Chapter Text
Tonight you are attending a prestigious party in a house in one of the city’s finest districts. The Silvershield family is famed for its vast fortune, and the moment you step through the grand front doors, you can see that every rumour you have ever heard of them and their wealth is justified. The entrance hall alone is larger than most houses - even those in the upper city - and the room is lavishly appointed in the latest fashions of high society. The vast marble floor gleams beneath the elegantly shod feet of the hundreds of guests that mill around the entrance, and above them, up the pair of curving stairs, the upper-level balconies that look down on the crowds are lined with intricate gilded metalwork. Their golden details sparkle in the light of the giant glittering chandelier that hangs from the ornately sculpted ceiling. Dramatic murals of gods and heroes line the walls, and it is only when one of the uniformed doormen coughs politely beside you that you realise that you have frozen in the doorway, lips parted, eyes wide, as you attempt to take in the splendour of the place. You credit yourself with having cultivated a fine group of friends in the city, and you all live lives of luxury, but this, here, is another level of grandeur entirely. All the late nights spent pouring over obscure and archaic case law in order to ensure the family’s recent trial went the way they wanted suddenly seem entirely worth it. You pull on a face of casual ease as you step inside as if none of this is at all out of the ordinary, and quietly wonder if the Silversheilds have any eligible children you might happen to acquaint yourself with tonight.
Though all soirees, in your experience, often end up as little more than work-related networking events, you hope to seize a little amusement with friends, rather than colleagues, before such things inevitably begin. You set off through the press of immaculately dressed guests in search of company, though finding anyone in such a crowd will be a challenge. You have barely been at the party for ten minutes - though that has been plenty of time in which to almost finish a cup of the most exquisite wine that is currently on offer - when Baldric Vammas, one of the senior magistrates at your firm, spots you. You curse inwardly, but try not to let your irritation show as the old man beckons you over. He is pleasant enough, in a blustering, human sort of way, and you have a sneaking suspicion that he is behind your rapid advancements in the firm - someone high up certainly is ensuring you are given every opportunity, though you know better than to ask about it directly.
As you make your way through the bustling bodies towards him, you take in the man that Vammas is stood speaking to. An elf, taller than most, though his height looks to be the only remarkable thing about him. He is handsome, but only in the way that all elves are when stood in contrast with a human. His straight black hair is cut rather plainly, and the clothes he wears are made of rich material but cut in a style that looks decades out of fashion. You privately think that this somehow makes it worse: when one clearly has the money for decent clothes and simply lacks the fashionable insights to convert that wealth into anything that even slightly resembles decent apparel, it seems like such a pitiful waste. Even Vammas, whose outmoded taste is something of a joke around the office, looks dapper in comparison. They look quite the comedic pair: one uncommonly tall and dressed in an antiquated style more suited for the portraits on the walls than any living, breathing party guest, and one so short and squat that he is almost wider than he is tall. In the light of the glowing magical lanterns that float in glittering clusters over the partygoers’ heads which add an arcane luminance to the golden glow of the grand chandelier, you see that Vammas’s companion has red eyes, and you have to hide a sneer at the thought that this person might have a family line tainted by drow ancestry.
As you get closer - you are deliberately advancing slowly, in the hopes of catching a passing waiter carrying a cup of wine that you might take before you join what may well be a tedious conversation - Vammas pushes through the crowd to take you by the arm and drag you with a little more urgency the last few steps towards his companion.
“Asti, old chap, come over here, let me introduce you— come on, now, you can get another drink later, there's a good lad— now, this is Lord Szarr, one of our most longstanding patrons - gods bless you elves, I say, quite wonderful for business - Lord Szarr, may I introduce Astarion Ancunín, the rising star of law in Baldur's Gate! I'm sure your paths would have crossed eventually, but, well, why not cross them now, eh! Lord Szarr has that great palace overlooking the park, isn't that right? You know the one, Asti, huge old thing with the wrought iron fence up on the hill? Perfect spot to throw things down on all the lower city folk, eh!”
“Quite,” says Lord Szarr quietly. You shift on your feet, trying to hide your discomfort at the fact that the lord hasn't stopped staring at your face since Vammas began making your introductions.
“Well, must be off, must mingle, you know how these things are, hellish, truly, so many people to talk to, but you two should get acquainted! Oh, Asti, tell him that dreadful case involving the Gur and the crate of gremishka! Wonderful stuff! Quite dreadful! See you!”
With that, Vammas heads off into the crowd, calling out greetings and generally bustling his way around the room in a way that makes it easy to follow his position even though he stands at least a head shorter than most of the other partygoers.
“Great guy,” you say, trying for your most winning smile. His atrocious nicknaming tendencies aside, you cannot deny that Vammas has been a most useful acquaintance. The lord's eyes still haven't left your face. You're starting to worry that you've got something stuck to it, or something in your hair, or even your teeth, and it's making you feel self-conscious in a way that is quite unlike you.
“Mmm,” Lord Szarr agrees, although without much conviction. Still, if he's one of the wealthiest patrons of the firm, you can't let a single short answer trip you. You try again. You know you can be charming when you want to be.
“I'm not sure why he told me to tell you the Gur and gremishka story, though,” you say with a falsely affectionate chuckle. “It's really rather tedious.”
The lord is still staring at you intently. You find being candid can be charming in the right circumstances, and being playful clearly isn't working, so you change tack.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, do I have something on my face?” you ask, running your fingers gently across your cheeks. “I hate to ask, but—”
“Ancunín,” the lord says, cutting you off. “Your family name is Ancunín?”
You swallow. “Yes.”
The lord looks mildly annoyed at this, though you cannot fathom why. There is something unsettling about the man, but you cannot put your finger on it. Perhaps his oddly clipped accent, speaking words softly enough that you find yourself unwillingly leaning towards him to ensure you can hear. Perhaps it is his eyes, sharp with something you cannot read - something searching, almost hungry, although you have had admirers enough that you know it is not attraction that hides within his gaze. If anything - though you cannot for the life of you think why - it looks closer to disgust.
“And your mother's name?”
The mention of your mother makes your chest ache, but you have learned to hide the pain. “Alaenree,” you say, and your voice stays light and level.
His eyebrows raise in the slightest gesture of recognition; you have learned to expect it whenever you mention the name of your mother's family to a fellow elf. Recognition and respect.
“I see,” he says, sounding almost disappointed, which is not something you are used to when revealing your heritage. “Has your family been in the city for long?”
“No, my lord. My family lived outside of the city. I came here to study, and to work.”
“Lived? They do not live there now?”
“My parents have both passed on.”
“I see,” he says again. He offers no comfort. If anything, he looks pleased. You know you should be trying to chum it up with this man - this lord - if he really is an old patron of the firm, but something about him is getting under your skin, and your drink is empty, and you really wanted to spend tonight rubbing elbows with all the pretty young things making a name for themselves rather than this fusty old man with no sense of humour or good grace.
“Anyway,” you say, after a pause that lasted a little too long to be comfortable, “I'm actually all out of drink; I think I'll go and fetch another. It was good to meet you, my lord.”
You flash another golden smile as you bid him farewell, but he doesn't react at all. As you turn and make your way through the crowd in search of booze or friends or beauties, you swear you can feel his eyes following you.