#HES RACIST AGAINST GNOMES

[gashkadin]

people arguing that astarion can't be neutral evil as if the man doesn't disapprove of helping orphans

[suitetarts]

astarion in his youtube apology era

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter one: as it was

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Full Chapter List (Coming Soon) 🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter CW: Blood kink, masturbation, minor character death, Astarion being racist/hateful towards gnomes

A/N: This fic incorporates vampire bride lore and headcanons. Special thanks for the wonderful @locallegume for beta reading.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“Sometimes, however, the emotion may be close to what mortals classify as love. The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers. In these cases, the vampire might actually believe it is bestowing a gift when it turns the mortal into its bride - the gift of freedom from aging and death.”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

Come to me.

Astarion allows their connection to slacken. With each step she takes nearer to him, springy anticipation pulses through their bond. It’s not unlike the wag of a tail.

And the slow dawn of his smile behind the fan of his fingers isn’t so different from the sun peering between the clouds. The sight of his most precious pet stokes that same delectable warmth inside of him.

“My sweet sunlight,” he calls to her, “how was your trance?”

His voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling of the throne room. There’s enough space in the chamber to hold dozens, but there’s only seating for two. The lavish chair at Astarion’s left is vacant as it always is. And this morning, only one needy patriar comes to the Crimson Palace to pay its lord homage. Lord Ventris is stout for a human, with a face lined in age and a dark, well-manicured beard. His attention follows Astarion’s eyeline as the gilded doors at the head of the hall groan apart. 

Finer company comes his way, following the red runner that crosses the checkerboard marble. Naomi’s shift sways just past her knees. The silk robe draped over her shoulders hardly offers any modesty; she didn’t bother to cinch it.

“I was well,” she answers primly, “until I woke without you.”

Astarion adores her in that shade of mauve. It wakes the faint trace of pink in her cheeks, the flush that only blooms after she’s fed. There’s hardly any hint of it now. Astarion’s smile fades.

Lord Ventris balks, scandalized by the sight of those lithe, lilac legs striding past him. “My lady!”  

Naomi matches Astarion’s unflinching stare, a slight lift at the corner of her mouth. His heart skips to the soft sound of her bare feet climbing the dais.

“It’s nearly midday,” Ventris prattles on, “surely some shoes, at least slippers--”

“Are you worried I might step on something sharp?” Her voice is steel as she stops, her cheek only halfway turned.

“I-I’m merely expressing benign concern. Not many drow hold title here, so perhaps you’re uneducated on the typical decorum befitting your husband’s house. But--”

“You shouldn’t worry so much. This is my home. I know exactly where all the sharp things are.”

Astarion pats his thigh expectantly. Like a sword to a sheath, Naomi slides into her customary place in his lap. He lets out a long, satisfied sigh while she settles against him. Her smile curves against his collar. 

To Ventris, he snaps, “Our house is the reason why you still have one. And I understand it’s a further favor you came here to ask. Do get on with it.”

“I-- “ he stammers, “of course, Lord Ancunín. As I was saying, you’ve invested greatly in the city’s revival, in the restoration of so many of our most prized institutions. I know you recognize the value of legacy, and its role in the renewed prosperity of the Gate. The preservation of its eldest, most distinguished lineages…”

Ventris speaks as he’s commanded, but Astarion doesn’t deem to listen. His head dips to the fine edge of Naomi’s ear, nosing past a stray wave of ivory hair hanging free of her bun. His arm winds her waist, clutching her close.

“Are you well now, darling? Now that I’ve remedied my wrongs?” 

Naomi hums contentedly, eyes shut, head tucked into the crook of his neck. And yet, he’s acutely aware of the disquiet lurking at the fringes of her happiness, circling their safe haven like a mangy dog seeking scraps.

“I think not,” Astarion murmurs darkly. “You're hungry, aren’t you, sweet thing?” His fingers stroke beneath her chin and guide her gaze to his. 

Even as the ascendant, he can’t curtail her hunger entirely. He can only see to it that she never feels it for more than a moment.

“Only as much as you allow me to be,” she says, batting her eyes open again. There’s a glimmer of laughter in them, among his favorite shade of cherry. He expected her eyes to change color when she turned, but he hadn’t expected she’d keep a tinge of her former violet. A lovely surprise.

You’re full of surprises, he’d told her once, when they were only just beginning. Aren’t you?

Astarion had known he was making a bride, and not simply a spawn, the night she knelt for him. He’d known they’d be bound for eternity. Aeterna Amantes. As it should be. As it was always meant to be.

As it will be. Forever.

But how was he to know how heady her delight would feel, when it fluttered like a hummingbird from her mind to his? How intoxicating her submission would taste, when he could witness the very moment her thoughts bent for him, feel her mind yield before her body gave way exactly the way he wanted? 

Without compulsion. Without question. Without barriers. With a bond like theirs, nothing between them is secret and all of it is sacred.

Perhaps accounts of other such unions exist. But there’s never been a vampire ascendant before; there’s never been an ascendant bride, either. None of the crusted scrolls he inherited from Cazador could’ve warned him how utterly offensive her slightest discomfort would come to feel.

That he’d feel it exactly as his own discomfort.

“How could I sit idle while my precious treasure starves?” He implores her with a blooming pout. “What manner of husband would I be, hm?”

Ventris, on the other hand, seems to have forgotten his manners entirely. He dares a step towards the dais, volume rising with the red in his cheeks.

“...and so I ask you, Lord Ancunín, what manner of philanthropist makes donations to some Sharran sanctuary? Hasn’t this city seen enough fanatics? They say those cultists have a new compound, thanks to you! And the Upper City has a new, so-called theater in your so-called lady’s name! Well, sir, I see no lady here! And that should tell you what opinion I have of that den of debauchery she’s opened!”

Astarion arches a brow. Ventris’ lower lip quivers as he babbles on.

“And you build all of this while my own house remains half-ruined! It was a proud estate before that business with the brain. Curious how all of my neighbors managed to escape the worst of the debris. Curious how they’ve already rebuilt what was broken!”

Naomi raises her head, surveying Ventris lazily. Astarion hears her effortlessly, as if the words were said aloud. Were you going to kill him with or without me? 

Astarion’s answer is honest, if not innocent at all. You’d be fed either way. It’s simply a happy accident.

“It’s quite simple, Ventris,” Astarion shrugs. “You’re not necessary. Your daughter will marry that sweetheart of hers that you hate so much, what’s remaining of your pride will be inherited by their heirs, and the world will be better for it. Without you and those gaudy pillars in the way of what should be a pretty sea view from the Upper City.  A pity the mindflayers didn’t finish leveling your estate. Though, I suppose they made the job easier.”

“How dare you!” Ventris fumes, spittle flecking his beard. “I’ll have your name dragged through the streets! The city will know you spent coin on the Sharrans-- and that gods forsaken whorehouse--”

“You won’t. Besides, Grand Duke Ravengard already knows. He’ll suppress any slander because he knows every other patriar is in my pocket. After all, their own coffers are so pitifully empty these days. That’s why you’re here, Ventris. To beg.”

Ventris shrivels into his ill-fitted suit coat. Astarion’s free hand curls around the armrest of his throne.

“So I’ll say it a second time,” Astarion sneers, “There won’t be a third. Get on with it.”

“I--” Ventis stammers, cheeks purpled with indignation. “You won’t get away with--”

Naomi snaps her fingers. Violet light sparks between them. “On your knees.”

It’s not the kind of compulsion Astarion can wield, but a spell that works in the same vein. Ventris drops with a shrill cry, kneecaps crunching against the hard stone. 

Naomi slinks from his lap. Astarion catches her hand as she goes, brushing a kiss to her knuckles. The faint, lingering thrum of her magic tingles pleasantly against his lips.

She stalks forward, predatory. As her hands slip from his, her robe slips from her shoulders, pooling like spilled wine at her heels. Ventris quivers, a little leaf buffeted by the wind, but he can’t flee. And he still can’t help himself from staring, ogling at what isn’t his. 

Astarion’s grip on the armrest tightens to a chokehold.

Sunlight slices the room in brilliant rays, as righteous as any flaming sword. And in it, Naomi is scintillating. The sheer fabric of her shift seems more mist than material. His eyes burn across her supple shape, taking in the ripple through her breasts with every step, and the tease of her nipples, pushing pert against her nightgown. 

Astarion wets his lips, letting a fang tug at the tender flesh. Anticipation thrums through him again, only now, it’s hot. Thick. Permeating.

His grip on the armest eases as he leans back in the chair.

Ventris’ mouth hangs open, a great gaping maw for such a middling, waste of a man. His wide eyes bore into the last sight he’ll see. And what a sight she is. Naomi tilts her head one way, then the other, peering down at her meal like a bird choosing a worm.

She’s careful, picking her vein. She’s not, when she claws a hand into his hair, lifts him from the floor by a fist of it, and rips into his throat.

Because she wants it to hurt. 

Screams slap wet against the palace walls. Astarion’s head falls back in his chair, his eyes slitted. The ceiling swims in a blur above him. He can feel the blood flooding warm in Naomi’s mouth, the spray of it coating the back of her throat. The thickness of it, swelling stiff within his trousers. 

He parts his buttons hastily, stroking his hardened length, scarcely feeling his own touch. It’s her tongue he feels instead. Surrounding him. Sucking so greedily. Taking, just as he taught her to. 

Her cheeks hollow as she pulls for more, more. And of course, more is what she gets. Blood leaks sticky sweet down her chin. Astarion’s cock throbs with her every moan. 

It's effortless now, to pretend it's her mouth around his girth and not his own hand. He doesn't even have to picture it. She lets him feel every pleasure that ever paints her pretty lips. Like they were his own.

She is his own. Naomi and all her tenderness belong to him. Every pleasure she takes, Astarion takes, too. And while she’s taking her fill, she feels the familiar fit of his cock in her mouth, pouring fresh heat into the body he made perfect forever. Into the woman he’s unmade an untold number of times.

His hips buck into empty air. A groan splits through his teeth. Naomi peels from her meal with a slick pop of lips, gasping with the raw edge of a growl. Astarion’s release spurts warm across his fingers. He slouches limp and boneless in his seat, relishing in the feel of her soaked within and without. Just as she should be.

He blinks blearily, chasing the breath he takes for pleasure and not for purpose. Slowly, the room steadies. He sits up, wincing as he tucks his sated, sensitive cock back into his trousers.

Naomi eases back, crouched over the corpse that was Ventris. Her chest heaves. She pants in tandem with Astarion. Not because she has to; her body echoes his own, reeling from the feel of his ascended heart thudding within his ribs.

When they’ve both come to their senses, Astarion comes to her. 

“What memory kept you tranced so late, dear?” His voice is soft, even as he scolds. What could ever be sweeter than meeting again in the flesh?

“I missed you, too.”

Astarion raises his hand lazily, and she leans forward, still kneeling. One by one, his fingers slip between her plush lips, her tongue wicking away the spend still left on them. When they’re clean, he grips her chin and turns it aside so he can see the marks on her neck that made her his evermore.

Blood blooms in stains near the neckline of her shift. It reminds him of the flowers found in their courtyard garden. His eyes drip with the leak of her leftovers, roaming over her the fresh flush waking in her skin. What a lovely, murderous, and reverent thing she is. Pride flares like a lively hearth beneath his ribs, fed by the warmth billowing from her head into his. 

She’s hungry no longer. And happy. An easy smile lifts his lips.

“Well?” He prompts, expectant.

“I was remembering our wedding hunt,” she answers dreamily, eyes-half lidded.

Astarion’s smirk widens, his fangs peering out. What a delicious memory to sink into. Savory enough to trance the day away.

There was the night they wed truly. After taking her fill of him, Naomi knelt, and Astarion had his fill of her. He bit her thrice, drained her dry, and bound her as his bride for all of time to follow. The papers that came later put her surname on record as Ancunín. But they didn’t make her his; she belonged to him already.

There was the party. Mostly, they hosted it for the patriars they intended to weave into their web of influence. They spared no expense for the lavish affair. He could think of no finer way to spend Cazador’s fortune than on his and his darling’s debut into Baldurian high society.

And then, there was the hunt.

Wordlessly, it slips into his mind from hers: not the extravagant soiree, but the party of unfortunate souls that stumbled into the palace drunk that very eve. They later woke to white, opalescent stone walls. Pearly bricks laid where Astarion had once shrieked and bled uncounted times beneath Godey’s blades. 

But that night, not a speck of blood or dirt stained the corridors to the old kennels. Astarion still hasn’t settled on the chambers’ future use, but he rather likes them better this way, as a polished blank slate. The sheen is crisp enough, he can see his clear reflection every time he stalks those halls. 

He sees his own stunning visage again in the play of Naomi’s memories. He sees the seven huddled, sniveling figures that awaited them there, and feels their spines shudder again. His mouth waters at the mere recollection of it.

“The last of you alive will live forever,” he told them cheerfully, before cutting them free of their bonds. “Run along now! Go on!” 

And off they scampered, scrabbling over each other in their desperation to reach a destination forever out of reach. There’d be no escape. Not a living one, anyway. 

Astarion had turned to his bride. So beautiful, sheathed in an ivory gown with the finest of shimmers, her long white hair plaited back, a sheer veil draped over it. A teardrop train of lace fanned from the flared edge of her skirts, and her eyes glowed with the promise of violence.

He lifted Naomi’s chin in a delicate grip. “Now, feast, my sweet.”

The memory smears, vivid red. Red, like the dripping trails down the walls. Red, like color she stained his pristine coat when their lips collided, a hungry mess of blood and adoration. Red, like the streaks across her wedding gown as Astarion tore through it. He swore he saw handprints at her skirts, in the brief blur before he ripped her free of them. Perhaps her victims gripped them for mercy. 

Astarion’s grip on her hips was anything but merciful. Binding, perhaps. And liberating, all the same.

It was hours later, his body weak with bliss, Naomi bare and drifting towards trance in his arms, that he lifted her from his throne and brought them both to bed. 

Presently, she muses, “It took me forever to find that fucking Harper. Could’ve been her that you made spawn instead of Zylar.”

Astarion smirks. Naomi drained all but one of their late-night guests that evening. Their final victim was a promising twenty-something human named Zylar with no surname, no family, and nothing but a fervent dedication to his duties as a Flaming Fist. Astarion took that dedication for his own. Now, Zylar will be young forever, live out all his small dreams of climbing the Fists’ ranks, and, most importantly, serve the interests of the Ancuníns above all else.

When Zylar rose as Astarion’s second spawn, gaping in horror at the blood-smeared walls that surrounded him, Astarion told him, “Clean it up. With your mouth, if it pleases you.”  

Within the hour, the old kennels were spotless once more.

Now, he snaps his fingers at the cloaked shadow lurking at the edge of the audience hall. At once, Zylar peels from the perimeter, prowling towards the corpse at the heart of the room. There’s barely blood on the tiles at all, but Astarion’s sure there won’t be a speck of it left by the time they return here.

“Your lessers will see to the scraps, my dear,” he says, offering Naomi his arm. She takes it, rising to his side. “I have something to show you. A present.”

The happy hum in her head is a knowing one. They enter the ballroom, where the white marble tile swirls with gold, and a long, windowed wall overlooks the palace gardens. There waits her latest gift, shining radiant in the sunlight. Her smile is a fitting match for it.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes.

They’ve had three such marvels call this ballroom home in just as many years. She’s said the same of the other two as well. He’s inclined to agree. The grand piano shimmers, resplendent. All but the keys and its insides are coated in gold leaf. The lid is propped, shedding light on landscape painted on its underside: Baldur’s Gate, by view of the sea, vivid in the setting sun.

Astarion allows her to part from his arm and rush to the piano, as if it’s a lover she’s running towards, and not away from. His arm sways, empty at his side, in the wake of her momentum. The delicate stroke of her fingers down the keys plays the most delectable shiver down his own spine. A long, stuttering sigh leaves his lips.

Strange that, only three short years ago, she didn’t know what to do with the first piano he gifted her. He remembers, crystal clear, the timid trepidation that crept across her face, the hesitancy with which she reached and just barely brushed the keys. 

“Little love,” he’d purred in her ear, “whatever could be the matter?”

“I-I don’t know how to play it,” she’d confessed, sheepishly retracting her fingers. He’d seen those same nimble hands curl the neck of a fiddle and flit effortlessly across a flute at least a hundred times over.

Astarion only grinned, letting his teeth graze the slant of her ear. “You’ll learn it. We’ve an eternity now, darling. You can take as much time as you wish and never run out of it.”

He never tires of taking his time with her. Taking her here, in the ballroom, even at the expense of their most expensive furnishings. No, this one won’t last any longer than the others, he decides as she saddles over the cushioned bench, her hands poised. He wets his lips, mulling over at least a dozen ways to put an arch in her back as she straightens tall.

But, in the interest of not breaking her gift so soon after it's been given…

He turns, like the perfect vision of restraint he is, and says, “Why don’t you play me something as pretty as you are?”

The instrument was made for her, and Naomi plays it as if it’s what she was always meant to do. What pours from the piano melts across his ears and leaves a saccharine taste on his tongue. It carries the tang of her magic with it, as all her music does. Tantalizing. Mesmerizing. Numbing, in its own way. Astarion could spend hours soaking in it. He’s spent so many mornings this way, warmed by the sun, staring out over the city he and his consort share, complicit with her in shared contentment.

Siren, some call her in whispers. They’re right to whisper. Astarion’s seen Naomi kill with one.

He stiffens to the sound of a throat clearing. It’s a cutting, and unwelcome intrusion. Claude, the rancid little gnome who tuts at him so expectantly, is eternally an intrusion. 

It’s the carrot of vampirism Claude chases. It’s easy enough to dangle it, just out of reach. He served Cazador with a religious fervor. He serves Astarion with even more zeal. He’s mortal, still, and Astarion can’t think of a single good reason to turn a servant already so eagerly playing their role. The thought alone makes his stomach roil.

“My Lord,” the nasally wretch says, “they’re waiting for you in your office.”

Astarion scowls. For all the patriars they’ve killed, there’s still a bumper crop of them crowding into his office every other week. Wanting the favor of Baldur’s Gate’s best-loved benefactor. Unknowingly begging at the heels of the one and only Vampire Ascendant. 

Such is the ignorant bliss of the cattle. He’s more than they know. But they know well enough to beg while they still can. 

What they do know is that he’s a hero. A savior of the city. The holder of its purse strings, while his heroine lover pulls the strings of the city’s heart. All in service to the web of power and influence that will see him named Grand Duke by summer’s end.

“Shall I tell them you’ll reschedule?” Claude asks.

“No,” he relents with an exasperated groan. “You shall not.”

Naomi plays on as he passes, but he feels a tug in the back of his mind. A flicker of a familiar feeling: her hand leaving his, and his arm left loose with an empty grasp.

I won’t be but an hour, my sweet. And then, I think, it’s back to bed with you. I think you might never leave it.

Her answer floats about his mind like a dandelion buffeted by the wind. I think I died happy.

Happy, Astarion muses, already half a palace away from her. He pauses by the mirror in the corridor, adjusting his high collar before he makes for his office door and the waiting patriars. As you should be.

Astarion drums the richly polished oak with restless fingers, his chin situated in his other palm. From his seat at the table’s head, he has a prime view of today’s entertainment: a pair of bickering magistrates. They hold the table’s attention as they trade barbs, too ablaze in their own irritations to notice their host’s growing disinterest. 

Do try to pay attention, dear, Naomi snickers in his head. We paid a hefty sum to get this little feud off the ground, after all.

Ostensibly, Lady Ancunín isn't interested in politics. Such manners bore her, and would detract from her management of the city’s finest theater. In reality, it's as if his little love never left his lap at all. She should be in this chair. He’s the one who's bored. 

Naomi’s left the piano now, though it plays on without her. Her steps patter in the back of his mind as she takes to the footpath through their gardens, her music still wafting pleasantly with the scent of the roses. With their minds linked, she listens more closely to his meeting than he can bear to.

Astarion’s gaze drifts to the open windows, to the bustling Gate, throbbing with life. Ripe for the taking, all due to his careful tending. A breeze ruffles the curtains, carrying the salt of the sea with it. 

It used to thrill him, to sit here, steeple his hands, and watch his empire be built brick by unwitting brick. He’s amassed enough influence to carry a current, even while sitting entirely still. There’s an inevitability to it all now that should please him. Instead, he feels the restless urge to pluck those bricks from the pile and dash all the heads in this room with them. To hear fresh screams instead of circular whining. But instead, he must endure their peevish--

Silence.

Abruptly, Astarion stiffens. The patriars prattle on unbothered, but beneath their noise, a stagnant quiet furls through his halls like a fast-moving fog, setting his hairs on end. Across the palace, the piano ceases playing. It’s not a remarkable change on its own; the magic expires after some time without Naomi’s touch.

That familiar, slipping sensation comes again: the feel of Naomi’s palm sliding from his and leaving it empty. His head feels empty as an echoing, vacant cathedral, only home to his own thoughts. His own mind. 

Darling? The word reverberates inside his skull, making it no farther than it would if he said it aloud in this room without her. His nails claw the table’s edge.

Naomi? Answer me. He calls again, anger flaring, but it feels futile. Like banging his fists against stone. 

Footsteps race down the corridor. His head turns for the door before the knob even moves. By the time it opens, he’s already standing. Every head in the room turns to Claude stammering frantically in the doorway.

“M-My lord, a visitor--”

Astarion grips his collar, storming from the room with the little wretch in tow.

“Lord Ancunín,” an old crone of a tiefling barks from the other end of the table, “what is the meaning of--”

Astarion slams the door on her inane protest, not even pausing to savor the flinch that passes through his captive audience.

“Where is your mistress?” Astarion growls. 

“The throne room,” Calude answers meekly. “W-we think.”

“You think?!” Astarion releases his grip on Claude’s shirt, wiping his hand on the leg of his pants. 

He doesn’t wait for Claude to elaborate. Astarion sheds his form and flies. Moments later, he materializes again before the great shut doors to his audience hall. A blue veil of magic simmers over them.

With a boiling vitriol, he rounds on the other elf kneeled near the doors. Strictly speaking, Emilia is his favorite of his lesser spawn. It isn’t the highest of praises; her only competition is Zylar, and her knack for magic makes her useful. And yet, he feels a dawning hatred for her as she crouches there, glowing hands outstretched in vain.

“What in the hells is this?” He shouts, the sound bounding like fitful thunder. 

“A magical barrier, my Lord,” Emilia says, strained. “It’s elaborate, but I’ll have it down shortly.”

“Who cast this? Who’s in there with her?”

“We received a visitor at the front door. He said the gatekeep allowed him entry, that he was a scholar from Waterdeep here to inform you of something of great import. He didn’t give a name. We intended to turn him away, but Claude went to Lady Naomi to inform her, and the lady said she would see him in your absence. She awaited him here, but all the doors closed when he entered, and the barriers appeared at once.”

Astarion grits his teeth. “And the guards at the gate simply let him pass?”

“It seems so.”

How could that be?! Astarion snarls, his fist curling with flame. He hurls it at the barrier, but the firebolt only melts harmlessly against its surface, dissipating into useless smoke. 

His bond with his bride can be turned like a faucet on either end, but neither of them can stem the drip of it entirely. Naomi would never wish for such separation. But even if she had, she could never hide from him fully. 

And yet, he hadn’t even an inkling of this stranger’s arrival. The last he felt her, she’d been in the gardens raking her fingers through thorns, savoring the sting of the cuts, and thinking of his fangs. 

“I believe Zylar is in there as well, my Lord.”

Astarion tenses, thoughts racing. Zylar never stays anywhere alone with Naomi if he can help it. Ever since the wedding hunt, he’s stayed terrified of her.

His mind blanks abruptly. The barrier dissipates, flecks of magic raining down from the doorway like sleet. The doors part. Through the narrow split, he sees Naomi as her knees buckle against the marble. 

A cloaked figure looms over her, one hand outstretched, the other clutching a fluttering scroll. Red magic twists just above Naomi’s forehead, coiling on itself like a knotted vine. Astarion surges towards them.

Ascension made him swifter than anything he’s yet to encounter. Sharper. Stronger. But now that he’s  near enough to see the spell reflecting in Naomi’s irises, near enough to see them washed in fear, his bones feel leaden. Slow. 

Weak.

The spell flares into a blinding, burning orb. Bloody light scorches the room. Astarion feels the heat of it spear through his temples. Carving, like the tadpole used to. Cutting. His lips split around the pain, but it’s Naomi’s scream that pierces his ears.

The quiet that comes after lays against the room like a knife to a throat.

Naomi wavers where she kneels. Astarion skids across the floor, catching her before she can collapse. The light vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving the cloaked mage crumpled in a limp heap. 

“Master!” Emilia gasps. “Master wait-- she might--”

“Shh,” Astarion coos, caressing a hand through Naomi’s hair and down her cheek. Blood leaks from the corners of her fluttering eyes, drying in dark trails. The magic burns a ruby outline around her body before it sinks beneath her skin.

“I’m here,” he rasps, pleading. “Come to me, darling. Come back to me.”

He holds a taut breath as her eyes open wider. Naomi blinks dazedly up at him, lips trembling, face glazed in confusion. Her gaze settles to his and sharpens. 

“W-who are you?”

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean the world to me if you let me know you did in box at the end here. It's scary and exciting and invigorating to share a new story!

And HUGE thank you to so many Tumblr moots and discord friends who have supported me along the way in drafting this one. 💜

[whoppert]

I have a WIP fic for this but just in case it rots in my computer (pls don't steal it)

Unasended Astarion, who frees the vampire spawn and follows them to the Underdark at the end of the game

at first he's paralyzed by depression that he's stuck here in the dark. it's not fair (it really isnt) but over time he realises that the spawn have made a little community and they consider him a... folk hero????

He's shocked and they're like obviously u r a hero, u freed 7000 slaves and killed their master like how much more hero do you get? They give him big fancy titles and he LOVES that - Astarion Breaker of Chains, Freedom Giver, Protector of the Helpless, Light in the Darkness.

He doesn't really believe them (he certainly doesn't tell them how close he got to killing them all) but he'll let them sing his praises.

This sends him into a further depression spiral because this was his fault, he brought these people to Cazador, he's the reason they were enslaved in the first place. He really has to learn to regulate his emotions and process things in a healthy way and for the first time he has more than just his friends but a whole town's worth of people to help him. They're particularly sympathetic to his brand of trauma and help him feel less alone.

Only eventually he starts believing them. Why can't he be a hero?

Overtime he starts to really care about this little community :) he's the defacto leader (even tho he hates that) and so any issues are his to deal with. I like to think they build a town in the Underdark and Astarion's familiarity to the Myconids means they help (they could not give two shits about spawn in the Underdark because they don't eat mushrooms). He and his siblings council the feral spawn until they learn to control themselves, teaching them that it's their decision if they want to feed on animals or people but there are strict rules about what people they can feed on (mostly bad people but there is no short supply of horny drow that are willing to be fed on). When threats come to the village, Astarion is leading the charge against their enemies (not everyone is pleased to have the spawn in the Underdark even if they are being pretty responsible about it). He's learning about Gur culture from the child spawns and learns the error of his racist ways.

Eventually, he becomes the Folk Hero.

He negotiates freedom for Underdark Gnomes ('Do you want 7000 Vampire Spawns let loose in Menzoberranzan? Cause I'll release them. Free your slaves or I'll have my children bring me the heads of all the Great Drow Houses.')

He works with Gale to enchant their little town to have a day/night cycle (it's not sunlight, just light because he misses it) and the City of Spawn is the only place in the entirety of the Underdark you can feel the warmth of the 'sun' on your skin

His friends come to visit and he is so changed for the better. He's happy, he's joyful. He no longer worries about spending eternity alone. He reclaimed his soul, something he thought lost to Cazador entirely

In 1000 years the Underdark is a fundamentally better place - all because he's there

[dullgecko]

I have some headcanons on slurs for Orcs, Tieflings, Goblins, and for any half human race.

Beasts: Typically for Orcs, half-orcs, saytrs, and werewolves. Extremely offensive and typically from the bigots who try to push controlling these races. Mostly against Orc/half-orcs since it’s mainly about the rage they’re born with, racists basically wanting to force them to wear shock collars (think the original plot for Zootopia) and muzzles to feel “safer”.

Monsters: More towards Goblins, but also used against Tieflings, vampires, goliaths, and sometimes ghosts. Used primarily to encourage other racists to do anything in their power to either kick them out of their city/town or to just straight up try to kill them. Goblins have also been pushed to wear muzzles, but it’s not as popular as trying to force Orcs and Werewolves to.

Dirty bloods/Scraps: Literally against anyone who is a half of something, typically humans. This is mostly from bigoted high elves seeing their blood as “pure” and that it shouldn’t be “tainted” by humans or demonic races or even from being infected with lycanthropy or bitten by a vampire.

Tiny terrors: Typically against gnomes, halflings, kobolts, or even dwarves. Mostly from people originally just saying “tiny”, then immediately getting their asses kicked for being rude. So, tiny terror.

This is all I have for now, but I think way too much about what the oppression and politics in Fantasy High is truly like so I might share more in the future.

:] 💚

If any of the bad kids hear anyone using slurs like that against their friends/party members shit is going down.

Gorgug generally doesnt have to deal with it much in Elmville because the population of half orcs is fairly high and he's a fairly quiet, chill guy who keeps to himself. He still gets it sometimes though but brushes it off as people just being assholes sometimes.

Riz gets it a lot worse. People like the Kristens parents are border patrol agents who's jobs involve making sure 'monsters' from the chaos mountains dont try to sneak into Elmville. One of the first cracks in the damn for Kristen, so to speak, was her parents telling her she shouldn't be associating with monsters like that (in reference to Riz) and all she could think was 'but he's so nice?'. He really tries to reign in his more feral tendancies so people regard him as less monster-y but bigots are going to be bigots either way.

[ozthedm]

I love Astarion to death, I really do. He has some of the best moments in the game, and is probably my favorite of the origin companions...

Which is why I have to say as an Astarion-enjoyer that it is deeply concerning to me how his racism is brushed to the side so easily both in-game and in fandom.

And yes, he is canonically racist. I'm not going to go into his gnome comments or what early drafts of the character indicated about his past, since those are slippery slopes. But trust me, his in-game attitude towards the Gur (who are stand-ins for Roma, a real-life minority ethnic group) is enough.

"But it makes sense that he would be prejudiced against the Gur because of his backstory." Yes, it does. It's understandable, even. But that does not mean it shouldn't be called out and condemned beyond one optional line about not holding a grudge against an entire ethnic group because of his tragic backstory.

Also, it's possible he may have had this mindset even before his death. Astarion has a line indicating that, when he was a magistrate he'd made some sort of ruling against the Gur that angered some of them enough to attack him in the street.

Now to be fair, Astarion's history before Cazador is deliberately kept vague, so at a certain point this becomes conjecture. I still think this is worth mentioning because if we take his words at face value, then that goes beyond benign ignorance into the active participation of subjugating a minority group.

I want to be clear that I'm not saying Larian and Astarion fans are condoning racism. Again, I am an Astarion fan. I totally understand that saying "my blorbo is a racist" is deeply uncomfortable. I know that the idea of an amoral character is more fun than actually addressing that amorality is, in fact, bad.

But maybe that's the point of Astarion. In a choose-your-adventure game, he illustrates how easy it is to do and excuse terrible things while brushing them off as not a big deal.

It's just very weird to me that the narrative goes all in on addressing actions which Astarion had little to no control over, but hardly even acknowledges the harm he's done of his own free will. Especially when a major part of his arc is about how to move forward when you are responsible for others' suffering.

TLDR;

If a character (who isn't an antagonist) is intentionally written to be bigoted, that isn't something that should be easily glossed over by the writer or reader/viewer/player/etc.

[spacemonkeysalsa]

"it's so weird that Astarion's racism isn't confronted in any meaningful way"

I genuinely can't tell what's bait and I don't think I am the problem, everyone else is. But I am not going to engage with people on twitter about this game any more, because it's usually just bait.

But it also could be someone who never played act three or only played act three one way, because Astarion's racism against the Gur is addressed as a bit if an arc within the story. Only as subtext and only if you don't ascend him, and keep Gandrel and Ulma alive. But it's something. There's also the interesting mechanical change of him going from disapproving of saving gnomes in act one, to approving of saving gnomes twice in act three.

And, yeah, that's subtle.

But it's a piece of the game.

It's subtle compared to what can happen with Lae'zel, or Shadowheart, if you make certain choices. But it's more than what you get for Wyll and Karlach.

I was actually really disappointed that Flo never showed up in act three, and that Karlach's attitude towards cambions (many of whom probably had about as much a choice in their involvement with Zariel as she did) just gets dropped. Same with Wyll and his animosity towards the goblins, like why didn't we meet a goblin hanging out in Baldur's Gate, who's a huge fan of the Blade of Frontiers? Why didn't we meet any fans of the Blade? Why wasn't stop the presses about Wyll, or why couldn't the story we publish be Blade of Frontiers fanfiction?

And Gale is human and from Waterdeep, which in FR means he's the equivalent of like a wealthy white one percenter.

Like I do think the game could have done more with fantasy racism. There were opportunities not taken. But Astarion's storyline at least addressed it and called it racism. Which I kinda think might be the reason that some people treat him as "the racist" in the group, because the writers used the word, so it's harder to miss.

[eruhamster]

"ascended astarion doesn't actually love you" he is pixels jennifer he can't love you because he is a line of code please for the love of god stop fucking making people's preferred romance routes into a source of drama. astarion is not gonna crawl out of the screen and fuck you because you told someone how he only loves you if you "fix" him

also i'm gonna be real with you once you die of old age his immortal ass is gonna be up to nonsense again. the man is so racist against gnomes he gets pissed at you for even passively defending them and no matter the route tries to convince you to dominate the world with him. he's gonna go back to some bullshit even if you think you "fixed" the fictional vampire

[museofvoid]

I say this as someone who absolutely adores Astarion, but some of you are so weird about his racism? I've seen someone argue that actually Cazador conditioned him to be racist against! I came across a fic where someone made up backstory to validate his hate toward gnomes! and I'm just like??? Y'all realize that's weird right??!

Please stop trying to justify his racism and just accept that he's kind of a shitty person who's likely always been that way. Astarion's not real you're allowed to like him anyway

[exsanguidus]

Below is a streamlined compilation of information about Cazador Szarr and the Szarr Spawn. I used this Reddit post and this Tumblr post as references, as well as my own gameplay exploration and deductions.

Baldur's Gate Vampire Masters:

612 - 698: Eravask the Forebear

698 -713: Zholtan Farr the Eviscerator

713 - 888: Madame Tallon the Well-Preserved

888 - 955: The Interregnum (temporary suppression by Lathanderians)

955 - 998: Blaiseuse the Coryphee

998 - 1019: Dykson Nightbinder

1019 - 1019: Failbleur the Fleeting

1019 - 1138: Hideous Gathwycke "Who Knew Not Satiety"

1138 - 1204: Donnela Szarr the Architect

1204 - 1276: Vellioth the Martinet - Cazador's Vampire Master

I. Always dominate. Allow none to be your equal. · Vellioth recalls when Cazador reached out to a former friend. His punishment was to watch as Vellioth drained his friend dry. II. Power comes from solitude. To share with others is to be weak, and to be weak is to fail… and die. · Vellioth recalls when Cazador rebelled against him. Cazador suffered eleven years of impalement… because he failed. III. Act not in haste. A near immortal has time to plan, time to act when others will pay the price of action. · Vellioth recalls Cazador, his lesson learned, killing him in the Rite of Perfect Slaughter. How they both laughed! Vellioth recalls Cazador boiling the flesh from his skull and then, to mock him, clamping his Schooling Scroll in Vellioth's jaws.

1276 - 1492: Cazador Szarr the Avid - Elf - Vampire Lord

I. First, thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures. II. Second, thou shalt obey me in all things. III. Third, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed. IV. Fourth, thou shalt know that thou art mine.

Note: Kozakuran language (from Kara-Tur) was forbidden for Cazador's Spawns to learn.

Other Vampire Masters:

Mrel Alkam - Vampire Master of Athkatla

Cazador seems to be in a rivalry with this Vampire Lord, based on the letter you can find in Cazador's Corner.

Cazador's Seven Spawn:

Aurelia - Tiefling

Likely the oldest Spawn, due to being one level higher than the rest if you examine her stats.

Astarion Ancunín - Elf

Astarion states he was one of Cazador's first Spawn. Not the first, but one of the first. This implies there was at least one Spawn created before him.

Former Magistrate in Baldur's Gate.

Born 1261 DR. Turned 1300 DR. Kills Cazador in 1492 DR.

Astarion was 15 years old when Cazador killed Vellioth and took over as the Vampire Master of Baldur's Gate. He was 39 when he became a Spawn. Astarion is 231 during the events of the game and when he kills Cazador. This means he had been a Spawn for 192 years during the game.

Petras refers to Astarion as a "runt" and "the runt of the litter" when you find him and Dalyria while playing the origin Astarion run. This ties into my theory that Astarion, despite being one of Cazador's first Spawn, was deemed the Scapegoat within their vampiric family. This also goes into my other theory that all of the Spawn, to some degree, participated in each other's abuse; be it actively, such as how Petras and Astarion seemed to have a mutually verbally abusive relationship, or passively, by simply not speaking up or trying to show too much fondness for one another, as a means to try and gain greater favor with Cazador.

Violet - Elf

States in her diary that she put garlic in Yousen's bed as a prank because he was a "whining runt", which caused him to break out in a rash.

Unsure if she's older or younger than Yousen, despite refering to him as a runt. Astarion is also referred to as a runt by Petras, though its inferred that Astarion is older than Petras.

Leon worried most about Violet harming Victoria, based on his diary.

Yousen - Gnome

Astarion seems to be racist against Gnomes, based on dialogue suggesting he views gnomes as animals and in how he gives backhanded compliments to a gnome Tav.

In Act 1, after he bites Tav, if you tell him to only drink from animals, he asks: "I mean, elves and humans are obviously out, but goblins? Kobolds? Gnomes?"

Astarion expresses distaste at the idea of saving Nere just for the sake of saving the gnome slaves trapped with him, if Tav talks to him and mentions the idea.

It's unknown if Astarion's dislike and dehumanization of gnomes existed before Yousen became a Spawn or if this developed due to consistent negative interactions with Yousen over their centuries being forced to play brothers. Either way, it's him generalizing and discriminating an entire race, and that should still be recognized as problematic.

Dalyria - Elf

Former Physician General to the Parliament of Baldur's Gate.

Believed that vampirism was some sort of blood disorder that could be cured.

Seems to be close to Petras, or at least close enough to actually have a visceral reaction when Astarion puts Petras in the sunlight. This may be because they're close in age, though its unknown if she or Petras is older of the two.

It could be argued she's fairly young due to the fact that, when you play origin Astarion, she seems to genuinely believe that they're all a family. She's far more vocal about the idea of family, telling Astarion "I can't believe you'd turn on us! On your own family!" if he attempts violence towards Petras. This could potentially showcase her naivety and gullibility of being a younger Spawn not yet fully experienced with the full breadth of Cazador's cruelty or her lack of experience truly competing with the other Spawn for her own self-preservation.

Pale Petras - Human

Around 100 years in age, deduced by his dialogue with Dalyria where he states he's had to feed on rats and dogs for 100 years.

Leon Onufrio - Human

Sorcerer. Based on various journals and notes in the palace, Leon was still able to cast magic; deduced by the fact he cast a spell to protect Victoria so as to make attempting to feed from her unappealing to the other Spawn.

Has been a Spawn at least 6 years.

Was the Favored Spawn for 5 out of the recent 6 years. Violet claimed the spot for one year.

Victoria - Human · Child, Daughter of Leon. · Dalyria's journal claims that Victoria is still "pureblood", implying Victoria is still fully Human and not a Dhampir, hence her wanting to use Victoria's blood as a potential cure. Leon's journal also states that Cazador forced Leon to bring Victoria with him to the palace after Leon had been turned, implying she hadn't been turned. · Cazador weaponized her safety as a method to maintain control over Leon. · If you use Speak with Dead on Victoria's body in the guest room, she claims she was an orphaned child who had been lured by Dalyria before she was killed. · Leon's journal reveals he had been making plans with Figaro to disguise and sneak Victoria out of Cazador's clutches. It can be deduced that he succeed and swapped his daughter with the orphan Dalyria had lured, and somehow enchanted or disguised her to look like Victoria.

Amanita Szarr / Lady Incognita

Cazador's niece who was forcibly turned into a vampire. Her entries claim that Cazador personally summoned her.

Her various entries begin in 1477, when she was 13. Astarion was turned in 1300 DR, so he would have been alive during these events and would have been aged 216. Which means this occurred 15 years before the game.

Wrote a journal detailing that the blood diseases Red Thrombosis and Thandals Paroxsym could give a vampire a brief illness if they ingest infected blood. She also states a vampire could train themselves to recognize infected prey by scent before biting them.

Servants:

Antwun Dufay - Chamberlain

Lurianna Sauvage - Werewolf · Lover of Antwun

Godey - Skeleton - Right Hand

Syrin - Human

Greenfern - Wood Half-Elf

Vilhelm - Human

Varderola - Human

Astarion's Named Victims:

Sebastian

Astarion states he was one of his first victims.

Wensleydale

Hapdim

Gondlemead

Likely Astarion's most recent victim, due to being the only Level 1 when you check the prisoners' stats.

Note: Please look at this post that clarifies Larian potentially made an error regarding the dates on his tombstone.

[ineadhyn]

Gnome Raphael - a drabble

I had the "size difference kink"-thought and Raphael had it as well.

"Haarlep!" Raphael entered the House of Hope. It had been a long day and just the sight of his Incubus slumbering on the bed like a lazy cat infuriated him. "Is this what you have been doing all day?" Slowly the Haarlep stretched his limbs and his eyelids fluttered. They yawned. "Haarlep!" "Ye-" Their eyes opened abruptly and for one moment they just stared at him, looking him up and down. Then their chin quivered as if they suppressed a laughing fit. "What, dear master, is this?" they managed to ask. "What?" Raphael walked over to one of the chairs, which took a lot more steps than he was used to. Unbothered by the snorting incubus behind him, he unbuttoned his doublet. He looked down at his disguised body. "Oh, this." He hung the doublet over the back of the chair, stretching by doing so. "I had a theory that, whilst a handsome older man is nice and dainty, some people would be more easily convinced by a gnome. The short races, obviously. They prefer to talk to someone on their eye level. But also a lot of humans tend to underestimate a devil that has to look up to them. And it's especially amusing to best elves - a lot of them are disgustingly racist ..." He shook his head in pretended disapproval, but noticed that Haarlep had climbed off the bed and now stood directly behind him. The tip of their tail flicked against his short legs. Raphael turned around. He was even lower than crotch hight in this form. Gracefully Haarlep lowered down on one knee to inspect his new shape closer. "That is all very well." A grin appeared on their lips. "I like the ears, they are adorable." They reached out to caress them and Raphael felt the sensitivity his human ears were missing. "Hm." "Kiss me." Compliant Raphael bent forward and met the incubus lips. But just a few seconds after he had tasted their saliva, Haarlep pulled back, laughing. “Ah, Raphael … You never stop to amaze me. Did you really think I wouldn’t know?” He stayed quiet. Maybe blushing a little. “I have known you for two millennia, please, you insult me.” Haarlep tilted their head. “Oh, how your heart is thrumming. Even if I didn’t know you, I could sense the way your blood is rushing.” They ran a finger down his bare and narrow chest. Then they stood up, grabbed him around the wrist and lifted him up on the desk effortlessly. “Now, how about you stop being ashamed and … indulge.” As they came closer the harness disappeared in a shower of red sparks. The smile on their lips was self-satisfied and borderline cruel. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

I really love that Mod from Nikjima.

[thedomesticanthropologist]

A comment you said on your last post really hit me as a good point of development/angst, please take or leave as you'd like and apologies if I've mischaracterized your Tav at all, but still hope this helps turn some wheels. "As a Cleric of Ilmater Mira is no stranger to Suffering for the sake of Faith." Has Mira considered that Astarion suffered for nothing?

Ultimately Mira's suffering gets her a cool connection with a god and awesome powers. Would that not make Astarion bitter in that respect? To me it seems like Mira is constantly pushing back against Astarion with a lot of "why is he like this" and "you have to be better because it's the right thing to do." At what point does Astarion share his story with her about that boy he tried to spare from Cazador's wrath? I feel like with this dynamic, that would be something he'd bring up as proof that she just got lucky that her god gave a shit about her in particular. Like he did the right thing, was horrendously punished for it and as far as he's concerned, Ilmater was sitting around twiddling his godly thumbs.

I feel like that would be a good point to develop some better mutual understanding between the pair of them that would make Mira maybe not forgive Astarion in the Act 2 confession, but at least understand where he's coming from, rather than just pushing her worldview.

So! You gotta keep in mind that the story you're referring to isn't told to the player character until Act 3, well after his confession.

By the time he confesses, Astarion has (depending on how many cut scenes you've managed to snag/long rests etc) Only told you that he lured victims back to Cazador, and that Cazador is a monster.

He's told you about his scars, and how he pities the other 6 of his "siblings". Plus a few small anecdotes, but *none of them* about anything he's ever done for anyone else.

He has however:

- Been extremely racist towards the Gur based on being attacked by them, likely having been hired by Cazador based on how the story was told so Mira explained that you can't hold an entire race of people accountable for the actions of the few. Astarion said he absolutely can, and fuck you

- Assaults you in your sleep then begs for blood and if you do trust him enough to let him bite "I'll be as gentle as a babe! I only need a little" but u don't pass the checks he will murder you

- Tried to abandon the Tieflings to their fate and told Mira they should move on not because of the tadpole problem, but because killing goblins "would take hours" and he's too lazy to bother

- Repeatedly and loudly stated that he desires power over all else, but has NOT yet told her its because he's scared/desires to feel safe

- Asked to be left out of the Nere quest because he didn't want to ruin his nails and would prefer to move on. Mira said Nere isn't the point, the gnomes are and he was EXTREMELY racist towards deep gnomes in general. He has NOT yet explained to the PC / Mira why he is against digging through rock (the crypt for a year thing) by the time he does this

- Tells you if you get in the way of what he wants he will go through you if necessary (denying him the tadpoles) and to stay out of his way

- Snaps at you about how to deal with Yurgir if you try to figure out what's going on instead of immediately killing him, even if you plan on killing him, and also rails against PC loudly in many other instances as well

And much much more, I won't go on. The point is that by the time he confesses, you have no back story. You have nothing to go on. There is nothing to trust. And the ONE thing Mira and Astarion had together where she thought they were making headway, their physical relationship, has now just been revealed to be a huge scam from the start.

Not ONLY that, but he doesn't regret doing it. He is proud of his simple plan and upset that it fell apart (at least that's how he presents it) and does NOT apologize for trying to use her. He instead says because he fell in love and she is so incredible he feels he can trust her enough to confess his deception without fear of being kicked out of the party.

You must remember that while Astarion has reasons, he hasn't revealed them. And if you judge a man based on his words and actions, at the point of the confession scene, he's not got a lot going for him besides puppy dog eyes and a backstory of admittedly horrific slavery that has only been lightly touched on because he wants you to know Cazador is Bad, but he's not about to spill his guts on what really all happend to him yet.

TLDR: Faith is just about all Mira has to give at this point, and Astarion has made her suffer by gaining her trust through manipulation and then only messing up because HE caught feelings.

In other versions of the game, if you don't finish his quest, he breaks up with PC very cruelly.

If you make it to Act 3 with Caz and you don't make the right dialogue choices or pass the persuasion and instead just say you won't let him ascend, he says he hopes you die screaming.

This man is my fave, don't get me wrong. But without the knowledge of his entire character, when you go in blind or you play a character that you don't give High Insight to, you have to see that he is a very difficult person to navigate. Especially a Lawful Good Cleric of Ilmater who's life purpose is to help and alleviate suffering.

She feels called to him because of his suffering and she *does* have faith she can help, but that faith is majorly BLIND right now and it hurts to know the man who proved time and time again that he isn't trustworthy just confessed his love by explaining that he has been extra untrustworthy

[rinwellisathing]

I would like to repeat a point I have made that I guess I don't make often enough and I sure as hell don't see others make often enough. Any character that you like in BG3, no matter how innocuous they are or you THINK they are, shut the ever loving fuck up about your judgments on what characters other people like. It's fiction. Astarion is racist as fuck against gnomes and is against you helping slaves. Lae'zel is racist as fuck against non Githyanki and the cult she's indoctrinated into are brutal killers and incredibly xenophobic. Shadowheart is racist as fuck against Githyanki and has tortured people as part of her religion, I'm not even going to get into Minthara because I'm gonna hurt someone...Wyll and Karlach are probably the most innocuous, but even then you can certainly make a case for Karlach potentially knowing more than she let's on about Gortash and willingly working for him until it's her on the chopping block. Orin abuses Minthara and if she gets her hands on him, Zevlor, and is also a serial killer. Ketheric is controlling of Isobel and enslaved Aylin, the less I say about Gortash the better because as much as I'm a Gort simp, he is genuinely a terrible person trauma notwithstanding. Raphael is an actual pedophile, slaver, abuser, and a literal devil, Haarlep's idea of 'consent'is dubious at best, The Emperor is part of The Nights of the Shield and I am begging you Emperor fans to please do a modicum of reading about them I love Emps, but he and Stelmane are...not good people.... The Society of Brilliance has a lot of sketch ideas and execution of ideas so even cute gay dad's Blurg and Omeluum aren't totally squeaky clean, Zevlor may have been brainwashed and he may not have been, but his actions or lack thereof cost lives that were relying on him and also he can be very manipulative (I love him and identify with him, so don't at me about daring to look at him critically), Rolan, whomst I relate to more than any other character in the game apart from maybe Astarion, will help enslave Aylin if his siblings died so their deaths weren't for nothing, Gale is over ambitious, makes a lot of excuses for Mystra, and can be pretty annoyingly smug.

Anyway, what I'm getting at is everybody has flaws. Every last character. That's why they're great. You're not better or worse than anyone else for liking or not liking a certain character. Let people enjoy things and get off your judgy high horses for fuck's sake.

Also plz read about The Knights of the Shield because I will lose my shit if one more person sits there and tells me Stelmane is an innocent victim/good person in everything... unrelated mostly, but come on, y'all. Have a LITTLE better reading comprehension than the Warcraft fandom.plz.

Also, how some of yall look trying to argue that your fave's warcrimes are different, actually:

[sky-kiss]

random OC ask: how does your OC express affection? how does it vary based on the relationship in question?

Centuries spent in drow high society have left Solaen with a warped sense of affection. It's a bit like that meme? His love language is definitely acts of service, but he only knows how to kill. He's very liable to say something rude or blunt, making the situation worse, and then head off without a word to do violence in your name. 

He's more closed off, cold, and brutalist in familial relationships. His relationship with Minthara is strained, and he'd prefer to keep her at arm's length. Part of that is due to the rigidity of gender rules among drow—part of it is because Minthara has brought a great degree of shame on House Baenre and is…a poor example of a traditional drow. Until far later in the game, their relationship borders on cruel, with Minthara demanding the respect a male should afford a female and Solaen dressing her down as his child and an outcast. A part of him hopes she improves. 

He's far more genial with outsiders, who are less inclined to stack the deck against them. He's still deeply prejudiced against those weaker than himself and pretty goddamn racist against deep gnomes in particular. He's likely to express his affection similarly to Minthy, which is very un-drow of both but is expressed through unshakeable and unwavering loyalty and dedication. He'll verbally tease and goad his loved ones. 

For familial and platonic bonds, he's very physically distant. He's more willing to let down his guard for romantic affection, but it takes time. 

Some small things he will do if he's genuinely fond of a person: taste their drink for them (poison is huge in Menzoberranzan), stand in front of them when meeting a new party. He's also very fond of offering weapon training or trading war stories with companions he values. 

Also, if something bad happens to one of his friends/loved ones, he will hold a death grudge until the end of time immemorial and will see them avenged. It doesn't matter if it was an accident; he will never forgive or forget. Ask Halsin. 

[mathlann]

Ranting and Hating

Listening to SlyFlourish talk about the Muskrat thing and like, nothing against what he said in his vid more about the idgits in his comments bringing up Lovecraft. But the thing that specifically gets my goat about the tri-monthly discourse about "the assholes who inspired/made our hobby" is that the whole "nuance/people are complicated" answer more and more feels like such a thought-terminating phrase in these spaces. Because a lot of (white) fans verbally separate themselves from the chuds and shrug shoulders about Lovecraft or whoever, but then will run off with the same tainted toys and get mad when you don't want to play with them. But like??? You have to actually do the work of understanding that the Gygaxs, and the Ron E Howards, and the Lovecrafts of the world offenders on the same level as "yeah he called his secretary toots but..." Like that shit was ideological and it is bone-deep. You can't separate art from the artist if you can't even identify the fucking signature you know?

Idk its just been a particularly crazy making week sitting in the OSR space specifically between this and the Questing Beast thing because i do think there's a specific "ttrpgs are inherently leftist" meme brainrot running through every conversation I see when the chuds kick up shit. Like some of the same people making fun of Musk or pontificating as to why Chuds seem to flock to the space in the first place "when they obviously aren't welcome" will also be the same people to run up books with fantasy worlds where there's like, 5 different vaguely European analogue cultures, maybe a barely-elaborated on vaguely arabic/persian or turco-mongol one if you want to be diverse, and the rest of the world either "Here there be Savages" if its human only, or with Orcs/Goblins/Lizards filling out the map. And all the people live in their own ethnostate complexes and have broadly applicable personality types with very little cultural variations or transfer and who view all their neighbors with a "natural" hostility.

And enough of those people will nod their heads sagely and argue that worlds like that are when fantasy was better/more realistic/interesting. Like "oh everything is so frictionless now. Things aren't as fun if we have to let orcs be people the Lore™ is so without conflict." Never occurring to them that conflicts can exist for things other than "white man dont like green man kill kill" or whatever. Or that maybe someone like me, a bitch whose Ron E Howard analogue is "unga bunga cannibals trying to eat the white women" would understandably not feel comfortable engaging with your fan favorite sword-and-sorcery product if thats the shit you're pulling from and you don't think there's anything inherently wrong with that. A "the guy who inspired this was racist" tag up front does jack and shit for me if you dont also take out the racism!!!! Yonow??? And some of them will act like it's the biggest sacrifice in the world to not have racial ability scores or tables for gnome-slurs or whatever. And im sorry if you can't engage with your game without that shit but then you can't scratch your head when chuds continue to pop up in your community.

[st-just]

Wrath of the Righteous Party Members

1- Risen/repentant succubus whose endearingly charmed/curious learning all the bits about mortal life not directly related to seducing/murdering them, trying to manually construct her own dreams.

2. Death shaman who is afaict just a vampire with extra steps (bastard daughter of nobility, serial killer, drinks peoples blood for unholy rituals, extremely explicitly horny about it)

3. Paladin notably lacking stick up her ass, friends keep coincidentally getting killed/possessed by demons.

4. flamboyant decadent aristocratic fop whose soul is mortgaged to some horrible eldritch entity (he is, however, very funny and loves trolling all his peers. Also apparently pan, so score one for #problematicrepresentation)

5. Kind of endearingly straightforward half-human-half-lizard (like, half his face has skin and the other half has scales) archer you find living underground after you fall through a crater.

6. Hardass disciplinarian 'hellknight' - that's the formal title - crusader against anarchy and disorder. Importantly, is a 3' tall gnome, but this is absolutely never played for laughs. Is slightly racist against other gnomes.

7. Tiefling scoundrel rogue directly out of central casting, with grandaddy issues and an inherited price on his head.

8. Incredibly autistic foxgirl furry wizard who aspires to write a comprehensive encyclopedia of the world

9. Achingly, achingly sweet inspiration porn little beggar girl/messianic mystic preaching a doctrine of universal salvation, her pet crow taught her how to miraculously heal and also burn people alive from a hundred paces.

10. Cleric of art and beauty who has anger issues and a shitty dead brother

11. Dwarf mercenary monster hunter who, uh, probably has a backstory or arc?