"Death is but part of life: fear it not, evade it not, and view it not as evil. To fear death delivers you into the hands of those who can bring death down upon you. Die with dignity, neither raging nor seeking to embrace undeath. Do honor to the dead, for their strivings in life brought Faerun to where it is now, and to forget them is to forget also where we are now—and why.”
This is our holy charge, bestowed on us as novitiates by Kelemvor, the Lord of the Dead.
My name is Estrella Bradford. I am a cleric devoted to Lord Kelemvor, and have been for nearly 50 years. It is His divine will that no sentient being should die of natural causes without a cleric of Kelemvor at their side, so my purpose is to seek any and all who are near death and assist them with their transition to the afterlife. I’ll perform final rites, with promises that Kelemvor will be waiting for them. That He was merciful and just, and not to be feared.
I’d hold their hand. I’d wipe their brow. I’d ease their pain.
I assisted in settling their affairs. I oversaw the burials and personally consecrated the earth. I would comfort the bereaved, and ask them to remember and honor their loved one as they were in life, and to not seek the cold, faux embrace of undeath.
For undeath was an act of blasphemy and disrupted the delicate balance of life and death. The undead were abominations, and were to be destroyed on sight.
I am a filthy hypocrite.
His name was Samsara.
We were both clerics at the Temple of Kelemvor in Baldur’s Gate. As a Mortarch, I specialize in the art of funerals and burials, and he was an established and respected Necrobane, tasked in the elimination of all forms of undeath and necromancy. We initially bonded over our shared half-elven heritage. He didn’t even blink when I mentioned I was part drow. He instead commended my mother for making the harrowing journey to the surface and allowing her daughter to thrive in the light. I was instantly charmed.
He was always smiling, his chestnut curls framing his boyish face, countless freckles dusting his nose and cheekbones. I could drown in those honey gold eyes. I relished in his bronze skin against mine.
He called me his star, and he was my sun. I was drawn to his warmth like a moth to a flame.
We exchanged rings and whispered promises. We talked of the future, of a home full of love and family.
It was supposed to be easy.
The Necrobanes were to locate a small coven of necromancers and their abominations sighted near Rivington. They’d eradicate the threat, then a Mortarch would be sent to consecrate the land. I knew something was wrong immediately. Instead of being greeted by the Necrobanes, I was greeted by a single enchanted skeleton wearing one of their capes. I lifted my staff, a spell ready at my lips, but then I saw it; A glint of silver. A ring. Then a single whispered word hissed out its skull.
“Estrella.”
My staff fell from my hands and I dropped to my knees. I sobbed and screamed and cursed my faith. Sam’s bones swayed, his skull quietly repeating my name. I flung a bolt of holy fire at him in anguish. His bones crumbled to dust, but his glowing skull remained, continuously whispering. I picked it up, and with an apology to Kelemvor, placed it gently in my pack.
That was 30 years ago.
Life went on. I performed my duties as a Mortarch, speaking words I no longer upheld, hypocrisy dripping from my blasphemous lips as an enchanted skull sat innocently in my pack. When I wasn’t working, I researched. I read every piece of literature regarding the undead I could get my hands on, trying to find any way to bring Sam back.
It was a normal morning, by all accounts. I sat outside the abbey where I was currently living, checking my pack. Candles, herbs, holy water, Sam. Everything I needed. I shrugged it onto my back and set out towards town, the call of a nearly departed soul crying out in need of guidance.
Next thing I know, I’m suddenly abducted by a mind flayer nautiloid and infected by one of their tadpoles. I escaped, somehow surviving being literally spat out of the hells and onto a beach somewhere on the Sword Coast. Fate has a funny way of pulling people who need each other together, and I ended up finding fellow survivors of the crash scattered nearby. That’s how I found myself where I am now; traveling with a small group of eclectic strangers, each one of us ticking time bombs.
Of course, when I stopped searching for a cure for Sam, it found me. An tome made of flesh, promising all secrets of necromancy, found in the cellars of an abandoned apothecary. I could truly bring him back, in mind, body, and spirit. Finally, after 30 years of searching, of dead ends and missing pages, I had the key.
I couldn’t do it, for even all my selfishness, I knew the truth. That chittering skull in my bag wasn’t Sam, not anymore. When it truly came down to it, I was faithful to Kelemvor. The dark knowledge held in those fleshbound pages couldn’t exist.
I destroyed the book. I thought I’d be rewarded for my faith.
Instead, I’m being punished. Sam came to me in my dreams that night. Not in flashes of memories, or what-if fantasies. The fog and filter of dreamscapes no longer concealed his finer details. He stood clearly in front of me, as he had when he was alive. I could see the freckles on his face clearly; I’d forgotten how many there were. He told me he was protecting me, like he always has. That he would be my shield, if I was his sword. His hand was warm in mine, his chestnut curls framed that always smiling face, his soft lips kissed my forehead gently.
He’s visited me nightly since. And although my heart soars in my dreams, I wake up with my cheeks covered in dried tears. What a beautiful nightmare.
To even further my divine punishment, the universe decided to play another cruel joke on me.
His name was Astarion.
A dashing rogue with an almost too perfect smile. A magistrate from the city and one of my traveling companions for the foreseeable future. He introduced himself by holding a dagger to my throat.
Considering how confrontational our first meeting was, we got on rather well. I appreciated his flippant attitude; more often than not I found my lips curling into a wry smile at one of his sardonic quips. He even startled a bark of laughter out of me more then once. We had a camaraderie, a tentative friendship, as I did with all of my traveling companions.
It was supposed to be easy.
After an especially strenuous day of travel, we all dispersed to our own little corners of camp to unwind. I was quietly humming to myself, preparing bullywug trumpets for potions, and noticed my knife had seemingly disappeared. I quickly scanned my surroundings and noticed Astarion twirling it in his fingers while he innocently read a novel. I hadn’t even heard him, the sneaky bastard.
Approaching him with a roll of my eyes, I held out my hand expectantly, clearing my throat gently.
He stopped his reading and looked up at me, noticing the knife and feigning shock. “Oh! Apologies darling, I didn’t even realize. You know what they say, “idle hands are the devil’s playthings.” With a playful smirk and one last flourish, he set it into my awaiting palm, his elegant fingers gently ghosting over mine as they retreated.
I let out a tiny, involuntary breath and I felt myself flush to the tips of my ears. Mortified, I spun away quickly and retreated, thanking him and returning to my potion making. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his playful smile grow predatory.
A shiver ran down my spine and I felt my mouth go dry. Of all the unexpected things that had happened to me recently, infatuation was definitely the most unexpected . I tried ignoring it, but he was incorrigible. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the extra attention. It was a welcomed distraction.
One night, I dreamt of Astarion instead of Sam.
I was in a red gown, running down the candlelight halls of an ornate mansion. He was the hunter, and I was his prey. Although I ran, I knew deep down I wanted to be caught. I chanced a glance behind me and saw the coast was clear. I dove into the closest room to my right and flung the door shut.
I leaned my forehead against the cool wood and attempted to catch my breath. A soft huff tickled my ear, and the hairs on my neck stood on end.
“Found you, darling.”
I spun around and he was looming over me, all lean muscle and smoldering eyes, grinning like a cat who caught a mouse. He brushed a loose strand of hair from my face and gently cradled it to the side. I closed my eyes as he leaned forward, his lips brushing my neck. I gasped and felt him grin, his fangs scraping against my skin.
Wait. Fangs?
I awoke with a start. Astarion was hunched over me, seconds from sinking his teeth into my neck. We locked eyes and he sank back, caught.
“sh*t.”
A bitter chuckle bubbled out of me, tears springing at the corners of my eyes. I felt so foolish. I had spent the last 30 years of my life pouring over books regarding the undead. I knew exactly what he was.
A vampire.
I had been traveling with a vampire this whole time. Befriended one. Desired one. Kelemvor, forgive me.
I should have staked him while his guard was down, but against my better judgment I allowed him to speak. He explained he only fed on animals, quietly sneaking off in the dead of night to hunt. However, it wasn’t enough to fully sustain him. He was too slow, too weak. He was getting sloppy. I immediately thought of the exsanguinated boar I stumbled over earlier that morning, and the fact he had awoken me at all while attempting to feed. He was exhausted. Desperate.
He asked me to trust him. Every fiber of my being screamed “I can’t”, but my treacherous mouth whispered “Ok”. We sat quietly after the encounter, my mind abuzz with a thousand questions, deciding which, if any, would be appropriate. I peered up and his eyes met mine, their normal red hues appearing gold in the dying firelight. The way his curls framed his face made my heart skip a beat.
His brows furrowed slightly, the barest hint of a grimace passed his features, hands clenching a fraction against his thighs. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead, and I gulped. I knew what I had to do.
I crawled forward. I reached out and held his hand. I wiped the sweat from his brow. I gently guided his head to my neck and with a silent prayer of forgiveness, I whispered, “I’ll ease your pain.”
His teeth were in my neck in an instant and I gasped, my whole body burning hotter than it ever had before. Was it lust, or was it my God igniting what little remained of my soul in righteous indignation? I let myself burn.
Soon, the fires simmered and an overwhelming chill came over me. I squeezed his arm. “That’s enough” I whispered, voice trembling.
The last thing I thought, as I watched him stalk off into the darkness, was that maybe it was time to tip the scale. I’ve been basking in the setting sun for too long. Perhaps it was time to embrace the night.
