2
It was a lovely evening in the Lower City of Baldur’s Gate, which meant that it was foggy but not actually raining, the rats weren’t swarming, and nothing untoward with tentacles was coming up from the sea.
The ladies, gentlemen, and others of the evening were out in force, the drunks had not yet been turned out of the taverns, and Astarion was slinking through the shadows.
Slinking is a very specific sort of movement, not to be confused with skulking.
Snakes slink, of course, as do cats and cat burglars and most assassins.
Thugs and bruisers and most people who break heads for money skulk.
(Wolves, interestingly enough, can do either.)
The difference is in the fluidity of movement.
If you see someone skulking, you wonder who’s going to get their bones broken, whereas if you see someone slinking, you wonder if they’ve got any bones at all.
Astarion slunk past the open door of an inn, from which raucous laughter poured into the night.
Too busy for his purposes, and too loud.
The one on the next street was quieter, but he knew for a fact that it was where the Flaming Fists went to drink, and the mercenary troop tended to get very unhappy when their people went missing and had a habit of turning over rocks to see what was underneath.
As a dweller under metaphorical rocks—albeit a very handsome one, thank you—Astarion was not inclined to stir up trouble.
He kept moving, making a slow circuit past the various inns and taverns.
Seven Sins was a tiefling bar, and he’d stand out like an orchid in an abattoir.
The Hagstone was perfect—quiet, tastefully appointed, generally full of men hoping to meet other men for conversation and possibly more.
It was so perfect, in fact, that he’d taken his last prey from there, and he figured he should give it a few more tendays before he tried again.
He paused thoughtfully across the street from the Toad’s Ghost, which was holding what appeared to be a poetry night.
That might be promising. You could almost always find someone in the back, watching with glazed politeness and absolutely desperate to leave.
Of course, the downside was that you also had to listen to poetry.
He made a mental note to come back in an hour if nothing else presented itself.
The fog was thickening, muffling the sounds of footsteps and drunken revelry. It barely stirred as he passed. A member of the Watch went by scarcely an arm’s length away, but the light of his own lantern reflected off the mist blinded him to Astarion’s presence.
Perhaps I should make use of this fog…
He generally disliked taking people off the street, since bystanders had an inconvenient habit of showing up at just the wrong moment. Not that any bothered to show up for me when I was bleeding to death in an alley, the curs. But with fog this thick, who would ever know?
He turned south toward the docks and continued his slink.
* * *