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Gale felt uneasy as he looked in the mirror. It had been so long since he’d been invited somewhere like this that he felt like he no longer knew how to look his best.
The party was a masquerade, being held by a wealthy noble in Baldur’s Gate, and, as such, Gale had attempted to dress up. While he rarely wore anything more formal than his wizard’s robes, he did own a suit for more mundane occasions that called for it.
It was made of thick woolen tweed, designed to keep him warm in the cold Waterdhavian winters. He’d used a minor illusion to make it appear a light grey that shimmered lavender in the flickering lights. It also split his jacket into tails, shaped like those of a swallowtail butterfly. His cravat was swirls of mint green and lavender, and he’d even summoned an illusory mask in the shape of a luna moth, with his eyes peeking out of holes in the upper wings, mirroring the false eyes on the lower ones.
He looked…
Well, honestly, he felt like he looked a bit silly. Wizards generally had a sense of flair, and loved to dress a bit gaudily. But Gale’s style was flowing, comfortable robes, shimmering and crackling with the power of the weave, not this clownish costume.
He took a breath and straightened in the mirror. The dress code had been for a masquerade ball, and he doubted he would be the only one who chose to have his outfit match his mask.
Gale sighed and felt his shoulders slump down. He wished Tara were here to reassure him, but apparently she had plans for the week he’d be spending in the Gate. He was here alone tonight, and he’d have to deal with it alone. He’d just have to cling to the fact that he was here to raise money for Blackstaff.
He squared his shoulders, tightened his cravat, and headed downstairs to the Elfsong’s barroom. The ball’s organiser, Cazador Szarr, had even rented out a string quartet that took up the stage.
Gale had, naturally, arrived fashionably late, so there were already people milling about the room, almost all of them in over-the-top costumes. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about standing out.
As Gale milled about the room, he noticed that there were a handful of people dressed all in red, wearing simple red masks. The women were all in silk dresses, done up to their necks but cut to hug their curves, and the men wore immaculately-tailored suits, each wearing a cravat around a high collar. Each mask was shaped slightly differently: one had a feline nose and ears, one was shaped like a dragon in flight, and one had the sharp beak of an eagle.
They were slaves. That much was clear to Gale. Party guests didn’t generally walk around bearing silver trays of food or drink.
It caused a pit to form in Gale’s stomach. Slavery had been outlawed in Waterdeep for nearly a century, and was generally considered a disgrace. He knew that other parts of Faerun kept the practice (Hell, he’d been to most of them on his travels), but it was one thing to know that you were in a realm that practiced slavery, and another to actually be served by people in bondage. It felt… dirty. To benefit from something he knew to be dehumanising and immoral.
Come on, you’re here representing Blackstaff. You can swallow it for a few hours.
Gale started to make his way around the barroom, greeting the people he managed to recognise through their masks. There was a dragonborn merchant who visited the academy when she was in town and the tiefling wizard who’d moved into Razamith’s Tower after that bastard Lorroakan finally made himself scarce. Gale knew he was awkward when it came to small talk, but he could always count on a fellow wizard to be interested in the arcane arts.
But by the time he’d exhausted the familiar faces, Gale found himself leaning against a wall, trying not to feel insecure about the conversations he just had.
“Purple dragon blush?”
The voice came from his right side.
Gale blinked and looked over to its source. It was one of Cazador’s slaves, an elf (judging by the pointed ears) with piercing red eyes. The mask he wore was of the same simple red leather as the other slaves, except his was adorned with twin devil horns sticking out of his forehead. He was holding out a tray with a single glass of red wine on top of it.
“You look like you needed it,” he clarified, taking the glass from the tray and extending it out to Gale.
“Oh, thank you.” Gale wasn’t much of a drinker, but he would appreciate some liquid courage at a time like this. He swirled it and took a delicate sip. It wasn’t the type of bafflingly-complex vintage one was served when dining alone with nobles, but it had a nice bouquet and a clean finish.
He was about halfway through the glass when he saw the elf slowly turn to leave.
“Is it actually from the Underdark?” he blurted, before he could think of something better to say. He knew it was stupid as soon as it left his mouth.
“No, it’s from Cormyr. How would you even grow grapes in the Underdark?” But he seemed to be good-natured about it.
Cormyr, of course, had the purple dragon as its emblem, as well as a famous military unit named for the creature. It made far more sense than wine grown in the Underdark. But it was the only thing he could think to say before the elf disappeared into the crowd.
“Well, I can’t imagine a fête in Menzobarranzan doesn’t have ample libations. And that’s where purple dragons actually come from. Supposedly.”
The elf turned around, allowing the silver tray to drop to his side. “There are purple dragons? In the Underdark?”
“Supposedly,” Gale repeated. “I’ve only read about them. The academy has a few accounts from travellers who visited and lived to tell the tale. There’s this one story about a dragon that revealed herself after spending years hoarding lies and secrets. She finally revealed her true form during a sacrifice to Lolth and…” He trailed off. “Sorry. Where are my manners? I’m Gale Dekarios, the envoy from Blackstaff.” He held out his free hand.
Before Gale could take it away (because shaking hands with someone whose literal job it was to serve him felt incredibly patronising), the elf brought Gale’s hand up to his lips and kissed his knuckles.
His lips were soft, though not particularly warm, but the open flirtation still sent heat directly to Gale’s cheeks.
“Astarion. I work for Cazador “
Not “he's my owner” or “I'm his property,” just “I work for him.” But Gale understood what he meant regardless.
“Well, I hope I'm not keeping you from your work, in that case.”
Astarion smiled, revealing a pair of too-sharp canines. “Darling, this is half my job.” He leaned in close, icy breath ghosting against Gale's throat. “But I'll make sure to pay special attention to you when I make my rounds.”
With that, he pressed his serving tray to his side and disappeared into the crowd.
Gale couldn't get the interaction out of his head. The entire time he could still feel Astarion's breath against his neck, his lips on his hands. Even as he chatted with dignitaries and Patriars, his mind kept wandering back to the handsome elf with the wine.
He still had yet to properly greet the party's host, but Cazador Szarr was so regularly surrounded by hangers on (and, occasionally, his slaves) that Gale couldn't quite find a good moment.
There was finally a lull in the party where enough people had left Cazador alone that Gale felt comfortable approaching him.
“I'm sorry I didn't get to greet you earlier. You've thrown a lovely party,” Gale said.
Cazador looked over at him, his red eyes keen. They've met in passing on a couple of occasions, when Donor Relations sent Gale out to functions. He always supposed the man might have been handsome, if you didn't get the sense that he was staring at you like a snake ready to strike.
But still, Gale was here to play the game, and that meant flattering rich man like Szarr.
His scarlet eyes scanned Gale keenly, trying to recognise the man behind the mask.
“It's Professor Dekarios, saer. From Blackstaff.”
He let out an affected laugh that sounded, to Gale, a bit like breaking glass. “I thought it might be you under there. Are you enjoying our little soiree?”
Gale put on a fake smile. “Of course I am! The wine is lovely.”
And then it occurred to him that he might have some power here. He couldn’t free Astarion, of course, or any of the other slaves in Baldur’s Gate. That would take time and energy that he didn’t have. But maybe he could say something. After all, Gale found Cazador unpleasant at the best of times. Gale had no doubt that he was worse to his slaves.
“The fellow in the red devil mask. He’s yours, isn’t he?” Gale asked. He didn’t like talking about another person like they were a show dog, but he didn’t know how else to phrase it. “He’s great company.”
“Oh, you can have him for the night if you’d like.”
Gale was almost too stunned to speak. “...excuse me?”
Cazador just chuckled. “Plenty of people like Astarion. I don’t mind lending him out for the night.”
Gale had to think quickly. His immediate instinct was to say no, no, gods no, you can’t just lend out a human being , but he held his tongue. It was distasteful, disgusting even, but Astarion said part of his job was to entertain guests. If Cazador thought Gale found his performance lacking, he could legally punish Astarion however he saw fit. Would there be any harm in accepting the offer, provided Gale didn’t do anything with him?
And then the thought to the other people at the party, the power hungry social climbers and Patriars. If Gale didn’t spend tonight with Astarion, there was no telling what someone else would put him through.
He schooled his features and made a mental note to have a serious discussion about this with the donor relations department.
“If you’d be so generous, I’d appreciate some alone time with him,” Gale said, desperately hoping that the disgust didn’t slip into his tone.
“In that case, please inform him before you leave. He’ll meet you in your room.”
Gale wasn’t sure that he liked Cazador knowing where he’d be sleeping. But in this world, you had to make sacrifices for the greater good.
The next hour went glacially slow, as Gale slowly ran out of people to talk to and tried to avoid standing at the wall. He wasn’t sure he could face Astarion, after knowing that he’d taken the man away from his home against his will, even for a night.
He found himself sitting at the bar, slowly sipping whisky on the rocks and attempting to make small talk with the bartender every time he eyed his glass. He’d even abandoned half of it when he noticed people starting to leave the party, journeying out into the fray to try and find Astarion.
Gale finally found the elf in a gaggle of people, this time bearing a tray of steak tartare on some sort of cracker. He hadn’t noticed Gale’s approach since he was apparently having an animated discussion with a human man in a gold mask.
He tapped Astarion’s shoulder, careful not to encroach on his space too much.
The elf gave his conversation partner a wicked grin. “So sorry to cut things short, darling, but it appears the rest of my night is spoken for,” he said, handing the tray off to another passing slave before turning to Gale. He draped his arms around Gale’s shoulders, meeting his eyes. “Shall we?”
Gale felt his entire face heat up. He wasn’t used to how forward Astarion was being, and, if he was being honest, he’d hoped Astarion would’ve forgotten about the whole thing and he could’ve asked for an hors d'oeuvre.
But he supposed they were doing this, so he took Astarion by the hand (conveniently putting some space between them) and lead him up to the top floor of the Elfsong.
Gale didn't have a room so much as a rented bed with a divider for privacy. He thought it would be fine for the night he was spending in Baldur’s Gate, but he hadn't been expecting company.
…could he even really call Astarion “company” if he was here on his master's orders?
Either way, he pretty much pounced on Gale the moment he closed the privacy shade, running a delicate finger along the outline of his mask. “Do I finally get to see your face, darling? I've been looking forward to this all night.”
Gale gave a sigh of resignation and undid the tie at the back of his head, letting the illusory mask fall away.
That made Astarion grin wolfishly, once again revealing those odd, pointed canines.
Wait. The fangs, the red eyes, the deathly pallor… Why didn't he see it before?
“You're not just Cazador's slave, are you? You're his spawn.”
Astarion blinked owlishly for a moment, before composing himself. “Why let that get in the way, darling? I assure you, I won't bite. Unless you want me to, that is.”
He pushed the elf back, and for a moment, there was a flash of fear in his eyes. Gale could feel the guilt grow heavy in his gut.
“Look, I'm not… upset that you're a vampire. I'm just…” Gale took a breath and tried to centre himself. “Is he compelling you to sleep with me?”
Astarion cocked his head in a way that reminded Gale of a confused cat. “Of course not. Why would he have to do that?”
“I just don't want you to do anything that you don't want to.”
“Oh.” Astarion stood up straighter and paused a moment. “I want to do this, if you'll let me.”
“And what happens to you if we don't? If I decide I don't want to have sex and we spend the night otherwise engaged?”
“Nothing. I was just ordered to keep you company.” He looked Gale in the eyes, suspicious. “But I know what people want from me.”
“Maybe that's not what I want right now. Maybe I just want to drink tea and talk.”
“No one just wants to drink tea and talk.”
“I do. Sometimes.”
Astarion laughed dryly. “Is everyone in Blackstaff so innocent or is that just you?”
“I'll let you in on a secret.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Blackstaff is just about the most lewd place you can imagine, when we manage to get a break.”
Astarion sat back on the bed and hummed. “All those budding young wizards need an outlet I suppose.” He looked over Gale, eyes seeming to take in every inch of him. “And does that make you the resident stick in the mud?”
Gale laughed and sat beside Astarion. “Oh, I've been in more orgies than I've bothered to count. I've just mellowed a bit in my later years.”
The elf wasted no time laying his head in Gale's lap. “I'll say. Too burnt out to want to sleep with a dashing vampire, I suppose. One too many orgies and now you're afraid your dick will fall off.”
“You could say that.” Gale ran a finger along the edge of the mask, finding himself wondering what was underneath.
“You can take it off, if you want. I was planning to anyway.”
Gale gently wrapped his fingers around the bottom edge of the mask and carefully pulled it away.
…and he was beautiful. Of course he was beautiful: all angular, slender features and perfect, soft hair.
Rather than say anything, though, Gale just tossed the mask away and started running his hand up and down his spine.
“Wow, not even my devilish good looks can tempt you. You either have an iron will or a missing libido.”
Too big of a heart , Gale thought as he looked over Astarion. He looked so vulnerable like this, his delicate body draped over the bed, curled up to make himself as small as possible.
“I could buy you,” Gale said. He knew it was foolish, but the words just came tumbling out. “I could bring you to Waterdeep and free you. I could teach you magic, if you want.”
Astarion shook his head. “He'd never agree to it. I'm too valuable.”
“I know but… if anything happens, you know where to find me, Astarion. I can help you.”
“You can't. But thank you anyway.” He leaned up and kissed the underside of Gale's chin.
He felt himself flush. It was a sweet gesture, one he hadn't expected from someone so openly flirtatious.
There was a moment of silence between them, the air only stirred by the muffled sound of the party below.
“If,” he said, “we met normally, just two free men in a bar together, would you still want me?”
Astarion let out a genuine laugh. It wasn't the affected, flirtatious giggles he'd had at the party; it rang out through the whole floor. “You don't know how handsome you are, do you?”
“Don’t lie to an old man to spare his feelings.”
Astarion sat up and looked Gale in the eyes. “I mean it! Do you really think you’d get invited to those orgies if you weren’t?”
Gale chuckled. “That was a long time ago, Astarion. I’ve changed a lot since then.”
“Good. You should get to change. When you can’t it’s.. Agony.” He stood up. “Go live your life, Gale Dekarios. Don’t worry about me.”
He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Gale’s lips, feather-light and chaste. And then there was the rustle of the divider and he was gone.
Gale laid down on the bed, the illusion on his clothes melting away, and he somehow felt even more alone than he had when the night began.
Gale had been trying to put Astarion out of his mind for five years, but couldn’t quite forget the man’s parting words. On quiet nights, he’d find himself wondering where the man was now: if he was safe, if Cazador was as cruel a master as he’d thought.
It was Selûne’s Hallowing when Gale’s wards alerted him to someone at the door. He hadn’t been expecting anyone. Gale was known to keep to himself, and there were fewer revelers out than usual due to an unexpected snow squall.
He probably wouldn’t have even answered the door if it weren’t for the snow, but he didn’t want some poor sod freezing to death out there.
And Gale was glad he did, because Astarion stood on the other side of the threshold, dressed in a frilly shirt and leather pants that did nothing to keep out the chill. He was trying to stand tall in defiance of the weather, but he clearly couldn’t hide the shivers that occasionally wracked his body.
“Astarion! Come in, please!”
He wasn’t sure what Astarion had done to escape his master. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But Gale was ready to accept the vampire into his home and into his life.
“Let’s get you warmed up.”