He thinks ahead the way any apex predator does in practice: imagines— as he shifts easily into smoky mist through the fury of Fenris’ blade— just how long he might work to tire that rage, for surely it cannot last indefinitely. Let it run dry like a cut vein. And then— winding down the stairs in turn to position himself behind Fenris, lancing out with a cutting set of blows, their nature openly necrotic, tainted if they touch living flesh— how he might prey upon that exhaustion when it seeps in.
Oh, rest assured he won’t bite Fenris right away. That would spoil their game, after all.
“Shall I read to you, wolf?” His voice is dry, it lacks mirth in its cold mockery. Cold as the air itself. Cold as death. “Poetry, perhaps?”
Wolf. As if that is an insult. It is his name. Another thing he hasn't told Astarion. Another thing Cazador does not know.
"Potius quam vespertilio lupum." Fenris grins.
The blows phase through Fenris' back as though passing through air. Fenris doesn't need to be bitten. He does not need to be bitten. He just needs to touch.
The gauntlets are there for a reason greater than his own comfort. He can phase his hand through flesh, true. He can let the gauntlets remain solid, ripping, tearing. Reaching for Cazador's throat, he tries that now.
It’s a language he cannot understand, but the blow that lands— that tears at him, prompting a visceral outpouring of blood— is enough to speak volumes in its stead.
Rage floods quickly. A rare emotion for a creature so acclimated to getting its way. He withdraws as smoke— flees as a bloodied wolf in a snarling flash, darting away into shadow to lick his figurative wounds, his lesson learned. In the first glancing impact of their meeting, he’s come to realize his mistake in underestimating a lone beast on unfamiliar ground.
So be it, then.
Awake now is the rest of the coven. His family, dear as they are to him. Called to action as a ward. A moment of recovery. The longer Cazador remains untouched, the faster he heals.
With a damaged throat, he can offer no commentary. The snap of jaws— true vampires and scattered spawn alike— will have to suffice, their attentions focused on Fenris, and the first few lunges mercilessly swift.
So Cazador will see some of Fenris' technique. Lunging attacks, all power and strength, coupled with relentless speed. Just as he seems to tire, the blue lights flare, and his energy renews. Yet Fenris still takes hits. He cannot phase through every attack, and his armor does not phase when he is attacked. It begins to show rips and tears.
As Fenris strikes out, he focuses only on necks and heads. The same maneuver works only a few times, before he's given wide berth.
They do not wish to loose throats and eyes, as the gagging, gasping creatures at Fenris' feet have. Fenris crushes their throats underfoot as the coven backs away, looking for weaknesses. Buying time.
That cannot be endured.
He doesn't know where Cazador is, but he can guess. Where have these foot-soldiers assembled themselves most heavily? Are they barricading Cazador behind them?
That is Fenris' guess, as he rushes forward, using his sword to vault up and over their snapping jaws.
The injury of so many assets is wounding in its own right. So much of his brood, cut down like cloth. For one lone, miserably weak vampire spawn, it might not truly be worth the wearying pain of effort. For Cazador’s marked pet, it is— for the promise of a new pawn so powerful that it makes mockery of his defenses, near any price would be worth it.
Clever thing. He sees that determination rise before Fenris does in turn, lurking near a section of long-scorched wall in pure shadow, its once grand illustrations rotted and sodden with mildew and ash. With keen elven sight, he knows Fenris will recognize him the moment he closes in. He knows also that any physical blows will be met by those grasping claws, and that any attempts to exhaust it might still be made pointless by azure markings.
Magic, then, he decides. His throat still marred by lengthy scratches, but shallow ones. All injury yields to his dominion. As Fenris soon will.
His fingers claw as they stretch, the air near Fenris goes putrid with poisonous taint. A sickliness that numbs the senses and weakens resolve.
Temptation lingers potent in the air, to cede advantage and lay claim to the start of this act’s closure— but he is old, and has already been cut by metal talons— and so his posture remains withdrawn as he watches for a beat longer, clawed hand left passively extended.
He won’t turn the poor beast just yet. Perhaps not for weeks. Nor months. The opportunity for amusement is too alluring, the promise of its wicked workings like the pages of a book he's yet to read. To commit in every horrid detail to an endless memory.
“You fight only yourself, boy.” His gaze is deep, and dark, and unkind. He fixes it fully on Fenris as he approaches, his gathered assets forming a circle around Fenris’ back. Hungry silhouettes in the dark.
The glamor— the terrible vampiric spellwork that enchants even the most devout creatures— that he weaves is merciless. A vice. Warm shackles in cold places.
How dare you, child, it whispers, how -could- you? Sink to your knees. Repent.
It's a dangerous feint, and while Fenris had hoped for the impossible favor of two mistakes in a row-- lean in, come closer, let me feel your lack of breath-- he hadn't depended on it. He just needed an assurance that the bastard would stay put.
He does feel ill, is the thing. His strength feels scrambled. His mind is unfocused. But he is accustomed to working in poor circumstances. He fought on no food, no sleep, an ill used tool in the jungles of Seheron where fire falls as casually as rain. So he exaggerated his weakness, in this moment, hoping for a slip of overconfidence.
But there is a limit to how much Fenris will risk, and it is the undead gathering at his back that makes him pull the spring. He is ill. He is capable of rushing forward for another precision lunge. This time he does not grasp at the throat. An old habit, perhaps, but Fenris reaches for the heart, blue light flaring ever brighter.
Swift creature. Clever creature. The challenge is steep, but Fenris' success is snared as surely as the span of an unbeating, frigid heart between intangible fingers.
Cazador’s fangs bare in that split-second of closeness, a fury he would see wrought into ruin—
Agonizing pain. Terrible pain. Pain he’s not felt in an age, cutting through thought and sense and reason— inspiring rage beyond measure—
This is his domain. This is his—
His claws are lancing as they thrash in the aftermath of that terrible blow, a brief outpouring of hatred unable to be sustained, for he is too wounded, too weak— viciously marred and painted with stolen blood. He cannot speak, but the words 'you will be hunted— you will never know peace', worm their way into Fenris’ mind as Cazador’s hunched form scatters into mist, retreating deeper into the bowels of his estate. No doubt to lick his wounds within the security of his coffin.
What remains in his shadow are snapping claws and sharp teeth. A vitriolic barrier, not insurmountable.
This will be a long night, but Fenris knew that already. The fight is in him, now, and he takes it to the rest of the coven. Even with his sword retrieved it takes time to winnow them away, bit by bit, person by person.
They were people, once.
Yet he cannot find he mourns their loss. He'd had grand ideas, upon entering this place. He'd hoped he could free more than just Astarion. This is a failure he will have to endure, if his story continues past this night.
He tries to incapacitate those that he can, dashing them to walls like he did Astarion, but after a point, his energy leaves him for subtlety. He does not see which survive and which don't. He cannot, in that moment, care. Fenris destroys what he can, until he is left alone, panting and regretful, covered in filth.
He had hoped to save some. Now, he uses the implements he'd brought to save Astarion: Rope to tie his hands back, a gag through his mouth. If Astarion awakes, he won't be used against him again.
Fenris tucks Astarion's body as far back as he can within the catacombs; an attempt he isn't sure will truly matter, yet it sets his heart at ease. Then he rises once more, blade in hand, and begins the awful trudge again. Where is the coffin? He will find it.
His mind is a blur of tired oaths. Under his breath, he murmurs words of hate: "Cazador. Face me. Cazador."
Healing takes time. The first few moments of it, when bone and sinew knit, take a torturously prolonged span. Long enough that Fenris dispatches or dispenses with his now-scattered brood. His family. His coven. It gnaws at him as surely as his injuries. It prompts whispers in the dark of his quarters— bartering with some faceless specter for more power— or perhaps a promise that the end will not be the end— locked within his coffin until Fenris’ wearied muttering draws near enough for sharp ears to detect
He isn’t fully recovered. He lacks blood. His face and throat and chest a mottled crosswork of deep gouges, ruined skin.
“I will see you regret this,” his lips torn on one side, the white of his fangs are long in shadow when he speaks, rising in his coffin, unwilling to meet this denouement as a passive party. “You will rue this folly.”
Beyond petty amusement. Beyond aspirations of power and control. Fenris is branded by hatred now, and Cazador Szarr does not easily cede anything in death.
Fenris is tired and filthy and not remotely willing to give up. He takes the prepared stake out of the supplies strapped to his belt, and stands over the coffin.
"You have no idea of which you speak."
Fenris slams the stake down, and without waiting a moment, begins to drag the coffin the way he came. He won't chart a new route. There are too many risks.
Rats, how he hates them. Repulsive and squirming, the memory of their rabbiting pulses— the sickly taste of their fur, their rotted blood— Astarion wakes to find them gnawing at his bonds, making mockery of Fenris’ well-intentioned precautions.
But that ire is overwritten in short order. He can feel it. The pull of necessity. Of dire, damning need.
He cannot find his blades, left somewhere else than where he’d fallen. He’ll resort to fangs. He only requires one opportunity. An opening. A moment where Fenris’ back is turned, and his focus fixed.
Fenris makes the better choice, considering Cazador’s allies within Baldur’s Gate. To cut a different path might risk altering the watchful eyes of the city itself, even here, on the fringe edge of things, where only the dead nest contently.
The estate is quiet. Gone utterly dark. Candle wicks burned out, the stench of blood a sickly blanket over air that was already stale to begin with. This place was never fit for the living.
And in that coffin, Cazador remains— Fenris’ departure only briefly interrupted by scattered collections of rats. Bats. Carrion creatures. Festering irritations compared to what Fenris has already overcome. If it feels akin to the last, useless thrashes of a dying beast yet committed to survival, that is because it is.
It's mid afternoon when Fenris, still pulling that blighted coffin, makes it to the dark place he fought and bled and killed in hours ago. It's now alive with vermin, and the poetic contrast never grows tiring to Fenris. Rattus everywhere, as he drags a slave master to his doom.
He only realizes belatedly that these are creatures Cazador controls. A slick swear in Tevene, and Fenris begins to move faster. He wasn't taking his time before, but he surely wasn't dancing around biting rats.
Fenris still isn't wearing shoes. He's a fool, that much is sure. But if he looses a few toes in the service of this greater good? So be it.
"You called me a wolf," Fenris groans, making the last, harrowing, painful steps toward glittering sunlight, "I am one. We do not heed rats. If there exists something beyond the Void, remember that."
Perhaps he should give heed. As it is, by all vampiric standards, one that lunges for him in those last few steps— silent compared to a nagging host of chittering vermin, pale hands clawed and grasping, though it’s with fanged teeth that he bears down with first, just at the junction of neck and shoulder—
The scent of lilac and leather oil cutting in closeness through acrid, sickening air.
It happens all at once. Cazador is slid into the sunlight just as Astarion sinks his teeth into Fenris' neck. He doesn't have time to phase through Astarion, and risk losing his grip on Cazador. He just has to endure it all, and hope the monster in the wooden box dies as he is supposed to.
Flames lick the adorned sides of that coffin, Astarion’s teeth punch deep through skin and tissue—
And then something gives.
Indescribable. The suddenness of it all. Like an oppressive hand withdrawn from his shoulders, like the weighted tangle of pulled strings, cut. He tastes blood, and in wanting to pull away— pulls away— his fingers loosening when he wills it. He stumbles back.
The rats scatter, the air clears.
He fits his hands to his chest, feeling for a grasp that isn’t there, mouth and throat still stained with stolen blood.
Fenris is left scrambling in the middle, pushing Astarion back from sunlight. His neck aches, all of him aches, and he can only watch the coffin burn. He'll watch it for as long as it takes.
Sitting like a collapsed doll at the catacombs entrance, Fenris turns to the shadow-marked recesses of the catacombs. His eyes take some time to adjust. He is so tired.
"I hope you didn't-..." A soft groan. It takes a great deal for Fenris to respond to ache. "I hope you are well."
He hopes Astarion has not lost himself to whatever horrors Cazador has subjected himself to, in his time away. How long was Astarion captured? Fenris finds new worry beating through his veins.
Two hundred years of torment weren't enough to break him. Maybe if Fenris had been taken. Maybe if Astarion knew what it was like to lose something more precious than his dignity. He'd come close to that fear, tasted it on the heels of that kiss, but—
“No, I— ”
He flinches there, his head aching suddenly with a near splitting pressure, one hand lifted, the back of it fitted against his eyes. The red cast of his iris briefly broadening, no doubt imperceptible in shadow. His senses reel, so impossibly potent that they feel overwhelming. Is it the weight of lifted bonds that has him so suddenly overcome, or is it....
He looks to Fenris, to the bloodied mess he wears, the tatters of his armor, his soaked hair. He looks beyond that misery, to the sight of ashes scattering in the sun.
"Not yet." He has not worked himself like this just to do it again. Fenris rises, slow and pained, retrieving one of the bags tied to his belt. This one is empty, and Fenris scoops as much ash as he can into it.
"I... I am going to find a river," he says between breaths. "You stay here. Rest. I will be back before sunset."
The words are there. Concern perched just across the tip of his tongue. But he sees what it is Fenris aims to do, and if anyone— anyone at all within the realms themselves— fully understands the necessity of that act, it is Astarion.
“I’ll do what I can.” He concedes, tipping his chin in a gesture that reads as a bow of surrendering deference. The place is decrepit. He hates it with every fiber of his being.
He also, in a strange show of unexpected temptation, finds allure in the idea of making it his own. Hm.
Fenris smiles, tired and hurt and utterly adoring. "I always will."
And he does. It takes time, perhaps longer than it should. Fenris is still new to this city, and finding separate rivers to dump the stuff in takes time. He's tired and disgusting with filth; citizens give him wide berth, at the very least.
When he trudges back, Fenris unsheaths his sword and breaks the coffin into several pieces. And then he sits down, and begins to wait for the sun to set. Closer now, but not quite.
"Are you well?" He does not look into the dark, instead preferring to sit at the catacomb entrance, leaning against the wall, his back away from Astarion.
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Oh, rest assured he won’t bite Fenris right away. That would spoil their game, after all.
“Shall I read to you, wolf?” His voice is dry, it lacks mirth in its cold mockery. Cold as the air itself. Cold as death. “Poetry, perhaps?”
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"Potius quam vespertilio lupum." Fenris grins.
The blows phase through Fenris' back as though passing through air. Fenris doesn't need to be bitten. He does not need to be bitten. He just needs to touch.
The gauntlets are there for a reason greater than his own comfort. He can phase his hand through flesh, true. He can let the gauntlets remain solid, ripping, tearing. Reaching for Cazador's throat, he tries that now.
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Rage floods quickly. A rare emotion for a creature so acclimated to getting its way. He withdraws as smoke— flees as a bloodied wolf in a snarling flash, darting away into shadow to lick his figurative wounds, his lesson learned. In the first glancing impact of their meeting, he’s come to realize his mistake in underestimating a lone beast on unfamiliar ground.
So be it, then.
Awake now is the rest of the coven. His family, dear as they are to him. Called to action as a ward. A moment of recovery. The longer Cazador remains untouched, the faster he heals.
With a damaged throat, he can offer no commentary. The snap of jaws— true vampires and scattered spawn alike— will have to suffice, their attentions focused on Fenris, and the first few lunges mercilessly swift.
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As Fenris strikes out, he focuses only on necks and heads. The same maneuver works only a few times, before he's given wide berth.
They do not wish to loose throats and eyes, as the gagging, gasping creatures at Fenris' feet have. Fenris crushes their throats underfoot as the coven backs away, looking for weaknesses. Buying time.
That cannot be endured.
He doesn't know where Cazador is, but he can guess. Where have these foot-soldiers assembled themselves most heavily? Are they barricading Cazador behind them?
That is Fenris' guess, as he rushes forward, using his sword to vault up and over their snapping jaws.
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Clever thing. He sees that determination rise before Fenris does in turn, lurking near a section of long-scorched wall in pure shadow, its once grand illustrations rotted and sodden with mildew and ash. With keen elven sight, he knows Fenris will recognize him the moment he closes in. He knows also that any physical blows will be met by those grasping claws, and that any attempts to exhaust it might still be made pointless by azure markings.
Magic, then, he decides. His throat still marred by lengthy scratches, but shallow ones. All injury yields to his dominion. As Fenris soon will.
His fingers claw as they stretch, the air near Fenris goes putrid with poisonous taint. A sickliness that numbs the senses and weakens resolve.
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His greatsword clatters to the ground, and Fenris struggles to stay standing. It evidently doesn't work, as Fenris scrambles and falls once again.
"Danarius," Fenris says, eyes hazed. He means Cazador. He means Danarius. It doesn't matter. "Fight me." A cough. "Coward."
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A step towards the inevitable.
Temptation lingers potent in the air, to cede advantage and lay claim to the start of this act’s closure— but he is old, and has already been cut by metal talons— and so his posture remains withdrawn as he watches for a beat longer, clawed hand left passively extended.
He won’t turn the poor beast just yet. Perhaps not for weeks. Nor months. The opportunity for amusement is too alluring, the promise of its wicked workings like the pages of a book he's yet to read. To commit in every horrid detail to an endless memory.
“You fight only yourself, boy.” His gaze is deep, and dark, and unkind. He fixes it fully on Fenris as he approaches, his gathered assets forming a circle around Fenris’ back. Hungry silhouettes in the dark.
The glamor— the terrible vampiric spellwork that enchants even the most devout creatures— that he weaves is merciless. A vice. Warm shackles in cold places.
How dare you, child, it whispers, how -could- you? Sink to your knees. Repent.
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He does feel ill, is the thing. His strength feels scrambled. His mind is unfocused. But he is accustomed to working in poor circumstances. He fought on no food, no sleep, an ill used tool in the jungles of Seheron where fire falls as casually as rain. So he exaggerated his weakness, in this moment, hoping for a slip of overconfidence.
But there is a limit to how much Fenris will risk, and it is the undead gathering at his back that makes him pull the spring. He is ill. He is capable of rushing forward for another precision lunge. This time he does not grasp at the throat. An old habit, perhaps, but Fenris reaches for the heart, blue light flaring ever brighter.
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Cazador’s fangs bare in that split-second of closeness, a fury he would see wrought into ruin—
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So Fenris' arm surges upward, hand reaching toward the throat, the head. As he goes, his gauntlet stays tangible, ripping through undead flesh.
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This is his domain. This is his—
His claws are lancing as they thrash in the aftermath of that terrible blow, a brief outpouring of hatred unable to be sustained, for he is too wounded, too weak— viciously marred and painted with stolen blood. He cannot speak, but the words 'you will be hunted— you will never know peace', worm their way into Fenris’ mind as Cazador’s hunched form scatters into mist, retreating deeper into the bowels of his estate. No doubt to lick his wounds within the security of his coffin.
What remains in his shadow are snapping claws and sharp teeth. A vitriolic barrier, not insurmountable.
So long as Fenris is not yet too tired to endure.
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They were people, once.
Yet he cannot find he mourns their loss. He'd had grand ideas, upon entering this place. He'd hoped he could free more than just Astarion. This is a failure he will have to endure, if his story continues past this night.
He tries to incapacitate those that he can, dashing them to walls like he did Astarion, but after a point, his energy leaves him for subtlety. He does not see which survive and which don't. He cannot, in that moment, care. Fenris destroys what he can, until he is left alone, panting and regretful, covered in filth.
He had hoped to save some. Now, he uses the implements he'd brought to save Astarion: Rope to tie his hands back, a gag through his mouth. If Astarion awakes, he won't be used against him again.
Fenris tucks Astarion's body as far back as he can within the catacombs; an attempt he isn't sure will truly matter, yet it sets his heart at ease. Then he rises once more, blade in hand, and begins the awful trudge again. Where is the coffin? He will find it.
His mind is a blur of tired oaths. Under his breath, he murmurs words of hate: "Cazador. Face me. Cazador."
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He isn’t fully recovered. He lacks blood. His face and throat and chest a mottled crosswork of deep gouges, ruined skin.
“I will see you regret this,” his lips torn on one side, the white of his fangs are long in shadow when he speaks, rising in his coffin, unwilling to meet this denouement as a passive party. “You will rue this folly.”
Beyond petty amusement. Beyond aspirations of power and control. Fenris is branded by hatred now, and Cazador Szarr does not easily cede anything in death.
Or loss.
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"You have no idea of which you speak."
Fenris slams the stake down, and without waiting a moment, begins to drag the coffin the way he came. He won't chart a new route. There are too many risks.
1/2
But that ire is overwritten in short order. He can feel it. The pull of necessity. Of dire, damning need.
He cannot find his blades, left somewhere else than where he’d fallen. He’ll resort to fangs. He only requires one opportunity. An opening. A moment where Fenris’ back is turned, and his focus fixed.
2/2
The estate is quiet. Gone utterly dark. Candle wicks burned out, the stench of blood a sickly blanket over air that was already stale to begin with. This place was never fit for the living.
And in that coffin, Cazador remains— Fenris’ departure only briefly interrupted by scattered collections of rats. Bats. Carrion creatures. Festering irritations compared to what Fenris has already overcome. If it feels akin to the last, useless thrashes of a dying beast yet committed to survival, that is because it is.
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He only realizes belatedly that these are creatures Cazador controls. A slick swear in Tevene, and Fenris begins to move faster. He wasn't taking his time before, but he surely wasn't dancing around biting rats.
Fenris still isn't wearing shoes. He's a fool, that much is sure. But if he looses a few toes in the service of this greater good? So be it.
"You called me a wolf," Fenris groans, making the last, harrowing, painful steps toward glittering sunlight, "I am one. We do not heed rats. If there exists something beyond the Void, remember that."
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The scent of lilac and leather oil cutting in closeness through acrid, sickening air.
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And then something gives.
Indescribable. The suddenness of it all. Like an oppressive hand withdrawn from his shoulders, like the weighted tangle of pulled strings, cut. He tastes blood, and in wanting to pull away— pulls away— his fingers loosening when he wills it. He stumbles back.
The rats scatter, the air clears.
He fits his hands to his chest, feeling for a grasp that isn’t there, mouth and throat still stained with stolen blood.
“...I.”
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Sitting like a collapsed doll at the catacombs entrance, Fenris turns to the shadow-marked recesses of the catacombs. His eyes take some time to adjust. He is so tired.
"I hope you didn't-..." A soft groan. It takes a great deal for Fenris to respond to ache. "I hope you are well."
He hopes Astarion has not lost himself to whatever horrors Cazador has subjected himself to, in his time away. How long was Astarion captured? Fenris finds new worry beating through his veins.
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“No, I— ”
He flinches there, his head aching suddenly with a near splitting pressure, one hand lifted, the back of it fitted against his eyes. The red cast of his iris briefly broadening, no doubt imperceptible in shadow. His senses reel, so impossibly potent that they feel overwhelming. Is it the weight of lifted bonds that has him so suddenly overcome, or is it....
He looks to Fenris, to the bloodied mess he wears, the tatters of his armor, his soaked hair. He looks beyond that misery, to the sight of ashes scattering in the sun.
“You actually did it.”
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"I... I am going to find a river," he says between breaths. "You stay here. Rest. I will be back before sunset."
He has plenty of time, blessedly.
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The words are there. Concern perched just across the tip of his tongue. But he sees what it is Fenris aims to do, and if anyone— anyone at all within the realms themselves— fully understands the necessity of that act, it is Astarion.
“I’ll do what I can.” He concedes, tipping his chin in a gesture that reads as a bow of surrendering deference. The place is decrepit. He hates it with every fiber of his being.
He also, in a strange show of unexpected temptation, finds allure in the idea of making it his own. Hm.
“Just make sure you come back.”
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And he does. It takes time, perhaps longer than it should. Fenris is still new to this city, and finding separate rivers to dump the stuff in takes time. He's tired and disgusting with filth; citizens give him wide berth, at the very least.
When he trudges back, Fenris unsheaths his sword and breaks the coffin into several pieces. And then he sits down, and begins to wait for the sun to set. Closer now, but not quite.
"Are you well?" He does not look into the dark, instead preferring to sit at the catacomb entrance, leaning against the wall, his back away from Astarion.
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ur perfect this is perfect sh shh
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