#◜⚝ ˖ ˙ ₊ to create a religion .. ﹖ ◞ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

astarlons · 1 month ago

Text

baldur's anatomy.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

no answer from your god, but one from the vampire spawn. autonomy created from the greatest threat to your brains, bodies, and the entirety of Faerun if this threat would have its' way. autonomy created despite the great illithid in your head forcing otherwise. or: autonomy comes when an absence of your worship exists. how do you move? who do you speak with? with both of the powerful sadists that guided astarion & dark urge, they go through the complications of reclaiming one's autonomy. & dark urge has a crisis in their faith, religion. there is an ache to get an answer, a feeling from their god. they witnessed it among their friends -- shadowheart, lae'zel. gale. even astarion knew cazador's gaze was upon him. where was the gaze for you? where was the gasp in the wind where the gasp leaves your victims body? what would you do for that answer? AO3 Link

Bhaal had created you for a purpose.

It stops there . What purpose? What were your hands crafted to do? There was much more to discover; and would you have the opportunity before the world as everyone knew it? What was your world as you knew it? Were you meant to bring that order and society back to the surface?

What was the reason for your purpose? Was there a reason? Was it to simply be?

Cazador had created him from sadist hands for a purpose.

To sate the sadism hunger that no doubt grew with the promotion of Vampire Lord. Entrenched in Astarion’s own flesh on his backside; loosely translated by you and finished by Raphael – Astarion’s main purpose for Cazador.

Autonomy was not for the jester concept of purposes. You have a purpose, and you do all in your power to reach it;

– even if everything and everyone you have reached for has claw marks entrenched.

Both parties with maddened hands, all for occult and different purposes. Sadism lies in different homes, perhaps even villages eons away from one anothers location. Sadism always leads to a greater good – an increase in impossible power. The roads that lead to the greater power, a greater good – for somebody; laid with lakes of red, bodies with rich and tragic lives, ended with the same tone. Lives that were enriched and lived fully, ones that had potential testified by their loved ones that soon laid next to the bodies. All slain for a greater purpose.

— And you both have defied two very, powerful sadists. but have you been defined?

The both of these tragic personas should have never crossed paths of one another, idly brushing shoulders in busy roads of Baldur’s Gate — much less be responsible for taming a Netherbrain. Much less being entangled in each other's sheets, durations getting longer as the days grew the same. Leaving small items of one in another's tent, assuring a retrieval at the soonest possible time. Much less meeting, but knowing the other; the feral claiming of your own bodies, choosing to merge the two of you, together .

A choice. Made by the both of you. A choice made less cautiously each time; there is a safety net to catch your body from the hundred foot fall. The first time ‘no’ was even hinted at through small jerk-backs, a shying away look, all of it was respected and respected mutually. There were moments later down the line where words had been used; no hesitation nor poor excuses to revoking one’s consent.

A choice. Made by the both of you.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

A tongued path of your saliva leads to your destination. Your own sharpened teeth press down on Astarion’s ice flesh. A subject of desire — not a subject of death , sits below your weight. Your mouth leaves behind a trail of purple bruises on the vampire’s neck down to his chest. There is a . . . foreign gentleness with the way your teeth select each spot to mark. It surprises the two of you; foreign to your bodies. You should tear into the spawn’s thin skin, rip his skin apart with your teeth to expose his stilled heart and glistening rib cage.

You do not. This is autonomy .

Your minds intensify – as if a rope pulled around both of your heads and an impossible figure uses great strength to pull forward. Like a dog . Minds slip into their own intimate connection, into their own rich bed. Your minds frame one another and become one – Astarion was you, and you were him. Inside each other in the most intimate of fashion - even spilling inside you was a whisper compared to reading the scripted walls of your brain. Etched in every corner; a memory you had yet to uncover, your urge tethered to every corner. He could see the homicidal bile that fills your head; and you could see flashes and fragments of his two tortured centuries. Hesitation writes on his walls; but the performance to please is his first instinct. Was it simpler to be an actor of an applause worthy performance? How long have you worn a mask? How long have you been in this profession?

Far too long, my love.

You take a risk. Are you violating? His internal walls etched with two centuries worth of torture until his body comatosed numb, sadistic abuse used in horror stories, and a taunting from his former master. He alluded to Cazador appearing in dreams once his head falls to the bedroom. No, Astarion is letting you in. What his vocal cords could not mutter into words that once would be tortured out of him for a sadist’s amusement. You see he reaches even his own wits end several times over the course of his imprisoned centuries. Heavy bags hang as heavy draped under his solar eyes the same color as what bleeds from his victims. No choice but to accept what hands detach him - then reattach him - to do it all over again. No soul in their right mind willingly submits to a vampire lord’s torture; but after witnessing what his hands have done, what else could you do? You pass away; by yours or his hands, and he travels to the ends of Faerun to find the very antidote to bring you back. Only to torture art out of you, to torture a beautiful, life enriching song from your yelps. Only to do it all over again.

– Your hands were not those of his sadistic former Master. He knows that, you know that. So why does his flesh feel like a performance of execution when your teeth graze over his skin?

Your head lifts as the intimate connection fades and your minds leave the rich bed. Astarion’s white brows furrowed as his eyes darted frantically around the small enclosed tent, before finally setting on your face which awaits his sight. A bead of nervous sweat drips down from the tense forehead.

“The pesky worm loves to kill a mood. Doesn’t it, darling?” A dry laugh comes from the spawn. Your time off the Nautiloid, you have started to connect and understand unspoken emotions with body language. You knew how to instill fear; you knew how the goosebumps littered a body, the breath remaining iron locked still, anticipating your next move.

Astarion was anticipating your reaction to his poor excuse. Would you be able to clue in on the undertones of his words? How his laugh is drier than his usual that echoes with a soft bass to it? The sudden dip in his tone as if a child caught in the middle of pickpocketing?

You could. You did .

“No mood was killed.” You assure him; the left side of your lips curling to an assuring smile. You continue to humorously play; while he understood you knew the true reason. “The ‘ pesky worm ’ advising us on more important matters.” Dry laughter earns a genuine chuckle from the vampire. You see as relief washes over him; mind, soul and body.

One of his capable hands reaches to your sharp jaw; usually clenched, and he frames the side of your pink, sky freckled cheek. There is a rush of cold to the side of your face; but it feels safe. You could pool yourself in his hand, in his body; it would be safe. He knows you are safe; your hands are safe. Some painful memories and feelings entrenched for over two centuries carried its burdens; and he was cautiously optimistic after you proved you were willing to carry. That was a double edged sword; a two way street. However you may see it fit. As you first confessed to him the bile of murder that fills your head; the obsession to smear campgrounds with internal organs, he never turned his backside to you. The burden of Bhaal and its remaining unknowns, the burden of centuries under Cazador’s sadistic rule; burdens you both willingly carried together.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Fate . What constitutes and governs such an idea, such a way of life? How we exist. Who holds the puppet strings for the ultimate control? With the red and deceased fragments your hands have mutilated and picked up along this journey, would fate have you here? Were you a mad god’s experiment gone wrong? Unleashed to wreck hells in your existence? Were you an associate of the very cause you hunt?

Your hands should never have traced over the cold flesh that is entrenched with Inferno. Despite the lack of knowledge you had of your bloodstained origins prior to your bones nearly crashing falling off of the Nautiloid; your brain understood and could translate Inferno quite easily. However, the fragments of the language on Astarion’s skin were left in parts of a larger puzzle. Using a single digit to trace over his backside; the placement of your hand on skin that could be compared to a skilled ice spell felt . . . right. Was this a test to your worship? Was the vampire you now spent more days with than isolated merely a test? Were you a test?

Autonomy worn on any other flesh form was owed, was a way of life. Why was your autonomy to be questioned? Why were the words and commands brought by Sceleritas Fel’s haunting jester tone the way of your life? Why did you feel inclined to follow it? To go against any command; your bones felt as if they were being grinded, snapped into several pieces. Your head hangs heavy; like an Orthon sat on top of you. Your head fills with an impossible screech; only sated with giving into its desires. Was this your autonomy? If so, why fight against it?

Your body convulses like an undead patient against the violent urges every time you touch the vampire spawn. Every time you share food around a crackling fire with folks who should serve as your walking grounds. Their mutilated bodies should hang on sticks around your encampment, creating your kingdom that fell to ash. And yet, you share long-cooked food and watch the backsides of each other. Why ?

Fragments of red only exist. As if the flesh on your fist rained red down your forearm; smashing a most prized mirror of several hundred feet tall. It would take eons to put the fragments back together, to see the flesh – the truth, the origins where your bloodthirst – where you come from. Your worship from prior to the Nautiloid must have been entrenched in not only yourself, but the grounds you walk; the walls that hear you speak and pray. Your God must be watching for you, must be directing your hand. This worship must be sacred and held as such ; a beautiful , bloodied and dead babe.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Inside the circle your blacked out hands must have created, that laid the poor Bard Alfira’s body, you prepare yourself in a pose of worship. Your head lowers – being closer to your unknown worship. Not that you knew, but if you were to hang your head any lower, you may be bestowed with a kiss from the Hells. After all,

where else could you have been birthed from?

Your hands form together in a tight fashion; your fingers interlock with your knuckles fleshing a shade of lighter pink.

“ My . . .” You already show hesitation? Do you even know who you are addressing this prayer to? This act of decreed to your worship? “- . . . .Lord.” Whoever, whatever held strong affections and love for you, they continue to remind of your worship even with your lack of memories, they must hear you now.

“It seems I stray from your light.” Darkness? What God of light would have you dismember innocents and place them for dining decorations? Was this all a part of a grander scheme for good ? “Your guidance. Your hand as you see fit.” Whether your worship’s hand beat you into a deeper state of submission, rewarded you for finally using your words for it? You ached with a need for any and all confirmation; any sort of sign that your worship has not abandoned you.

Or that you had abandoned it.

Lae’zel, Shadowheart, their religion had shown through vague feelings, wounds, a change in the air. Maybe judgment arose from some of your other companions who did not falter to religion, but you all saw how they welcomed their gods and purposes with open arms and hope. Why did yours only answer when a body is present? Who were you? What crafted you?

“ Please .” Your voice strings out. “ Anything. Anything you can give me.” You hiss out, desperation in the way your face scrunches in annoyance and your flight or flee rises in your gut. Your hands tighten in a sweat-tight grip, frantically going from a pose of prayer to a pose of a merged clenched fist out of two. Anything your worship could give you? What about what you could give your worship?

No Answer.

The very subject of your worship remained mute. Was this all a part of a greater plan? Was the whistle or the snapping of a branch a caution from your subject of worship? Was the circle of innocent blood you stained your clothes with and sitting in your answer? There was no discrimination of who or what your hands manipulated and ravaged – or was there?

Your nails gently scratch the forest ground’s dirt, before entrenching your fingers in the soil. Your knuckles grip as if you were digging a pile of united bodies from your camp; as if you buried them and their full lives. Perhaps you did. Perhaps that is why your worship remained mute. Frustration grows in the way your teeth clench, jaw clicks shut. Your urge slowly grows from your gut to your throat all the way to the brain that leads your hands. A nauseating process, oftentimes blurring your vision. It comes up in a bundle of nerves through your throat - it remains stuck. What words could you form with a razor blade aching to be swallowed with your next protest? All you could use to communicate anger was with your very two hands. Responsible for some of the most gruesome communications.

Yet . . . this is not the urge, is this disappointment?

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

An answer.

With your hands entrenched deep in your victim, your sacrifice’s exposed stomach contents – twisting the intestines as if they were your daggers and your subject clung to life. Your beloved sacrifice’s eyes drained of life, hung heavily to the back of their skull. Eyelids half closed - enticing a small laugh from you. “Unsure whether to go peacefully or fight back?” You taunt a corpse, their blood staining your teeth when you smile widely. The sight was degrading, absolutely appalling – but to your worship? Worthy of an answer.

You drag your victim to a secluded area – far from campgrounds. A lesson you should have taken when Alfira came face to face with her fate, now bloodied all over the forest floors. Do you manipulate them with a sly tug of your lips in one direction? Does honeyed liquor do most of your job for you? – No , you would not have been rewarded if so.

Do you nearly dislocate your victim’s arms by dragging them to your seclusion of choice? Do you hear the cracks of their sockets as your strength nearly rips them to shreds? Does your tadpole sing entrancing words to their head? Was this all of your doing? Could you be a theatre professional for your worship? However your worship would have you. As long as they have you.

With no living soul rushing to the aid of your victim, or a member of their company becoming increasingly worried of their disappearance, this was your answer. This was your calling. You played god, the ultimate creator undisturbed . You did so freely. Your digits leisurely run across the already disorganized streams of blood; and paint with the life source freely on your victim’s face.

This was autonomy; and your answer.

“My, My…” Your internal organs nearly erupt from your flesh before your body jumps. Your face immediately turns to the familiar disappointed voice. He taunts with a tsk. Astarion . Standing there in the open – how? Surely , you evaded detection. Of course he would be a step ahead of you. Your nerves with the unexpected arrival shove down the urge down your throat, until its in its near grave of your organs. With fresh blood and innards all over your garments; you shove your sacrifice away.

“Oh! No, don’t let me stop you, darling.” Astarion raises his hands in a similar position to a pose of surrender, but one of jest. “Continue on with your masterpiece. Planning on a grand surprise to our friends?” He amused as he assumes a position of kneeling in the blood soaked grass. He holds a gaze over the life your hands have undone, your creation. “Terribly messy. Didn’t your god teach you manners?”

You attempt to unravel an excuse. “I. . I need-”

He interrupts with an audible laugh, raising concern the others could hear you. “You now want to talk? Oh, oh! How cute.” Mockery hangs heavy in his tone. Clarity sinks back to your core; all you feel is utter embarrassment. Embarrassment eats away at your core and its surroundings; what possible reason would you come up with for justifying another gruesome torture ending in death?

A lower register; so not even the sole birds who watched over your hands’ creation could hear. “ Nobody has to know .” He stands - towering over your frame.

He could end it all right here. Your bloodied life, your intimacies, all of the personality you have carved with the amnesia you suffer. You weren’t sure if you would stop him. Not like the first situation where his cold knife was pressed against your neck on that abandoned seashore’s ground. Your eyes follow his movements; they stalk to the body and with ease, the adult body is thrown over his shoulder. You see the well practiced routine from over two centuries of luring and a diversity of victims. How he effortlessly picks up the victims weight, throws the weight over his shoulder as if a tailored scarf. How he disappears in a blink with your sacrifice. He may be on his way to your band of misfits to show – “Look what again they have done!” It would be nothing but sense, perhaps even justified. Yet, your mind is slowly convinced that at this very moment, the vampire is hiding the evidence of your misdeed.

This very interruption. – Another answer. Not from your worship, but from Astarion.

— How would you answer?