Page 75 of Astarion

“Squeak.”

The paladin lifted him carefully with one hand and brought Astarion’s tiny wrinkled face level with his own. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Astarion was increasingly sure he didn’t, but damned if he was going to suffer the indignity of being a winged mouse and not have something to show for it. “Squeak.”

“You can back out, and we’ll find another way.”

With my luck, the other way will involve being turned into a millipede or something equally dreadful. “Squeak-squeak.”

Den Suriel’s lips turned up in a smile. “And, Astarion?”

“Squeak?”

“Your little scrunchy face is adorable.”

“Darling boy…fuck you.”

That came out as another buzzing chatter. Den Suriel laughed and put his hand to the crack in the stone.

At Astarion’s current size, the opening was as broad as a carriage road. His miniature lungs inflated as he took a deep breath. Trust the bat. What a remarkably druid thing to say.

He launched himself into space.

—

The first seconds of free fall were unbelievably horrible. Astarion screamed, which brought the cavern walls into sharp relief. “I’m trusting the bat! I’m trusting! Why is nothing happening?”

The floor was rushing toward him. In blind terror, he tried to turn and grab the wall, which meant throwing out his arms, which meant that his wings flared, and his descent slowed considerably.

…Oh.

His arms were his wings now. He was hugging the air, which felt almost like water.

He gave an experimental flap, and the floor stopped coming toward him. That was good. That was wonderful. It would be terribly ignominious to survive as long as he had and then die from a fall while he had wings.

A few more flaps, and Astarion started to get the hang of things. The air really was like water, buoyant but full of drifts and currents and stray eddies. An updraft sent him perilously close to the cavern ceiling. He banked without even thinking about it, dropping one wing and curving down out of the way.

It was amazing. Gravity’s grip on him was suddenly loosened. It wasn’t like climbing, where you could fall at any moment; it was more like swimming, but without any need to hold your breath.

It was…fun.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had purely innocent fun. It might have been before he’d moved to Baldur’s Gate. Astarion enjoyed many things—he loved the feel of silk and the smooth roll of a good wine over his tongue; he was often pleased, amused, smug, and sometimes even triumphant—but fun was something he’d genuinely forgotten.

I’ve changed my mind. When I become a true vampire, I’m turning into a bat all the time.

His chirp of delight picked up a nearby dot in the air. Moth, he thought absently, swooping toward it.

Astarion was already spitting out the papery wings before he realized what was happening. It tasted like something between pudding and peanuts. No real blood in it, but he’d learned that years ago, eating cockroaches under Godey’s bizarrely benevolent eye.

Trust the bat, and you ended up eating bugs, apparently. The druid’s warning about becoming too comfortable rang in his head, and Astarion reminded himself that he had business to attend to. The last thing he wanted was to overstay the time limit and suddenly become a wingless but exceedingly handsome creature fifty feet in the air. That led to one becoming an exceedingly handsome splat in short order.

The magical sphere of darkness was not designed to interfere with sound, which was one of the reasons the druid had pronounced bat shape as the best solution. Astarion spiraled downward toward the central plaza, suddenly able to make out details. Three slabs of stone were arranged in a C shape, with hulking skeleton guards stationed at either end. The middle stone had a shallow basin carved into it, half full of liquid.

Landing was somewhat fraught. If he left his wings outstretched, he went into a glide, but if he pulled them tight against his body, he dropped like a stone. His legs weren’t made to absorb the shock, either. Trusting the bat wasn’t much help because the bat didn’t want to land on the ground; it wanted to roost.

He made three abortive passes before finally just flinging himself out of the air directly at the altar. He hit at a bad angle, flipped over, and went tumbling over the back of the altar onto the pavement, stunning himself.

Ow, he thought. His head felt fuzzy.