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Torpor (noun): a state of decreased physiological activity in an animal, usually marked by a reduced body temperature and metabolic rate. Torpor enables animals to survive periods of reduced food availability.
Gale was rubbing his chest again.
He did that a lot, Astarion noticed. At first he had assumed it was some sort of nervous tick. Then he noticed Gale seemed to often be in pain, and simply chalked it up to one of many possible medical conditions or magical maladies. Never would he have guessed what it turned out to be.
The orb.
Gale’s explanation had been predictably verbose. Flowery. Suffused with unnecessary details like his apparent ardor for one of the many Gods of the pantheon to whom Astarion had long since given up attempting to pray to. It was a superfluous speech, and Astarion had only listened to half of it, far too annoyed at the need to sacrifice perfectly usable or valuable magical items to feed Gale’s growing arcane appetite.
Though, some distant cobwebbed corner of his mind not yet eclipsed by the contemptuous scars of Cazador’s wrath or mired in the laissez faire dissociative mirth he often fell into when faced with the fleeting problems of mortals felt a begrudging sense of kinship with Gale. He too, afterall, knew what it meant to hunger.
Then, Elminster.
That had happened earlier, before dinnertime, when their little ragtag tadpole team had been making the last short leg of their trek towards to the Shadow-Cursed Lands for the day, tyrannical githyanki blood still drying in the crevices of Astarion’s leathers. The wizened old coot had appeared quite unceremoniously for someone of his status (and what a status it was, if even Astarion had heard of him at some point during his miserable undead life) and told Gale, in so many words, that Mystra required him to atone for his sins via—to put it succinctly—explosive, self-sacrifical suicide.
And now Gale was just…cooking. Stirring a pot of scavenged vegetables and the bloodless remains of a rabbit Astarion had caught for himself earlier in the day. Rubbing at his chest like he always fucking did.
“Can you not simply refuse her?” Wyll asked, one hand outstretched in emphasis, mismatched eyes wide. Gale shook his head and the outstretched hand flew above fresh-grown horns in aggravation.
“You should know better than anyone what that sort of rebellion can earn a man,” Gale replied evenly. Wyll frowned.
“That’s not—”
“Boys!”
Astarion glanced over to where Shadowheart sat, the ends of her hair in her hands as she unplaited it. There were bits of distinctly viscera-colored debris studded between sections of pretty silver chainwork and she had been working them out with a comb as she went. Now, though, her fingers were still, holding loose black waves between them as she glared up at the two men standing beside the cooking pot.
“Sorry,” Wyll sighed. He took a step back and Gale gave him a tight-lipped smile in response.
“I have to do this,” the wizard said, low and sure. “It is the only way to earn Mystra’s forgiveness.”
Astarion huffed and looked back down at the dagger he had lifted from the corpse of the creche quartermaster. This one, at last, would be safe from the endlessly peckish appetites of foolish wizards. A stabilized orb meant an end to the forced sacrifice of interesting magical weaponry. He could afford to put a little work into this dagger, polish it up and hone it razor-sharp, work the indentations of his fingers into the leather-wrapped hilt.
It was nice to truly own something, for once.
Shame that Gale didn’t seem to think the same of his own fate.
Nothing lived in the Shadow-Cursed Lands other than perhaps the oldest of trees, gnarled and blackened with rot, stretching fruitlessly towards a sunless sky that offered them no reprieve, no sustenance.
Astarion could empathize.
He had been hungry for days now. Even in the deepest pockets of the land there was nothing scarpering about that he could eat. If anything, the darkest pockets contained the most lifeless of shambling creatures. Certainly nothing with potable blood.
Astarion had gone much longer without food, of course. The year spent locked away in a maddeningly silent crypt sprang to mind, unfortunately, and he supposed he should be grateful that he wasn’t back in that place. At least he wasn’t currently buried alive. At least he was surrounded by other people.
Although…if he were completely honest, it was hard not to quell the small flicker of resentment growing in him. His companions were full of blood, practically bursting with the thing that would so easily soothe him back to full strength, but none of them had offered. Astarion’s mouth watered, sometimes, when there wasn’t much else to distract him, in the quiet of the camp at night or in hushed moments crouching behind cover, primed like a compressed spring alongside at least one of them—usually Gale, the wizard being a much better fighter at long range like himself—and the incessant pump-pump pump-pump of a living heart rang so loudly in his ears.
And speaking of Gale…
Something was growing strange about the man. He was more on-edge. Irritable. Aggressive.
The latter was certainly new. Even in the heat of battle Gale had always seemed level-headed. It was something Astarion could appreciate. But now, since that damned orb had been stabilized, Gale seemed wilder in combat. Less calculated. Astarion could also appreciate that. Something about the raw, untethered display of power warmed some deep part of him whenever he saw it.
“Move out of the damned way!”
And, as it turned out, sometimes warmed external parts of him as well.
He laughed as he dodged the very edge of a fireball, delighting in the way it easily melted through the unfortunate shadow-cursed tiefling he had just been in melee with.
“Gale!” Shadowhear shouted from a few dozen paces away, “Be careful! I only have so many healing spells!”
The resulting little growl of annoyance that left Gale’s throat caught Astarion by surprise. So much so that he didn’t notice the arrow flying toward him from his periphery until it was buried neatly between his clavicle and first rib.
“Oh.”
The fetid soil of the Shadow-Cursed Lands tasted much like he might have expected it to, would he have given it any thought before now. Face down in a little clump of dead moss, he groaned and spat. Above him, he heard Gale gasp.
“Astarion!”
Historically, he would have been left like that. Gale was no healer, and eliminating the enemy to clear the way for Shadowheart had thus far been priority number one for the glass canon that was the former Archmage of Waterdeep. So it was a surprise, then, when Astarion felt himself being flipped over.
“Don’t—”
“Quiet,” Gale rasped. There was something wild in his eyes that Astarion had never seen there before. Although how many times he had truly looked at Gale’s eyes before now he wasn’t entirely sure. Even over the ongoing din of battle, Astarion could hear how heavily Gale was breathing. Rough and ragged, as if he was the one who’d been pierced through the chest. He tried to push the wizard away.
“They’re still out there,” he said, voice oddly wispy. Likely his lung had collapsed. “You need to—no! Wait!”
Gale had grasped the end of the arrow and started to pull.
“Fuck, what are you doing!” he yelled. Or, tried to. It was hard with only one lung.
Despite the lack of any real risk from massive blood loss (Gods knew he’d survived much worse instances of bloodletting back in the The Kennel, and it’s not as if he had enough in his system at the moment to really bleed much anyway) it still hurt to have the thing yanked on. The end of the arrow, likely barbed and jagged if the sensation was anything to go on, scraped against his bones as Gale pulled. It felt like the thing was hooked under something and stuck fast.
“Stop!” he gasped. Gale finally let go, an uncharacteristic snarl curling his lip. “What in the Hells, Gale. I need Shadowheart, not you!”
That sent a wave of something over Gale’s features. Something that looked a bit like hurt and a lot like anger. Suddenly Gale’s head was snapping up, eyes burning at something over Astarion’s shoulder. Before he had a chance to ask, Gale’s hands were already raising, glowing with the Weave. A rush of fire made its way past Astarion’s ear and there was a cut-off scream from somewhere behind him. The smell of burned flesh filled his nostrils.
“There,” Gale said, looking back down at him. “I’ll tell Shadowheart to come find you then, shall I? Until then, enjoy being impaled, I suppose.”
And with that he stood and turned, mouth set in a firm line, fingers still flickering red like dying embers. Astarion simply stared after him and allowed himself to stop breathing, his one still-functional lung stilling in his chest. No use when there were no words to be said.
“May I come in?”
Astarion looked up from his book to see a sheepish looking wizard peering in through the half-open flaps of his tent.
“You know, darling, it’s quite refreshing to not be the one asking that for once,” he replied airily. Gale blinked at him in response. After a beat he sighed and tilted his chin to indicate his agreement. As Gale shuffled in he set the book to the side, careful to first mark his page with a bit of scrap parchment first.
“Most people would just fold the corner of the page,” Gale said as he sat down crosslegged on the sparsely-covered ground. Astarion’s tent was much less luxuriously decorated than those of some of his companions. Especially Gale’s. If he had within him to care, he might have been embarrassed at the stained tarp and miniscule pile of blankets he had accumulated for himself. As it was, he was mostly concerned at why Gale had deemed it necessary to come seek him out in his own space.
“Well, when you go centuries without owning anything for yourself, you tend to respect newfound possessions,” he replied smoothly. Gale’s subtle wince sent a little thrill of satisfaction through him.
“Oh.”
Gale couldn’t hide the way his eyes darted down to the floor. Astarion sighed and reached down to rub a finger over a small oil stain near his knee. “Not exactly palatial, I know. Perhaps it’s…comforting.”
Luckily Gale chose not to pry into that sentiment. Which was good, because Astarion did not feel much like elaborating. Well-kept books and squirreled-away baubles aside, it was in fact soothing to keep his tent minimalistic. Trancing on anything more than threadbare surfaces still felt too off.
“I apologize for earlier,” Gale said after a moment of stilted silence. “I am not entirely sure what came over me.”
Astarion tilted his head to the side. Gale cleared his throat awkwardly and continued on.
“It’s been strange. Ever since Elminster stabilized the orb I’ve been feeling things…more,” he explained, “It’s a bit hard to describe. But earlier, in the battle, I found myself quite overtaken with anger and lost my composure. Which is wholly new to me, I assure you.”
“Hmm.”
“I have always prided myself on holding a certain mastery over my emotions,” Gale continued, eyebrows pinched, “The last year was an unfortunate proof of concept that perhaps that particular skill did not extend well to controlling despair, but I can at least say with no small amount of confidence I have never lost my temper like that.”
Astarion leaned forward, chin tipping up slightly as he caught a trace of something in the air. “You smell different.”
Gale’s eyebrows knitted further together. “What?”
He considered for a moment before he replied. “It’s also a bit hard to describe. I suppose the easiest way would be to say you smell less…rotten. Still foul, I’m afraid, but less like some fetid thing that crawled out from the Baldurian sewers.”
And oh that was a rather charming expression on Gale’s face.
“I take offense at the comparison,” Gale huffed. Astarion smirked.
“Well as I said, any such similarity is now gone,” he replied easily, “and while I wouldn’t say you smell exactly mouth-watering, now, I think at least I could stomach a few mouthfuls.”
Gale met his gaze, expression softening. Memories of a few weeks prior filtered through Astarion’s mind. His affliction (newly revealed after an unfortunate run-in with some hag-bound Gur) being met with a decidedly mixed response. Gale, eager to be liked and welcomed for his own unusual appetites, offering Astarion sustenance. The cramping, curling pain lurching through his core as he tried to take a sip, Gale’s heartbeat still rabbit-quick against his tongue even as the acrid blood came back up, blackened and shimmering like an oil slick in the moonlight.
It went without saying they had not tried that particular exchange again.
But now? Gale smelled…decent. If not gourmet, at least potable.
“When was the last time you fed?” Gale asked, voice gentle. Astarion shrugged.
“A week, I think.”
“And you lost some blood today,” Gale pointed out. “Not much, it seemed, but there was some at least, on my hands.”
Astarion narrowed his eyes. “Why did you try to pull the arrow out like that? I would expect you of all people to know that’s a bad idea without a healer on standby.” Gale shrugged and shook his head.
“As I said, emotions were running high,” he said, “When I saw you go down, I panicked. And I was suddenly so angry that someone hurt you. And then I was angry at you for not taking my help, even though obviously what I was doing was not actually…helpful.”
A moment of silence passed between them. Astarion took a deep breath, steadying despite its lack of necessity.
“Yes, well,” he replied cooly, “Let’s not do that again, shall we? If I’m injured in battle, you keep your glowing hands off me and send for Shadowheart like a good little mage, alright?”
Gale huffed through his nose, a brief flash of annoyance darkening his eyes. “Indeed.”
Another moment of silence. Astarion had the sudden urge to go back to his book.
“Well this has been fun, darling,” he cooed, voice faux-sweet and lilting, “But I really must rest.”
“Of course.”
And as Gale left the tent, Astarion tipped forward to get one final whiff of that new scent, complex and bitter. Earthy. Primal.
Strange.
Another few days, and the oppressive, everpresent hunger had become too difficult to ignore. It gnawed at Astarion’s core, an increasing din of pain, dulling his senses and his prowess in battle. He knew his companions had noticed by now. Their worried glances were not subtle, and despite the slight warmth their concern brought him, it did nothing to sate his hunger.
That would require blood. But there was none to be had, here.
Shadowheart refused on some sort of religious grounds. Karlach was eager but too hot to touch. Wyll, as kind as he was, apparently could not shake his hunter’s instinct enough to let fangs pierce his veins. Lae’zel was simply too terrifying to approach.
Which left—
“Gale.”
The man in question looked up from the herbs he was carefully crushing with a pestle.
“Yes?”
Astarion sidled up to him, eyes flitting to Gale’s neck despite his best efforts not to look. The barest hint of a pulse drummed away beneath the skin, a visible tap tap tap that made Atarion’s mouth water.
“Might I…ask you a question?” he asked, feigning nonchalance. Gale returned to his task and nodded congenially.
“Of course,” he replied with a soft smile down at the little green smears of powder that coated the sides of the mortar. “The pursuit of knowledge is always a worthwhile avenue, in my humble opinion. Let me just finish my task, and I’ll be right with you.”
“There is nothing humble about you, darling,” Astarion teased. He leaned in closer, raising an eyebrow down at the powder. “And whatever this nonsense is is far less important—”
“It’s not nonsense, it’s—”
“—than what I have to—
“—ashes of balsam! For healing potions, you—”
“—ask you, I need—”
“—keep getting hurt, and I can’t—”
“What?”
Gale snapped his mouth shut and sighed through his nose. Astarion raised an eyebrow.
“You keep getting hurt,” Gale repeated, “in…in battle. And I can’t help you. This is a way for me to be helpful.”
Astarion took a moment to respond. “You…I’m not the only one who has gotten hurt, Gale. These potions will be for anyone to use, I assume?”
Gale shrugged. “Of course they will, I just…I hurt you. With the arrow. I made it worse.”
This conversation had already gotten so off-track, and the tone of Gale’s voice was becoming far too sentimental far too quickly. Astarion waved his hand dismissively towards his own chest. “I’m fine, darling.”
Gale sighed and looked up at him, eyes wet and wide. “Yes, but—”
“If you want to make it up to me,” Astarion continued, tilting his head and raising one corner of his mouth, “You could…let me drink from you.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Oh.”
There was a strange itching sensation in Astarion’s body that he suspected might be embarrassment. He mentally shoved it down and continued on. “I know it went…poorly, last time. But that was before your little arcane nuisance was quieted by that ancient cheese-stealing freak.”
“Astarion! Elminter is not—”
“So what do you think?” he continued smoothly, putting on his most winning smile. “Help a starving creature of the night out?”
Something strange flashed across Gale's eyes at that. Astarion waited patiently, resisting the urge to press.
“Okay,” Gale eventually responded, slowly and carefully, “Let us adjourn to my tent, then, if you wouldn’t mind. I would prefer to be among soft things than out…” he paused to gesture up at the moonless ink-black sky of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, “here.”
Astarion hummed pleasantly and followed behind Gale once he had taken a moment to tidy up his herbs. The inside of the wizard’s tent was warm and cozy, dripping in unnecessary opulence, piled high with bedding and books. Gale filled the air with twinkling motes of light and sat down on a carefully arranged pile of furs and quilts.
“Sit?”
Astarion did, careful to maintain a respectable distance between their torsos as he shifted forward, bracing a single hand on one side of Gale’s neck while he leaned towards the other.
“Ready?” he breathed. Gale nodded.
Bile, hot and bitter, spilled over his tongue. Astarion shivered and forced himself to swallow.
“Oh!”
Gale tensed. The blood gushed faster, spurred on by the little quakes of straining neck muscles. Astarion leaned closer, gulped harder.
“H-How is—” Gale gasped. He cut himself off with a groan as Astarion’s other hand came up to grip the back of his head, fingers tangling in his waves.
It was disgusting. Fetid and thick, but manageable. Asarion could feel the thick slickness of it wending its way through his immobile guts. Gale’s heart rate had picked up, pumping more and more of it down Astarion’s gullet. There was a strange edge to it, too, like something Astarion had tasted before. He tried to isolate the flavor, letting the blood collect on his tongue a moment before swallowing. It was something he had only recently tasted, he was sure, but—
“Astarion.”
Gale’s voice had grown soft and tremulous. His heart hadn’t slowed but it was waning weaker. Astarion ripped himself away, tearing the edges of the wound as he went. Gale choked down a pained noise and met his eyes as Astarion leaned back to look at him.
His blood was no longer black but it wasn’t quite red either. A thin stream of it trickled down, curving over the lines of Gale’s neck in thin burnt umber lines that joined together at the notch of his sternum, smearing across the purple scars of the orb as Gale reached up to press at his wound.
Astarion swallowed the last of the viscous liquid down. “Thank you,” he choked out.
He felt…odd. Full, for once, which was divine. But it was as if a strange malaise had suddenly overtaken him, heavy and cloying.
“Here, you’re—” Astarion rasped, leaning forward again to press his mouth against the weeping, torn holes in Gale’s skin. He licked the wounds, cleaning and sealing them as best he could. Gale shuddered against him.
“I feel cold,” Gale whispered.
With the way his head was positioned, the words were spoken directly against the shell of Astarion’s ear. He ran his tongue over Gale’s skin again and again, each pass coming away cleaner than the last.
“You still feel warm to me,” he murmured.
And Gale did. He seemed to run hot, actually, now that Astarion stopped to consider it. As if he were feverish, or something not quite human. But that was odd, because Gale had not been that way the first time Astarion had attempted to feed, or the few times they had touched mid-battle.
Wound sealed, Astarion leaned back and sat on his heels. The strange note of something in Gale’s blood lingered on his palette, familiar in a way he struggled to identify. He ran the tip of his tongue over his front teeth, careful not to catch it on his fangs. Gale watched his lips.
“You’re staring,” he said softly. Gale looked up at his eyes instead.
“You look…ethereal,” he breathed.
Astarion turned his head away, choosing instead to watch one of the floating motes of light drifting lazily through the air. “I’m a monster.”
He hadn’t really meant to say that. It was far too vulnerable. But something about the way Gale had been looking at him was disarming and his head felt oddly floaty from all the tainted blood. A gentle touch at his elbow brought him back to look at kind brown eyes.
“We all have monstrous things hidden within us,” Gale said.
Astarion hummed a vague noise of acknowledgement. “How quaint.”
Gale bit his lip and hesitated before speaking. “Astarion, I—”
“I should go,” Astarion said, cutting him off. “I feel…strange. Your blood is doing something odd to me. I need to rest.”
Gale searched his face for a moment before nodding. “Of course.”
As Astarion traded the warmth of Gale’s tent for the blackened morass of the Shadow-Cursed Lands once more, a sudden realization struck him.
Gale’s blood tasted like wolf.
They were on the cusp of taking Moonrise. The Harpers were ready, Dame Aylin had been freed to blaze a trail through the Absolute’s horde, and they had resupplied as best they could. One final evening spent at Last Light resting and they would commence the assault. The atmosphere was tense, but Isobel seemed to be in a good mood. She was moving among the crowd, blessings flowing freely from her glowing fingertips as she extolled the power of her goddess.
“Selûne shines full for us tonight, friend!” she exclaimed as she reached Astarion. He looked up from the small whetstone he was running in rhythmic arcs along his favorite dagger, once again sharpening it. The thing had served him well in recent weeks, just as he hoped it would.
“Does it?” he asked, looking up. As always, the sky was opaquely black, any sign of the moon rendered invisible by the inky darkness that swirled beyond Isobel's protective dome. “How do you know?”
“I can feel her,” Isobel replied dreamily, “She smiles upon us even now, bright as ever, ready to lend her aid in the battle ahead.”
“Lovely,” he replied, plastering one of his signature charming smiles on his lips. Part of him wanted to hiss at her that he had spent decades praying to Selûne on rubbed-raw knees and never heard so much as a whisper back, but he refrained. No use, on a night like this. In response, she smiled at him and moved on, hands glowing silver as she cast a glittering net of protection over him and all of his companions.
All of his companions except…Gale.
Where was Gale?
“Greetings!”
Oh, well. That answered that question. He turned, ready to make a quip at Isobel’s expense, but was met with a strange translucent Gale-shaped thing that stood in place of the wizard himself.
“I am here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep! He requests—no, requires—your presence immediately.”
Astarion raised an eyebrow.
“Does he now?” he deadpanned. He turned back to the cup of wine he had been nursing. Centuries old, this one. Taken straight from the Last Light cellar when no one had been looking. Shame it tasted like vinegar to him regardless. It was such a pretty, deep red, after all.
“Indeed,” the not-Gale replied. There was a whooshing crackling noise and the thing appeared in front of Astarion instead, its iridescent face looking oddly stressed. “I must impress upon you the urgency of the situation.”
Astarion leaned forward to poke at the thing’s chest. It didn’t react. “Oh? And what is so urgent that Gale couldn’t come get me himself?”
The thing looked around at the group, as if to indicate it could say no more. Or, perhaps, it didn’t know. It turned back to stare at him, unblinking, a frown deepening on its handsome face.
Astarion mentally waved the notion that he found Gale (magical purple copy or otherwise) handsome and stood, gesturing for the thing to start walking. “Go on, then. Show me the way.”
Past the edge of the protective barrier, past a long stretch of still, black water and dead weeds, nestled between two hulking mounds of curse-raised landscape, sat the ruins of a cottage. The ambient preternatural glow of the Shadow-Cursed Lands cut sharp shadows where the crumbling stone walls sat, obscuring anything laid deeper within. Astarion crept along the cracked stepping stones that led to the sagging structure, instinct telling him to stay on high alert even though the not-Gale thing had deposited him only a few dozen paces away and assured him it was safe.
Inside the structure, there was a groaning, scraping noise. Astarion stilled, raising his chin to scent the air.
Musk. Parchment. Beast.
Gale.
He surged forward, passing through the space where a door once sat and froze just inside.
Along the far wall, a huddled form sat shivering on the dirt-caked floor, arms wrapped around its legs. It took Astarion a moment to realize it was Gale, clad only in his white undershirt and leggings.
“Gale?” he asked, surprising himself with the gentle steadiness of his voice. There was no response. He crept forward, lowering himself so that he was kneeling alongside the man. “What’s wrong?”
Gale groaned, low and torn. Astarion reached out a hand to brush his arm, but before he could make contact Gale wrenched his body backwards, finally looking up at Astarion with a tear-streaked face. He looked…terrified.
“It’s happening,” he rasped. “Astarion it’s happening and it hasn’t happened since I was sixteen and I don’t know how to stop it and it hurts, oh Gods it hurts.”
This time, he didn’t pull away from the offered hand. Gale allowed Astarion to grasp his forearm and steady him through his shivering. “What is ‘happening,’ Gale? Can you tell me what it—”
“Ah!”
Something was rippling beneath Gale’s skin, like every muscle in his body was contracting and releasing all at once in tortuous waves. Astarion shuffled closer and gripped both of Gale’s shoulders with steady hands. “Can you tell me what is happening?” he repeated.
“I’m—fuck!” Gale gasped. Astarion resisted the urge to physically react to Gale swearing. “Is it…do you know what phase the moon is in at the moment?”
Astarion ran his thumbs in what he hoped were soothing little circles over Gale’s twitching muscles. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Selûne is full, tonight.”
Gale groaned again. His hands were clenched into shaking fists, knuckles white even in the dim lighting. He looked at Astarion helplessly, eyes wide and shining. “You need to tie me up. Now.”
Astarion couldn’t help the manic gasp of laughter that escaped him. He looked around the decrepit space, spying nothing but the rotting remnants of wooden furniture. “What what? And why? Tell me what is happening right this instant, Gale, or I won’t know how to help you!”
“I’m transforming,” Gale replied. His voice had gotten lower. Growl-like. “Into a…a w-wolf. I am a lycanthrope.”
Astarion sucked a useless breath in through his nose.
“I see,” he deadpanned.
The rippling beneath Gale’s skin was growing stronger. His scent was changing, too, growing wilder every moment. Hot, panting breaths filled the scant space between them.
“Please,” Gale gasped, “I don’t know how long before it’s too late. And I don’t want to…I can’t hurt you, Astarion. I did, once, and I never will again.”
Astarion shook his head and stood, moving towards a pile of crumbling crates in the corner to shift through them. “I’m tougher than I look, darling,” he replied, “and I’ve a full belly of your blood now, remember. That odd fatigue it gave me has waned, too. I like my chances.”
The crates were all empty, their contents long-since pilfered or degraded to nothing. The sound of ripping fabric made him turn back around. Gale’s shoulders were growing, expanding, and the back of his white shirt had split down the middle. A garbled scream worked its way from Gale’s throat, stilted and raw. Astarion rushed back to his side, intending to drop back down. Instead, Gale shoved at his legs, sending him toppling backward into the wall. Loose stones rained from above, one knocking into Astarion’s arm and ripping a shallow cut down his bicep through his camp shirt. He grabbed at it with a hiss, eyes never leaving Gale’s shifting form.
Gale dropped into a crouch, fingers scraping at the floor, nails dragging jagged ruts in the accumulated soil there. He was panting, throat gurgling with pained noises as one by one his features elongated, darkened, began to sprout thick fur. A sickly crunching noise filled the air as Gale’s bones rearranged themselves, scraping against one another at the joints as his body molded itself into one more distinctly lupine. Gale looked at him, terrified, and gasped a final word before his face became too distorted to speak.
“Run.”
And then, where there was once a man, there knelt a wolf.
A massive, hulking beast crouched on all fours in the center of the ruined cottage. Scraps of ruined fabric draped from its form, clinging desperately to deep brown fur. Astarion stood frozen in place, unsure if he would be able to dart around the beast’s hulking form before it snatched him up. Behind him, the rough stone of the crumbling wall pressed into his shoulders. Perhaps he could climb it? But that would mean turning his back to the creature.
So he waited. Watched. Thanked the realms that he had no need for breath.
The longer he looked, the calmer he felt.
Despite clearly being bestial, the lines of the creature’s heaving bulk still read distinctly humanoid in nature. Clawed hands stood in place of paws. An elongated snout sat above a recognizably narrowed mouth, similar enough to Gale’s own despite the glinting fangs visible as the thing panted into the cool night air.
The wolf raised its head.
No…Gale raised his head.
For he was still Gale. His eyes, though yellow-tinted and narrowed, were still Gale’s eyes. They looked at Astarion with recognition, with fear, as if he were just as terrified to move as Astarion was. Slowly, Astarion took a single step forward.
The ears at the top of Gale’s head flattened. Astarion lowered himself into a crouch, bowing his head and holding his hands out, palms up.
“It’s okay,” he said, “I won’t hurt you. And…I don’t think you will hurt me either, will you?”
Gale blinked and shivered. His ears unpinned themselves. Astarion took another careful step and let his eyes rove over Gale’s form, over the way the eerie ambient lighting dusted the edges of his fur in a soft cyan glow.
“Magnificent,” he whispered. Another step. “You called me ‘ethereal’, before, when I drank from you. Even though I am a monster. A bloodthirsty killer.”
Gale huffed a hot breath, the force of it sending dust stirring into the air where he still knelt over the filthy floor. Astarion took a few more steps, speeding up now, his gait less cautious.
“I am a myth,” he continued, near breathless, “The stuff of nightmares, warned of in fables meant to scare little children away from dark places. And yet here I stand, able to blend in seamlessly with those around me, walking among mortals like it’s nothing. But you.”
He had reached Gale’s massive side. He reached out, forcing himself not to shake, and ran a gentle hand through the dense, coarse fur on Gale’s shoulder. “You aren’t like that, are you? All this raw power, it could never be hidden away, could it? This brute that you are, this beast.”
Gale shifted his weight, pushed back with his hands until he was sitting on his haunches. Even kneeling he was almost as tall as Astarion. He opened his mouth and a garbled whine slipped past a maw of razor teeth. Astarion smirked and reached up to run his thumb along one elongated canine.
“We match,” he murmured. Gale tilted his head, pulling away from the touch. In response, Astarion leaned closer, his hand drifting farther up to hover above the long waves that still spilled around Gale’s shoulders, longer and wilder now but still so very him. “None of that,” he continued, “I am not afraid of you. Let me touch you?”
Yellow eyes blinked up at him. Once. Twice. And then Gale tipped his chin downward, allowing Astarion to bury his fingers in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp. A low, rumbling noise left Gale’s throat as Astarion moved to rub by his ears.
“Oh?” he laughed, “You like that?”
The yellow eyes narrowed. Astarion raised a playful eyebrow and snickered.
And then Gale stood.
“Oh,” Astarion gasped, “Oh, you are glorious, Gale.”
The beast stood a head taller than him on digitigrade legs. His chest alone was broader than Astarion’s shoulders. Ghosts of the orb’s lines cut violet tunnels through the fur, parting it into little glowing whorls and rivers along Gale’s chest and up the side of his neck. The sudden urge to see if Gale tasted the same in this form ran through Astarion’s mind.
And, well, Astarion had no more need to hinder his urges, did he? He was a free vampire now, after all. At least for the moment.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing to Gale’s neck with his chin. “I’d like to drink, if I could.”
Lupine eyes blinked slowly in response and Astarion leaned forward, parting his lips against musty fur to sink his fangs into steel-cord muscles, immediately moaning at the acrid, raw taste of power that surged over his tongue. Whatever this wolf form was doing to the orb, it served to lessen the taint in Gale’s blood, if only slightly. It was still bitter, still unpleasant, but all the more mouth-watering for it. And as he drank, no malaise dragged him down. The blood, though bitter, tasted alive.
Gale let out a rumbling noise that sounded suspiciously like a moan. A massive hand came to rest on Astarion’s waist, clawed fingers ripping carelessly into his shirt. Astarion pulled back with an indignant gasp and shoved the hand away.
“You brute! This is my favorite shirt!”
Unsurprisingly, Gale found a way to make lupine features look guilty. Astarion glared at him for only a moment before tutting and pulling at his hem. “Nothing for it, then, might as well take this off.”
Yellow eyes tracked him as he stripped. He paused after the shirt, considering his options, and after not too much thought decided to remove everything else he wore as well. “More fair this way, hmm?”
As he turned back he pressed closer, the warmth radiating against his chest so much more pleasant than the cool air at his back. Gale returned his hand to its prior position, claws pressing gently into pale skin.
“Go on, then,” Astarion whispered, “Explore.”
Gale’s warm, wet nose pressed against his shoulder and then his neck, dragging along his collarbones. Hot puffing breaths rolled down his torso. Astarion gripped at the fur along Gale’s sides, unable to reach back any further than that. He jumped slightly as a heavy tongue suddenly licked across his chest, laving roughly over his nipples.
“Eager thing!” he laughed, “Is this what you want, Gale?”
He shifted, pressing his groin against one of Gale’s massive thighs, letting the beast feel the start of his erection. Against his hip, an answering hardness was burgeoning, much, much larger than his own.
“You are stunning,” he murmured, face titled up to meet Gale’s gaze, “You radiate such power like this, Gale. This form…I cannot help but wonder what it would be like to be taken by you, like this. To be molded around you, made to rearrange myself to fit you inside.”
Another huffing groan ripped itself from Gale’s chest.
“Can you feel me?” Astarion asked. He rolled his hips against coarse fur. “You did that to me, you know. It is your own blood that fills me now, fattens my cock so nicely for you.”
The claws at his waist tightened. Astarion felt the very tips break his skin and he sighed at the sensation.
“For so long I felt no control,” he whispered, “I had no choice in who I bedded. But not now. I can fuck whoever I want, whatever I want. Whatever wonderful, magnificent beast I choose.”
There was a push against his chest. Astarion allowed himself to be guided backwards until his back met stone, the rough texture scraping over already-scarred skin. He laughed against dark fur and scratched his nails along the skin beneath it.
“Perhaps we could go hunting together,” he said, a freeing sort of wonder filling his voice, “Would you like that Gale? I assume you have a prey drive in this form, do you not? I could drain something and you could tear whatever was left to shreds, couldn’t you?”
Gale’s other massive hand was at his waist now, pulling as if to turn him around. Astarion allowed it with a giggle, reaching out to steady himself against the wall with his palms. “Careful now, darling, you—oh!”
With a great thump, Gale had dropped to his knees. Astarion glanced back over his shoulder to see the top of Gale’s head, ears high and proud, bend forward. He bit his lip and let his eyes roll back at the first firm press of Gale’s snout between his cheeks. Gale scented him there, breath hot and damp, and then the same elongated tongue that had been licking over his nipples pressed into him.
“Gods, yes.”
Gale worked him open, claws digging into the skin of his ass as it was pulled wide. Astarion gripped the crumbling stone in front of him and moaned loudly into the still night. Gale didn’t slow, and as the moments passed Astarion could feel his lower half growing wetter and wetter, slick with bestial spit down his thighs.
“Darling, if you don’t stop that, this is going to be over far too soon.”
Hot breath huffed against him and Gale stood, growling against Astarion’s skin as he went.
Astarion began to turn, already reaching down to grasp at Gale, but a sudden pressure against his cleft made him startle.
“Oh darling,” he cooed, “That’s not—whoa, there!”
Gale had shifted, the head of his massive cock catching against Astarion’s rim. He giggled nervously and reached back, pushing against the shaft to angle Gale downward.
“None of that,” he murmured, “I’m sturdy, darling, but I don’t feel much like being torn in half with no prep. But…here.”
He pushed farther, widening his stance to let the thick cock slip between his spit-slick thighs. Warm fur pressed into his stone-scraped back, pushing him forward. Astarion braced himself against the wall once more, planted his feet firmly, and allowed Gale to fuck against him, rubbing his shaft back and forth between clenching thighs.
“You feel amazing,” Astarion breathed. He shifted, bending his knees slightly, and felt as Gale’s cock moved higher between his thighs, pressing flush against his body and moving forward. He looked down, mouth falling open with a moan as he watched the dripping head appearing from beneath his balls, pushing them up slightly with the motion. He reached down with one hand, guiding the emerging shaft to press alongside the underside of his own and holding them together. Thrillingly, even stretched as far as they could go, his fingers only reached halfway around the bulk of both shafts together.
Warm, heavy puffs of air flowed over his shoulder. Astarion imagined what the beast's breath would smell like after a hunt, metallic and sharp with the remains of his prey. His mouth watered and his cock throbbed with stolen blood at the thought.
“Magnificent,” he echoed, “So good, Gale.”
The wet nose was back at his neck, huffing deeply as Gale thrust against him. Astarion titled his neck to the side, allowing the beast to explore his skin. Gale growled, hot breath cooling over spit-slick skin and sending shivers down Astarion’s spine. He worked his wrist, pulling along both their lengths and feeling the drag of Gale’s shaft moving back and forth beneath his own.
A particularly hard thrust sent him reeling forward, forehead colliding with the arm still braced against the wall. Another shower of pebbles rained from above but none did damage this time. The cut on his arm was long-since numb, half-healed already from the stolen blood pumping through his veins.
Then, there was a growing feeling of something swelling between his thighs. He squeezed them tighter together and grinned. “Oh! How very canine of you, Gale.”
The beast growled in response and he laughed, high and bright and wild. A shifting behind him brought a broad hand up to his ass. He felt a pressure and then something thick was pressing into him. The fear of claws in such a delicate place flashed through his mind but he realized with a little thrill that it was Gale’s knuckle pushing into him.
“How considerate, darling,” he gasped, “You—ah!”
Gale had begun to shift the knuckle, fucking in and out of him at the same rate his shaft moved between Astarion’s thighs. He groaned at the sensation and gripped their shafts tighter. Gale’s panting maw moved over him and Astarion felt a sudden sharpness tug at the crook of his neck and shoulder. He tilted his head further, allowing Gale’s mouth to slot over the space.
“Go on,” he sighed, “Bite me.”
It wasn’t deep, but Gods did it free something within him when the wolf’s fangs pierced his skin. A new type of claiming mark, ripping away the old scars of Cazador’s ownership. He moaned at the wet feeling of blood trickling down his chest and looked down to see it collecting in the dip between his pecs. It was a deep shimmering umber, unfiltered from where he had taken it from the very creature who rutted against him now.
“You spoil me,” he groaned, “And you understand me, don’t you? What it is like to be like…this? Feared and adored all at once. Cast aside and lifted up in turn. A monster, hidden and lurking and dangerous and feared.” He paused to swallow thickly. “And yet so, so much more is hidden beneath the surface. More than anything anyone else could ever understand.”
The knot between his thighs was beginning to catch.
“But I understand too,” he gasped, “I understand.”
The beast’s thrusts were growing stilted. The knuckle buried within him, shallow but thick and pulsing, matched the increasingly sloppy rhythm. Suddenly Gale stilled, cock caught firmly in place as the base locked in between clenching thighs. Astarion could feel his own peak fast arriving.
“Gale.”
Thick, white spend splattered against the wall, some of it splashing back against the front of pale legs. Astarion followed a moment later, a final twist of his hand sending him rocketing through waves of pleasure, his own comparatively paltry release joining Gale’s on the ancient stone. He stood for a moment, reeling from his orgasm, and watched it drip down through the crags. Behind him, Gale was panting deeply.
“Well,” he laughed, “That was—”
A large hand tugged at him, turning him around. He went willingly, looking up at concerned yellow eyes set into a face far more recognizable than he would have expected.
“That was lovely,” he said.
The wolf reared back his head and howled into the moonless night.
When Astarion awoke, the dirt beneath his fingertips was cold.
He sat up, a swooping feeling of shame cutting through him as if on reflex, stale echoes of long-past conquests as bitter on his tongue as tainted blood.
But then, a noise.
Just past the open doorway, in the dim blue glow of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, stood a naked and dirt-smeared Gale. Astarion watched him watch the world for a moment. He wasn’t rubbing his chest. The tang of shame in Astarion’s heart dissipated entirely.
“Gale?”
The man turned, eyes soft.
“Good morning,” he said, an edge of hesitancy coloring his otherwise cheerful tone. Astarion sat up and gestured for him to approach. When he did, he sat crosslegged in the dust and gave Astarion a half-smile. “Are you…how are you doing?”
Astarion smirked. “Fantastic.” He paused to rove eyes over Gale’s form. “Who knew you had it in you, Gale of Waterdeep?”
Gale cleared his throat as his expression went sheepish. “Well…I should have, for one. I’m upset with myself for not recognizing the sensations these past weeks. It’s just been so long, I suppose, since I had to deal with this.”
Astarion tilted his head in question. Gale sighed and continued.
“My father was a lycanthrope. I inherited the curse from him,” he explained. “He…left when I was small. I didn’t have much in the way of guidance. By the time I came of age and started transforming, Mystra had already taken me under her wing. She gave me a spell that would cease all of…this.”
He gestured vaguely at all of himself.
“Then…the orb,” Gale sighed, “I could no longer cast the warding spell but it seemed there was no need. The arcane hunger of this thing within my chest ate away at my transformative nature. Until…well. Until it was stabilized, clearly."
Astarion hummed in acknowledgement. He reached out tentatively, running cool fingers over the violet scars. They weren’t entirely flush with his skin, dipping into little valleys as if the magic that flowed there had eroded canons from his flesh. Gale shivered at the touch and Astarion met his eyes with his own.
“What was it you said?” he murmured. “‘We all have monstrous things hidden within us?’”
Gale huffed a half-laugh. “I suppose I was being a bit more literal than perhaps I initially let on.”
Astarion giggled in response. “Yes, well,” he said, “We all have our secrets.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the ambient sounds of the Shadow-Cursed Lands creaking softly around them. Eventually, Gale stood and dusted himself down. It didn’t do much to clean his grime-smeared form. He frowned down at his hands.
“Perhaps a quick dip is in order before we return,” he mused, “And I should like to find myself some new clothes. Hopefully there are some squirreled away in one of these ruins.”
Astarion shrugged as he stood. “If you insist, darling, though I’m rather enjoying the view, personally.”
Gale scoffed and turned to start walking away. Astarion gave an appreciate once over of his form before reaching out to stop Gale with a hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you,” he said, tone suddenly serious, “That was…well. I was going to say ‘transformative,’ but perhaps that is a bit too on the nose, hmm?”
Gale turned back toward him with a roll of his eyes and a good-natured smile. “Perhaps.”
“But truly,” he continued, “I feel a kinship with you I haven’t felt in a very long time. Not even with my so-called ‘siblings’ back at the manor. Certainly not since we were swept away on this little Illithid-filled adventure.”
Gale paused to consider that.
“Living as a pariah is a lonely fate,” he said, eventually, “I admit I cannot know what it has been like for you, living as you have for so many years. But I at least can say I understand the acerbic ache of isolation, even one so much shorter than your own.”
Astarion hummed a noise somewhere between agreement and disbelief. Perhaps Gale would never understand what it was like to be him. Likely no one ever would. But the fact that this once-great wizard could appreciate even a sliver of the same specter of longing, hunger, and heartbreak that was his existence was something quite heartening indeed. And though Astarion had no use for a heart, it was quite lovely nonetheless.
“Well there is time yet for you, is there not?” he teased. “Wizards have been known to live quite long lives, if I remember correctly.” He released Gale’s shoulder and moved to walk beside him. “Now, let us return to Last Light. I’m sure the others are wondering where we skittered away to for so many hours.”
Gale laughed and angled his elbow outward in invitation.
Astarion only hesitated a small moment before looping his arm through Gale’s and beginning the long, dark walk back to rejoin their fate.