#Cadaver the dark urge | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

glaciiermonarch · 2 months ago

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reverb.

A Vain Rogues show becomes drinking a bit and hanging out with Aang, the band, and some friends; which becomes drinking more and dancing with Aang; which becomes driving the van—the back full of expensive equipment, drum kit included, to a secluded spot to make out with Aang like teenagers; which becomes turning up at the diner at some odd hour for breakfast food, already a bit hungover but still buzzing with all of the positive energy from the past several hours. With access to an overflowing bank account, Aang wants for naught materially alongside Taka; so what the two crave most is experiences, and experiences are what Aang receives for his birthday, hours of laughter and pounding eardrums and kisses and spilled drinks.

The sun is due up in an hour or two when they pull back up to the mansion, ready to crash in the bed they now share, both cleared of most responsibilities for the next day—save for a late afternoon class that Aang doesn't really have to make. The lights beneath the kitchen cabinets greets them as they stumble in and take off their shoes next to the door; Takaharu sheds their dark denim jacket, protection against the chilled night air over their mesh crop top, worn for their performance hours previously. They're greeted by Nayu, whose anxious Italian greyhound energy isn't unexpected; but she dances and paces around them, whining and snuffling.

With tired eyes, Taka notices the trail of dark pawprints behind her. Something feels wrong. “What’d you get into while we were gone, girl?” Taka murmurs, leaning down momentarily to give her a scratch behind the ears; and then begins following the trail.

“T? What's wrong?” Aang calls after her, on her tail after scooping up Nayu.

“Look at the floor,” Takaharu responds, not even looking back, and following the trail upstairs.

“That's odd, the house was clean before we left, there shouldn't have been anything for them to get into?”

But Takaharu's stomach churns with something other than the after-effects of drinking, or the diner food. His vision is a lot better than his boyfriend’s, and he has a feeling of what the prints are made from. What if one of the other dogs got hurt, and this is their blood?

Despite their aching back and knees, Taka hurries up the stairs and into their bedroom, door ajar. The other dogs are sitting on the center of the bed, huddled together, and there are lots more blood tracks on the bedding—but Ine, Mifu, and Zenki all look fine from first glance. The blood tracks are darker near the French doors to the bathroom.

Taka doesn't know what it is that draws him closer to the bathroom, some primal base urge to see for himself, maybe; but he barely registers Aang trailing behind him, or Aang's gasp at the scene of blood trails around the dogs. She opens the doors to the bathroom further and flips on one of the lightswitches—one on a panel of several in the opulent bathroom—and feels her stomach fall out of her ass.

A cadaver has taken up residence in the large bathtub; it takes several long moments for Takaharu to register anything beyond it just being a cadaver. Desperately hoping it isn't someone he knows, he studies the face—the recognition makes them nauseous. Adisorn Tayen, missing person, model with whom Taka had previously worked. God, how could he forget? The two of them had butted heads in their limited time together on set; but Taka's image and reputation had been damaged irreparably in some circles once Adisorn had reported Taka being a coke fiend, a spoiled asshole, an entitled jerk, and too demanding (and perhaps those statements had been true at the time, but his name still carries that weight on some tongues, even years after growing up).

And now, here lies Adisorn, the source of the scathing profile, and the clear source of the blood tracked through the house—also smeared on the black and white tiles on the floor and the pristine white ceramic of the tub—and they're clearly not alive.

“Taka? What's going on?” comes Aang's voice, hardly stronger than a whimper, when he comes to check out the bathroom too, Nayu now deposited in the bedroom.

“Aang, don't—”

But it's too late. Aang spots the cadaver in the bathtub, the same one where he's run and prepared baths for Takaharu many times, the same one he's bathed the dogs in after they'd made messes in the mud outside. His eyes widen, and then he bolts for the water closet within the bathroom, throwing it open and immediately throwing up into the toilet.

Tearing their own eyes away from the lifeless body, Taka goes to comfort their partner, kneeling on one knee next to him in the tight space and rubbing his back.

“Taka— what's happening?” Aang raspy, throat already sore from vomiting, tears spilling down his cheeks from being forced out from the action. They meet eyes, Aang searching Taka's for answers; but Taka doesn't have them.

“I don't know, babe,” she answers honestly, feeling raw too; she pushes her boyfriend's hair back off his face, feeling the clamminess from throwing up. She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling overwhelmed by the helplessness overtaking her, and presses her forehead to Aang's. They haven't felt this fucking lost in a long time. “I don't know,” they repeat, even quieter, the closest to a whimper that would ever come out of them.

Dazed, they both reenter the bedroom—but not without Taka casting another glance towards the lifeless body—and Aang collapses on his knees next to the bed, holding his arms out for the other three dogs, who rush to him. A draft hits Taka’s skin, raising goosebumps under their mesh shirt, and they find that the French doors leading to the balcony—the one they use to smoke cigarettes instead of doing it inside—are still slightly ajar. Probably the entry point.

“We need to…” Takaharu mumbles, trailing off, as she fumbles through her many pockets for her cellphone; she isn't keen to having cops in the house for several reasons, starting with ACAB and continuing with the amounts of cannabis stored away, and her close affiliation with the Bastards.

She knows that she and Aang will be the first persons of interest; but it's still wholly unpleasant to be loaded into the back of a squad car together to be carted down to the station for questioning once the scene has been locked down. They're given the concession of taking the dogs with them so the animals will be out of the way of the CSI unit; but the couple are split up into separate rooms and have to divide the dogs down the middle too.

Twenty years in this country, no, I'm a permanent resident, not a citizen, there's a difference—years of hooliganism and skating past law enforcement and this is the first time Takaharu’s ever been involved in something like this. Their jaw clenches as they stare at the blank wall ahead of them, exhausted and already hungover, cradling Ine in their lap with Zenki pacing the room, waiting for whatever local yokel chucklefuck is coming next to question them, and wondering how Aang, Nayu, and Mifu are doing in their room.

The connection between Taka and Adisorn is brought up, and Taka poorly holds back a scoff. A beef between working models as the motive, seriously? That isn't the type of shit worth risking a cozy life with Aang for. People have killed for less, sure, but fucking murder is totally uncharacteristic of Takaharu's phlegmatic nature. Gritting his teeth, Taka moves surfing vacation with Aang further up on his mental to-do list, once all of this is over with. They both deserve it now.

Logically, they were both seen by many people last night, Taka literally performing in their band, which undoubtedly had people recording on their camcorders; and they're both caught on surveillance outside the bar and at the diner, so they both have alibis except for that blip in time that they'd had alone in the van elsewhere, mouths attached to one another, fingers clutching at clothes and hair, fogging up the windows of the vehicle—private time off the grid. Still, though, there's not enough to arrest either of them over; and they're let go for the time being.

Except—they have nowhere to go, since the mansion is now an active crime scene; so Taka is left having to pull a bunch of strings and find a hotel room on such short notice, and then get the dogs checked in to the kennel when the only choice they're left with is a pet-free room.

With early afternoon sunlight pouring through the blinds of the sterile room, they stumble in with nothing but the clothing on their backs and their wallets and phones and each other; and they collapse on the bed in silence, clinging tight to one another, as it feels as though the world around them has now collapsed too.

#another solo!#blood tw #death tw #vomit tw

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dead-set-goat · 2 months ago

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I had three strange dreams last night, but one in particular stuck out to me.

I came into consciousness at the top of a giant skyscraper alongside two women, we were sightseeing I supposed. One of them looked like an angel, with neat hair tied in a ponytail, but the other was unremarkable. Her hair was messy and dark, partially covering both her eyes, and her dress was the color of dried blood on cloth.

On top of the skyscraper there was a beautiful, sprawling garden, with hills, peaks and valleys. I wouldn’t have known this was at the top of a building if my first glimpse of this dream was the opening of elevator doors. Anyway.

In this garden there grew flowers of all kinds, but mostly red and white flowers. The trees and bushes were trimmed neatly and were all of the same healthy green, little variance in hue. There were also great fountains the size of swimming pools and also rivers, winding alongside a multitude of red brick paths that cut through mowed grass. Golden ornaments, lamps, guardrails peppered the scenery. There were also a lot of birds flying around and singing, and the air was so fresh, like that of the mountain countryside...

As I got closer to the edge of the roof, I felt a strong sea breeze, and as I looked over the edge I saw before me a thousand more buildings with immense roofs covered in bot only gardens, but forests, and villages, and cities. I could spot highways on some. On the roofs with the small cities, red cars were moving at fast speeds as the length of the streets allowed. Some of these buildings before me were much bigger than the one I was on. I was in awe. The angelic lady leaned over the guardrail and looked at me and said, “Isn’t it beautiful? Remember this.” or something of that sort. I took a photo and I thought, “I ought to show this to my parents”. Then the messy lady said, opposite of the angelic lady, “I want to show you something too”. And I followed her back through the garden, as did the white lady.

We reached the elevator I got off, but instead of taking it, we went through the door next to it, we took the stairs. As we climbed down, it started to get darker and darker and the breeze of the sea and the fresh air got fainter and fainter until they turned to a moldy, sharp smell.

I was trailing behind the two, who seemed to pick up speed the more we descended. Sometimes it felt as if we went up, not down, but then up again, like a perpetual sine. The neat walls of the building became distorted, wet and slippery. The clean metal stairs seemed to rust. The space around us compressed until it looked as if we were in a calcareous cavern or some kind of sunken ship at the bottom of an abyss. We kept descending.

I front of me, the two seemed to move more erratically as time passed by. Sometimes I could catch glimpses of their hands and arms twisting around each other, like tentacles, but then I’d blink at they’d walk alongside each other like any human being. And sometimes one or the other would look behind, to see if I’m still following. Both their faces seemed to be stretched in an uncanny, playful grin.

At some point I started to smell a deep rot, and not soon after, on the next floor, I a bunch of cadavers, the sources, twisted inside the walls and floor, covered in chalk and clouds of mould could be seen… We pressed on. The next floor was the same. And the next. And the next. But gradually more bones and less flesh appeared to fill the rooms.

At some point, I tire and fall, I couldn’t keep up with them, who were jumping up to 4 stairs at once. I lay on my knees on the slippery stone to catch my breath. Right next to me there lay remnants of a skeleton and I feel a sudden urge to pick up it’s ribcage and hold it up. Conveniently, a bright yellow beam of light strikes through the room, revealing billions of spores and specs of dust. As if commanded by me it falls on the ribcage revealing it’s grime. It looked so old and eroded, algae and mold seeping through it’s cracks, might’ve fallen apart in my hands.

As I mean to lay it back down, I see the lady in the dirty-looking dress appear in front of me out of nowhere. The beam of light stroke her right in the eyes, yet they stayed dark. Like the dark spots on a sun.

She was looking straight at me as she slowly spread her arms to embrace the room. After a short pause (long enough to feel the the shiver rolling down my spine, tip-to-tip) she opened her mouth and said with the same uncanny smile she wore through this descent:

“This is what beauty is made of.”

[And I wake up]

#dream journal #dream #long post #🦞chat

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lorithescrump · 16 days ago

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Hell yeah get ready for the info-dump of the ages, folks!

Cadaver Backstory Dump Let’s Go

Cadaver absolutely misses his adoptive family. This retired ranger and his wife adopted and raised this freak of nature left on their doorstep one night as their own son with unconditional love and support (something Cadaver doesn’t come by easily) and Cadaver will always despise himself for destroying that. He especially grieves his mother.

Cadaver was a very angry and impulsive child around the time his Dark Urges started to manifest, constantly getting into fights with the local children and even adults on occasion. He kept quiet about this when he’d come home to his family, keeping it a secret refusing to elaborate on how he got those scratches and bruises.

If they did take on any jobs it was orders from Bhaal. Cadaver was something of an assassin for Bhaal, but there were times when he would “hunt for sport” going after recluses and other civilians living in the wilderness surrounding Baldur's Gate who wouldn’t be missed. He became something of a "monster in the woods" scary campfire story/legend because of this.

Cadaver tends to speak in a stoic matter for the most part, being taught to be imposing and charming to demand respect and control, but when he is more on the casual side he uses profanity regularly and is a bit of a lovable douchebag. His charisma is his highest stat and his intelligence is his lowest followed by his wisdom and he’s one part chaotic good other part lawful evil so do with that information what you will.

Sceleritas job boiled down to three main demands: Keep him alive, keep him in line, and assist him when demanded. Cadaver had a very short temper and patience with Sceleritas (he did with just about anyone) believing him to be babying him and shit at his job but a part of Cadaver knew he'd get himself killed if it wasn't for hs butler.

Cadaver lives by the motto “loot everything” so he absolutely inherited some money hunger, pocketing all of the riches he'd loot off his sacrifices. He likely rolled his eyes at any merely extravagant gifts or offers but hey, it’s odd to look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

Not that I can think of or come up with off the top of my head, no.

The two treated each other like really shitty siblings, taking out their Dark Urges on one another. Orin loved getting on Cadaver’s nerves to get a reaction out of him and get a reaction she did with Cadaver going so far as to nearly strangle her to death (backstory of the scar on his mug). Orin loved tormenting and taunting her elder brother and Cadaver hated his infant sister sine her birth when he was a teenager.

Cadaver and Gortash sticking by and backing each other up in just about any conversation and Orin being her chaotic unpredictable self irritating Ketherick and Cadaver who are equally as desperate to get her to stfu so they can deal with the situation at hand.

Cadaver and Gortash actually met briefly in their late teens, becoming good friends after Cadaver accidentally saved his life (I like to think the reason Gortash was so fond of Karlach was because she reminded him of the other beefy Zariel Tiefling who fought for him and saved his skin as a boy). Later on upon being reunited in their adult years Gortash admired Cadaver’s drive and hunger for power and control and how far he was willing to go to achieve his goals and ambitions.

Cadaver was absolutely addicted to the praise and attention and was constantly drunk on the amount of power and influence he had over his fellow Bhaalists. He never acknowledged any of the cultists as people however, just things to exploit, fill up space, and live as proof of his worthiness of his father’s praise and attention. He was honored as more of a murderous emperor or feared gladiator rather than a celebrity among the cultists.

Having spent his boyhood raised by a loving lower class household and being shown love and sympathy from them has given Cadaver a subconscious sense of sympathy and pity for the needy. During his years as a Bhaalist Cadaver would shame and scold himself for even considering showing mercy to the worthless and desperate, but he did have the occasional moment of weakness and sympathy. He claimed it was a one time thing, but this brief encounter would stick with him long after in the corners of his mind.

His beloved ranger companion, Lupus, served as his guard dog as well as his battle buddy and comrade. Any attempt at getting so much as a drop of blood from Cadaver would result in some wolf fangs to the neck (or crotch if you’re really unlucky).

A bit of both. Any targets assigned to him directly would be handled with some kind of tactical approach while any hits assigned by himself were absolutely impulsive and on a whim, being out for nothing but blood and whatever's left on the corpse.

As a child Cadaver was definitely mocked and made fun of for his appearance, looking too much like a human for a tiefling and vice verca. He did have an act of rebellion as a teenager when he got a rose tatted on his neck as a way to modify his “hideous and unnatural” appearance into something more presentable. In his adulthood he has grown to appreciate and honor his own body, showing it off and viewing as a weapon and a symbol of his endurance and strength. Bud lives by the barbarian “tits out guns out” philosophy.

As I am procrastinating and crafting backstories all in one go, I shall share a sheet of questions with you to share or answer yourself.

Past Life Dark Urge Asks - 1st Edition:

Do they miss their adoptive family? Why or why not?

Did they keep anything from their old family and home? A memento or a skill perhaps?

When Sceleritas fetched them from their comfortable home, what did they do on their journeys? Did they take on any jobs?

Do they speak casually or do they try to adorn their speech with frills? Do they maybe even dare to curse?

What was their relationship with Sceleritas like? Did they like their ever-adoring butler or did they try to run from the most wretched mother hen?

Bhaal loves money; did your Durge inherit that trait? Do they enjoy luxuries or try to live a frugal life, giving their all for their temple?

Did they have any connections or companions outside of the local underworld? If so, what were those connections like and if not, why?

What was their relationship with Orin like? Did it change at some point?

What would a typical meeting of the chosen have looked like when your Durge attended?

Gortash seemed to have admired Durge, what did they do to deserve this admiration? Did they have any notable personality traits or did they impress him in some other way?

The other cultists. How did your Durge view them? Did they enjoy their following or did they dread being idolised?

Durge gave a gold coin to a beggar once; why did they do it? Did this occur regularly?

Orin has her faithful group of changelings. Did your Durge have a similar 'personal guard' or task force at their back and call?

Durge famously acted as an assassin in the last decade or so. What was that like? Did they plan everything out meticulously, or did they act spontaneously and on whims?

Bhaal handcrafted Durge. Do they enjoy and worship their appearance, or did they have a rebellious phase, trying their best to change their Lord Father's grand design?

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lorithescrump · 13 days ago

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Vampire husband + Attentive devoted husband with high pain tolerance = Blood loss = Low iron and weakness

Meat = Great source of iron and protein

Cadaver = Has a shit ton of dwarf meat just sitting in his pack all the time

Conclusion: Midnight Snacks For The Fools

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kidakumajodevil · 5 months ago

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Shadow of the Vampire Review

As a die-hard fan of both versions of Nosferatu (and the trailer for the latest rendition had me slobbering), I’m rather ashamed to admit I’d never seen Edmund Merhige’s 2000 Vampire Film, Shadow of the Vampire. I was aware of the fact that the movie is a “what if?” scenario; one that assumes the popular urban myth that Max Schreck (the eccentric actor who played Count Orlock in the original 1922 version) was actually a Vampire, is true. But for a reason I can’t really remember, I never had the urge to watch the film. Woe and behold, that turned out to be a grave mistake on my part, as Shadow of the Vampire is actually an amazing experience.

As I mentioned before, the movie follows the historical production of Nosferatu: starting in Germany, and then Czechoslovakia, when the crew begins filming on site. Our “hero” is F. W. Murnau (played fantastically by John Malkovich) : a tyrannical film director (which is quite removed from the real Murnau, who was by all accounts a demanding, yet fair leader) who does things like drug cats, and demeans his cast and crew with his barbed pretension. The man is immediately shown to be willing to do anything for his art…but the depths he’s willing to plunge into truly known until they begin filming at Orlok's Castle by night, and do the famous scene in which Gustav von Wangenheim (played by Eddie Izzard in a surprisingly short, yet rather hilarious role) ascends the ruin, and the mysterious “stage-actor” Max Schreck reveals himself from the shadows of a hallway, and beckons him inside with his bony finger, in an absolutely terrifying sequence. Immediately afterwards, members of the crew begin disappearing one by one. While I would be remiss not to mention the intriguing contemplations and criticisms of filmmaking that make up the film’s themes, to me “Schreck” completely eclipses everything else about the movie. Played by the legendary character-actor, William Dafoe, there’s a reason why he was nominated for an oscar: this is - in my opinion - his best performance bar none. His vampire absolutely oozes that existential dread of a forsaken immortal being; one so ancient he doesn't even have his memories anymore to comfort his loathsome existence. “There was a time when I fed from golden chalices.” And yet there’s also a glimmer of sarcasm and very dark humor present in his rotting cadaver (helped by Dafoe going absolutely ham with the role). He somehow manages to balance both being pathetically sympathetic and inhumanly monstrous (similar to Count Dracula’s depiction in Werner Herzog Nosferatu the Vampyre), the best type of blood-sucker in my opinion. And the absolute heart of the film.

Production wise, the movie is really good: the crew did an amazing job, sparing no expense (thanks Nicholas Cage!) transforming the sets into beautiful gothic scenery. The movie was filmed in Luxembourg, Germany; so the castle’s we see are real ones (though they sadly didn’t get to shoot some scenes at Orava Castle; the one used in the original Nosferatu), which add to the visual flair. We have shots of beautiful European landscape; silent movie studio sets; train stations; rurals towns; and, of course, crumbling fortresses. The gothic works; which also include a suitably atmospheric soundtrack, excellent performances by the entire cast, and a brilliant usage of light and shadow to enhance the delicious gothic ambiance. A +.

Ultimately, Shadow of the Vampire is absolutely worth watching (I'm kicking myself for not seeing it earlier; don't make my mistake). While William Dafoe's excellent depiction of the Nosferatu overshadows the rest of the movie; that movie is damn good in it's own right too. It made me think a lot of about the parasitic, undead nature of film-making that's actually inherent to the genre, and the atmosphere it presents itself is both chilling and delicious. It's joining the list of great Vampire movies I can binge endlessly. With no reservations, I give it my bloody recommendation.

#gothic #gothic horror #vampirism #vampire fiction #movies #silent movies #william dafoe #f. w. murnau #dracula #nosferatu #nicholas cage #horror films #supernatural horror #eddie izzard #count dracula #shadow of the vampire #count orlok #max schreck

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inevitably-johnlocked · 2 years ago

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Hi lovely! I was wondering if you have any fics where Sherlock buys John gifts? Maybe a new coat or something adorable and thoughtful? Anything really! Gift giving is my love language so would love to see it with my favourite couple!

Hey Lovely!

AHH it's mine too! I love making people happy, so it hits right, hahah :)

Ah, ones I can immediately think of:

Sibling Rivalry Or Fighting Over John Watson By Jessa7 (T, 8,085 w., 1 Ch. || Romance / Humour) – Mycroft is just as much of a genius as Sherlock is. He keeps randomly kidnapping John for chats, and the locations get better. Cue Sherlock’s younger sibling complex rearing up and jealousy ensues.

The Devil You Know by PipMer (T, 9,300 w., 1 Ch. || Jealous Sherlock, Romance, Friends to Lovers)- Mycroft flirts with John. Sherlock gets jealous. John’s just along for the ride.

Licence to Kiss by fellshish (T, 13,739 w., 4 Ch. || Post-ASIB, Sort-Of Bondlock, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Angst and Humour, Bed Sharing) – Sherlock loves John, and John loves... James Bond. He only made Sherlock watch every single film. Tedious. And now John's birthday is coming up. Sherlock can't tell him how he feels, but he can organise an amazing gift: John's very own spy adventure. Sherlock begs Mycroft for a real case with some extra gadgets. And perhaps some actors pretending to be criminals. What could possibly go wrong?

Our Enthusiasms Which Cannot Always Be Explained by withoutawish (M, 32,961 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post-TRF, Case Fic, Mild Gore, Sherlock Whump) – The list that is tacked haphazardly on the refrigerator of 221B reads, ‘Kidney(s), and/or a full cadaver (preferably male, late 30s, under six feet tall), bag of fresh toes, sixteen cow’s eyes (corneas retained), dual exhaust hand –held flame thrower, an unopened first edition copy of Joseph Conrad’s 'Heart of Darkness', and no less than ten abhorrently gruesome murders in the upcoming month.” The one neatly hanging next to it simply reads, “Sex.” One of these lists is not John Watson’s. If John Watson were to put what he really wanted in list form, to live in a land somewhere beyond ‘almosts' now that Sherlock Holmes has indeed returned to him, he would never be able to look his flatmate in the eye ever again.

The Wedding Garments by cwb (E, 105,390 w., 36 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Alternate Future AU || Alternate First Meeting, Dating / Arranged Marriages, Romance, First Kiss/Time, Heavy Petting, Cuddles, POV Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn / Falling in Love / Dev. Rel., Nervous/Anxious Sherlock, Jealous/Cranky Sherlock, Hiking, Vacation Homes / Honeymoon, Sherlock’s Family, Horny John/Sherlock, Patient John, Massages, Hand Jobs, Assassination Plots, Oral Sex, Case Fic, Emotional Love Making, Bath Time Fun) – This is the story of a young consulting detective who wants nothing to do with marriage and an army doctor who wants to find true love. It's 2020 post-Brexit England and the British government is encouraging arranged marriages. Candidates meet through state-run agencies and date in hopes of finding love (and tax benefits). Sherlock doesn't need or want a spouse, at least not until John Watson shows up. Hesitant to give in to his more carnal urges because of the way they derail his mind, how will Sherlock progress toward the more intimate aspects of a relationship? The answer lies in a very special wedding gift.

------

Ah, you can also probably check out these few lists that will obviously have gift giving:

Christmas Fics (Dec. 2017)

Christmas: Oblivious That One or The Other is In a Relationship

Christmas 2019 Part 1 (All Bookmarks XMas and New Years)

Christmas 2019 Part 2 (Marked for Later)

G / T / K+ Rated Christmas Fics (Dec. 2018) (Updated Dec 2021)

Community Recs: Christmas 2020 (Updated Dec 2021)

Birthdays

I know I'm missing a TONNE MORE, and I know I've read some and can't remember what they're called... so if anyone can add some more, please do, because I would love to add them here!

#steph replies #johnlock fic reqs #johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #gift giving fics #help steph find fics

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lorithescrump · 4 months ago

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You know I had to do it to ’em.

Featuring my Durge Dude, Cadaver.

Tav/durge and Batstarion fr

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jellymellydraws · 1 year ago

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Masterlist ~ <<Previous Chapter ~ Next Chapter >>

Astarion x Dark Urge Chapter 06 Rating: E Tags: Angst, Fluff, hurt/comfort, slow burn, two guarded people fall in love so hard it makes them stupid

Chapter Summary:

Gale has some choice words for how Nettie handled their delicate tadpole condition. Rath, another druid, pulls Rose aside to ask for a favor. A lighthearted camp dinner is interrupted when Zevlor and Arabella's Parents approach with a costly request on their lips. The day's events start to weigh on Rose's thoughts.

“I can’t believe she poisoned you!”

The conversation with Nettie hadn’t quite gone as planned. ‘As planned’ being the greatest understatement of the day. Just about every plan Rose had was slowly uprooted because of this damned grove. The dwarven healer masked a poisonous root as a cure for the tadpoled party. Apparently her ask for help meant ‘kill me now, we’re doomed beyond saving.’ Thankfully, no one got hurt-- not really. Nettie felt guilty when she realized they were being sincere with their plight, and handed them the appropriate antidote.

Even though Rose was the one who was poisoned, it was Gale fuming after the dwarf left them alone.

“Gale--” Rose tried to interject.

“Tried to put you down like a dying dog-- without as much as a whisper of consent!” Coming from Gale, she was taken aback. Rage, fear, all emotions that she saw very clearly in the others, but not yet from the wizard.

“Yeah, not really what I was expecting from a healer ,” if she couldn’t calm him down, she could at least engage and sympathize with his outburst, “at least she saw reason. She would’ve been long dead, otherwise.”

“A kindness she didn’t deserve, I assure you.” He spat as he paced in front of the lab’s entrance, “how dare she snuff out life with as much thought as snuffing out a bloody candle?!”

“Gale,” she spoke slowly, calmly, despite her brows being raised in surprise, “are you okay ?”

“OfCourseI’mNotOkay!”

The sudden lash of his words surprised the whole room, leaving only his echo behind. His face was red, dangerously close to turning blue at this rate. Even Astarion, who usually had a quip ready for their mage, was tight-lipped (even if those lips were also trying to restrain a grin in the process).

“I just-- it’s fine,” he finally sighed, running a hand through his hair, “ we’re fine, you handled it.” Another deep breath, “We live to see another day.”

“Yes, we do,” Rose nodded slowly, ensuring the movement matched the pace of his breathing, “And, we still got valuable information,” she put a gentle on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze, “I’m fine , Gale. Let’s get back to camp, Lae’zel needs to know what we learned here.”

“Right, thank you.” The color didn’t leave his cheeks, but his breathing calmed.

Gale left the lab with Wyll, who insisted on joining the worked-up wizard as they left the sanctum. Rose turned her attention to the table of notes and jars that Nettie left behind, seeing a buffet of information that she could take with her.

“He looked like he was about to explode,” Astarion finally released a fit of snickers.

“Let’s go easy on him for the rest of the day, hm?” Rose suggested as she plucked papers from the table and stuffed them into her bag.

“Oh, but now it would be more fun to do,” he pouted.

“How about you tease Wyll, instead? He’s new,” she smirked, looking back at him with a wink, “should be fun.”

“You’re awful , I love it.”

She rolled her eyes, returning to the contents of the lab that were interesting to her. In a jar was a parasite much like the ones they had wriggling behind their eyes. This had to be the specimen that crawled out of the Drow’s skull. She carefully placed it in her bag, ensuring it was padded on all sides to prevent damage. Once the desk had been cleared, her eyes scanned over the cadaver on the slab beside her. Nettie told them the drow was slain when Halsin realized they were being followed. They took the body back to check for signs of ceremorphosis. So, their belongings had to be somewhere nearby. If this was a scout, there had to be other information hiding on his person. After rounding the slab, she found it-- the pile of clothes gently folded and placed on a stone chair. Her fingers made quick work of the apparel, dipping into pockets and procuring a folded note.

Footsteps approached the lab, giving her a short moment to stow the parchment and stand up straight. Astarion, who she realized was standing by one of the bookshelves, also shifted his stance to a more natural pose, hiding a book behind his back. Rath appeared in the doorway, peering into the room as if looking for something before his eyes settled on Rose.

“I was asked to escort your group out of the inner sanctum,” Rath said, “is everything alright in here?”

“We were just admiring the scenery,” Astarion answered cooly, “stone gray is a bit overdone, but I think you druids make it work.”

Astarion with the quips again, well timed at that. She casually walked around the slab and approached Rath, not resisting the request to leave. She had everything she needed, and it seemed her elven friend got a parting gift for himself. As they crossed the atrium, Rose noted the child’s body was no longer on the ground. She wasn’t sure if they buried the remains as Kagha ordered, or if they returned the body to the parents. Part of her desperately cared about the answer, the other wanted to ignore it entirely.

In the interest of keeping her stomach from launching itself from her body, she chose to ignore it.

Once they cleared the stone door and crossed around the ritual circle, Rath slowed his pace. Rose did the same, glancing at him curiously, but cautiously. He was up to something. She let him guide them further away from nearby druids— away from listening ears. Something troubled him, judging by the furrow of his brow.

“If you have something to say, make it quick,” she whispered, keeping her eye on their surroundings for onlookers. Astarion, keenly aware of the situation, stood nearby as a discreet lookout, pretending to look at his nails and only turned his head if he made a face that implied he thought someone called for him.

“Look, you saw what happened in there,” Rath finally whispered, “Kagha is out of her mind . Halsin wouldn’t have let this happen.”

“Halsin isn’t here, he left her in charge,” she reminded, “if the goblins got him, he’s long dead.”

“Please, if there is even a chance that he’s still alive, find him.”

Rose took another glance at their surroundings, checking for prying ears or nosy critters. No one seemed to be paying them any mind, good. She crossed her arms over her chest, watching the desperation in Rath’s eyes as he pleaded with her. She wouldn’t answer him so quickly.

What were the facts; what did she know?

According to Nettie, it was Halsin who had been studying the tadpoles closely. There were others who had been infected, long before the nautiloid crash. In this case, Nettie was classified as a reliable informant. She had no motivation to lie to them that Rose could surmise. Supporting this, she knew a normal mindflayer tadpole would have transformed them, but they had remained unchanged. The other subject, somehow, gained powers from their tadpoles. Whatever power this was, it seemed to vary. The question then remained: why hadn’t her camp been gifted with any such powers?

On one hand, these questions added complications to their problem, but if the subjects were tadpoled for weeks prior to their crash, then they had more time to save themselves. Hopefully.

Rath was beginning to shift uncomfortably under the unmoving, unblinking, gaze Rose held on him as she ran through everything. Finally, she closed her eyes and breathed in heavily.

“I’ll consider it,” she answered.

“You said the same to Kagha,” Rath muttered.

“Because I have other things to consider before accepting every quest presented to me. If you’re eager, you can do it yourself.”

“No. I-- okay, when can you give me an answer?”

“Tomorrow, before we leave the grove.”

“Thank you,” Rath nodded.

He continued to lead her and Astarion towards the entrance of the sanctum, where a tiefling couple shouted to the approaching trio. Rath sighed heavily, walking right up to them. Rose examined the two tieflings, who she realized bore a resemblance to the dead child. Her insides felt cold as they closed the distance. Why hasn’t anyone told the parents yet?!

“Somebody tell me what’s going on! Please!” the mother cried, “where is Arabella?!”

Rose turned her face away, hiding the involuntary wince. The unnamed discomfort she felt was harder to push away when she knew their name. Arabella. She remembered the look of fear in her eyes, when they looked at each other for a brief moment. What happened after that? Between their eye contact and her heart stopping? Her stomach turned. No, she couldn’t think about it. She wouldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Rath’s voice was small, “there was a terrible accident.”

“What do you mean, an accident?” the father asked with an arm around his wife’s waist, holding her hand tightly.

Rath hesitated. God damns he hesitated, and she couldn’t stand the silence.

“Arabella’s dead,” Rose stated, finally facing them when she delivered the news. They looked at her with widened eyes. She pushed through everything within her that froze, every desire that wanted to keep her from saying anything further, “there’s no other way to put it.”

“No...” the mother whispered, then sobbed, “that monster!”

“You’re a monster!” a bloody face flashed in front of her, tears running down a different face. Curled strands of hair sticking to her brow. The smell of murder in the air.

Rose blinked the image away, faced with the tiefling mother in mourning again. The lump in her throat choked her, she couldn’t stay here. Without another word, she continued past the grieving parents, taking hurried steps up the path, hurrying to camp. But the images followed her.

A tiny dagger, grasped in a similarly small hand. The woman screams before the knife slashes her throat. Sputtering. Choking. Silence. Blood.

No. She forced the images away, buried them further into the depths of her mind-- likely to the same place her missing memories were hiding. She couldn’t let herself get lost in these thoughts. Couldn’t bear to see anymore. She needed a distraction, something— Astarion! In her haste, she didn’t realize he kept up with her. Small talk could help, she decided. Something. Anything.

“What kind of book did you grab?” she conjured up her half smirk, tilting her head towards the elf who walked beside her.

Astarion hummed as he inspected the cover embossed in the fine red leather.

“‘Disorders of the Nerves and Mind: A Treatise of Information,’” his nose wrinkled more as he read each word, “wouldn’t have been my first choice, it’s what I grabbed when the damned druid interrupted us. Buuuut if it’s all I have, it will have to do.”

Astarion extended the book to Rose when she held her hand out, letting her flip through the pages. A medical journal of sorts, written by a single cleric about their various treatments on the mundane and magically insane. What a cruel joke the cosmos must have been playing, to put such a thing in her path. She passed it back to him when she was done skimming.

“Let me know what you think of it,” she casually commented, “I might be interested in reading it when you’re done.”

“If it’s as boring as its title, you’ll be reading it long before I’m done with it.”

The view from their camp was perfect. High enough above the grove to see into the inner sanctum, part the tieflings’ refuge, and the immediate wilderness outside the gates. Very few opportunities to be caught off guard. Shadowheart did well to find this spot, she commended.

As expected of someone who was a trained warrior, Lae’zel set up the new tents and supplies perfectly. She even set up a ‘command center’ for Rose to review their travel plans. It looked like a tiny war camp. Rose could work with this, easily.

Gale was eager to show off what he could do when he had more than fish on the menu. The ingredients from the storehouse were appreciated and quickly being cut up for dinner. While the stew cooked over the fire, Wyll regaled the camp with his monster hunter stories, acting out climatic battles that he effortlessly won.

Shadowheart and Lae’zel were with Rose, going over the map, notes, and information that they acquired throughout the day. The information, she knew, was going to be outlandish and hard to swallow, but Lae’zel listened. Closely. Concerned. The gith’s brows furrowed as she scanned her eyes over one of the druid’s research journals.

“Modified Ghaik tadpoles,” Lae’zel bristled, “all the more reason we need to get to a creche.”

“So they can strap us to tables and run their own experiments on us? You would suggest that,” Shadowheart baited, smiling smugly when Lae’zel snarled at her.

No, not tonight. They needed to focus .

“You said there’s protocol to this sort of thing-- what do you suppose protocol for an abnormal tadpole would be?” Rose redirected the conversation, needing to keep things productive. Her eyes were fixed on the map, considering the other quests put in front of her that day-- like potentially rescuing the druid, Halsin.

“Normally protocol calls for immediate purification using a Zaithisk,” she paused, considering something. Her face twisted with discontent as another option occurred to her, “or they would eradicate us. It would be too risky to leave us alive without knowing how to purify these new tadpoles. Especially if there are more out there. Tsk’va.”

Tsk’va, was right. Rose drew a circle around the Selune Temple’s location.

“We can’t go walking up to a group of gith with an unknown threat, not without information they could use,” Rose determined. She tapped the end of her charcoal stick to the newly circled spot, “this is where Halsin went to get more information about the tadpoles. His notes indicate that there are probably others with the same tadpoles in this camp. We’ll pose as one of their own and see if we can speak to anyone in charge-- someone who could have answers on where they are coming from and what we can expect.”

Lae’zel glared at the map, glancing between the Selune Temple and the last known location of her kin. Behind that hardened face, she could see the growing fear. Rose sympathized with the warrior. Thrust into unknown situations, with even fewer known circumstances before them. While the human may feel alien to her past, Lae’zel was simply alien to this world. It had to be a lot to take in.

“The way I see it, we have few options,” Rose concluded, her commanding voice relaxing slightly as she spoke directly to Lae’zel, “knowing more about what we’re dealing with is the only advantage we can give ourselves.”

Lae’zel cursed under her breath again, turned on her heel, and disappeared into her tent. If that flap was a door, Rose would suspect it’d be slammed shut.

“It isn’t too late to abandon her,” Shadowheart suggested, adding a mark to her map-- likely matching the one on the table, “let her go search for her kin if that’s what she wants so badly.”

“No, she’s upset about this fucked up situation the same as the rest of us. She knows as well as you and I that we’re better off working together,” she gave the cleric a stern look, “I don’t care what you have against the gith, we need each other. Understood?”

The half elf pursed her lips, but nodded quietly.

“Good.”

Lae’zel didn’t emerge from her tent until Gale called everyone for dinner, which featured a hearty meat and vegetable stew.

“My compliments to the chef,” Wyll declared, clapping a hand to the wizard’s shoulder. The stew almost sloshed out of his bowl from the impact, but he still grinned appreciatively.

“Well go on then,” Astarion smirked, stirring his bowl, “give him your compliments.”

“Ah, it’s a figure of speech, my very literal friend.”

The smirk on Astarion’s face said it all. He was playing with the Blade. Oh wait, she did tell him to tease the new guy didn’t she? She grinned mischievous watching the show unfold.

“I had hoped you could come up with something better than ‘compliments to the chef’ after the way you tell your stories. No worries, I can show you how it’s done,” the elf leaned towards the two gentlemen, “Gale, darling ,” his smirk widened, flashing a hint of teeth, “the stew smells divine , were you a professional chef back in Waterdeep?”

Oh he was good . The wizard flushed, chuckling bashfully. Wyll chuckled, then cleared his throat for the challenge before him.

“Gale, this stew can find itself in a king’s banquet,” the Blade grinned towards Astarion, seeking his approval of his performance.

“Not bad, getting better,” Astarion hummed with amusement, “but I’ll say this stew is so heavenly it can resurrect the dead.”

“If you’re all going to start inhaling each other’s mouths, please use one of our new tents,” Shadowheart’s teased, feigning disgust on her face.

Gale’s entire face was as red as the stew. Wyll and Astarion had a good laugh, seeing him shrink between them. Rose couldn’t help but add to the laughter filling the camp. The atmosphere tonight was vastly different from their first night at camp. Maybe it was Wyll bringing a burst of optimism to the group, or maybe it was the relief that they haven’t shown any signs of sprouting tentacles from their maws. Regardless, it was welcomed.

Dinner continued with more conversation, sharing what everyone did back in their respective homes. Wyll, the Blade of Frontiers. Gale, a prodigal wizard of Waterdeep. Lae’zel of Creche Kliir. And now, she knew Astarion was a Balduran Magistrate. Rose wasn’t feeling in the sharing mood, not if it risked worrying the whole group about her lost memories. Not tonight. She made an excuse to go back to the command tent, but encouraged the rest to keep enjoying their night. Astarion gave her a knowing look as she walked around his side of the fire. A look which she ignored.

Rose sat in a stool by the makeshift table. Perfect spot to view the entirety of their camp and write in her newly acquired journal. There was a lot running through her mind after this day. Between the death of two innocents, tadpole revelations, and even more disturbing visions, she finally had a moment to process it all. The thoughts flowed from her head onto the page. The approaching sound of footsteps didn’t stop her from writing, she could tell exactly who it was from their gait.

“Not up for telling the camp about the life you were ripped out of?” Rose asked.

“Not particularly,” Shadowheart answered, grabbing another stool to join her, “seeing as you slinked away, I figured you would understand privacy.”

Rose hummed thoughtfully, continuing her writing. Shadowheart watched the others share stories and laughter from the campfire. At some point Gale’s voice could be heard enthusiastically explaining the difference between wizards and sorcerers. The tidbits that she picked up on seemed to bring a small smile to the half-elf’s face. Perhaps she wanted to share more than she admitted, but for one reason or another she was holding back. Rose wondered if it was a matter of trust, caution, or necessity.

Well, now was as good a time as any to test that out, wasn’t it?

“It’s not so much that I’m trying to be private,” she broke the silence between them. Shadowheart looked over to the human, her face begging the question without needing to utter a single word. Rose continued, “I just couldn’t share anything if I wanted to.”

“How do you mean?” Shadowheart pressed.

“I don’t remember my life before this. Can’t really share something I don’t know anything about.”

For a moment, Shadowheart fiddled with her hands, circling a spot in her palm with a thumb. Rose noticed a small scar, a perfectly round mark. A note was marked in a different page of her journal.

“Seems we are in the same boat— well, camp, I suppose,” Shadowheart finally said, “I…was on an assignment from my goddess. There were more of us, but I’m the only one left. This mission was crucial, so we volunteered to have our memories suppressed.”

“To avoid compromising your mission and anyone involved in your organization,” Rose commented. Not a question. An understanding. She closed the journal and turned her full attention to the woman beside her, “does this mission have anything to do with that prism you grabbed from your pod?”

Shadowheart nodded, hesitantly. Still looking at the other campers.

“I won’t pry. I…have a sense that I’d be the same way, if it was that important,” she promised, “hells, maybe I’m on my own assignment and I’ve just…forgotten.”

Shadowheart scoffed, finally looking over to Rose who chuckled at her own misfortune.

“You’re turning out to be an understanding ally…in time, I might be willing to tell you more,” Shadowheart smiled, turning her nose to the air in her usual attempt to seem holier than thou. But the sincerity was still there.

Even surrounded by walls and guards, there was wisdom in being cautious. The conversation around the fire was beginning to quiet down. Watches were being decided for the night. The tension between the druids and tieflings warranted that much. Speaking of tieflings, a small group of them approached the camp. Zevlor, leading the charge, with Arabella’s parents following behind him.

‘And there goes the lighthearted atmosphere.’

“Zevlor,” Rose nodded to him as he approached. She stood up as a sign of respect, speaking to him across from her ‘desk.’

“Rose,” he nodded back, briefly nodding to Wyll and the others who started to gather around, “I hate to ask more of you, but, we’ve been put in a rather…uncomfortable position,” Zevlor sighed. The parents behind him clutched each others’ hands.

Rose understood immediately, this had to do with Kagha. What else? She grabbed the journal off the crate and opened to one of its marked up pages. The list of favors, requests, and hopes were growing. Another one was going to be added.

“Kagha has gone too far,” he began. Yep, there it was, as she guessed. “She killed a child— “

“She needs to pay .” The mother’s words spat with venom. Her husband rubbed her arm, trying to soothe her.

“Where am I fitting into this picture?” Rose asked, lowering her journal to maintain eye contact with the other leader.

“You were able to get close to Kagha. No other outside has managed that. It’s a lot, I know, but it would be a great service if you could convince her to stop the ritual.” Zevlor kept his composure before her. One commander to another. Business. This type of engagement suited her, she realized.

The mother glared at Zevlor’s back, but she held her tongue. Interesting.

“She’s given your people a tenday before the ritual is complete, that gives you time to prepare,” Rose informed, ignoring Wyll’s expression of distaste at the cold deadline. Heroes can be so hasty, it seemed.

“As long as those goblins are a threat, we won’t make it far. Most of the people here are not fighters, they are civilians. ”

“How many could there possibly be?” Astarion asked, hand on his hip and hand circling the air, “a couple dozen, surely, you can handle?”

“An army.” Zevlor deadpanned, “Could be over a hundred.”

“A hundred?!” the elf shrieked.

Rose pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing with frustration. Gods he was right. Her group was already having issues in how they were going to resolve the goblins for the sake of travel. An army? They weren’t equipped to handle an army.

“If you can convince Kagha to stop the ritual, we would be indebted to you. More than we already are,” Zevlor continued without missing a beat, “we need to stay here until it’s safe. Whatever means is necessary to fulfill that arrangement.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she promised, jotting the new request along with the others.

Briefly, she gauged the reaction of her camp. Lae’zel and Shadowheart held stone faces, not reacting in any obvious way to the conversation. Gale and Wyll looked concerned, with the latter holding a pleading look in his eyes only a hero could have. Astarion winced, his face twisting like a piece of lemon was pressed to his tongue.

Zevlor nodded in thanks and turned to leave. The tiefling parents followed after him.

Rose took a seat, reviewing the growing list from her, adding additional notes as she considered each one’s prospects. Desperate footsteps quickly approached. A small pouch fell onto her journal with a metalic thud.

“Kill the bitch and it’s all yours,” the mother, standing over the crate with a fire burning in her eyes. Her husband was quickly running up behind her.

At the other end of camp, Zevlor was still leaving. Smart man, wanting no part in this. A conspiracy to assassinate the current druid leader in this already tense climate? He’d be a fool to suggest a thing. Rose wondered if the parents were invited to join him when he walked to her camp or if he simply allowed them to follow.

“You can’t be serious,” the husband turned his wife to face him, “that is all we have.”

“It doesn’t matter! Nothing matters! Not without our little girl.” Her voice began to quiver.

Rose quietly poured out the contents to count them as the parents bickered. Did she have parents back home who would throw their entire worth at a stranger to avenge her death? Was there anyone who missed her back home— wherever that was? Was the woman she thought of earlier her mother? Was that her hand, holding the knife? Gods, she hoped not. As the questions stirred within her head, not a single piece had counted.

Arabella’s eyes flashed at her from the shine of the coins. The argument continued, but their voices began to fall away as Rose focused on those scared little eyes.

The child shaking with fear as the snake’s tongue tickled her cheek and slithered down from its perch. Taunting the child. Daring the child. Rose smirked, an idea forming. She glanced at the exit behind her, slightly blocked by her own form. Ah, well the tiefling was a small thing, she’d only need a little bit of wiggle room to get her hopes up. Smoothly, she shifted her weight, giving her that bit of space. The child noticed, innocent eyes widened, tears ready to fall. Ever so slightly, Rose tilted her head to the opening.

‘Go on,’ her mind whispered.

No.

‘It’s okay.’

Stop!

‘You’ll make it.’

It’s a trap!

‘If you can outrun the viper, that is.’

The stool clattered loudly behind her. All conversation, silenced by Rose, who now stood with her fists closed around the pile of a mothers’ desperate plea. Her head pounded, stomach twisted. All at once, the world threatened to fall away.

“Keep it,” Rose swiped the coins back into their pouch and pushed it to the other end of the crate.

The mother fell to her knees, hands clasped together desperately. She refused to look at her, focused more on steadying her breathing and keeping her eyes closed to help with that. The mother’s voice hitched.

“Please—“

“I’ll handle it,” Rose interrupted, darkly. She opened her eyes when her impending tears were contained. With resolve, she turned her sights to the pleading woman. Then, she looked to the husband, and nodded to them reassuringly, “Go. This conversation never happened.”

The mother opened her mouth to speak, but Rose raised her hand. Eyes narrowed, warningly. The message came across, no words were spoken, but the thanks read clearly on their faces before they took their coin and fled the camp.

The silence weighed heavily in the air. No one dared utter a word. No one dared to breathe.

Not until Rose did first.

“Shadowheart.”

“Yes?” The cleric stood from her seat, instantly.

“Names and descriptions of everyone who are loyal to Kagha,” she turned to a blank page in her journal, slowly uprighting her stool as she sat back down. Charcoal pressed to the page. “now. ”

Next Chapter >>

#bg 3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #dark urge #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x dark urge #baldurs gate 3 #fanfiction #jellymellydraws #ao3 writer #ao3 #bg3 tav

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precious-bhaal-babe · 9 months ago

Text

with the hate of some other man's belief

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54371851

Word count: 3843

Warnings: descriptions of violence, blood and gore, body horror, medical horror, dehumanization

It wakes with an ache in its head and a hunger deep in its bones.

The pod hisses open and it stumbles, knees cracking against the ground and chin hitting hard enough for its teeth to clack, movements infuriating in their sluggishness. A body out of step with reality, slowed in a mire of putrid muck, nerve endings snap snap snapped until they are useless. Tacky half-dried blood smears down its face, unhealed bones grinding as it flexes its hands into the familiar shape of fists, tender flesh where fingernails have been ripped off meeting rough calloused palm. There is the acrid tang of smoke fouling the air, the heady taste of blood and bile on its tongue, the crackle of flame licking at its ears.

And there is the writhing. An aching, pulsing, squirming within its head, a vile parasite nesting in the shredded ruins of its brain, burrowing past splintered bone to make a home amongst rot. It can feel the intrusion. Lacrimal, ethmoid, sphenoid. Behind the eye, past the bones, into the brain cavity, swimming amongst the grey matter, prefrontal cortex, latching to the optic nerve. Extraction risks optical impairment.

The words exist, darting in and out of understanding, tiny minnows flashing under the surface of water. Images of bone shards, sliced organs, gutted cadavers come to its mind. Knowledge best learned from the touch of a scalpel, not the ink of a tome. But then just as readily drawn into the aching cavern of its memories. A void of nothingness. What is it? To know such things and little else?

Another thought, dragging through the sick offal of its mind, buried under skin and muscle and bone. The Dark Urge. It knows this, and yet it knows nothing. It is the Dark Urge, the twisting of the gut when the knife is stabbed through, the wrenching of the heart when the poison reaches, the gurgling spew of blood when it coughs up the throat. And yet there is no knife in its twitching hand, no poison hidden away in its pocket, no blood but that which pounds pounds pounds behind its eyes.

What is it when it has nothing?

There is no time for such frivolities. The hunger in its bones demands blood, retribution, for the pain it suffers. If it has nothing, then it has nothing to lose. It staggers to its feet, shivering and shaking like the most piteous of victims, and takes stock of its situation. The aching of its body sharpens as it moves, but it knows with a deeply rooted surety that hesitation will equal a worse fate. Rags for clothes, no protection against attack or weather; no shoes, the balls of its feet already raw; not a single weapon or personal effect on it, it will have to make do without; a pain in its fingers, fractured bones — phalanxes, distal intermediate proximal — will make fighting its way out more difficult; a kink in its tail — mid-distal caudal vertebra — that makes its balance harder to keep.

Alive, is the conclusion. Just barely, but alive.

A glimpse through a gaping hole nearby reveals more of its predicament. Hundreds of feet above the ground, a flying vessel of organic material, carving a path through air that tastes of fire and brimstone, overhead the armies of devils. One of the hells, a fitting enough backdrop. It searches the odd veinous room it awoke in and finds other pods like its own, most empty and cracked or filled with the lifeless remnants of those with worse luck than it. There is nothing useful to pluck from their corpses, but the sickly sweet stench of their gore and the glistening of their blood is enthralling, a siren song luring it in, until all else fades away and only the hunger remains.

Something outside rocks the vessel, throwing it off its feet and wretchedly tearing it from the draw of mincemeat. Right, a sign to get moving. The next chamber is little different, cavernous and pulsing with a life that it wishes to tear into. A dead goblin here, some creepy discs that push recorded memories into the emptiness of its mind, a plethora of glowing tanks that enrapture it. But there is nothing useful to be found, and it is about to continue on before it hears a voice.

Here. We are here.

The voice pushes into its head, rattling around in the echochamber of its empty mind; not something heard but felt. Its stomach roils with the invasion, the unwanted shard of awareness within its own meager sanctity of mind, that vile brain worm squirming as if in excitement. And yet the sharp pain does little to abate its own curiosity, and it finds itself clambering to a higher platform.

A torture chamber, something achingly familiar even when it cannot recall why. There are brains floating in luminescent jars and bodies strapped down in chitonous chairs, limbs bound even when none of them so much as stir. A thrill runs down its spine, the itch to continue the abandoned work making its fingers twitch. The tools left behind are unfamiliar but it doesn’t need familiarity for this sort of bloody work; a blade to cut, a hand to snap, what more does it need?

Upon closer look, the work done in this chamber is pointed and not the sort of exploration it would enjoy. No damage to the main body, only a single continuous cut laterally along the skull — frontal, parietal, occipital — and exposing the delicious grey mass of nerves beneath. All but one of the immobile flesh sacks have had their brains neatly removed, and it is the last quivering bundle that speaks to it once more.

Help us. Please.

Help? What an odd request to make of it, a creature that remembers nothing but the shearing of skin beneath blades, the grind of bone pinned by fingers, the slick of blood under nails. The Dark Urge. That is the title that its mincemeat mind has recalled, that is the looming presence beneath buried memories. It does not remember a life before this awakening, but it feels with clarity that it has never been the sort to help.

But. There is a curiosity here. A tempting morsel of a brain, exposed and speaking with the worm in its own cranial cavity. Surely, it would be a waste to not take this opportunity, to not reach into this sorry cadaver’s skull and pluck pluck pluck the unusual organ out.

“Hello,” it speaks, for the first time in its — new? prolonged? second? — existence, the simple word grating out of its throat like it has never exercised its vocal cords before. Or perhaps it has exercised them far too much, and the soreness comes from screaming. “What are you?”

The thing tells it. An intellect devourer, though the term brings no new understanding. That matters little, as it has already decided it will assist the creature, if only to get its eager fingers in its soft folds of skin.

As it reaches for the brain, it notices something; cerebral edema, swelling of the tissue, pressing the sides of the organ against the remaining skull. Good, then, that the upper portion of the skull had already been removed, otherwise the creature could have drowned in its own cerebral juices or some such. Its careful as it pushes its fingers down into the cranium, alongside the temporal bones, until they wrap around the bottom of the brain and tug. The brainstem detaches with a squelching noise, and then it is left with the odd quivering brain resting in its hands.

The urge exists to drive its fingers into the slimy soft folds of the cortex, tear and gouge and rip holes into the creature the same as has been done to itself. It wants to, vibrates with the want, it needs to. But nevertheless something stays its hand. The intellect devourer sits there, trembling and weak and trusting, in its grasp, and that complacency draws forth…what? Hesitation? Warmth? Tenderness?

It doesn’t know. The brain leaps from its hands and claims its own footing before it can make a different decision. Perhaps that is a mercy; perhaps it is sheer luck. It learns to call the brain Us, that it is currently in the realm of Avernus, and that it has been brought aboard this ship to become the next of the sorry corpses to pry walking talking brains from. Though it doesn’t think its own brain would be of much use to the owners of said ship, given the state it’s in.

Us doesnt ask for its name back. It doesn’t mind. It doesn’t have an answer anyway.

But Us does bestow upon it something different from a name. A title, not unlike the somber Dark Urge lurking in the peripheries. Friend, Us calls it. It’s never had a friend before; or, at least, it doesn’t think it has. It finds it enjoys the cheerful tone Us uses, in that odd multi-faceted voice. Maybe it doesn’t regret not shredding the damn thing, it’s entertaining at the very least. And helpful, as Us knows the way to the helm, where perhaps it can seek the retribution its pounding blood demands.

So the amnesiac and talking brain begin their trek to the heart of the vessel, and it finds that maybe it enjoys the company. It has been drowning in its own bloody, gorey thoughts, but with Us it can chatter aimlessly about the weird architecture of the ship and the bad smell of Avernus and the sheer joy at seeing real life dragons flying around outside. The odd brain makes for a decent listener, for all that it lacks ears. And it makes for a decent chatterer, for all that it lacks memories.

They go unconfronted by the plethora of other walking brains — though the things stop to tell it that it is beautiful, which is an appreciated comment, as it has no idea what it looks like — and it is not until they are traversing a walkway that has been torn open by dragon fire that something pounces.

Twist of flesh, flash of steel, and then a blade is pointed right at its chest. Steel greatsword, double-edged, made for the cleaving of skin from bone. The interloper — tall, wiry, solid stance — has the advantage. A fight would be dangerous but oh what a glorious corpse the warrior would make, eviscerated by their own blade, sickly hot innards becoming outtards. A flood of information spills over in its head. Githyanki — be wary of psionics; fearsome warriors but highly structured, move unpredictably to throw them off; limbs suited for astral plane, use gravity and mass against them.

The new being calls it an abomination and states it must die. Which may be true, it doesn’t know either way, but is still quite rude. Before either of them can make a move, that damned brain worm writhes and then it’s no longer in its own head, she’s somewhere else. In a pod, a ghaik tadpole being forced into her, seeing the kith’raki soar past to attack the nautiloid, escaping her pod and mowing her way past vile intellect devourers, spying a scrawny half-dead looking abomination and readying to strike.

And then it’s back to the emptiness, the ache, the hunger.

They stare at each other, both disoriented from the sensation of being other, and it finds itself grinning at the new warrior. She is fierce and violent and rude. It decides that it likes her, finds her fascinating, perhaps even moreso than a corpse. Much the same way it likes Us. If Us so readily called it friend, perhaps she would too.

The githyanki scoffs at it, interrupting its attempts to chat, but provides it with the words it has been lacking. Ghaik is the word her people use, mindflayer is the common term, for the tentacled creatures that kidnapped them. A tadpole swims in its brain juices, and the vessel they’re on is a nautiloid. The knowledge doesn’t change their predicament, but it supposes it’s nice to know the right targets for the rage pain fury that pounds in its blood. It will get its retribution from the vile squid faced creatures.

Its new companion insists they work together to reach the helm. Lucky, then, that they have Us to lead the way, though the githyanki doesn’t seem to like the suggestion. Any further conversation is thwarted by a swarm of imps blocking their only way forward.

All at once, something clicks into place. A return of awareness, a sharpening of the senses, a deeply rooted familiarity where previously none existed. The battle pans out before it, a cataloguing of each opponent’s movements. Imps are pack creatures, they attack in droves; crowd-control is vital, do not allow a flanking; their fires are hot but short-lived; scapulae are fragile, snap the wings at the base.

It’s moving before it even breathes. Grabs the first imp by the wing, shatters the scapulae with a swift jab. Second tries to flank, thwart the move by hurling the first in the way. Third begins a fire incantation, block by shoving a fist in the mouth and breaking the jaw. Strangles the fourth, snaps the spine of the fifth.

The fight ends as abruptly as it began, worthless little imp bodies littering the stained floor. Its hands are coated with a pleasing layer of fresh blood, and beside it the githyanki has a newly blooded sword still drawn. Us is quivering at its feet, though the brain seems more pleased than afraid. The githyanki regards it again, something more wary or perhaps respectful in her stern gaze. They both are capable killers. A fortuitous partnership, for now.

Us continues leading them to their shared goal and, while the githyanki is resolutely quiet save for the occasional scoff, it resumes its pleasant conversation with the intellect devourer. They traverse through the next few chambers uninterrupted, stopping only to loot a corpse here or there, though the pickings are slim. It manages to find a handful of gold coins and a rough iron dagger. It’s fairly certain mindflayers have no use for gold and the dagger is possibly even less effective than its bare hands, but it pockets the meager findings in a patchy bag.

The next chamber brings it pause. Us proceeds unfazed and the githyanki scowls mightily at the assorted illithid contraptions. But its focus is only for the bodies strapped to operating tables, chests moving with breath and yet their eyes are glazed with lifelessness, the precursors to those sorry flesh sacks that it pulled Us from. It shouldn’t care, the familiarity of torture makes it assume it’s seen plenty of wretches in such condition, and yet. Something wrenches in its head, not the tadpole but a piercing ache, and it pictures itself on some such table, strapped down and barely alive, cut open and gutted, someone else’s little science project.

A muffled pounding breaks it from its awful visions, and it shakes its head to abandon the images and turns instead to another unlikely survivor. This one — half-elf, better resilience than humans but worse stamina than full elves, plan to outlast — is still trapped in their pod, desperately beating their fists against the glass like structure. A futile effort, the half-elf doesn’t seem to have the strength to truly crack the pod, though it wouldn’t mind watching them bash their fists bloody against it, maybe make use of their skull until it splinters under the force.

The half-elf asks it for help. Pleads. The githyanki scoffs and says they shouldn’t waste time with stragglers. But it thinks of Us, the odd little brain that had asked it for help, that had called it a friend with no hesitation. It thinks of that unusual tenderness that had throbbed in its chest upon befriending Us, a stark counterpoint to the vile wretched hunger deep within. Perhaps another friend would not be so terrible. And certainly another person to assist their escape plans would be beneficial. After all, it doubts its own half-dead self, a brain, and a single githyanki with only a sword between them will have much luck against mindflayers.

It says it will help, to the relief of the half-elf and the annoyance of the githyanki. The words feel foreign on its tongue, it wishes to gouge and tear and kill instead of help, but that bloodlust has not provided any use so far on this nautiloid. Us directs them to a side chamber, lined with countless pods. How many sorry fools have met their end here? How many more would? How glorious that scale of death.

There’s another filled pod before them, though this victim is not half so vivacious as the half-elf, and it watches as something triggers a change. The human contorts, bones crack crack cracking, eyes rolling to show bloodshot whites, limbs spasming, the jaw unhinging as tentacles rip forth in a spray of gore. Until there is no human left, just a newborn mindflayer. A shiver runs down its spine. Not of horror, no, of excitement, of understanding. As if in answer, it feels its own bones and muscle shifting under skin. It’s empty but it’s also too small for its casing, seams bursting at the edges from all that is squashed into itself. It shouldn’t be what it is, it should be something more, like the mindflayer that surged forth. How awful, how glorious. To be born from death, crawling out of the husk. And, oh, to be the hand that serves the wretched mindflayers their next death. Would something again burst forth? The next phase of their pathetic lives? It will learn, once it kills the remainder of the vile creatures.

They find a device that allows them to free the half-elf, and when the latest addition to their band staggers to their feet, there is again that pulse of connection. She’s made it out, the mission a success, now her and her squad just need to make it back to Baldur’s Gate, but then they’re downed one by one, she’s the only one remaining, and she’s waking up alone and captive, pounding and screaming for someone anyone to show mercy.

The separating of their minds back to themselves is no less unpleasant the second time, and it comes to shaking in its own empitness once more. Do other beings all have so much? Their heads are crammed with memories and thoughts and feelings. It knows nothing of such things. It has the ache. It has the hunger. Symptoms of lacking something.

She introduces herself as Shadowheart. She doesn’t ask for its name. It still doesn’t have one.

Shadowheart retrieves an odd shaped device from her pod, but she doesn’t much appreciate its curiosity surrounding the little thing. A shame, as something within it calls it closer.

Us assures them the helm is nearby, not much further now, almost to their shared goal of retribution and freedom. Words that taste sweet on its tongue, like fresh blood and offal. The brain and the githyanki and the half-elf have proven sufficiently interesting enough to be more interesting than corpses, and its bloodlust is a sharpened knife aimed at the mindflayers. It will rip their tentacles from their faces, gut them and drown them in their own blood, crack their heads open and make soup of their brains.

When they reach the helm, it is already in chaos. Mindflayers are swarmed by hellish imps and winged beings — cambions, highly resilient to fire, bound to the same lawfulness as devils, fighting dirty will enrage and distract them — while githyanki dragons tear at the nautiloid, shaking the entire structure beneath their feet.

Once again, that hyperfocus overcomes the pain in its head. It falls into the achingly familiar rhythm of battle without needing to even consider it, directing the other three to remain nearby in a formation. If any of them wish to survive, it will need to be together. Shadowheart provides a ranged support, while itself, the githyanki, and Us tear through the stream of hellish enemies pouring in.

But it’s not enough. Not enough. It needs to tear, rip, gouge, kill. It needs them all dead, until not a single heart flutters with life. Its eyes lock onto the mindflayer that had given them orders. But it will not tolerate following orders from the vile wretches that ruined it, that left it confused and empty and so so hungry.

It breaks from the others. They can get their escape, their freedom. It wants only for blood, for death. Launches itself at the mindflayer’s back, ripping and tearing into its thin slimy skin. A fist wrapped around tentacles, a foot planted on the thing’s head, pulling pulling pulling until the skin gives. Cave the skull in, crush the fragments of bone into the soft meat of the brain, dig its grubby little fingers in and pull out the strings of nerves. The cambion is next, none to be spared its fury. Dodge a cleaving cut from a greatsword, duck up into the winged creature’s space, a mollifying punch to the throat. Wrap an arm around the neck, swing the body around, use its weight to land on the scapula and snap the wing joint. Sever the head with a flaming greatsword.

Someone is yelling, even while it is pulling entrails from bodies, and it’s not until a particularly violent jolt dislodges it that it finally looks around. Shadowheart is calling for it across the chamber, her and the githyanki still deep in the neverending swarm of pitfiends. Its rage still simmers, its hunger lingers, its aching remains. But it picks up the flaming greatsword from the mutilated corpse of the cambion and rejoins the fray, slicing skulls from spines and flesh from bones and wings from backs. Dancing in a bloody fray alongside the half-elf and githyanki until there is nothing but blood and meat and ash.

Amidst screeching imps and dragon’s fire, it manages to be the first to reach the control panel. It doesn’t have a single clue how to fly a nautiloid, but a plucking of linked nerves gets them rocketing through a portal and careening through a sky that at least doesn’t smell of fire and brimstone. Another jolt has it losing its footing, crashing against the wall with the sickening crunch of a broken rib. Before it can even regain its awareness, a gaping hole in the side of the vessel tears open, and it’s pulled out into the open air.

falling falling falling

The wind sucks the air from its lungs, black spots dancing over its vision. It imagines its body hitting the ground, the splintering of bone right through the skin, the squelch of blood spraying out, the immediate relief of no longer feeling the ache and the hunger. The mindflayers that ruined it are crashing and burning, they will rot just the same as it. A pyrrhic victory.

It finds it doesn’t mind that.

#bg3 #dark urge #bg3 tav #fanfic

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