Page 52 of Astarion

“Do you know that writing?” Astarion asked while the paladin examined one of the boxes.

“I believe it’s a variant of what is written on a sarcophagus to create a mummy.” The paladin frowned. “But what’s it doing in Baldur’s Gate? And why is it so cold?”

“Saponification,” Astarion said. “It’s how they’re making those waxy mummies. Don’t give me that look, someone explained it to me. I have no interest in making mummies, waxy or otherwise.” And if I did, he added silently, they would be much better looking. “When they were hauling me in, they said something about cells being converted to tanks. I imagine this must be what they meant.”

“Well, I suppose there’s no reason a mummy has to be from the desert, as long as it’s kept dry and you use the right spells…” Den Suriel’s hand hovered over a carving of a scarab. Oh, that’s where I’ve seen these before. They’re like the carvings on those ridiculously tasteless pillars in the great hall. Except these were done by someone who knew what they were doing. No wonder I didn’t recognize them.

“We need to find a way to smash these,” den Suriel said.

“May I suggest we find our weapons first? You may have the unwavering fists of justice, but my hands are precision instruments, and I would rather not smash them on frozen cement.”

“Yes, of course.” The paladin stepped back and nodded to him. “I’ll wait here.”

“Good. And if anything crawls out of the tank, please do try to dispose of it quietly.”

There was another set of modified cells before Astarion reached a corner. Green light spilled around it.

Good thing the paladin can’t see me, or he might notice that I don’t actually cast a shadow. It had become second nature to Astarion not to stand between a light source and a wall, but there were limits to what you could do in a corridor only five feet wide.

At the end of the hallway lay the room where the jailor was playing solitaire. From this angle, all he could see was the edge of the table and occasionally a half-melted hand laying down cards. The skeleton guards were visible only as bony elbows protruding into the doorway.

Halfway down the hall stood a door. Astarion slunk toward it, keeping low. There was absolutely nowhere to hide, unless you were someone like Yousen who could stand up against a rock wall and become invisible, but there was no point in making things easy for the enemy.

The door was slightly ajar, enough to make out some of the room’s contents. Excellent. There was a battered shield nearly as tall as Astarion, an absurdly large sword, his own daggers tossed in a careless heap atop a trunk, and something that looked like a cross between a sarcophagus and an unmade bed.

Astarion started to move, then froze with one foot suspended in mid-step.

He could not, should not go inside. It was wrong on every possible level. His stomach churned at the mere thought of crossing that inviolable threshold.

Private dwelling. Well, shit. Who knew mummies had bedrooms?

He hastily pulled back against the wall. This was the reason that Astarion had never devoted himself wholeheartedly to being a thief. It was very hard to steal things when you couldn’t invade someone’s bedroom. Public buildings like shops and temples were fair game, but even a private room at an inn stopped him in his tracks.

On the other hand, it kept Violet from breaking into his room and leaving powdered silver in his bed, so he couldn’t say it was all bad.

He made his way back down the hallway to den Suriel, who was leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, as if meditating. He opened his eyes at Astarion’s approach. “Any luck?”

“Yes and no. Our weapons are in a room right before the guard post. The door is partly open, but if the hinges are anything like the ones on our cell, the minute you touch it, it will scream like a priest in a brothel.” Astarion spread his hands. “Even if I could oil the hinges, I strongly doubt I could get out with that oversized sword and shield you carry without making some noise, and that will bring at least two skeletons and the jailor down on my head.” He gave den Suriel his best rueful smile. “I fear that I am a lover, not a fighter.”

And this is where he suggests the paladinly thing…

“Fortunately, I’m both,” den Suriel said.

That was not quite what Astarion had expected. Is he…flirting? No, surely not. He’s a paladin. I’m sure something terrible happens to them if they flirt.

“I’ll rush in and grab the weapons,” den Suriel said, which was closer to what Astarion had expected. “Even if they come charging at me, once I’m armed, I can deal with them.”

Astarion had to struggle to keep the triumph out of his smile. “How did they catch you in the first place?”

The aasimar rubbed his temple ruefully. “Bad luck, I’m afraid. I happened on a group of skeletons, and they were no problem, then another group, and they were no problem. The third group had about forty, though, and that was a problem. Then one of those mummies showed up, and while we were going toe-to-toe, another one came up behind me, hit me with a spell, and then bashed me over the head.”

“These things happen,” Astarion said. Privately, he thought forty skeletons was an excellent sign of the need for a strategic retreat, but it was clear that he and den Suriel had very different approaches to life. “Let’s go, then. Try to stay quiet until we reach the last hallway.”

Half a minute later, Astarion was forced to admit that the paladin was following his instructions exactly. He was indeed trying. He was trying very hard. It was just that most of his wardrobe was made of metal, and his boots were made for kicking evil in the soft bits, not for padding stealthily through enemy territory. Whenever he took a step, he sounded like a symphony scored for chain mail and kettle drums.

Clank.

Clink.