shoulder, pulling the stretch of neck towards him. “I’ll only be a moment.”
Church shivers at the puff of his breath upon his sensitive skin, but before he can respond, Astarion’s fangs punch soundly into his neck.
“Ghkk!” the tiefling grunts, tensing.
Astarion’s hands squeeze him gently, and Church frantically reminds himself to relax. He tries. He really tries. But there’s an admittedly beautiful elf latched onto the side of his throat, his torso pressed up against the tiefling’s back as he holds him close, pulsing against him as he drinks…
Church grunts as the pain gives way to numbness, and then… lightheaded euphoria. He finally finds himself relaxing, and soon the elf’s fingers brush soothingly across his buzzing skin.
“—Church?”
The warlock blinks up to see Astarion, watching him curiously from above. He realizes with a start that he’s somehow lying flat on his back in his bedroll, head still buzzing.
“What happened?” he groans.
“You had a little faint,” Astarion says mildly. “I told you that you should have lied down.”
“Alright,” Church nods. “I’ll remember that for next time.”
Astarion takes a surprised beat before a smirk spreads across his lips. “Next time?”
The warlock sighs. “That… is what I said, isn’t it,” he mutters, almost to himself.
Astarion hums, pleased. “Then I will look forward to seeing you… next time,” he purrs.
He leaves Church on top of his bedroll, staring up at the canvas of his tent and cursing himself.
—
Church tries not to think of the elf at his neck at all.
Not when the elf sends an arrow right over his shoulder to disrupt a Shadow Druid’s spell.
Not when the elf leans right up against him, murmuring into his ear to point out a trap.
Not when the warlock finds himself sketching the rogue in his journal during some rare downtime, tracing light lines of graphite around a head of floaty locks of pale hair, sharp eyes, and a quirked smile…
And especially not that evening when the tiefling notices the elf leaning towards and murmuring lasciviously at their Githyanki companion. To his surprise, the two of them are smiling at each other with hungry intent.
The tiefling is appalled. What in the hells? Lae’zel was just literally at his throat the other night…
…but perhaps Astarion is into that. If so, Church knows he certainly isn’t one to talk as he reflexively massages at his own neck.
He curses himself. He was stupid to think that he was anything more than a passing fancy to the elf. Now that he has tasted Church twice, no doubt he has grown bored. Perhaps he’s finally ready to move on to sampling the Amnan liqueur that is Lae’zel.
When they return to camp, he tries to ignore the sound of Astarion murmuring something soft and silky to an amused Lae’zel.
Fine. Good for them, Church supposes.
He’s glad Lae’zel has something to smile about. He has been on edge ever since he had to deescalate a tense, potentially deadly night between her and Shadowheart. Perhaps Astarion would be a good enough distraction to keep them all from killing each other. If so, he can’t fault either of them for that.
The warlock has far bigger things on his plate — and, tonight, someone else on his mind.
“Tavi,” he mutters aloud, examining the artefact in his hands. “What… happened to you?”
The artefact doesn’t even glow in response.
“Have you been alone this whole time?” Church asks it anyways, his voice breaking.