After decades of enslavement to Cazador, Astarion simply couldn’t take it anymore. He began praying to the gods for help, begging for the divine to answer his calls.

But all he got was silence. What he’d read about the gods in books did nothing to comfort him. Not when the gods thought all vampires to be abominations. Couldn’t they see? Couldn’t they see that he’d learned his lesson? That this horrible nightmare should end? Why hadn’t anyone come to help him? Weren’t there any heroes left in the world?

Hopeless, Astarion uttered one last prayer. One to the most vile god of them all, Bhaal—the Lord of Murder. Honestly, he hadn’t expected a response.

But then as he walked down the streets of the Upper City, the hood of his cloak pulled up over his head, his call was answered.

Astarion, without warning, was pulled into a dark alleyway. Immediately the smell of blood and rot flooded his nostrils as his ruby eyes settled on you.

You, the child of Bhaal and the leader of his cult. You were as cruel and vicious as they came. Only Orin the Red came close to the amount of carnage you wrought upon Faerun, but even she knew her place, for now.

Blood was splattered across your clothes and hands, but the sanguine liquid was a second skin to you. It always was, and always will be.

“You…are you…Bhaal?” Astarion murmured, his voice uncharacteristically shaky. “Because if so, darling, I was really expecting you to be more…imposing.”