Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Lucretious promised all the clowns were dead.”

“‘Dead’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘absent’ in this instance, darling.”

“So? Are you scared of something? Or feeling insecure, perchance..? I hope you’re not jealous, you know I’ve only room in my heart for one dead clown, and that’s- Y’OW, FUCK!”

Birds scattered in flight and heads turned at Asmodea’s sudden scream. She grit her teeth and did all she could to avoid rubbing the freshly pinched spot on her ass, as Astarion walked, smugly, on straight to the head of the line to enter the Circus of the Last Days.

“We’re on the Ringmistress’s guest list,” he threw at the ticketmaster, who tried to apprehend them.

“You don’t need to see our tickets,” Asmodea added, with a flourishing wave of her hand, as she followed after Astarion.

“I don’t need to see your tickets,” the man repeated morosely, before returning to his duties at the ticket booth.

The circus showgrounds unfurled before their eyes as they passed through the gate - a riot of colourful tents, cocophonous sounds, alarming smells and shady vendors of questionable goods. The clowns were, indeed, dead, and could be seen throughout the grounds: putting on small pantomime performances (mediocre), doing minor acrobatics (dull, considering the low stakes involved), and, in a few instances, juggling what appeared to be each other’s body parts (admittedly innovative).

“Ah, there’s Dribbles!” said Asmodea. “He doesn’t look all that worse for wear.”

Zombie-Dribbles was once again on a small stage, challenging his audience to take part in a comedy show. It appeared Lucretious had managed to retrieve both his wits and his voice during the reanimation process. Astarion took hold of Asmodea’s elbow and hurriedly led her away before the clown noticed them.

“How did Lucretious manage all this..?” Astarion wondered. “She only had the three bone servants last time we saw her, but they were deaf and dumb. And some of these, Dribbles included… I think they’re actually resurrected, not merely reanimated.”

“When I met her for tea earlier she said she was now Myrkul’s chosen,” said Asmodea. “I thought she was joking but now I’m not so sure…”

“You can’t be serious,” scoffed Astarion. “The Reaper giving his favour to a circus director? I highly doubt a single one of his bones is funny.”

“It makes sense, if you think about it,” Asmodea objected as they continued to walk through the showgrounds. “The Lord of Bones aims to spread unease and fear in the hearts of mortals. Be the ever looming presense in the back of their minds. Grim. Unsettling. Inevitable. What better instrument to incite such dread and terror than…” she gestured around them, “…a circus full of dead clowns?”

“Ugh,” Astarion grimaced. “All I know is, I’d rather be turned into a wheel of cheese again than come within reach of any of those things. Come on, where’s that damned theatre tent?”

They had been invited to a premier of a play written and directed by the one and only, the notorious Volothamp Geddarm. Although ordinarily Volo’s name would have been ample warning for Asmodea and Astarion to steer clear of anything associated with it, the play claimed to depict the true story of the famed Heroes of Baldur’s Gate. ‘Absolute Crisis or: How I Almost Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Netherbrain’ was the title of the play, and it was produced with the help of Lucretious, the Ringmistress of the Circus of the Last Days, and a dear friend and colleague of the couple, who ran their own cabaret theatre in Baldur’s Gate.

“My darling sweetmeats!” a voice sounded behind them, and a moment later they found themselves taking turns drowning in the necromancer’s enormous black feather boa and the heady oud of her perfume as she embraced them. “You made it just in time - the premier is about to begin.” She motioned for them to follow her to a modest-looking tent which Asmodea and Astarion had already passed several times in their search for what they had assumed would be large enough to house a decently-sized stage.”

“This..?” Astarion frowned. “I didn’t realise it was to be a finger puppet play…”

“I thought it would be bigger,” Asmodea added, quirking a brow.

“Oh honey, if I’d had a gold piece every time I’ve said that in my lifetime…” Lucretious tsked. “…Well, never mind that. Don’t be so quick to judge this by its cover, apperances are deceiving.” She said, throwing a curtain at the tent’s entrance open.

Asmodea gasped, being the first to set foot inside. Astarion followed her, to find that quite paradoxically, the tent was many times larger on the inside, and indeed housed a complete theatre, including a tiered auditorium.

“Fabulous, isn’t it?” asked Lucretious. “It uses the same concept as bags of holding, but on a larger scale. Evidently Elminster owed Volo a favour… But hurry now, your seats are at the very front,” she said, shooing them on.

The couple took their seats and the play began.

The play opened with a young, handsome hero - a mustachioed bard and scholar sporting a bright beret (who chose to remain unnamed for modesty and humbleness reasons, according to the narrator) - on a lone mission in a goblin camp attempting to rescue an archdruid. He was onstage, keeping a whole score of goblins mesmerised with his act, when a group of rookie would-be heroes stumbled into the camp and were immediately apprehended by the goblins. The group consisted of an elderly wizard, a fierce half-orc woman with a comically large sword, a bitter crone healer, a demon, and a scantily-clad trollop of a woman named Azazella, who only had eyes for another one of the group, who happened to be a vampire. Wyll’s likeness was also present, but Astarion and Asmodea had to admit that the Duke was depicted respectfully and accurately. As for the vampire… He was vapid, spoke exclusively in sexual innuendos, and was perpetually shirtless.

“Is that… Petras..?” Astarion frowned at the actor. “…It is! What is going on on his head, why is his hair standing on end like that?! And is he covered in glitter..?” Astarion’s lips immediately curled in disgust which didn’t quite leave his face for most of the play’s duration.

They watched the fearless hero lead his newfound sidekicks in defeating the goblins’ leaders, saving the archduid (who was portrayed by a man in a bear suit throughout the entire play), and uncovering a cult’s plot to take over the very city of Baldur’s Gate. Triumphant, the hero was carried on his companions’ shoulders to a druid grove.

The play segued to a celebration, portraying the humble hero dodging sexual advances from the partygoers - every person he stumbled across wanted a piece of him, it seemed.

“Volo certainly allowed himself many creative liberties, but it’s not entirely inaccurate,” Asmodea whispered to Astarion. “That party with the tieflings was the biggest orgy I’ve attended since the harengon fertility goddess fete.”

“Since the what?!” Astarion hissed.

Meanwhile, onstage, the hero attempted to warn the young Azazella that her beau was a vampire, to no avail.

The scene changed to Azazella pursuing her would-be lover into the woods, to find Petras walking out from behind a cardboard tree.

“There you are,” he purred. “I’ve been waiting. Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you. Waiting to have you.”

“Ugh,” Astarion rolled his eyes. “It’s bad enough they got the worst actor on the Sword Coast to play me, but did they have to pull lines straight out of some half-penny pulp piece as well? As if I would ever have said any of that!”

Asmodea stared, transfixed, at the scene unfolding before her. “That fucking weasel!” she hissed. “He must have followed me out into the woods!”

Petras hoisted the bimbo heroine up onto his hips and carried her behind a tree. The scene shifted to the young hero stumbling through the woods, pursued by three giggling buxom tieflings. He stumbled, fell, and whatever followed was hidden from sight by a rolling curtain, wrapping up the first act of the play.

“Really?” blinked Astarion. “What about all of the… well… everything else.”

“We did tell him to scram after he got fixated on the idea of performing lobotomies on us…” Asmodea hummed thoughtfully.

The second act was where the play really began to go downhill.

The stage was bathed in darkness for the duration of the act, with hardly any light to illuminate the set. Led by the wise, fearless hero, the party faced endless battles with little explanation as to their meaning or purpose. The wizard threatened to explode. The healer served as one of the few light sources onstage. Тhe archdruid disappeared for the full duration of the act (this was not addressed or explained at any point). The demon abandoned their wicked ways, embraced the power of friendship and hugged everyone. Azazella breasted boobily. Wyll danced. The vampire found a shirt to wear. The half-orc woman was there too.

Asmodea only stared at the stage silently by then, her face expressionless. She may have been a thousand leagues away, for all anyone knew. Astarion, on the other hand, had many, many words to say, none of them fit for polite society or particularly coherent. The audience had thinned considerably by that point, and no one attempted to hush him.

The third act renewed a psychological onslaught on the remaining audience after a short break.

It was during an operatic ballet scene depicting the heroes’ battle with Raphael that Astarion and Asmodea’s patience finally wore out. The maestro took it upon himself to play the Archdevil, and Volo’s padded, thinly-stockinged loins were their last straw.

On exiting the theatre tent, they stopped dead in their tracks, gawking at a woman who must have gone out some time before them and now stood anxiously puffing on a cigarette in between taking big gulps of ale. The hand that brought the ale to her lips shook, threatening to spill the tankard’s contents. The woman appeared distraught but deep in thought. It was none other than the renowned theatre critic, Icy B Penguin. Of course, her identity was supposed to be secret, and Astarion and Asmodea were not meant to be privy to it, and so they immediately tried to play it cool and not fawn. Still, Astarion approached the critic, trying to appear nonchalant, as though simply speaking to another theatre-goer.

“So… What do you make of all that..?” he asked, casually.

“I actually don’t drink,” Icy B declared by way of an answer, a haunted expression in her eyes. She then took a final drag of her cigarette and flicked its remnants onto the ground, into a growing pile of cigarette butts at her feet. “Nor smoke,” she added, exhaling a thin cloud. “This will be the end of me,” the critic muttered. “I never should have agreed to this… Choosing between a friendship and my professional integrity…” She shook her head, sighed, and turned to Asmodea. “I have a duty to head back in, but I must know what I’m up again. Be a dear, peek behind that curtain, and tell me what’s happening.”

Asmodea complied with the critic’s wishes.

“Volo, I mean the hero, is half-naked on stage, again… I think he’s meant to be in the astral sea… Huh, they’re bringing something out on stage… …Is that a live octopus..? …Oh gods!” Asmodea snapped the curtain shut again, and turned, pale-faced, away from the tent. “You don’t want to know,” she said to the critic, who broke into a string of lamentations and curses. Astarion and Asmodea were about to leave the critic to her existential crisis, when Lucretious approached them.

“There you are, my dolls!” she exclaimed. “Oh don’t be so glum,” she said to Icy B. “It’s a flaming fiasco, I know. But there’s no such thing as bad publicity - roast it to ashes, everyone will come to see just how bad it is. But come now,” she said, herding the trio back into the theatre tent. “You must see the finale.”

Lucretious joined them at their seats in front of the stage.

The finale found the hero as brave, valiant and verbose as ever. The wizard appeared to have failed to explode. The healer had gone bald. The vampire lost his shirt again. Azazella rode the bear-druid like a pony. Wyll was acknowledged as the duke. The half-orc woman was still there, and now carried an even bigger sword than before. The demon was replaced by an octopus.

Together they faced the terrible Netherbrain, which was depicted by a stuffed dead beholder that hung on a rope above the stage. The company of heroes took turns whacking it with sticks, as it dangled and bounced between them on the rope.

Astarion leaned across Asmodea, who sat between him and Lucretious, to give the necromancer a bewildered, quizzical look.

“Look, sugar, I’m not made of money,” the necromancer sighed, “the funds ran out after we purchased all that glitter for Petras. And my original plan was to put down and inflate one of the octopuses, reanimate it and have it fly around the stage with a levitation spell. It was going to be marvellous, only then some bloody tree-hugging, snout-kissing druids caught wind of the production and kicked up a stink about how intelligent octopuses are, how inhumane it is to mistreat them, blah blah,” she rolled her eyes. “And let me tell you - no one ever said a single word about the dead clowns, not once, but try to approach an octopus the wrong way, and-” her voice faltered as her attention was drawn to something on stage.

A couple of stagehands, who were attempting to inconspicuously drag a large glass screen across the stage and in front of the audience, fumbled and dropped their burden, shattering it into a myriad of tiny pieces. The shards did not reach the audience, however that did not appear to be what worried the necromancer.

“Oh goodness me…” she let out a resigned sigh, casting an eye over Astarion, Asmodea, and the critic, who had also joined them in the front row. “You’re not wearing anything awfully expensive, are you?”

Apparently oblivious to the lack of protective glass, which was meant to be shielding the audience and not lying shattered on the floor, the half-orc placed all her strength into a powerful swing of her sword, splitting the stuffed beholder.

What ensued was an explosion of genuine gore and guts, which covered the stage, the actors, and the first several rows of the audience in its spray. Icy B wept. Lucretious guffawed. Astarion shouted and swore. Asmodea alone quietly wiped the chunks of viscera from her eyes, rose to her feet, and gave a standing ovation.

The night streets were deserted when Astarion and Asmodea made their way back to their own theatre. They were still coloured red, covered head to toe in the beholder’s stuffing.

Astarion’s mood had lifted - once his initial anger had worn off he saw humour in the situation, but Asmodea had been growing more pensive as the night progressed.

“Dare I ask what’s on your mind, darling?” Astarion broke the silence.

“I understand now,” she answered.

“…Understand what?” Astarion asked when she did not clarify.

“Back then… During our journey, you all had someone. Some catalyst or antagonist. Someone or something that spurred you on. Karlach’s heart and Gortash, Gale’s netherese orb and Mystra. Vlaakith, Shar, Mizora. Cazador. I was the only one without a single problem aside from the tadpole in my brain. I thought I was so lucky, had it so simple… But I understand now. I understand that I’ve had a nemesis all along. Right before my eyes, too…”

“Dribbles the Clown?”

“Volo,” Asmodea spat, her gaze darkening. “I will annihilate him. I will do everything within my power to destroy him.”

“Well…” Astarion snorted. “Who knew something as simple as watching a play would become your villain origin story. But if you absolutely must have him eliminated, I am more than happy to go back and drain him later - the circus will be in town for a full season.”

“No,” Asmodea shook her head. “That is too simple. I will write a play. A terrible play! With him at the centre of events. Oh the situations I will put him in… Whatever will be left of his reputation after his own play will never recover.” A wicked grin had appeared on her face. “Do you think we could get Yousen to play him?”

Astarion barked a laugh, wrapped an arm around Asmodea’s waist and placed a kiss on her gore-smeared cheek.

“Come on, love, let’s get you cleaned up and put you to bed. You need some proper rest so evil can fester.”

Elsewhere in the city, Lucretious, backed by her army of dead clowns, gleefully refused refunds to angry patrons. Petras cried tears of frustration and scrubbed glitter from his skin. Icy B Penguin, armed with a pen, wrote down the first words of the most scathing review she would ever produce.

Only Volo slept, proud and self-satisfied, blissfully unaware of the storm that was coming his way.