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Morgana could admit that she’d been a bit startled when she first met Astarion. She had lived amongst the undead for over a century, and knew the look of a vampire spawn rather… intimately. But this one, this very beautiful and formerly Elven man, had been standing in the sun, beckoning her over, asking for her aid. After her ordeal on the Nautiloid, and waking up on the beach, undead had been the farthest thing from her mind. Something had been off about him, though. His voice was that of a well-educated man, but his eyes were sharp and observant; a charlatan if Morgana ever saw one.
Her first instinct had been to walk on by; with the parasite wiggling behind her eye, she really hadn’t had time. But when she tried to walk away, she found herself yanked to the ground with the spawn’s knife at her throat and his sinful voice whispering threats in her ear. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the glint of a familiar type of fangs as he struggled to hold onto her. Not overburdened with strength, and deaf to the threats of both Gale and Triscyne Morgana responded in the best way she could think of; she headbutted him. Her horns cracked against his skull, and she scrambled away as he cried out in pain.
Later, when their threats actually registered, she would look on the two other casters in a much more positive light. Triscyne had already been an immense help on the Nautiloid, the sorceress flinging blades of ice with frightening accuracy. Her threat of dancing on the spawn’s corpse had been quite colorful. Gale, the wizard, had also offered to incinerate him, and Morgana could appreciate a quick jump to violence when one’s friends were threatened.
The spawn—Astarion, she learned—had also been on the Nautiloid, and had also been infected with a parasite. Despite his initial abrasiveness, Morgana saw the flash of real fear and disgust when she explained what the worms in their heads would do. That same fear sat in her chest, squeezing around her every thought. She knew how to deal with undead, and having a vampire at her side could be useful. He seemed genuinely surprised when she offered for him to come along with their steadily growing group, but agreed readily.
After that, Morgana kept a close eye on him. He seemed more than a bit like her, used to using his wits to get in and out of trouble, but easily prone to violence if threatened. She could respect that. It also helped that he was very pretty, with an even nicer voice, for all he used it to complain about insects far too much. It was better than Lae’zel and Shadowheart’s hostile bickering at any rate.
When they found a dead boar not far from the last night’s camp, completely drained of blood, Morgana kept the two puncture wounds she’d noticed to herself. It was Astarion’s secret to tell, and while she was perfectly fine fighting beside a vampire, she didn’t know if the others would be, so it was probably for the best.
Until, one night, she awoke with Astarion bent over her, mouth open and fangs poised to strike. It took everything she had not to eldritch blast him across the camp.
Noticing her open eyes, he cursed, scrambling to his feet and backing away quickly. “No, no, it’s not what you think, I swear!”
Some of Morgana’s annoyance faded at the sound of real fear and panic in his voice. Even his perfect mask had cracked, the same apprehension showing briefly in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. “Relax, Astarion,” she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she stood. “I take it you haven’t been able to hunt up another wild boar?”
Astarion stopped, expression going blank before shifting into obvious and open confusion. “You knew?” he said, brows furrowed. “What, planning to hold the secret over me?”
Morgana sighed. “I don’t blame you for thinking that.” She held out her open palms in a peaceful gesture. “But no. You’re a smart man and have probably noticed my magic isn’t from a Fiend Patron. I can’t give details but it’s not some ancient eldritch horror sleeping beyond the stars, and it’s not from the Celestial Plane or the Shadowfell. It’s something that, as an Elf, you should be slightly familiar with.” She raised her eyebrows pointedly, hoping he had enough brain-cells to make the connection.
“Ah, Fey. But what does that have to do with—”
“There are vampire Archfey among the Unseelie,” she continued. “I’ve had other spawn as friends before this, before I came back to Baldur’s Gate. It would have been dangerous for them to expose themselves out here on this Plane, so I wasn’t about to do that to you.”
She was… kinder than he’d first realized. And it almost felt like she was treating him with actual respect. It was a bit of a conundrum. While he hadn’t intended to give into his desperation that night, he had still been intending on manipulating his way into Morgana’s good graces, to ingratiate himself to her. Now, it appeared that he wouldn’t have to work too hard at that.
And despite that, something about her still unsettled him. People didn’t just… care. There was always some other motive, some hidden scheme. But she didn’t have the look, the sound, or even the smell of the type of person to attempt to manipulate him in such a way. He was quite familiar with that type of person, and even though it had only been a week or so, he wasn’t entirely convinced that Morgana was the cutthroat she appeared to be.
Necessity had made him a keen observer, and Astarion had been watching all of his new companions very closely. Morgana came off similarly to himself on first presentation. Sharp, cunning, always ready with some sarcastic barb. Hells, her first reaction to his knife at her throat had been to smash her horned head against his own much softer skull. She was vicious in a fight too and had been just as skilled with a bow as her magic in that skirmish with the Goblins outside the gate. She also hadn’t blinked when another Tiefling slaughtered a captive goblin, and didn’t bat an eye at the way Lae’zel interrogated Zorru, even seemed to approve a little.
And yet she had been ready to fight the druid woman for that little girl. She may have been all cool words and gentle persuasion, but Astarion had seen the steel in her, her smile showing her own fags. She’d have gone for the druid’s throat if she hadn’t released the girl, he was certain. And the boy with the Harpies, she’d yanked him back to safety and started a fight to defend him without blinking.
She had the sort of kindness that a person was born with. She seemed like the type of person that was born just wanting to help others, to make the world better. But then the world had gotten a hold of her, kindness becoming a weakness. She was a kind person who had been made bitter by the world, equally at home with violence as she was with song and merrymaking.
“And you… don’t care?” he finally said. “You’ve just… been traveling with and sleeping next to a vampire for days without a care in the world?”
“You’re no more likely to slit my throat in my sleep than any of the others, except maybe Lae’zel,” Morgana said with a shrug. “You’ve had plenty of chances to kill me and you haven’t. I wouldn’t necessarily trust you with my life, but I trust you to do what’s best for your own well-being, which, at the moment, means traveling and working together.”
“That’s… very pragmatic,” he said, unable to deny her logic. He looked back up, meeting her eyes again. “Do you… do you think you could trust me a little further?" His voice had the undertone of uncertainty, but it was quickly gone under his veneer of humility, practiced mask slipping back into place. “I only need a taste, I swear.” He almost sounded like a child begging for a sweet.
Morgana didn’t believe that for a second. The irony was not lost in her that he was now, in fact, asking her to trust him with her life. She had absolutely no idea how long he’d been a spawn or how much control he actually had over himself when drinking. She knew from experience that young spawn could easily get carried away and drain a victim when they had only meant to take a swallow or two.
Scrubbing a hand over her face, she nodded. “Fine. But not a drop more than you need.”
Astarion found himself surprised yet again. He’d fully expected her to give a firm rejection to the idea, but maybe offer to hunt him something. “Really?” he said before he could stop himself. Then, regaining control, “of course. Not one drop more.” A smile crossed his face, something more to it than just hunger. This would probably have been a better idea if he didn’t have such a damn nice voice. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?” he said, indicating her bedroll.
Oh, that voice was definitely going to be a problem. Morgana was old enough to know herself quite well. She knew her likes, dislikes, and that if someone had a nice voice, they had a way of worming their way into her thoughts whether she liked it or not. Him gesturing back at her bedroll with such grace wasn’t that helpful either. But she had already agreed, and preferred to keep her word when she could. So lay back down she did, chest tightening with what could easily be either excitement or anxiety.
Astarion crouched over her, and their eyes locked for a moment as he braced his hands to either side of her head. Her eyes were so strange; pitch black sclera and those half-glowing purple irises. They tracked him, searching his face intently. But she didn’t stop him, didn’t try to scoot away. If he’d had a pulse, Astarion was quite certain that it would have been racing. It had been beaten into him never to drink the blood of thinking creatures, of people, and yet here one was, offering herself to him.
He made the mistake of looking down at her neck, her purple-tinged skin taking on a warm glow in the firelight. He could almost imagine seeing her pulse fluttering in her neck. Instinct took over, and he struck, fangs easily puncturing her soft flesh. It felt like a shard of ice in her neck, Morgana’s body instantly going rigid as she fought the instinctive urge to get away, breath hitching audibly. The pain slowly faded, becoming a strange, throbbing sort of numbness.
Perhaps someone else would have pushed him away after just a moment, after a single swallow. But Morgana knew what she could give. She had felt this before, the same heart-racing feeling. Her blood, the very essence of her life, her existence, flowing between the two of them. She felt him bite down a little harder, lips sealed around her neck as he cupped the back of her head, lifting her closer and off the bedroll.
Morgana could smell him, his entire being filling her senses. Bergamot and something herbal, his skin cool where her hand had grabbed his forearm. She was fighting to stay present, to not lose herself in the pleasant memories of another person—another spawn—in another time during a similar such act. The numb feeling began to spread, darkness eating at the corners of her vision. She’d let him have too much.
She tasted like heaven, her blood all smoke and spice with something bright and magical underneath. Did all tieflings taste like this? All warlocks? The distant part of his brain not overcome with hunger felt her hand on his arm, her breath hitching into a little whine in his ear. His own vision was going hazy, jaw tightening over her neck.
“Enough,” Morgana said, forcing the breathlessness from her voice and shoving at his shoulder.
There was an instant where he didn’t want to let go, where the faintest growl reached her ears. But then he was disengaging, coming to his feet and almost staggering back. But Morgana hadn’t missed the dilation of his pupils, or the fact that there was half an instant where he wasn’t steady on his feet.
“Ah, of course,” he said, sounding as breathless as Morgana felt, “I was just… caught up in the moment.”
Morgana supposed he was being truthful, even if his choice of words downplayed the fact that he would probably have drunk her dry if she’d let him. She took stock of herself. She felt a little woozy, and her neck was sore, but those feelings had mostly pleasant associations in her memory so she wasn’t exactly upset about it. She considered Astarion again. He really did seem like a younger spawn, though ‘young’ was a matter of interpretation. That and he’d clearly been an Elf before, so who knew how old he was when he was turned.
“But,” Astarion continued, “it worked. I feel good. Strong.” He looked down at his hands, and smile curled his lips. Some of the wariness had left his eyes, and they seemed almost… rounder? “Happy.” While there was something sharp to the expression, Morgana was sure that it was the first genuine smile that she’d seen on him. He was even prettier when he was happy. “Now, you are absolutely invigorating, but I need something more… filling.”
His body language had completely changed. He stood taller now, movements more confident and graceful. She knew that look; a freshly fed vampire, even a spawn, was truly something to behold in a fight. She grinned back at him. “Just try not to decimate the local animal population. Us mortals still have to hunt for our food tomorrow.”
“I’ll do my best, darling, but no promises,” he said, giving her a wicked grin over his shoulder, stalking off into the night, the perfect image of a sanguine hunter.
Once she was sure that he was far beyond earshot, Morgana dropped back to her bedroll with a thump, pulling her knees to her chest and staring into the slowly dwindling fire. Her heart was still racing, and despite the depleted supply, her blood was singing. She’d missed this feeling she realized.
And the way he said darling…
“I guess it's a good thing I didn't clobber him?”
Morgana's head snapped up, realizing that she wasn’t as alone as she had thought. Triscyne stood on the other side of the campfire, her platinum hair and scales glinting in the soft orange firelight. Her eyes were cautious, but sharp. It was clear she wasn't sure how to feel about what she had just witnessed.
“Y-yeah...” Morgana muttered, embarrassment creeping up on her. “What are you up so late for anyway?” she asked, then immediately cringed when she heard the excessive defensiveness in her voice.
She had expected the sorceress to pry further, but was surprised to see a blush on her cheeks beyond that cast by the flickering flames, even her scales taking on a slightly pink hue.
“I… erm,” Triscyne stuttered before finding her voice. “Gale thought he could convince me of the superiority of wizardry... by... channeling the weave... with me.” The forced loathing in her voice sounded hollow even to herself.
Morgana cocked an eyebrow at her. “Trying to weave your fates together?” she said, flashing a pointy grin.
Triscyne groaned and shook her head. “I’m going to go jump in the stream. You try not to do anything else that reckless tonight.”
Once she disappeared into the brush Morgana flopped back on her bedroll. Triscyne was right; this had been an objectively stupid thing to do by most people’s standards. You didn’t go around letting strange vampire spawn bite you, not when it was clear that they didn’t have the best control. Gods, was she the first sentient being he’d fed on? There was the echo of something for her in his hunger, something she shoved away as quickly as she recognized it.
She’d just have to make sure that the rest of the party accepted him enough to let him feed on enemies as well. At least Tris hadn’t sounded the alarm or roused a hoard of villagers with torches and pitchforks, so that was nice. She also wasn’t surrounded by vampire experts anymore to keep her in a supply of potions to replenish her blood. Healing potions worked a little, and so did some spells, but she wasn’t about to pester Shadowheart for a lesser restoration every morning.