His Treasured Spawn (Astarion x Reader)

Avian Antics

A few more days have slipped away, but the room remains a sanctuary of isolation. Your master has yet to grace you with his presence, and the relentless hunger within you has shown no mercy. Your attempts at diversion have become increasingly desperate.

You've given each intricately woven bird on the tapestry a name. They've become your imagined companions, and you talk to them as if they were real, giving them different personalities, creating silly little stories for each of them.

Books, once a source of comfort, now hold little appeal. You start each one with the hope of distraction, but the words blur together, unable to hold your attention. You set them aside, their stories lost in the abyss of your fractured thoughts.

The relentless hunger within you has grown unbearable. It's more than just a physical ache; it's a relentless void that gnaws at your very soul. In the quiet of your chamber, it whispers seductive promises, urging you to give in to its demands.

Laying on your bed, your head hanging over the mattress, you speak to the tapestry birds with empty eyes. "Well, of course, Sir Chirpalot," you murmur, your tone earnest as if discussing the most critical of matters. "It was a disgrace of Lady Featherwing to deny your invitation to the ball. She clearly doesn't appreciate your impeccable taste in evening attire."

As you continue your one-sided conversation, a voice interrupts your reverie. "Sir Chirpalot?"

For a moment, the voice doesn't register, and you point to one of the birds on the tapestry, your eyes staring into nothingness. "The blue one," you reply, your voice distant and detached. "He is smitten with Lady Featherwing. But she has an affair with Lady Skylark. It's quite scandalous."

Astarion's presence in the room finally dawns on you, and you turn your head to find him standing there, a mixture of amusement and concern in his eyes. "An affair, you say?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

You finally snap out of your reverie enough to register his presence, offering a distant greeting. "Master. You've returned. That's nice."

He studies you closely, the concern in his eyes deepening. "It's not enough time alone to turn one this mad, dear." he muses. "You are a strange one."

Your stomach grumbles audibly, and you look at him with pleading eyes. Your voice, weak but desperate, murmurs, "I'm so hungry."

Astarion steps closer to you and pats your head a few times, as if comforting a loyal dog. "There, there. It's time I take you out for your first hunt, pet."

You still feel weak and spaced out, but your eyes start to glimmer. "Outside? Yes, yes Master, please!" you reply, trying to stand up. However, your legs give way beneath you, and you slump back onto the bed, your strength failing you.

"Guess you're in no state to move," he remarks in an annoyed tone, but with an amused smirk on his face. He uses one of his fangs to make a small wound into one of his fingers and presses a small drop of blood out of the tip. "Open up, darling."