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It starts off as a test of her own skills. The way the vampire reacts in battle suggests his perception is as good as, if not better than her own. From her vantage point she watches him catch arrows and throw them back, avoid swift feints and react to invisible enemies even though he shouldn't be able to detect them using his normal senses. He still gets hit - no one can dodge everything. But part of her perceives his growing blood-fuelled abilities as an unspoken challenge between the two of them. So she comes up with a game for her own entertainment more than anything. The rules of the game are simple. Sneak up on the spawn in camp and score a non lethal hit - no potions, no magic, and no cheating allowed.
He spots the ranger easily the first few times when they camp by the Grove, skulking around the back of his tent to try and touch his shoulder while he reads. The third time he catches her out he starts to wonder whether he should have tried harder to stab her when they first met. I thought I told you not to touch me.
'Now just what are you playing at?' He bristles, and under his withering glare she pulls back. A hint of embarrassment at her failure stroking his pride as she struggles to pull her words together.
'I wanted to see if I could.'
'Sneak up on me?'
'Yes.' Honesty again? Internally he shudders but the carefully cultivated facade moves into thinking pose number two as he considers. She could definitely use the practice. And if he trains her he'll know exactly how to counter her efforts should she turn on him. Because they always do at the end.
'Fine, how about a wager to add a little frisson to our game?'
'What's a frisson?' Her shame lies forgotten as suspicion overtakes it instead. A strange thing to remember that Common probably wasn't her first language.
'A little excitement my dear. I mean I should be getting something out of this arrangement too, no?'
'You have a suggestion I take it?'
'If I win - and I will - you owe me one favour, details to be determined at a later date.'
'Provided it doesn't involve anything illegal or murder without adequate cause. Waterdeep's Code Legal to be used as a basis for the definition of illegal, with allowances for local or dimensional variations.' From the sounds of things this wasn't the first time she's rattled off such conditions, but ten minutes with a copy of the Code Legal and he'd probably be able to find a way around it.
'Fine, but I repeat my assertion that you're no fun. Just like the rest of this abominable mess we find ourselves in.'
'And if I win, I wish for the same.' She smiles, the damned Drow was amused at him. Oh but we aim to please.
After a few days the companions start to notice and ask to join in on her nightly attempts as a distraction from their impending doom. Karlach is the first to volunteer in the Underdark, tiptoeing towards Astarion's tent murmuring 'Stealth mode: activated...' under her breath. They don't hear anything further until a series of profanities stream from around the corner and she stomps past them with what looks like leftover porridge dripping down her hair and over her clothes. 'Bastard booby trapped his tent, wasn't even there!!!' As the Tiefling goes to wash herself off they see the telltale burst of light and screams of her rage.
Gale's attempt in the Adamantine forge involved a harness cobbled together from several hundred metres of rope running over a wheel from one of the lift mechanisms. Suspended up high, facing downwards and with nothing but Karlach's strength standing between him and a speedy descent to the metal floor Gale was visibly sweating. She lowered him slowly, noiselessly. The mechanism turned smoothly even as old as it was. And then when he was no more than a few metres above the vampire, Astarion jumped - landing on top of the hapless Gale with his legs latched around the dangling rope. A few odd motions later and it was clear he was trying to turn Gale into some form of human swing. He'd actually worked up a decent arc before the rope snapped from their combined weight and they landed on top of each other. Gale waggled his fingers at Astarion's laughter in anger, for once lacking the words to vent his fury and soon retired to his tent. Grabbing a bottle of wine from Astarion's collection on the way.
In Rivington they camp by the Gur despite Astarion's discomfort but they'd need to move somewhere in the city soon, if only to shorten the amount of walking they had to do while injured. He looks at the group scattered around the camp wearing an assortment of clothes and armour of varying fit and quality. Dammon had done his best to adjust the items they'd found back at Last Light but they hadn't seen him since then. Shadowheart in particular had taken on a very curious gait after donning Ketheric's armour, what's worse was that it was starting to affect her skills in battle. She needed a good few inches taken from the side of the chest piece, and the curvature of the cuisses altered to her much slimmer figure. The Grymskull Helm whilst effective (and more importantly dramatic), also obscured her field of vision. Orin had taken and probably murdered the only blacksmith they'd managed to find so he hoped they could find another willing to give them a discount. The amount of money they'd likely have to spend on quality equipment here was worrying. More than once he'd offered his services but no one seemed open to thievery, even Shadowheart said if she stole off someone it would be after she'd killed them. An approach that he knew wouldn't work quite so well with city vendors.
Somewhere in the distance his ears pick up a staccato on stone that doesn't belong. A subtle whoosh behind him as he casually steps to the side and watches Boo land right where he was standing. If it's possible for a miniature space hamster to look sheepish this must be what it looks like. He kneels down, scratching gently behind Boo's ear while Minsc and Ayla clamber down from the barn roof where no doubt they'd been hiding for hours.
'Now Boo, wouldn't you like to spend more time with a better class of person? One who knows the difference between fish and red meat at least...' He stands as they arrive, observing what he thinks might be the hamster seriously considering his options. 'Good. I'll be here when you make the right choice.'
'Boo! Do not listen to Cloudy Locks. Beware those sweet words hiding his vicious, vicious bite.' Minsc scoops up the hamster, using his hands to shield it from Astarion's amused grin while he walks back to their campfire.
'How do you do it?' Ayla asks him as Minsc departs. They'd been trying for weeks and it didn't look like they'd even come close. The group was growing stronger with each battle but it was uncanny how he'd managed to avoid every one of them. Different people, timings, methods, locations. None of the factors had changed the outcomes. Even Arabella had been caught, Astarion making a show of tripping over nothing in his tent to "accidentally" splash a bottle of ink all over the invisible Tiefling.
'Darling, my vampire senses are a wonderful thing, but if you keep aiming for my blind spot I'm always going to be watching for it. You should have made an attempt when my guard was down.'
'I didn't know that was something it did.'
'That is true, and the main reason I've survived as long as I have.'
'Someday we'll catch you unawares.'
'And I shall look forward to it, otherwise a certain someone is going to owe me something absolutely priceless.'
'We agreed no stealing remember?'
'Oh I know, though it doesn't count as stealing if the item in question has been given freely right?'
'Just what are you planning on doing, Astarion?'
'Winning.' The smirk he gives her as he says it deserves an arrow in the foot. They could spare a potion to heal him, maybe two? He was right though. She'd been treating it as just a game, but this was a hunt, and all she needed to do was find the right bait.
While Astarion soaks himself in the bathtub he hears the chorus of goodbyes as everyone goes to the lower floor of the Elfsong for drinks. Then the door clicks shut behind them and he's left with a very difficult decision. Which bath oil to use? They all look questionable in origin, the dusty bottles on the shelf not giving him much confidence. When he opens them the contents make him gag and he shoves the corks back in so forcefully that none of the cork remains above the lip of the bottles to grab. Good, no one should open those rancid things again. Instead he spends a goodly amount of time with a scrubbing brush removing the dirt and blood from underneath his fingernails. His hair had been washed with only a touch of soap but weeks on the road hadn't been kind to it, and unlike others in the party he couldn't just leave his crowning glory to air dry unattended. Maybe he could afford to spend a few gold on some pomade or hair oil tomorrow. For now the heat sinks deep into his bones and he can almost forget everything that's going on outside the doors to his new sanctuary. Almost.
Feeling like a new spawn he strolls through the rooms, amazed at the space they've managed to secure for themselves. All because people were suspicious about a little bit of death. What could I get for an inordinate amount of death I wonder? Gently he towels his hair dry but as he approaches his little corner of the room he sees a familiar stranger waiting for him.
Laying on his bed is a new set of clothes. The dark purple and blue Solemnity outfit he'd seen at Figaro's. Custom dyed with in house formulas not available to the general public and made from better quality fabrics without the ugly sheen of the cheap satins he'd seen on other copies being sold around the city. The pattern is just as he'd remembered it, an abstract floral that could only have come from the mind of a necromancer since it looks like winged bird skulls and little bats. Even the clasps are stylised owls. He's not overly fond of the buttons on the trousers but he can replace those easily enough. The bronze embroidery around the appliqué is pristine, the stitching even and robust enough for him to know that it will last if he takes care of it though he'd abandoned the idea of buying it as soon as he saw the price tag. He'd been tempted to steal it too but that would have been the most grievous sign of disrespect for its workmanship. Given the urgency of the Absolute what little money they had was better spent on armour and scrolls rather than something this frivolous. Yet here it was, practically begging him to try it on. The worn ruffles on his shirt look accusingly at him from his neckline. And then he feels a sudden tap on his shoulder and jerks to the side startled, turning only to see the ranger's elated grin.
'Ayla? What are you doing here?'
'Stalking my prey. I finally caught you.'
'This was a trap?!' He glares at the outfit as if it betrayed him, his shirt ruffles flaunting themselves as if to say I told you so.
'I had to lean on what I knew best.' She steps back and he notes she's wearing what must be a new robe. Pure white, twisting silver branches forming elegant bracers with gleaming red gems helpfully marking her pulse points.
'I can accept defeat graciously, I think. But only because it's you. The others still have a lot of work to do.' He tuts at the loss while she stands still, observing his reaction. 'It's beautiful.' He says, stroking the fabric fondly. 'Even so we should probably return it, we can't afford this - what about Helsik's ritual?' Amidst everything else going on the question lingered over who they should ally with; the Mindflayer who despite helping had lied to them consistently and whose motives were unknowable, Mystra who'd demanded that Gale sacrifice himself to earn her forgiveness, or the archdevil's son who wanted the crown to gain power in the hells. Both the remaining Chosen had approached them as well, asking them to betray the other one and control the Netherbrain by their side. Small wonder they hadn't been able to reach a decision yet.
'We don't have to do it. I'd rather stay out of the hells if possible, and I don't imagine Raphael would take too kindly to us invading his home either. Better to have one less enemy around here.'
'Would he take up a vendetta against us for not accepting the offer?'
'It's unlikely, devils are quite strict about their laws. If we don't take the Orphic hammer we aren't bound to his rules.' She certainly sounds convincing and the more he touches the clothes the more he wants to feel them against his skin. But something about it doesn't feel right, not when everything he had he'd had to take for himself. No one in this world gives things freely. There's always a price, she just hasn't told me hers yet.
'What's the catch?'
'Is there supposed to be one?' She asks, so he takes one of his default tactics, looking at her expectantly until she offers a better explanation. Though it only worked on her about a third of the time. 'It's a gift. It would have been worth it even if it hadn't helped me win our little game. I saw the way you looked at it in Figaro's. Besides it's already been adjusted to fit you and if there's a chance we're going to die any day now I'm going to be comfortable. I'd like you to feel at your best as well.' She looks more at ease in the robe than she ever did in the itchy shirts and trousers they'd found on their journey here. Barefoot she makes no noise as she moves towards him, the soft fabric sliding silently over her limbs until she stands next to him.
'Figaro said no refunds or exchanges, but he'll tailor it for you if it doesn't fit correctly.' She says, patiently bullying him with terms and conditions. 'Would you try it on for me?'
'Turn around.' He says after a moment.
'I've seen you naked before.'
'And? Just... indulge me?' Ayla looks away as asked and there's a moment's distraction at the tracks of scars along her exposed skin before he starts undressing. The new trousers are tight for now but he knows they'll stretch a little with use. The undershirt slips on easily, comfortable and loose enough in the forearm that he can still roll the sleeves up. He fastens the owl clasps together, feeling the smooth lines and lack of rumpled fabric that came from poor seam work. The collar of the overshirt sits neatly and the whole ensemble feels well fitted but doesn't strain with his experimental movements. Deeply mourning his immunity to mirrors he somehow remembers he still has a captive audience.
'You may look, if you must.'
'It suits you.' She says after slow consideration.
'Most things do.'
'Would you like to see?'
'It's an utter waste of a spell, but this is me we're talking about - so yes.' Quothe and Corvus flit through the windows and land on the beds around him before Ayla opens the tadpole link. It's only then that he realises they hadn't shown him this before. Spellbound he steps closer to Ayla, truly seeing himself for the first time since he was turned all those years ago. He was paler now, more angular, tired. He won't admit to looking scared. His hands touch his face in the view, the dull ruby eyes that stare back at him a far cry from the beautiful stormy blue they used to be. He runs his hands down the clothes and from the raven's angles he comes to appreciate how well they fit even without a formal measurement. Figaro must be an absolute master at his craft. He poses in the spectral mirrors a few more times earning a chuckle from Ayla. He can feel her joy at his, as well as a tension with Quothe that neither her nor the raven care to voice. A disagreement perhaps? Corvus merely seems proud of Astarion and that buoys his spirits more than he thought it would.
'Are you happy with it?' She asks.
'It's the finest thing I've worn in decades. Thank you.'
'Let's hope we don't die anytime soon then. I'm sure Figaro would welcome us back to his boutique, even with our discount.'
'We have a discount?' He exclaims. 'Gods if we survive this he's never going to get rid of me.'
'I've requested a matching waistcoat too.' Adds Quothe. 'Myshka doesn't want one though, says the other cats will get suspicious if he starts wandering around wearing clothes...'
Later that evening Ayla examines the information they have on Orin while Quothe pecks at some grapes on a plate nearby, idly turning the conversation back to his petition for Astarion to join them.
'Should I have shown you him changing? Would that have helped? I was right there.'
'Real friends don't betray your trust Quothe. Speaking of which...' And she turns to him with a cold intensity the likes of which he's never known outside the Icewind Dales. She backs against the door for good measure so he can't fly away. 'I know he had your help.' Panic sets in. She couldn't know! I'd been careful, she couldn't know! 'Bribery was all it took for you to betray me Quothe? For sweetbreads? The shame.'
'He... he found out I liked them, somehow. My one weakness. Some kind of berry he crushed on them to look like blood. They tasted so good, sweet. What was I supposed to do!?' He caws angrily, flapping his wings before he settles back down and tilts his head brazenly at her. 'Do you think he has more?'
'The game is over my dear bird brain. I don't think you'll be getting anything more out of him. Count it as your punishment.'
'Cruel! Cruel!'
'Maybe next time you'll just be honest. You don't need to prove his worth to me.' She sighs.
'Is that... can I count that as your approval?'
'Quothe how many times do I have to tell you it isn't my choice?'
'Just say yes then and I'll ask him!' She could be so blasted stubborn at times.
'No! Stop, please?' His eyes dart about her in concern at the sudden change in tone, knowing he's probably pushed her too far already.
'At least consider it? I've seen the way he looks at you too.'
'He's a trickster by trade, are you so sure you can trust what you see?'
'You'll see friend. One day he'll prove me right, and on that day you'll owe me sweetbreads with crushed berries.' There's a face he's seen the Tiefling children do where they stick their tongues out in mockery. He tries his best to mimic it but whatever it looks like makes Ayla laugh instead, and when she scratches him under the beak like she has so many times before he knows she's forgiven him already.