On the Death of Stars

Act I, chapter 2: Heartache

"Amusing how the saltwater doesn't reflect my appearance at me either, exactly like any mirror", you observe, grimacing. At least you know what you look like, Sweet Silky had made sure of that by immortalizing each member of the Clan many a time over the years, in every style, pose, scene and apparel imaginable. "No harm in a sweet lick of vain self-indulgence from time to time", he argued as Father silently approved.

He always painted such a precise picture of your features. The frail and fine constitution inherited from your mother, made even sharper by being turned into a nocturnal predator. Freckles, way too many of them, stashed in every nook and cranny of your muscular body, slowly washing away after decades of hiding from the sun. A fragile skin hugging tightly your sinews and bones, wearing the memory of what once was a mahogany colour, its slight cobalt tinge made more prominent since your death and subsequent exagerated palor. An acute nose pointed towards the horizon, inquisitive, crossed from side to side almost perpendicularly by a jagged scar that never had the chance to heal properly. Rough pale lips, way too thin to have ever been qualified as alluring by anyone, serving as a delicate veil to the strong pristine fangs hidden right behind. Your once clear azure eyes now two dark rubies, sitting upon your upturned occuli in a permanently intimidating glare. Silver hair with a superficial cerulean hue, neatly knife cut into a foxtail. A beauty almost colder than your skin, the kind of fairness that cannot be appreciated by any that doesn't already have a taste for it. Luckily, you've become one of them, under the brush strokes of Silken Hand. The fragile drow boy had greatly helped you and Jezebelle with his love for the arts, pulling you away from your struggles against your own image.

"Four hundred and ninety eight, four hundred and ninety nine, five hundred". No pain. No acidic gnawing against the flesh of your calves. Your smile is full of self-satisfaction: the brainworm truly is making its presence a little more bearable. Letting go of any kind of countenance, you errupt into a joyful laughter. No one is going to hear it this far away from camp. A step and a second one, a walk slowly turning into a run before the plunge into the arms of the ocean.

You swim maybe a hundred meters away from the coast before you stop. You hear the call of the tide in your heart and so you answer it with enthusiasm. You let your body sink to the seafloor and roll into a fœtal position. How dearly you missed this, these past one hundred and fifty three years. The surface world has almost completely disappeared, of it only a faint glow of the moon above remains. You listen closely to the sounds of life in the deep, gorging yourself on them: the lazy rustle of seaweed, the fast scuttling of critters on the ground, the soft swishing of fishes not minding your presence in the slightest, the murmur of currents around your body and the faint snoring of the earth. It is bliss. It is home. You interrupt your trance to correct yourself. "Home is where the Clan is", had decreed many times Father Azul, incapable of expressing love through words -which is quite ironic for a bard. But you and your siblings know the extent of his affection, it needs not be spoken. And he is right, the Clan is the home of your heart and soul. But your body always has belonged to the waters. Your mind turns back to your family, and a feeling of guilt crushes your throat. "They must be so worried" you think. Azul must be pulling every string he can to get a lead on your whereabouts, while Jezebelle and Anderson are probably leaving no stone unturned to find you. You cry tears in the ocean. "I'm so sorry", you silently plead, even though you know it could not possibly be your fault. You must get back, you must come home, you miss all of them so much. Jezzie will probably scream at you before grinding your bones into her arms out of relief. Big Brother will certainly smile calmly, letting go of all the anxiety that had built up in his chest. Silky obviously will cry a river on your breastplate, locking you into a hour long hug. And Father will be watching from afar, drying the only salty drop he couldn't stop from leaking out of his eye. "I will come back to you as fast as I can" you promise, letting yourself slip back into your trance.

You have no idea of how much time has passed when your thoughts tug at the edges of your consciousness, interrupting your meditation once again. You reflect upon the company you've gathered after waking up on that beach. Shadowheart's comments on the chapel you've plundered, about the patron god not being obvious, feel quite hypocritical from a devout cleric that intently doesn't invoke their deity's name at every turn of a phrase. Still, for now, she's far more trustworthy than Astarion, the dagger enthusiastic spawn. Or Gale for that matter, the so-called archmage that you had to save by pulling out of a botched portal in a rock. He may appear pleasant and forthcoming, but there's something exceptionally dark inside of him that you can't quite place, yet. At least the rogue had the honesty of demonstrating that his survival mattered more to him than anything else. You had found the wizard warming his hands at the campfire earlier, welcoming you with a "Go to Hell" that puzzled you before he went into an extensive monologue about how his life had been entirely changed, that to him, the infernal plane, red dragons ridden by githyanki hunters, mindflayer colonies and alien infections were nothing but words on parchment and paint on canvases. You had to hold your tongue to avoid picking a fight, you were to be allies in your misfortunes after all. But you didn't think any less. Godsdamned wizards, so pampered and sheltered in their ivory towers, hoarding knowledge and riches that should belong to the people, turning a blind eye to the true appearance of the outside world: an ugly scarred and exhausted face, begging at the feet of the powerful for scraps of rotten meat. This one is certainly no different to those powerhungry bastards. You're a vampire, you know about hunger of every kind, including the lust for pure dominion. But you are different, at least that is how you reassure yourself: by remembering how grounded you are, how you follow a set of principles and a moral code that tend to avoid preying on the weak.

You do not wish to think about it any longer, so you let the string of wondering slip a little further, surprised to feel it return to Astarion. You felt... something delightful all around the spawn. A scent, but not the one of his luxurious perfume, and you do not have the slightest idea of what it is. You do not know why you qualify it as a 'scent', yet the word came to mind naturally. You know what a scent is, and this surely isn't one, right? It doesn't resemble anything you've ever felt before. As you rule out the possibilities one by one, you start to panic. To pull yourself out of the overwhelming feeling of fear, you force yourself to think about your Clan. This journey will be a long one, you feel it in your bones. Big Brother Anderson always complimented you about your 'sharp instincts, as piercing as a beholder's gaze', and you've always known he was right about this. You'll need to find better alcohol than the swill you looted from the chapel pillagers though, it was barely strong enough to push warmth upon your cheeks. But for now you have no other option than reveling in the iodized forgetfulness of the sea. Your mind quiets down again, and you finally manage to return to your trancing.

Your eyes open brutally. Did you fall asleep? You don't recall your slip from meditation into slumber. You finally swim back to the surface, as your oculi get assaulted by the light of the rising sun. You are stumped. How long have you spent down there? It appears to have been the whole night, but how is that even possible? And then you remember: you do not need to breathe. Being half human, half fossergrim and a vampire is getting even more confusing these days. You shake your head and get on your way to the beach, but once you are left waist deep, you turn back to the sun and take a few minutes to bask in its warmth. "Gods, I forgot how beautiful the dawn is", you whisper, with your lids shut and a content smile.

Once you feel satisfied enough, you resume your walk to the coast. The others will be up soon and you still have no idea on how to get yourself rid of the ticking bomb calmly sleeping inside your skull. There is probably at least one settlement nearby, since there were traces of fishermen, and well, their mangled corpses also. Your pondering is interrupted by a presence you sense, a bit farther along the seaside, just out of view. But you smell him before seeing him, recognizing the traces of his perfume. It seems you are not the only one to revel in your newly acquired tolerance to sunlight, so you decide to let him have his peace. Since you had yours, it was only fair. You take a detour closer to the forest and finally get back to the campsite.

A new day is about to begin.