{"id":13327,"date":"2026-08-25T12:50:36","date_gmt":"2026-08-25T09:50:36","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/imdbnews.ir\/?p=13327"},"modified":"2026-08-25T15:34:38","modified_gmt":"2026-08-25T12:04:38","slug":"exclusive-baldurs-gate-3-astarion-excerpt-narrated-by-neil-newbon-himself","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/imdbnews.ir\/index.php\/2026\/08\/25\/exclusive-baldurs-gate-3-astarion-excerpt-narrated-by-neil-newbon-himself\/","title":{"rendered":"EXCLUSIVE: Baldur’s Gate 3: Astarion Excerpt, Narrated by Neil Newbon Himself"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/div>\n

In this excerpt, Astarion goes slinking (not skulking) through Baldur\u2019s Gate, seeking fresh blood for his master.<\/em><\/p>\n

Excerpt:<\/u><\/p>\n

It was a lovely evening in the Lower City of Baldur\u2019s Gate, which meant that it was foggy but not actually raining, the rats weren\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n

\tSlinking was a very specific sort of movement, and 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\u2019s going to get their bones broken, whereas if you see someone slinking, you wonder if they\u2019ve got any bones at all.<\/p>\n

\tAstarion slunk past the open door of an inn, where raucous laughter poured into the night. Too busy for his purposes, and too loud. 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 tendency to turn over rocks to see what was underneath.<\/p>\n

\tAs one of the dwellers under metaphorical rocks\u2014albeit a very handsome one, thank you\u2014Astarion was not inclined to stir up trouble.<\/p>\n

\tHe kept moving, making a slow circuit past the various inns and taverns. Seven Sins was a tiefling bar, and he\u2019d stand out like an orchid in an abattoir. The Hagstone was perfect\u2014quiet, tastefully appointed, generally full of men hoping to meet other men for conversation and possibly more. It was so perfect, in fact, that he\u2019d taken his last prey from there and figured he should give it a few more tendays before he tried again. <\/p>\n

He paused thoughtfully across the street from the Toad\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n

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 barely an armslength away, but the light of his own lantern reflected off the mist blinded him to Astarion\u2019s presence.<\/p>\n

Perhaps I should make use of this fog\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n

He generally disliked taking people off the street, since inconvenient bystanders had a habit of showing up at just the wrong moment. Not that any bothered to show up for <\/em>me when <\/em>I was bleeding to death in an alley, the curs.<\/em> But with fog this thick, who would ever know?<\/p>\n

He turned south toward the docks and continued his slink.<\/p>\n

By the time he reached the Sea Tower district and the seedy neighborhood surrounding the docks, the fog was so thick that you could no longer cut it with a knife. You\u2019d need an axe at the very least. The lamps that marked the doorways of taverns shone like lighthouses above the street. Voices echoed strangely off buildings, stretched and distorted, so that it was nearly impossible to tell where the speakers were, or what exactly they were saying.<\/p>\n

He paused across the street from Rat\u2019s Run. In many ways, a marvelous place, full of drunken sailors that no one would miss. Perfect for picking up a stranger and luring them back to Cazador\u2019s palace. The owner was a very\u2026interesting<\/em>\u2026lady who owed him a favor and wasn\u2019t above indicating when she would like someone killed. <\/p>\n

He took out his glasses, put them on his nose, and the mist immediately turned them opaque.<\/p>\n

\t\u201cI am foiled at every turn, it seems,\u201d he muttered to himself. The glasses were exceedingly flattering, or so he had been told by numerous people, some of whom had even gone on to live out their natural lifespans. Unable to check in a mirror himself, he had been more than a little worried. The glasses were also host to a very minor illusion, so small and harmless that anyone who sensed it would chalk it up to vanity. Many people wore such charms\u2014necklaces that magically disguised a double chin, earrings that smoothed a pocked complexion, that sort of thing. (In one memorable case, it was underwear that corrected the spelling of a lower back tattoo, a fact which Astarion learned when the underwear came off and he found himself gripping hips marked with the elven characters for \u201cbladder infection.\u201d Fortunately the human man under him had taken his shout of laughter for passion and Astarion had excused himself afterward to go and laugh hysterically in private.)<\/p>\n

\tIn Astarion\u2019s case, his glasses turned his eyes blue. It was all well and good to have red eyes when the lights were off, but when he went hunting somewhere well lit, the glasses made life rather easier. <\/p>\n

\tHe put the glasses away. The Rat\u2019s Run would be there tomorrow and the next day and probably for the next hundred years after that. Tonight, he would find a victim in the fog. <\/p>\n

Astarion made his way along the waterfront, keeping the buildings tightly to his left. The fog was even thicker here, draped over the docks like a funeral shroud, and the last thing he needed was to misjudge a distance and stumble over the wall. The bay here didn\u2019t count as running water but it was cold and full of all sorts of dreadful things. Fish pissed in it. So did sailors. Astarion really did not want to have to squelch home smelling like an estuary.<\/p>\n

He passed another spill of light, from a bar, where a halfling was playing an accordion in front of an audience that did not seem to be accordion aficionados. I could probably get more applause by walking in, grabbing that bard by the throat, and dragging them out. <\/em><\/p>\n

A large piece of dock equipment loomed before him. It looked like a crane, but being nautical, it was probably called a larboard mizzenpoop or something like that. Astarion did not feel the need to clutter up his mind learning names for things on boats. They all sounded like tawdry sex acts, possibly performed with a dead fish.<\/p>\n

He leaned against the mizzenpoop for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust to the fog. Small red lanterns gleamed along the street, appearing and disappearing as the breeze off the ocean twisted the fog into strange shapes. Prostitutes, most likely.<\/em> Hard to do business if the sailors can\u2019t find you.<\/em><\/p>\n

Astarion did not hunt prostitutes, even though they seemed<\/em> like they would be easy prey. Not because he was a good man\u2014it was to laugh\u2014but the ladies of negotiable affection watched out for each other, and they would rapidly have noticed that those who went with a certain pale elven client did not come back. Immortality was all well and good, but being tossed into the Chionthar River would mean a short, brutal death by running water.<\/p>\n

Petras, who had all the brains of an orange tabaxi, had<\/em> attempted to hunt prostitutes when he was newly made. Astarion didn\u2019t know what had happened, just that Aurelia had found him in an alley, bloody and shaking and stinking of sewage. It had taken a fair amount of blood to get him healed up and coherent and he wouldn\u2019t talk about it even now.<\/p>\n

Truth be told, Astarion had a certain fellow-feeling for prostitutes. The amount of times he\u2019d used his body to lure a victim into Cazador\u2019s clutches probably qualified him for membership in their guild. <\/p>\n

As if summoned by the thought, the fog around him flickered red and a voice said, \u201cHey. You there.\u201d<\/p>\n

Astarion swung around and saw a red lantern approaching him, held by a slender figure in clothes that might have been revealing if he could see anything but an outline in the mist. He sighed internally.<\/p>\n

\t\u201cMadam, I\u2019m flattered, but afraid that I\u2019m not looking for company this evening\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\tThe prostitute came closer, lifting her lantern. \u201cNo. I\u2019m looking for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\t\u201cMe?\u201d<\/p>\n

\tShe nodded. She was small and waif-like and Astarion guessed she had at least three knives on her person. \u201cI\u2019ve seen you here before. With your red eyes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\t\u201cThey aren\u2019t red,\u201d Astarion said reflexively. \u201cIt\u2019s a reflection.\u201d<\/p>\n

\tShe stepped close enough that he could see her skeptical expression. Her own eyes were big and brown and could probably look liquid and adoring. At the moment, they looked like frozen agate. <\/p>\n

\u201cUgh. Fine, you\u2019ve caught me. My grandmother was a drow. A dear woman. Had a remarkable way with a snake-headed whip.\u201d Astarion let a faraway look cross his face. \u201cGrandfather always said that\u2019s what attracted him to her in the first place.\u201d<\/p>\n

\tThe woman snorted. \u201cSave it for the marks.\u201d Her accent was pure Waterdeep and her ears proclaimed half-elven ancestry. \u201cI\u2019ve seen you before, sometimes with a client. Sometimes a client I know.\u201d She lowered the lantern a little. \u201cThen I don\u2019t see them ever again. Funny, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\tAstarion tensed. He could probably overpower her, and no one would notice in the fog, but all the reasons he didn\u2019t hunt prostitutes still held. I <\/em>could dump her body in the bay. She\u2019d wash up and it would look like she just fell off the dock in the fog. Gods, what a waste of effort, though. All that work and I still wouldn\u2019t have anything to bring back to the old man.<\/em><\/p>\n

\t<\/em>He could practically smell her blood, but he knew better than to dwell on it. Cazador\u2019s proscription was clear. Thou shalt not drink the blood of intelligent beings. <\/em>Astarion\u2019s victims belonged to the master vampire alone. <\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t let any of that show in his voice when he drawled, \u201cYou make me sound like a dangerous man, madam. I like it, but wouldn\u2019t that make approaching me\u2026unwise?\u201d<\/p>\n

The woman cocked her head. \u201cThree people know I\u2019ve been looking for you. I don\u2019t come back, they know why.\u201d<\/p>\n

A chill sank into Astarion\u2019s gut. \u201cAnd why, exactly, have you been looking for me? Other than my superb good looks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNeed your help.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy help?\u201d Astarion smiled at her, letting just a little too much canine show. \u201cMy help doesn\u2019t come cheap, my darling.\u201d <\/p>\n

She gestured over her shoulder with her free hand. \u201cThere\u2019s a human named Boris who drinks at the Green Eel. He fancies himself a sailor, but he\u2019s the son of a merchant captain. Won\u2019t have him on the ships anymore. He\u2019s a drunk and a bastard.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSounds delightful.\u201d<\/p>\n

The woman\u2019s eyes bored into his, clearly unconcerned about their red sheen. \u201cHe doesn\u2019t pay enough to be as rough as he is, and he\u2019s getting rougher. He broken Sheena\u2019s arm last tenday, and the magistrates won\u2019t even hear the case.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey wouldn\u2019t,\u201d Astarion said. He<\/em> wouldn\u2019t have, when he was a magistrate. If a rich brothel owner had brought a suit, that would be another matter entirely, but a street prostitute\u2019s word against a merchant\u2019s son? You\u2019d need a signed eyewitness statement from the head of the Temple of Tyr to even get in the courtroom door. \u201cWhat do you want me<\/em> to do about it?\u201d<\/p>\n

The woman from Waterdeep smiled beatifically at him. \u201cI want you to make him disappear too.\u201d <\/p>\n

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