I’m about to beat the game for the second time and I’m still completely taken by #Astarion’s arc. 🥺

Wish there was even more back ground lore exploring the characters lives before the events of the game.

This is how I imagine Astarion spends his night in the city before getting tadpoled and finding a moment of respite.

I made this one available as a print if people are interested!

https://www.inprnt.com/gallery/jasminel/astarions-night-in-baldurs-gate/

I absolutely adore this piece, so much so I bought a print to hang in my office and stare at everyday. I ended up staring at it and being inspired to write a short one shot, so please enjoy my take on Astarion's last night in the city before being taken by the nautiloid.

Last Night in Baldur's Gate

Read it on Ao3 too!

Another night in the streets of the Lower City. Lights flickered in windows, conversations over dinner in homes and in taverns rang through open windows, and the streets were quite empty save for one person: a beautiful white-haired elf that made the moon pale in comparison.

That’s how Astarion would describe himself, at least, as he strolled through the streets.

It was another ordinary evening for the people of Baldur’s Gate, all except for the one unfortunate soul that would face a tragic end at the hands of Astarion’s charms tonight. Astarion was on another hunt for Cazador, expected to bring some unlucky wretch back to the Szarr palace before dawn. If Astarion didn’t… well, he preferred not to think about the nights where he came home alone. Days left in the kennel and the screams that rang from him while Godey, that damned undead psychopath, laughed that shrill, raspy laugh of his…

Astarion would not fail tonight. He would bring home some drunk that fondled his perfect body, then fall asleep in the dormitory, curling in on himself and being glad that the worst thing he faced tonight was an unwanted touch. Just as long as it wasn’t Cazador’s touch, he would be grateful.

200 years of torment as a vampire spawn under Cazador’s thumb, that was how long Astarion had lived so far, and every day he had to bury the hope that something may change, that some stroke of luck or work of a god would give him a chance at freedom. Unfortunately, none of his prayers were ever answered, and so he buried any sense of hope down in order to endure his reality. Freedom was not something he expected anymore. The closest he had to it now was nights like this one, when he left the palace on a hunt and had that brief moment alone to himself as he strolled the streets, heading to wherever his destination was that evening. He often took the long route to wherever he planned to go, each step slow and lingering as he enjoyed the brief moment he had to himself. Cazador’s command to obey and bring him a victim was always present, even in those moments alone, but this was the only time Astarion could push away the compulsions and pretend to be something more. Someone that wasn’t a slave. Someone that just so happened to enjoy moonlit strolls and savoring the dark purple sky that shined with stars above their home.

Tonight, Astarion planned to hunt at the Blushing Mermaid. It had been some time since he had brought home a sailor, and so less people were likely to recognize him from his last visit. What was more important to him though was that he got to walk through the square at the base of the Lower City wall on his way to the salty saloon, the one where Sorcerer’s Sundries sat with its beautiful stained glass roofs. 

Astarion enjoyed passing through this square in the evening and savoring the sights of it all; the dim lanterns that lit the fountain in the center of the square, the faint glow inside those stained glass domes on the magical store that revealed stunning, vivid colors like the flowers found in the daytime in a fine garden, and the view of the ocean that could be seen looking down the few avenues that were connected to the square sparkling from the moonlight. It was a truly beautiful part of the city.

He couldn’t take the time though to sit and enjoy the silence of the empty streets or the faint light illuminating the colors of the stained glass that one could see easily during the day. His body physically wouldn’t let him rest until he made it to a tavern due to Cazador’s commands. However, he could still linger. He could take his sweet time with each individual step, savoring the surroundings and enjoying the false sense of autonomy that he had while alone here. For the brief moment where he stood in the square, Astarion could pretend that he belonged to no one but himself and the night sky. Then, after a moment of stillness, he began walking once more because he had to, not out of any desire to leave this momentary peace that he had managed to find.

For the last 200 years, Astarion’s mind wasn’t his own, and neither was his body. He had no say in what his life had become. Everything he was, everything he had been, it all belonged to Cazador. It was molded by his master, and every day was a reminder that nothing but an act from the gods would free him from this curse. From the day he rose out of his own grave, he belonged to Cazador, and every night like this one, his body belonged to whatever conquest he lured home. Then, before Astarion had any chance to reclaim any sense of self during the encounter with his target, Cazador would always come back to reclaim his precious spawn and whatever prize it managed to drag back to that gaudy boudoir.

But the moments like this, here in the square, under the moonlight, savoring the sounds and the sights of it all, he could almost pretend that he had some sense of control of his life. If he could still manage to appreciate something beautiful in this accursed world, then he had not given in to Cazador. No matter how many times his spirit was broken by the bastard, Astarion would never allow his master to take complete control. He refused to completely break under Cazador’s grip. Sometimes, he thought that maybe he had already been broken, sometimes even more than once. It had been so long since his mortal life that he couldn’t remember anything before the hell Cazador trapped him in. He may have had no memories of what he had been like before being turned, but Astarion, whatever version of himself he was now, still managed to be defiant despite all that he had suffered. It often worked against him though, making him Cazador’s favorite toy to punish. Still, it was better than being the perfect pet like Leon or Violet. The thought of serving the monster like the perfect dog filled Astarion with disgust.

No, this was the hell he chose. If he was to suffer through it, he would do it on his own terms, or at least as much as Cazador’s compulsions would allow.

As he walked past the square and down the street leading to the Mermaid, Astarion’s skin began to crawl. Seeing the glowing entrance to the tavern was a reminder of what he was out here to do. Any sense of pretending disappeared the closer he stepped to the door. He sighed, staring at the moon one final time and cursing Selune for her lack of help all these years before making his way inside, ready to be a tool once again.

Wouldn’t he know it though that tonight, on his way back to the palace with a drunken fisherman, a new hope would show itself in the form of a tadpole.

You’re amazing!!! This is so cool in written form! I always have had a hard time articulating my thoughts in writing and you wrote the feeling I was trying to capture perfectly!! Thank you

Meet the Artist: @juubli

Nice to meet you, Jasmine! Below are some pieces she has shared for you all to appreciate.

For more of Jasmine's work, be sure to check out her Tumblr, @juubli!

Thanks Tumblr for the feature!

Why his looks gotta be so intense sometimes 🫠🫠🫠

This is how I imagine the portrait Oskar painted looked like 😍😍😍😍

That was my inspiration as well!