He shouldn’t have come to the ball. He knew he shouldn’t have. How could a vampire ever expect to survive within a society, anyway? Traditionally, vampires had always lived somewhat near a town, albeit mildly on the edge, just like humans lived close to the animals on their family farms. The matter of convenience always outweighed the matter of risk to an extent. Plus, at least in Baldur’s Gate, there were plenty of people that no one would miss. He knew that better than anyone - he’d spent the better part of two hundred years tracking them down and bringing them back to Cazador, after all.
But not anymore, he thought, as he slinked through the door of the brightly lit ball. He was significantly more than fashionably late - he’d had to wait until the sun had fully set before he could exit his manor, of course - but luckily, he’d always been able to avoid being noticed when he didn’t want to be. He wasn’t sure if that was a trait that all vampires possessed, or if it was just a skill he’d developed over his centuries of creeping through the shadows, but it was certainly a skill he had now. It was a skill that had been serving them well, too, especially as the party had traveled through the shadowlands, but he had to admit that it was less useful here. At least, that was, he didn’t want to use them until he knew more about the bustling city that abutted the ton. As much as he liked drinking the blood of thinking creatures, it was far too much risk until then.
He stared out at the crowd, his eyes squinting from the bright light of so many candles. The ballroom was filled with people dancing and mingling in a fashion that he hadn’t seen in ages. The thought made him feel slightly queasy - in what already felt like another life, how many of these people would he have brought back to his master? Already, he could spy a stout woman over at the edge of the dance floor, dressed in a horrid yellow color and trying very hard to act as though she wanted no one to ask her to dance. She most likely would have been his first target, he thought.
“A dreadful color, isn’t it?” said a man’s voice fro behind, far too close to him for his liking. He whirled around, moving faster than any human should have been able to as he forgot to disguise himself. Had he been in his regular attire, he would have already plunged a dagger into the man’s gut, but he’d dressed formally for this event, and while he did still have some weapons on his person, they were mildly harder to get to at a moment’s notice. However, his teeth would do just fine. Or, he thought, they would have if the man had not been seated in what appeared to be a regally-fashioned wheelchair.
He pulled back his lips into a boorish grimace to bare his teeth nonetheless, but the man hardly seemed to notice as he continued to stare at the woman in the yellow dress. “I couldn’t help seeing you stare at Miss Featherington, and I don’t blame you one bit,” the man said, idly sipping some sort of liquid from a crystal glass. “I find it hard to tear away my eyes as well. She has quite a lovely personality and would make someone a very amenable wife, but her mother surely does her a disservice by dressing her in colors that in no way match her complexion.”
Astarion slowly set his mouth back to a normal configuration. This man was no threat, nor was he even particularly interested in him. In fact, he thought that the man even hardly noticed he was there, but was rather just looking for another soul to talk with. And, with the way he saw a few of the eligible young ladies catch one glimpse of his chair and hurriedly walk in the other direction, he completely understood why. “And does Miss Featherington know this?” he asked, humoring the man.
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The man started, as though he was unused to having someone actually respond to his prompts. Astarion watched as his dark blue eyes drifted up his body until they finally rested on his dark crimson ones. Then the man smiled, and Astarion had to admit that it wasn’t an unpleasing one. While he would have been an easy mark for Cazador, Astarion couldn’t help but think that, had they met in Baldur’s Gate under different circumstances, he would have just smiled and flirted with the man, then left him alone. He had clearly seen enough hardships in his life without having a vampire added onto it. And while, he supposed, the same thing could be said about him at the moment, at least he wasn’t planning on draining the man dry. So instead, when the man’s eyes met his, he smiled at him. “Oh, I’m sure she must,” the man finally answered, taking a second to clear his throat in surprise. “She has eyes, after all. Plus, all of the ton has been saying it for years. Even Lady Whistledown has written about it multiple times.”
Astarion raised an eyebrow at the man. He seemed observant enough, if he’d noticed Astarion looking at Miss Featherington from across the room, and yet he didn’t seem disturbed by his mere presence. Even if they didn’t know he was a vampire, those people who tended to be more observant were likely to run the moment Astarion turned his attention to him. But this man was looking death incarnate right in the eyes and seemed to be getting a laugh out of it. How fascinating, he thought. “Then why does she not choose a more suitable color for herself? Surely she is trying to find a husband.”
The man chuckled. “I am sure she is! However, it’s not entirely her decision, is it? Ultimately, the decision of colors comes down to her mother until the time she is married.”
Astarion glanced back at the poor girl. The yellow made her look almost so jaundiced that even he didn’t find her particularly appetizing as food. He couldn’t imagine anyone finding her appetizing as marriage material. “Then, I assume my only conclusion is that her mother is a prat.”
The man in the chair started laughing so hard that it took him a moment to catch his breath, and Astarion couldn’t help the small smile appearing on his lips. He always appreciated someone who appreciated his humor, after all. The man wiped an invisible tear from his eye as he finally gasped enough breath to say “Your conclusion seems to be one that is shared by a vast majority of the ton. I have made a friendly wager with those of interest, and it is generally agreed that, while her daughters may be lovely indeed, particularly the other two, no one of sound mind would be willing to put up with her as a mother-in-law.”
Well, Astarion thought, if he had to be stuck here, creeping through the shadows and feeding off the local fauna, at least there might be some interest in this yet. “A friendly wager, you say?”
The man grinned at him. “Yes - however, it’s only between myself and my good friends. That said, I’m Lord Remington. Thomas.” The man held out his hand for Astarion, who reached out to give it a firm shake. He was slightly surprised by the firmness of his grip - the man looked quite pale, after all, and his constitution definitely seemed questionable.
“And I’m Astarion.”
“And the Duke of Lennox,” Lord Remington added with a cheeky grin. “If you think your name hasn’t been batted around on the betting table, you’d be quite mistaken. But there, I should say we are good friends now, are we not?”
Astarion grinned back at him. Damn it all, even if he was still a vampire, there might be parts of this world that were alright. After all, he already had a friend, even if it was just for the betting table. “Of course we are. Now, you were saying, everyone had bet against the Featherington girls?