#Lae’zel: an atrocity.

[incorrect-baldurs-gate]

Lae’zel: Are you ready to commit?

Astarion: Like a crime or a relationship?

[littlepinksapphire]

I don’t know how anyone can be so staunchly against any of these characters. All of the companions have the potential to learn and grow throughout the course of the game depending on how you interact with them. Astarion continuing to be a manipulative asshole, for example, is a choice you actively encourage or not.

But yeah, if you decide you don’t like a companion and ignore them throughout the game or be a dick to them in the roleplay, no, they’re not gonna be a better person. I largely ignored Lae’zel’s personal quest during my first playthrough and she’s become quite the fanatic that I have little sway over. But I don’t hate Lae’zel and say, “See? See? Green lady bad.” That’s all on me.

I also think many of you are treating this like a bioware game. Approval isn’t so strict. You don’t need to do everything your companion agrees with to get them to like or respect (or romance) you. You can push back on them. You can disagree with them. They might even approve of you stepping in and stopping them from doing something reckless. I’m a little disheartened to see so many jokes about being a good person except when trying to get Astarion’s approval. Like, just be a good person babes, if that’s what you want to do. He’ll come around, I promise.

These characters were written with so much nuance and go on such a huge journey throughout the course of the game. To boil them down to one problematic trait (Lae’zel = mean, Gale = annoying, etc.) without context or empathy is frankly childish.

And if anyone gets in the comments and says “but x did y atrocity”, you can literally genocide an entire camp of goblins and that be considered the morally good option. Shut up, this is dnd, just have some fucking fun. Chat with the mean green lady

[ladyduellist]

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

Tensions rise before the unlikely travelers enter the monastery.

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Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

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Chapter 19: Gods

Ao3

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Main Page & Chapter List

Word count: 5.5k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Language, Act 1 Spoilers

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I write this in haste as the githyanki attack. 

Our forces have been exhausted and we will all be dead by day’s light.

The lance has failed and so have our pleas.

Kind stranger, if you find this note, please know I have prayed for you. 

— Novice Monk, last words written on his inner forearm in ink

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Folklores have a knack for possibly foretelling a person’s future, molded with lessons in mind. Sketched orations implanted within the mind’s eye, traditionally passed down. 

But, what lessons—what excuses—were to be instilled after the atrocities the Crèche Y’llek githyanki inflicted on Rosymorn Monastery, especially when there were no survivors left to tell the tale?

Death had abounded and it claimed more than the previous worshiping inhabitants. It came for the wall mosaics whose chipped pigments had fallen into lifeless heaps upon skeletal laps following their demise. Its veil, hushed away lost voices that chanted as lamp wicks were lit. Even toppled over cups of wine, that soaked and stained neglected tables, were unable to escape the vagarious phantom’s euthanizing stroke.

“This place is deader than I am,” Astarion mused, kicking aside what appeared to be a femur bone with the tip of his boot. “Shame, I was looking forward to a livelier welcome.”

He found himself stalking around a statue dedicated to Lathander, situated in front of the old monastic building portico, wondering if this god had been one of the many that didn’t respond to his prayers while he was being psychologically marred and beaten endlessly. Nearly forgotten generations seemed to be lost to another version of himself as he disdainfully stared up at the stoned infant with a gold metal sun orbiting its body affixed in the dawn lord’s grasp, signifying renewed births. His eyes traveled lower, to the end of the god form’s flawless marble tunic folds, noticing a carved skull pressed heroically beneath its foot. He briefly turned his head away, scoffing at the absurdity of such a visual odium.

Even the undead must suffer your ruling that they are unworthy of saving, Astarion thought, frowning. It was pointless to beseech the mute supreme vessel, knowing not even a rebuttal would be granted to his rightful questions over the gods lack of mercy. 

Inferior soul, how do you cry out,

Knowing no one will hear you.

With blurred light and seeping dark, 

Hope dangling on words that do not reach. 

His attention turned to Lae’zel as she maneuvered her body in front of an upright banner she discovered, tracing her sinewy fingers along symbols drawn into its hide. “Tir’su script. Kin is close,” she noted ,”Perhaps further inside this insipid place.”

Shadowheart cast a subdued yellowish light—enough to read the script—on top of the hanging animal skin. “Your language. What does it say?”

“Vlaakith’ka sivim hrath krash’ht. Only in Vlaakith may we find light,” Lae’zel responded with pride, letting her fingers loiter above the scrawlings.

Astarion abandoned his quest cursing the Morninglord, approaching the two women in a sly stride. “So, the gith replaced those doing works for one god, with their own. I suppose our civilizations aren’t totally incomparable in that regard. We all do have a tendency to make everyone acknowledge that in which we worship, don’t we?” he wise cracked.

“Githyanki do not worship any gods nor follow religion. We venerate Vlaakith and to forsake her means we become the blood and meat for which she sates her dragons,” Lae’zel corrected. “The people here didn’t survive because they were weak. Weak minded and weak of brawn. Not because my people meant to ideologize them to our credence.”

His arms folded against his chest, deviously rising a thick brow. “Oh dearest Lae’zel, you don’t have to belong to a religion to be religious. Whatever that you hold in highest faith is your god.”

The gith fighter growled as she fiercely advanced towards Astarion, her cinnamon hair vibrant in the sun’s path. She pointed a single elongated nail at him. “Argh! You know nothing of what you speak anymore than you know about my queen! And you are wasting time by casting your ideas about this world’s ideologies into our conversation!”

Up close, her slitted irises seemed to open wider, like a crack in the earth beckoning him into a citrine mine. It was oddly riveting to the spawn how naïve the githyanki were about the material plane despite them using it to cultivate their crèches. Prematurely in their journey, Lae’zel informed the crew this was because they chose to disengage entirely from other ethnicities due to them possibly “tainting” their society. Everything to the gith became a means to an end, including their propensity to be certifiably evil by most standards.

But for all the destruction the slender astral plane-dwellers committed on the living plane, they proved to be the only race capable of continually decimating illithids, halting their grand design. 

However, a part of him could not—albeit infelicitous—wholly begrudge them for their attitude involving strangers. The gith had only known the claws of enslavement to the mind flayers for generations until their subjugated chains were broken, a situation all too familiar to him. He understood how trust can turn into an abstraction under those conditions, eavesdropping like a floating dandelion seed on its conceptual edge. 

“I think that’s quite enough,” Shadowheart intervened with ambivalence laced in her tone. A dispelled cantrip, that was assuredly prepared for them if they persisted in their bickering, fizzled out in her palm. “In case you’ve both forgotten, we are being hunted by the same people that may also have a cure for these cursed worms in our heads. Time is not on our side, so either we shut up and work together or we might as well do ourselves a favor and kill each other off now.”

He viewed the cleric from his peripherals, scarlet irises aglow in jouissance. “As you wish. Thinking outside the box isn’t for everyone anyways,” he mumbled in a gibe.

Shadowheart disregarded the vampire, refocusing their conversation onto more productive measures. “Lae’zel, what can we expect once inside this crèche?”

Lae’zel herded her concentration sluggishly away from Astarion. “They will be on high alert, probably seeking information about the artifact weapon. Your presence alone is going to cause skepticism, so do not expect them to have mercy if you get out of line.”

The healer nodded, patting the purse containing the icosahedron prism fastened onto her hip. “And how exactly are we to safely enter without them attacking on sight?” 

“They will receive me with no issue, but you three will have to roleplay as my servants if we are to peruse their compound,” Lae’zel decisively advised, gesticulating between Shadowheart, him, and the bard that was in the near distance behind him. 

Now that Astarion pondered it, Tav had remained eerily quiet since they reached the derelict building. His ears perked back, listening for any signs of movement from her.

Ah. There. 

The songtress’s lissome boot soles reverently landed, crunching over the littered ground, likely scrounging about on one of her many humanitarian crusades examining the obvious holy edifice’s monstrosities. Really, he had come to distinguish all his traveling allies' footsteps apart, but he would only find himself drollingly smirking particularly at Tav’s beats. While she held tightly onto her deepest inner thoughts like a hyper judgemental woman clutching her pearls, her mood was always evident through her footfalls. A heavy scuff typically meant she was angered. Soft quick pitterings were often created during her busiest chores in camp. Or, the most curious of them all: the choreo-esque silken soar of her feet as she played the lute. Curious because she rejected the idea of dancing, but it was so prevalent in the way she moved—the way she fought. 

Tav’s familiar heartbeat meandered closer to them, out in that stygian sea upon the unpleasant waters of her thoughts. Those numerous abnormal pulses that led nowhere, on the outskirts from where he was positioned. Sounds that made his mouth a watering delinquent portal to which he almost lacked the discipline to stop himself from placing the flat of his ravening tongue against her chirring arteries.

“Servants?! I am certainly not agog over that,” the vamp spluttered out as he indignantly threw up his arms. 

“‘Star,” Tav greeted him quietly as pewter shaded buckles from her rapier scabbard faintly brushed against his side when she finally appeared.

He rotated his head, studying Tav’s profile carefully. Her skin, still somewhat wan from his earlier feeding, held onto fresh drizzly beads of sweat along her hairline. A sunken seam deepend horizontally on her forehead as her gaze epoxied itself to Lae’zel. Something was on her mind, cysts filled with fluidic profundities that began to gestate as they embarked into the monastery. 

Leftover wafting traces of coppery blackberries from his bite wound on Tav, rose from her flesh like an exorcism, injecting into his nostrils when he inhaled. There was a certain amount of pride he felt as a man, knowing his fang marks were seated into her delicate neck. A consensual hunter and prey dynamic that tickled his nightly creature’s base instincts imagining her running beautifully through a thick forest for him to capture, her sighing and sighing and sighing his name. Perhaps he would ask her one day to—gods, he must still be reeling off the potency from her stimulative blood.

“And where have you been, songbird? Leaving me all on my own to babysit these two bores, tsk,” he teased, inflecting his tone an octave higher.

“You can take it out of your blood tax later,” the bard suggested, struggling to exert a fleeting chuckle. She looked up at him. “Mind if I cut in?”

Grateful for the interruption, he nodded. “Then, how could I say no? By all means.” He held out his gloved hand, palm up, giving her the opportunity to purge her mentations.

Tav sucked in a breath, then gradually released it. “They’re all…dead. Every monk, every pilgrim—deceased. And this was all done for the sake of constructing a crèche?” she steadily broached, wasting no time in getting straight to what was disturbing her. “Lae’zel, what did the people here do to deserve such a sentence?” 

Discovering in person just what the githyanki were capable of, coupled with a drafty air that had coagulated with whistling gusts leading the imagination to believe it was the spirit's moaning screams yet wandering the monastery’s halls, would change the dialogue for anyone—especially Tav. Astarion realized how dangerously stupid it was for her meddlesome lectures to take precedence now when there wasn’t a godsdamned thing they could do about the age-old murderous scene. Repeatedly poking the wasp’s nest—Lae’zel included—meant that a remorseless horde of gith would be released upon them sooner rather than later. 

He leaned down, lips an inch away from the backside of Tav’s ear. “What are you doing?!” he breathed through gritted teeth.

Tav didn’t respond, but instead knocked her hip into his, pushing him aside. He scudded back a couple feet from the force, leaving him at a loss for words. If she is hellbent on being stubborn, then she can deal with her crippling demise on her own, he chided to himself.

Lae’zel’s sight narrowed at the elf. “It had nothing to do with what they deserved, but everything to do with being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Let’s hope your next words are sharper than your mind,” she clucked loudly.

“Insulting me while I’m trying to understand what happened here isn’t going to deter me,” Tav replied, her reddening ears poking out from her messy updo in a curbed anger hidden to everyone except Astarion. “Travelers came here searching for answers to their prayers and the explanation they received was their lives snuffed out by a race that feels as superior as false gods.”

“Tav, you’re—“ Shadowheart cautiously began, stepping forward.

“I’m what?! Going too far?” Tav mocked, shifting her body weight onto another leg. 

Those leaden fissures Tav tried to keep knitted closed, had volleyed the bitter dark within her that had been progressively increasing for weeks. She never treated people this way—patience rarely thinned—and Astarion understood his judgment about the burdens she carried that changed the formulaic taste of her crimson, were correct. Her annoying kindness suited her more than this unseemly behavior. In the aery realm that housed her encumbrances, she paid for his and their companion’s indiscretions to demonic toll-houses without question. A regretful muscle twitched in his cheek, recognizing he played a part in her present suffering. Birds like Tavelle were meant to fly, but everyone took advantage of her tender mercy, devoid of thinking about how shattered her wings would become under their own roods. 

���I know you’re upset—and you should be—but Lae’zel had nothing to do with Y’llek’s aggressions. Your blame is misplaced,” Shadowheart tried again after removing a stray hair that had crept into her mouth. 

Tav turned her head, overcome with embarrassment that flushed the roundest parts of her cheeks. 

The gith puffed out a short breath, rolling her war torn eyes. “What would you have me say? Attaining somewhere on the material plane we deem to be safe for our young and unhatched to develop is completely normal in our culture.“

Dense air sourly blew through the bard’s nose. “But at the cost of our plane’s lives, right? What is normal to your kind is not normal to ours. Have you ever thought about that?” she contended more politely, refacing Lae’zel. “This is wrong to us! If only your people would try seeking help from ours, rather than raiding their homes and murdering innocents immediately, you may be surprised how many would be willing to offer their aid.“

“And should that mean something to me?” Lae’zel bit out emotionless. “Githyanki do what is necessary to survive.” She held a balled up fist tightly against her chest as she drew a path into Tav’s personal space. “When I was still but a welp in training, I had already felled three of my comrades. Was I praised or reprimanded for such feats? No. They died proud, honored to have served Vlaakith and the cause of her people. Can you say in good faith that most of Faerûn would do the same?”

All three companions regarded Lae’zel glumly. Her accusations against their continent’s residents was an uncomfortable realization that nobody in their sane mind could refute. How many other adventurer’s were actually out there at this very second willing to brave their own lives to end the corruption of The Absolute and mind flayers alike? How many would risk confronting that disquieting underbelly of fears that the gods they forfeited everything to, would never intervene, even as a holocaust roared throughout the lands? The hard truth was that most would rather go with the flow in their complacency than try to act out of real conviction.

That kolk whirling behind Tav’s blue-steel eyes from their boiling exchange, began to become little more than a single stir by a divine empress’s gilded spoon in a favorite cup of tea. By the way she sucked in her cheek, Astarion knew she had grabbed a chunk of wetted flesh to gnaw upon, calming herself from making a rash remark. Her mouth unlatched. “I will not disagree with your sentiments about how disunified Faerûn remains, but it’s still our choice to make. Ripping that away from us because the githyanki feel it’s okay, is no different from the control the illithid held over your race, it’s just executed differently.” 

Was she prepared for the aftermath if she kept pushing?

“Hey.” Shadowheart discreetly tapped on the spawn’s shoulder. He turned around, vaguely listening to Tav and Lae’zel resume their argument, mouthing an irritated “what” as voicelessly as he could muster.

“We are about to enter enemy territory and I have a stolen treasure from them in my bag,” the Sharran healer whispered. Her anxiety was evident in the way her glassy blown pupils stared back at him, nearly twitching with fright over what lay in store for them. “If you think for even a second they’re going to allow us to enter their crèche while tensions are high, then prepare to be beheaded for sport.”

He shrugged his shoulders, still mildly irked at Tav. “Then I guess we’ll have to wait until they both stow this fribblish nonsense or one of them incapacitates the other,” Astarion hushed in return. 

Shadowheart shook her head, her perfectly styled ponytail accessories moving in tandem with her movement. “Or you could be their mediator,” she suggested with a crafty smile.

“Have you gone and smacked your moody undersized head on a Selûne statue?!” he snapped louder than intended. A silver curl uncoiled in haste, matching his incredulity. “You saw how Tav reacted when we tried to reason with them.” He instinctually peeked beyond his arm, checking to see if the others overheard them. 

“For god’s sake, would you at least try?! I don’t care if you have to throw Tav over your shoulder like some neanderthal to drag her away, but they need to be separated so they can both cool down!” Shadowheart uncharacteristically begged while the other two women continued their squabble. Her lips pouted together. “And my head isn’t ‘undersized.’ I didn’t ask to be born as a half-elf you know,” she added, self-consciously touching her crown.

Astarion’s fingers rubbed at his temples. This was wholly Tav’s fault! In a moment of weakness, fantasizing about drinking her blood earlier, the cunning vixen snuck in and somehow persuaded him to accompany them to this devil-ridden location. And now, he’s expected to wave a wand like some magical fairy eldmother to make everything cheery bright rainbows again?!

No matter how inconvenient this was, he definitely wasn’t interested in perishing so early on into his attained freedom. He understood that Tav would be the easier of the two lionness’s pouncing on each other to lure away given her affinity towards him. She may be pissed at him afterwards, but it was the lesser risk between that and Lae’zel hanging his head as an ornament above her tent. “Ugh, do I have to do everything around here?” he flung out, feigning a yawn. 

He scratched at his jaw, trying to wrinkle the matter in his brain together from its usual smoothness. Which tactical options did he have? Flirtily suggesting a threesome while a plethora of vacant skeletal crania’s watched, seemed inappropriate for their dilemma. He could pull out a knife and threaten them to cease, but knowing Lae’zel’s temper, she would stake his ribs the moment she saw it. Blackmail? Hmm, no, that was out of the question too. Tav barely offered up anything about her private life and Lae’zel could escape to the astral world whenever she pleased. Fuck he hated details and sticky complicated plans. 

Alright, fine, he’d just go with ole reliable: winging it. 

“I’ll stand by in case things go…amiss,” Shadowheart said placidly. “Good luck.”

He briefly shut his eyes, hand sailing through his waves to refix the stray hair coil tarrying on his forehead, and readied himself as acting liaison to enter the mine field exploding behind him. 

Lae’zel stepped inward near Tav, armor clanking around her midsection. “It’s no wonder Astarion finally decided to leave your bed,” she maliciously taunted, ”With all your unceasing blathering, it leaves little room for warmth.” She slanted further in, speaking directly into her rival’s ear. “Tell me which is true: that you actually duped yourself into believing you gave him gratification or he faked it the entire time because he pitied your loneliness?”

Astarion instantly squinted at Lae’zel, revulsed at her upturned sneer. He despised her obtrusiveness, remembering how she made it clear she only desired his body at one time to satisfy herself. The back of his neck felt clammy imagining how her gropes would have branded his raw flesh like every other person he pressured himself into fucking. 

He dragged his vision to chance peering at Tav, dismissing the muffled constriction that surged through his chest at the sight of her. She stood utterly silent, vocal cords snipped from the seething woman’s comment. Without a tourniquet to halt Lae’zel’s gashes, her lips had heated to a bolder pinkish plum shade, doe eyes rapidly blinking aside a misty haze. Astarion heard her heart chambers clamp tightly, fractured by the usurped recollection of their flawed and failed relationship pricking into her like a pincushion. 

A pleased grin spread across Lae’zel’s mouth as she scanned the bard’s reaction. Her pitch coal grease paint, thumbed onto the scope of her face, appeared glossy from the sunlight beaming on her. “If this ishtik falls apart at the slightest mention of her inadequacies, then she is unfit to lead us,” she snarled.

Despite him refusing to divulge the specifics from his trauma, sex had become a sensitive subject for both him and Tav. Centuries long transgressions that damned him every waking second. They shared a vulnerability—an elegy to pleasurable touch—that connected them in an unexpected and broken manner initiated by different needs. 

Messy flashbacks of his sexual encounters with Tav that had already been fading—as they often did with his lovers—percolated throughout the vampire’s mind. As vehemently as he tried to bury it, one memory resisted against the gravitational pull from the black hole within his soul: her giggles as florets spilled like dove feathers from her hair while they were intimate against a tree. A rare innocent pause that counterbalanced his despair but for a few moments.

In his restless trances, those flowers would sometimes arrive, each hidden in inconspicuous locations within his dreams to find. They were often accompanied by Tav’s sweet laughter that he caused. It dawned on him how often he would chase after that sound until he woke, trying to relive that brief interim of genuine mirth he summoned from her throat. He ignored it until now, but he had never generated that kind of joy from a sole creature in his entire undeath. Regardless if that night in the woods had led to them sleeping together or not, she would have still had the same reaction if he made those trite blooms flounce out of her hair in any other way.

He suddenly found himself wanting to protect those epiphanies and the peculiar agreeable sensation within his life-deserted body that he was aghast to identify. When did his general antipathy towards Tav start to evolve into him not quite disliking her as much anymore?

Astarion pretended to cough into his fist, cutting through their quarrel. “I do believe you and I need to exchange a few unpleasantries,” he firmly stated with a guileful tug at his mouth. 

“Do we? Then speak,” Lae’zel growled in her usual raspy tone, spindly hands landing onto her hips. She squinted her left eye at him.

“I’ll make this quick.” The ground held unwavering paces as he sidled up to the astral soldier. He tilted his head to the side, rubbing his impeccable jawline with his thumb peeking out from his fingerless gauntlets. “Don’t you perhaps think you should be more concerned about why it was I who rejected you that day after our spar when you practically begged me to take you back to my bedroll for a romp?” he blatantly expressed, glaring at her through darkened eyes. “Pity Tav? Ha! No, darling. I pitied you and that’s why I let you down as politely as I did.”

The hammering from behind Shadowheart’s breast clogged his ears. An “ah, shit” drawled off her tongue, shocked and worried. 

Tav's hand covered a gasp as her enlarged eyes sharply turned to gaze at him, exerting no amusement at his smug jab. 

As for Lae’zel’s reaction, she gnashed her teeth so raucously together, she could have broken through a mollusk's shell. Astarion staggered back just as a flurry of words in her native language raced from her voice box, faltering but once to catch her breath. She pointed at the group: cursing, spitting, putting her hand onto the lengthy grip of her sword, removing it, until she angrily threw her arms up in defeat. “After we extract the tadpoles,” she heaved, “I never want to see any of you ever again. Be grateful I will allow you to live yet.” Neglecting to wait for their responses, she tilled her battle sandals into the ground, disappearing into an unventured area adjacent to the portico. 

Frowning, Shadowheart cleared her throat. “Tav, mind if I borrow Astarion for a minute?” 

“Sure,” Tav croaked out. She looked past the cleric at the nondescript foreboding entrance into the monastery, giving the doors a simple head flick to notify them where she planned on retreating. 

He clocked Tav as she weaved a route through scattered rubble, leaving their vicinity. “Who knew I had such natural chops as a peace—”

Shadowheart twisted to meet him, rabidly grabbing at the straps attached to his breastplate and pulled downwards. “You donkey!’

His hands flew up on either side of his head. “Whoa! What exactly is the problem? You should be thanking me. Per your request: they aren't fighting anymore.”

“I didn’t ask you to make it worse!” Shadowheart exclaimed, tightening her hold. “I don’t know if your meal ticket from earlier super infused your bluntness, but with the utmost generosity, would you kindly fuck off for a bit so I can think about how to resolve this? Go check on Tav.” She released the straps, propelling him backwards.

“How rude! You know, all this excitement has made me work up another appetite and I can’t feed on Tav again until she’s rested. What do you have to say for yourself?” Astarion taunted, letting his fangs poke out beneath his weasel’s smile.

“GO!” Shadowheart shouted, balling her fists.

The songstress was leaning against a cool stoned wall, embellished with grayish tiles, when he eventually made his way to her after refitting the crookedness in his chest piece. “The gall of that woman, honestly,” he complained, sending an accusatory glance over his shoulder at a pacing Shadowheart. “You do a favor for someone and when it’s not exactly how they would have done it, they blame you for the outcome.” 

Tav knocked her thumb knuckles together, nails clicking in unison. “Why did you stick up for me with Lae’zel?”

“I wanted to help?” 

“Don’t lie to me,” she said, raising her head to scrutinize him. 

Astarion cocked his hip out, resting his hand on it. He had no intentions disclosing to her what was stroking his dead heart, that palpable echo of flowers and laughter betraying him. “Can’t you just appreciate that I probably saved you from becoming a ‘minced bard pie’? I don’t see why you have to make this more complicated than it already was,” he groused.

She blinked at him. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, turning her neck. “I do appreciate what you did back there, it just wasn’t…expected, I suppose.”

“I can be generous,” he asserted, crossing his arms. 

Tav gave a snide chuckle. “News to me.”

“See, if you needed further proof that you need some time to release all those built up gremlins inside you, that was it,” he smirked, playfully tapping the tip of her shoe with his boot. 

A simper quivered at the corners of her lips, one she seemed like she was trying to hide by immediately squatting down near the doors next to them, hovering over two pairs of remains. She reached down to pick up an age-tarnished prayer book that was loosely crammed between one of the skeleton’s fingers. 

Tav stood back up, smile replaced with a distant melancholy. She patted the book’s front cover. “May I read something to you?” 

“Are you going to read a prayer for my salvation?” the pale elf mused, indenting his index into the middle of his chin. 

The book opened with her diligent fingers. Pages turned with crisp crackles, frictioning against old endpaper glue, as she read its contents to him. “Glory to you, Bringer of the Dawn! My wife and I have been trying to conceive for nearly two years now with no luck. We’ve long been followers of your blessed creed, and visit Rosymorn every tenday to worship at your altar.” 

She took a breath, then continued. “Please Lord, I know you’ve given us a lot already, but if you hear our prayer, grant us this one wish, and you will find us in your service tenfold. This is all that now stands between ourselves and everlasting joy. We have faith in you, Lathander, and are grateful for the many blessings of your light.”

Astarion hoisted his right eyebrow in disbelief. “Don’t tell me that’s what rattled you? All that drama earlier because you read a flimsy supplication from some dust-covered bones?”

“It wasn’t my intention for things to get out of hand as they did with Lae’zel,” she lamented. Beneath every pronounced word, a shakiness started to emerge in her voice. “But the contents of this book had nothing to do with my disagreement with her.”

He padded closer to her. “Then, what was the purpose of reading that husband and wife’s prayer to me? They’re dead and it’s apparent that the gods couldn’t have cared less about granting that couple their wishes,” Astarion mentioned, glimpsing down at the deteriorating book. “I should know; I prayed to them all.”

“This isn’t about the damned gods!” Tav blurted out in frustration. She let the prayer book slip from her grasp, landing askew onto a bed of pebbles. “Years ago, I had to accept—“ she stalled. 

He inspected her, tilting his head curiously. The visage that took place on her face was similar to when she spoke to Mayrina shortly after they sent Auntie Ethel to the hells: an intense, almost withdrawn, stare. He recognized that expression, how rigid her whole person had become that day. How different she acted after seeing Mayrina’s belly round with child. “‘Had to accept’ what?” he asked.

Clenching her eyes shut, she shook her head. “Nobody knows what happened to me that day. I just want somebody to know,” she managed to whisper, contrite over her verbally collected thoughts.

“Darling, I have to admit, your whole mysterious lady act is going way over my head this time,” he said, perplexed. Respecting their terms to avoid touching each other as minimally as possible, he skimmed just the tips of his fingers along the outer edge of Tav’s shoulder, bidding her to look at him. 

Under his contact, she jerked ever so slightly as if finally noticing his proximity. “S-sorry. Gods, I must sound crazy,” she huffed nervously, lungs stammering as her breathing increased. “Astarion, I want to trust someone so badly that I ache, b-but I can’t. Even now, as I tried, everything still turned to ash on my tongue.”

Her admission stunned him, never being one to divulge the weaknesses she kept at bay. “Hold on. Take a few deep breaths.”

Lash after lash lifted, revealing Tav’s set of bleary dilated vesseling eyes that bore into his. Her sternum rose and fell, respiring their common air. “I wanted somebody—no, not somebody—I wanted you to know.”

“Why?”

Tav’s hand moved in a way like she wanted to grab his hand, but instead let it slink back. “Because you’re the only one I’ve ever felt might understand,” she confessed.

Stricken with a salvelike buzz dawning through his consciousness, Astarion couldn’t resist tucking dark brown hair strands behind her ear. Red eyes traced a  circular outline of her freckles that mesmerized him so. His pitch lowered to a woolly undertone unnatural to him, balmy and wicking her ills. “You really are reckless, aren’t you?”

The upper bow of Tav’s lips parted from the bottom, a blush rushing northward into her cheekbones. He could feel her lukewarm breath exhale into the dip of his clavicle while she examined his face, provoking a tense quake descending his spine. “Is that your way of saying you’re concerned about me?” she crooned. 

“Stupid boy,” Cazador’s taunt resounded in his brain. 

Emotions careened through him as dead leaves being whisked aside by an autumn wind, reluctantly revealing a new growth until being blanketed in death once more. Astarion’s hand quickly retracted, realizing he made a vital mistake. “I—,” he began, flustered, unsuccessfully quelling the contortions in his stomach. Anxiety raged through him, tingling his skin in a domino effect. “Will you just go shove off somewhere for a bit?!” 

Tav backed away. Crestfallen. Betrayed. Shifting her eyes back and forth as her skin pinched between her brows. He dipped his chin, shunning himself for every time he felt a modicum of emotion towards her. 

Her back turned on him, beginning to trudge in the direction of a broken stained-glass pane. “Don’t follow me,” she insisted, tears filling the lower ridge of her eyelids as she pivoted halfway to observe him. “I mean it.” 

As she left, Astarion’s vision floated to the prayer book that lay deserted next to where Tav once stood, unable to shake the thought that whatever she lost, the gods must've forsaken her too.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 64 - Gandalf's Dilemma

You gotta make a decision.

On AO3.

The sun needs to die. Or you do. But you’re gunning for the sun because it’s a little bitch.

“Gale, can you do something?” you say. It comes out mostly coherent?

Gale hums as he uses a hook to pull off the pot lid. Gives the potatoes and onions simmering inside a stir. It should smell delicious. You would normally commit atrocities for a good plate of fried potatoes.

But now?

The nausea twists your gut and you hang your head between your knees, drooling a little cause nobody’s looking and the idea of swallowing…

“I already told you,” Gale says. “Drink that water and eat the toast and then we’ll talk.”

Each heartbeat tries to split your skull from the inside. That’s the only thing keeping you from curling up on your side in the dirt.

“This is bullshit,” you say. “Alcohol is bullshit.”

“You might want to sit elsewhere for this part,” Gale says.

You squint through Baby’s First Hangover to see him approaching that pot with a plate of some kinda shredded meat.

Acid threatens to burble up your throat. You’re up and staggering away—after a reminder to take your water and your dry bread.

You find a stump stool one of the tieflings left the night before. Sit yourself down on that. It’s thankfully in the shade of a big, leafy tree.

“It’s your own fault, you know,” Gale says and gives his stirring spoon a jaunty whirl.

“Fuck off,” you whine. “Didn’t know it was gonna do this or wouldn’t a done it.”

“And that is precisely what makes this such an excellent learning opportunity.”

You mutter something about shoving that spoon down his throat. Right as Shadowheart emerges for the morning. She spots you. Lifts one eyebrow.

“Help?” you say.

“It’s far too early to tap into my resources, I’m afraid,” she says. “What did you do?”

“Mrngh.”

“Our dear Eleanor drank two bottles of wine quite rapidly on an empty stomach, from what I gather,” Gale says. The meat hisses and spits as he dumps it into the pot. You hum as you inhale and try to squelch the puke. “Which is something she’s never done before.”

“Drink wine?” Shadowheart says.

“Get drunk,” you croak.

Both eyebrows shoot up. The barest flicker of a smile twitches her lips. “What, really?”

“It tastes like ass.”

“Then why do it?”

And the reason why chooses that moment to stick his head out of his tent.

Astarion is usually the first one up. Apparently elves don’t sleep—he “reveries” or some shit—very long. And Gale (the third earliest riser, after Astarion and Lae’zel) says he always finds the man sitting in the brightest patch of sunlight he can find.

Today, he slept in. And he joins y’all looking grumpier than usual. He only pauses to look at the sun, before heading off towards the druids bathing pools (which you didn’t know about until this morning, those fuckers).

You look back to find Shadowheart, chin propped up in her hand, watching you. Judgmentally.

You break off a piece of bark from your stump stool and toss it at her. You miss by a metric fucking mile. She watches the piece of dead tree sail past, and her face silently screams, “Really?”

“’S been a long week,” you say. “I just…didn’t wanna think no more.”

Her gaze flicks down to your tits. Or what you carry between them, anyway, and she thaws.

“If you’re foolish enough to try that again,” she says, “don’t expect help from me next time?”

And her hands glow blue and she lays them on you and the hangover from hell lifts like morning mist.

You might cry a little. It’s such a relief, everybody would understand.

You might also give real thought into kissing her. Platonically. The vampire already has your first kiss, and an innocent peck on her pink lips don’t mean nothing as a thank you, right?

“You’re a goddess,” you say.

“I only serve one,” she says.

To which Gale perks up like a dog who heard a cheese wrapper. “Ah! You’ve never disclosed which form of the divine you’ve dedicated yourself to.”

It’s a question, though he don’t exactly phrase it that way. But Shadowheart pulls herself in faster than a turtle on a highway.

Gale, bless him, picks up on this and pivots back to the campfire. “And this should all be ready in a moment, for whoever’s hungry.”

Shadowheart nods, and you wonder if she knows how obvious she is when she lets her guard back down.

The others emerge, stretching and yawning. Lae’zel turns up covered in sweat and looking pisser than normal. Shadowheart goes to join Gale and the others, but stops to say, “Drink the water and eat that bread you’re carrying around. I’d do it before it starts to stale.”

Goddamnit.

You give her a salute with the squished bread and bring the waterskin up to your lips.

“Hey fuckos!” Karlach bellows as she pops into view down the path to the tiefling caves. “Guess who got her fucking engine stabilized?!”

***

Karlach still cannot touch nobody. You can tell she’s real bummed by that, but the whole “not gonna spontaneously combust” part puts some pep back in her step.

Once everybody’s done congratulating her and got themselves washed up (those fuckers) and are just standing around, Halsin the bigass druid shows back up. You’re feeling better, enough to polish off the rest of Gale’s scramble as everybody gathers around.

Where the big man drops a fucking bombshell:

The brainworms are magic.

He can’t touch them.

They’re connected to this new, shitass cult.

The cult is all holed up in someplace called Moonrise Towers, which sounds lovely, nestled within the heart of the Shadowcursed Lands, which don’t sound lovely at all.

It’s gonna be a bitch and a half to get there.

“What was even the point of all this?” Astarion says. He listened to the entire thing with his arms folded across his chest, but now flails one hand around all dramatic.

“I am sorry to leave you with such ill news,” Halsin says. “But there may yet be answers once you reach the towers.”

“How far away is that?” Karlach says.

About two weeks. Either through a cave system (your brain lovingly serves you images of albino cannibal monsters) or through a mountain pass.

And Lae’zel starts to fucking vibrate.

“The pass,” she says. “That is where the istik said he saw my people. The creche lies in that direction.”

“You think a hovel full of gith will let us stroll into their camp to kindly remove our little horrors?” Shadowheart says.

Lae’zel’s eyes narrow. She lifts her chin. “They will should you be accompanied by a child of Creche K’liir.”

“The mountain pass has grown very dangerous,” Halsin says. “And not just from accounts of githyanki patrols. We’ve heard word of roaming bands of cultists. Even my people hesitate to traverse it unless they go by wing.”

And ain’t that such an interesting sentence. Druids can turn into animals; what effect would that even have on a people? One of them could turn into a bird to fly a message clear over to another grove. That kind of communication is what modern Earth is built on.

“I would advise you to travel through the Underdark,” the big man says. “Though it presents many challenges of its own.”

“Such as unseen monsters, murderous drow, and the natural danger of cave ins?” Gale says. “Actually, that all sounds rather fascinating.”

But Lae’zel ain’t having none of it. She turns to you, lizard pupils narrowed to slits. “You gave me your word we would finally cease this nonsense and seek out my people once you’d wasted our time searching for useless, istik cures.”

“Rude phrasing,” you say as Halsin’s lips pull into a thin line. But. She ain’t wrong. You sigh. “I did say that. And you been real patient so far.”

Shadowheart scowls, while Karlach swings her arms like she’s getting ready to dead lift the druid.

“I have heard many tales of the Underdark,” Wyll says, grimacing a little. “None of them very pleasant. And it’s rather hard to retreat if we’re trapped underground.”

“Pish posh,” Gale says, apparently exactly the type of man to use that phrase and mean it. “I can transport us out of any situation if it comes down to it.”

Astarion is being real quiet. You look over to ask his opinion, only to catch him looking away all in a rush.

Your memories of last night are kinda hazy. You know he found you out there, and that he stole what was left of your wine. Y’all…talked? Worst of all, you think you mighta cried.

Heat crawls up your neck as you look back to the others. Clear your throat.

“I do think,” you say, slow and careful, “that we should try Lae’zel’s creche.”

The woman’s eyes light up. Her whole posture straightens, a soldier on parade. She says, “It is gratifying to see you still retain some tactical sense.”

“Such a fine endorsement,” Shadowheart says. Her jaw works a couple of times. She looks to you and, clearly unhappy, says, “I’ll trust your judgment. You haven’t led us too terribly astray.”

And you thought southerners were good with the backhanded compliments. A spark of warmth ignites in your chest even as the muscles in the back of your neck cinch tight.

“I agree,” Gale says. “And I’d be telling something of a mistruth if I said I wasn’t curious to see a githyanki creche.”

Lae’zel visibly puffs up.

“I’m in,” Karlach says as Wyll nods. Leaving the druid and Astarion.

Halsin speaks first. “I would request a boon of you. I have business with the Shadowcursed Lands. If you would have me, I would accompany you at least to Moonrise Towers.”

Wyll’s eyebrows shoot up. “What of the grove? With Kahga gone, who will act as archdruid?”

A cloud covers Halsin’s face. The big man gives a pained shake of his head. “These people looked to me for safety and guidance, and I appointed an unworthy successor before I myself was captured. I’ve sent for another archdruid, Francesca of the High Forest. She’ll do a fine job.”

And if that don’t scream some kinda self-esteem survivor’s guilt.

You don’t offer any platitude. You don’t think it’d help the big man right now. “You’re a healer, ain’t you? No offense, Shadowheart.”

“None taken,” she says. Gives you another cool smile. “With as often as this lot gets itself torn to shreds, I’d more than welcome a second set of hands.”

“And he looks like he could lift me,” Karlach says. “I bet he can carry all kinds of stuff without setting it on fire.”

To which Halsin huffs. “If I am to be a pack mule, I shall willingly bear that burden.”

Did…did he just make a joke? It’s impossible to say; guy’s got a mean poker face. You reconsider the man.

And then you can’t stall no more. You find Astarion picking at his cuticles with one of his knives.

“Thoughts?” you say.

He glances over, all unreadable. “Oh, I don’t have a preference either way. Lead on.”

And that cinches it. Y’all are heading up into the mountains to find a den of lizard murder hobos. Huzzah.

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

[ziskandra]

hello tumblr user ziskandra. for the prompt post .

♟ for gaz and her hot githyanki girlfriend lae’zel :D :D :D

hello tumblr user darkjusticiars, i have written some ♟(sharing a bed) for the the non-sexual intimacy prompts, for lae'zel and gaz (short for garoline). for people who aren't familiar, gaz is a half-orc barb/druid sage who wants to read books and not go on epic quests! i'm always happy to talk about her (and have been fleshing out her family) so always welcome questions (about gaz or any of my other OCs). now, onto the actual ficlet! ***

Ordinary Days in Baldur's Gate

Garoline is used to her personal space: an ordinary day in Baldur’s Gate finds her buried in large, looming tomes that have long been overlooked. As a half-orc in a library, Gaz feels an affinity with these dusty old books that she can’t quite explain and won’t even begin to try.

She knows what other people think of her, however.

On a first visit, a half-orc in the library is novel, curious. By the fiftieth, however, she’s simply part of the furniture. This way, she’s safe from other people. Safe from whatever atrocities had befallen her parents, the ones her brother Gradley still refuses to talk about.

And other people are safe from her, too.

You wouldn’t know it from just looking, but she can have a nasty temper when it comes down to it. Most people don’t go beyond looking, though. She knows what they say, they know that she knows, but they keep a safe distance.  And that’s the way she likes it.

*** Garoline is used to her personal space but there will never be an ordinary day in Baldur’s Gate again. Lae’zel’s limbs, more sinew than spindle, run hot against her own. “I don’t know how you bear it,” Lae’zel moans, “such a narrow frame—” “I already told you,” Gaz interrupts, old embarrassment burning up her neck, “I never expected anyone else to be up here.” It was her own little loft above Gradley and Glaudia’s shop. Gaz’s little hideout. Just for her.

Lae’zel scoffs, deep in the back of her throat, and buries her nostrils in Gaz’s armpit. It must reek down there. By Gaz’s reckoning, she hasn’t showered in three days; Lae’zel, on the other hand, must be counting down the minutes. “You should hold loftier expectations,” Lae’zel mutters, voice still muffled by the side of Gaz’s chest.

“It’s literally a loft, what more could you want from me?”

Lae’zel groans, wrenching herself dramatically from Garoline’s grip and rolls over. Gaz laughs, because she’s having fun making her hot githyanki girlfriend learn the virtue of patience. Despite it all, the statue that’s being built, the boots (that have seen everything), maybe (just maybe) there can still be ordinary days in Baldur’s Gate.

[bg3fandomcritical-reactive]

I’m a Minthara fan. And since it appears that it is now necessary for some people, the disclaimer: I am aware of the moral atrocities she commits and I do not condone them in real life. Please, I beg you, don’t slit my throat.

To be honest, I never really saw so much contention between Halsin fans and Minthara fans until someone had released footage of the datamined ultimatum months ago in which it literally pits one companion against the other and it is not possible to have them both. There are even some Shadowheart fans and Lae’zel fans who absolutely despise the other, but it isn’t so bad because you can have both Shadowheart and Lae’zel. Not to mention, they’re an incredibly popular ship.

When someone dropped the ultimatum footage, it seemed like there was a switch that was flipped between Minthara fans and Halsin fans in which both fans approached the situation where if you like one you are not allowed to like the other. Which is just childish. No seriously, I have actually seen a Halsin fan argue that to like Minthara is to hate Halsin. And I myself have been accused of having some kind of moral failure by a Halsin fan for simply liking Minthara at all. I’m also not saying that some Minthara fans aren’t toxic towards Halsin either, because I have seen it and I’ve had to nip them in the bud a few times about it because it’s unacceptable behavior. I have also seen fans of one character try to prop up their character while actively degrading the other, so that their own character comes off as more appealing (which is just a bad way to form an argument if you ask me). So any level of criticism for one character is immediately presumed to be coming from fans of the other character. This toxicity isn’t just coming from Minthara fans folks, it’s also coming from Halsin fans.

The peak irony of it all is that for a majority of these fans, neither of them have a good understanding of the other character for pretty obvious reasons. The most outlandish claims I have ever seen someone make towards Minthara did indeed come from a Halsin fan because they don’t know her. And the ultimatum itself has some pretty absurd hottakes about it from both sides of the aisle because there is no way to actually resolve it without permanently losing one companion. I’m not trying to restart the debate about the ultimatum, I’m just trying to provide some insight on why fans of one character often bring up the other unprompted and unprovoked.

.

[bardic-perdita]

Blood on Ice

Genre: Romance

Pairing: Astarion X Named male Tav (Breoch)

Word Count: 3000

A/N: a slow-burn romance between Astarion and Breoch (Tav) exploring the changes in their relationship as it develops.

“We don’t want no trouble here!” the guard at the gate barked. She raised her pike toward the party, her grip tightened, ready to strike. “The last time one of your kind came here, they ransacked our armoury, burned our buildings and kidnapped half the town for their deranged cult.” 

The party looked among themselves to identify who exactly she was addressing. Between a vampire, a githyanki, a tiefling, and a drow, she could have believed any of them to be a threat. Breoch bristled at how she fixed him with her glare. 

After a lifetime in the Underdark, it felt alien for Breoch to receive such hostility on a regular basis. He knew that drow had a somewhat troubled reputation on the surface, but he hadn’t expected this. It wasn’t as though he was unused to unkindness; his noble line was forever disgraced by his great grandmother’s choice to lie with a dragon. The proof of her betrayal to Lolth revealed itself in the white scales on his face, his dark hair, and heterochromia. He knew the cruelty of drow better than most. Yet, he had never felt his personhood reviled in this way. It seemed that every surface dweller attributed him with all the unspeakable atrocities conducted by the most depraved of Lolth’s faithful. He breathed deeply and swallowed his rising anger. 

In an instant, a disarmingly charming smile spread across Breoch’s features. 

“I suppose by ‘your kind’ you are referring to drow, yes?’ He inquired with a subtly cutting edge. The guard turned to her comrade on duty with her, who also eyed the group warily, though they both remained quiet. “Well, far be it from me to attest to the virtues of my entire race, but I am able to at least speak for myself and my companions. We mean you no trouble, ma’am. We are naught but humble travelers, simply seeking supplies for our long journey ahead.” His voice was dripping with grace; smooth as silk with a charm to match. He sensed his companions twitch for their weapons should events take a turn for the violent. At times, he felt more like a ranger than a sorcerer with how often he had to prevent his teammates from attacking everyone and everything that got in their way. 

The guard lowered her weapon. Her comrade whispered in her ear. There was a terse hushed conversation between them– too quiet for anyone else to hear. 

The guard sighed. “Fine, you can come in. But you better not cause any problems, you hear?”

Breoch bowed low and pressed a hand to his chest. “On my honour as the eldest son of House V’ysse, you have my word that we shan’t do anything to impinge on your kind graces. You have my heartfelt gratitude.”

“Whatever, just go in,” the guard huffed as she waved them through. 

Once the party had passed through the gate and entered the town proper, much of the wariness of the guards and townsfolk dissipated. They were free to explore the town as much as they wished. 

“T’chk! Must all the creatures of this Faerûn act with such insolence? In Crèche K’liir, we would have stamped out such behaviour before ever entrusting those warriors with a blade,” Lae’zel seethed. 

“Careful what you say, soldier. We’ve promised to behave while we’re here,” Karlach warned. 

The cacophony of voices from the open air market echoed down the street. Astarion kept his coin purse close, both out of habit and also an awareness of how out of place the party appeared in a small rural town like this. He and Breoch were decked out in fine garments, and Lae’zel’s gith armour shimmered like a precious gem in the sunlight. A prime target for a pickpocket cursed with more greed than sense. As they gained some distance from the guards at the gate, Breoch leaned in close to Astarion. 

“It’s almost laughable how easily doors open for you with a little show of deference and a promise of coin,” he whispered with an air of satisfaction. The rogue hummed approvingly. 

“Is it only doors you can open with a little charm?” He asked with the same hushed tone as the drow, though tinged with a slight playfulness. The intent of his question was not lost on Breoch. 

“I can open many things with these lips of mine,” he teased. “It is just one of my many talents,  khal’abbil.” His lips curled into a wry smile as he watched a smirk crease Astarion’s cheeks. When he was certain that he wouldn’t be seen by his other two companions, he raised two fingers to his lips in an obscene gesture. There was a gasp of recognition from the rogue as he stifled a laugh at the salacious display. 

“Gods, you are so naughty…” Astarion chided as he covered his mouth in mock offense. Though his wide grin still peeked through the gaps in his fingers. Breoch had made no secret of his innumerable sexual encounters, especially with Astarion, and it fuelled many of their private conversations. It was a matter of pride for the two elves: who could prove himself to be the most charming, the most desirable, and consummate lover? They hadn’t yet moved beyond testing their repertoire of honeyed words and innuendo, and thus far were still evenly matched. Though Breoch wouldn’t wish to admit it, he found the rogue devastatingly charming, even when some of his one-liners fell flat. This mutual game of push and pull was far too entertaining to play: a winner could be decided later. 

Merchants hollered over the crowd of voices, their wares displayed in sheltered stalls, and prospective buyers inspected and bartered over the goods on offer. Karlach carefully wiped the blood from her gold coins before handing them to the vendors, but her companions had not been as thoughtful. Potions, scrolls, gems and gold were exchanged. Fortunately, traders in these parts knew better than to question where adventurers acquired their coin. 

Some distance away, there was a vendor selling a range of decorative trinkets and jewels. Astarion sauntered over to the glittering table. Once the drow had spotted the rogue’s intentions, he decided to follow so that he may ensure that his sticky fingers wouldn’t land them in any more trouble with the local guards. The assortment of trinkets was nothing particularly special; Breoch could identify most of them as gaudy costume jewellery, coveted by fools who sought ostentatious statements of wealth rather than embodying true nobility through authentic quality and grace. One item in particular had entranced Astarion: an exquisite obsidian dagger. The handle was carved in ivory, yellowed slightly from use, and decorated with intricate runic patterns that criss-crossed like spiderwebs. The blade itself was of a kind Breoch had seen many times in Menzoberranzan. No doubt it had belonged to one of the drow warriors that had attacked the town. The rogue picked it up and marvelled at how it glistened in the light. It had been well-used, but also well cared-for, and the beauty of the craftsmanship had not been sullied. Breoch couldn’t sense any weave within the blade. There was no risk of it becoming their wizard’s next snack. 

“Rather beautiful, wouldn’t you say darling?” Astarion held it out so that Breoch could admire it closer. 

“Dangerously beautiful. Rather like somebody I know,” he replied. 

Astarion rolled his eyes, yet a small smile still crept onto his lips. The vendor eyed the pair with the glare of somebody who had dealt with his fair share of pilferers. Pocketing the dagger in plain view would be an impossibility, so Astarion reluctantly placed it back onto the table. A flicker of disappointment flashed over his features. 

“How much for the dagger?” Breoch asked the merchant. 

“30 gold.”

“Would you accept 25?”

“I know a fine blade when I see one, saer. 30 gold or leave it,” the merchant demanded curtly. Astarion watched the drow curiously. They had a surplus of weapons back at camp, and from his limited knowledge there didn’t appear to be anything special about the dagger. Was this simply because he had shown an interest in it? 

“Hm…How about 27 gold and a promise to drive this blade into the heart of the cultists that destroyed your home?” Breoch bartered with his characteristic silky charm. 

The vendor mused. After a few moments of consideration, he nodded and shook Breoch’s hand. Once they exchanged the necessary coin and pleasantries, he handed the dagger to Astarion. 

“It seemed a shame to part it from you,” Breoch said. “Consider it a gift…from me.”

Now that the dagger was in his possession, he could more freely appreciate it as a dangerous weapon. He twirled the dagger around his palm; adjusted his grip as he tested out a range of mock thrusts and jabs at the air– first in one hand and then the other. This was an assassin’s blade: beautifully balanced. It suited him perfectly. He noted how the drow watched his hands as the dagger spun and danced across his fingers. Not even the great sorcerer could disguise his fascination with Astarion’s dextrous and deadly art. 

“Who would have thought that our little drow would have such a kind heart? It is a very generous gift,” he teased. 

“You deserve it,” Breoch uttered sincerely. His usual levity and cheekiness had been put aside, leaving his tone serious and heartfelt. The sudden shift in tone caught Astarion off-guard, so he remained silent as he placed the dagger in his pack. 

The pair rejoined Lae’zel and Karlach to resume their shopping trip. Fortunately the rest of their visit passed without incident. 

As the sun began to set, the sky burned in a conflagration of reds and oranges. Wisps of cloud blushed pink in the dusky light; birds zipped past like shadow puppets, and filled the breeze with their lullabies. During their walk back to camp, Breoch couldn’t help but gaze up at the evening sky. Growing up in the Underdark, there had been no sky, no sunlight of any kind; it was still a novel experience to look up and see an ever-shifting canvas of colours. Karlach shared Breoch's wonder. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” She observed. “You don’t get skies like that anywhere else. I missed evenings like this!” 

“It is a little too bright for my liking. I can practically feel it burning my retinas,” Breoch said dismissively. It would be too much of an affront to his pride as a drow to admit to his naive amazement. He had to avert his gaze from the glaring sun as they moved out of the shade of the trees. 

“Try living in Avernus for 10 years, pal. The Hells would burn you worse than this.” 

The vampire chuckled at his companions’ disagreement. Due to his unique condition, he was able to sympathise with both of them in his own way. Breoch rubbed at his eyes before squinting painfully at the road ahead. It had rained earlier that day, covering the road with a layer of still water, which reflected all the golden light just like a mirror. The glare was difficult enough for those that had spent their lives on the surface, but it was almost blinding for the drow. 

“You’re still adjusting to the sunlight, aren’t you?” Astarion asked Breoch. “It must be intense for somebody who has only ever known the Underdark.” 

Breoch turned to face him and concealed his discomfort as much as he could. 

“I’ve spent all of my 217 years of life underground. Drow aren’t meant to live under the sun like this,” he grumbled. “You must find it difficult too? You said that you’ve been a vampire for 200 years, so I doubt you’ve seen much sun in that time.” 

“It took some time to get used to, I’ll admit. Not being able to stand in sunlight is just one of the many drawbacks of my…condition. The joys of vampirism, darling” Astarion quipped sardonically. “There were certainly times when I wished I could have stepped out into the sun…but no, you’re right. I have avoided it where possible. My beauty is one best enjoyed in the shadows.” The foppish performance distracted from the bitterness of his admission. Breoch sensed the vulnerability in his words, so saw his opportunity to strike. 

“You are beautiful at all hours, Astarion. Truly.” He spoke softly and allowed his voice to be warmed by a genuine affection. His expression remained as it was, a carefully crafted smile of fondness, leaving his true intentions concealed. Whether his words were interpreted as coming from the heart, or just coming onto him, he left in the hands of the rogue to decide. Astarion paused, blinked, then allowed the comment to roll off him like water. 

“You flatter me darling.” He returned with a rakish smile. 

“Flattery is just another one of my many talents, khal’abbil,” Breoch teased. He decided to keep his tone light so as to not risk pushing the flirtation too far. 

Better to play it safe, and besides: they were having fun. 

“You keep telling me about your wondrous talents. I do hope that you’ll give me a…practical demonstration of some of them soon.” Astarion coaxed. 

“If you wish. Perhaps then you could return the favour by showing me a few talents of your own?” Breoch returned with the same seductive manner as they walked into their camp again. 

The camp buzzed with anticipation. The scent of Gale’s homemade Waterdhavian stew welcomed the party home. Scratch and the owlbear cub raced around and through their companions’ legs in their boisterous game for two. After a few moments of distributing and organising their newest acquisitions, the party changed into more comfortable evening attire. Each of them were handed a bowl as they settled down to eat around the campfire. 

The cuisine on the surface was very different to the food Breoch was accustomed to. Only a few months ago, he had dined on steamed pyrimo served with fragrant mushrooms on a sapphire and diamond encrusted silver plate; it was paired with a delicate elixir of drow green wine, and finished with a generous helping of fungal pie. He had never felt homesickness before– namely because he had never ventured far enough away from his home to ever miss it. Grand banquet halls illuminated by the flicker of faerie fire and crystal chandeliers had been the backdrop of so much of his life. Where meals were an extravagant demonstration of power and prestige; conversations were whispered between the nobles at your elbow, or silently communicated through the rebellious play of toe-tapping with the handsome beauty across the table. Yet now that he was huddled by a meagre fire, cradling a wooden bowl of unfamiliar meaty broth on his knees, the ache of home gripped his very bones. A heaviness settled in the pit of his stomach, which was only compounded by the human’s insistence on putting the so-called ‘potato’ into every meal he cooked. 

Breoch cracked open a bottle of wine. If his brother could see this awful habit he was developing, he would no doubt berate him for it. He scrunched his nose at the wine’s bouquet, which did not complement the rich fattiness of the stew at all. However, he wasn’t interested in wine-meal pairings or Menzoberranzan etiquette at that moment: he just wanted something to wash away some of the sting of his heartache. The drow poured a goblet for each of his companions. He allowed himself to get swept up in the sway of their conversation as he ate and drank heartily; he promptly refilled their goblets once they were empty, especially his own. A fixed smile remained on his face: an anchor to prevent himself from wallowing in his loss of luxury. 

Astarion strategically chose to sit in the space beside the sorcerer. His secret quest to lure the prideful drow had so far been successful. The dagger that Breoch had bought for him was the first tangible proof that there was a connection there that he could exploit. Words had been their primary method of seduction, but now the situation was ripe to progress into something more…physical. He observed the energetic back and forth of his companions’ banter, and how Breoch knocked back the sour wine like it was water. He snaked his hand around the drow’s waist and leaned in. Being so close to him, Astarion could smell the unique perfume of Breoch’s blood flowing through his arteries. He pressed his chilly nose against Breoch’s cool neck to better breathe in the heady aroma. 

“Thirsty, darling?” He drawled by his ear. He felt Breoch shiver under him. 

“Are you?” Breoch breathed. Astarion chuckled. 

“I might be a little thirsty…especially after all your teasing today.” His fingers slid lower and stroked the patch of exposed skin along Breoch’s hips. The drow’s grip on his goblet tightened. “You know…we could go somewhere: just the two of us. Somewhere…intimate.” 

“A vampire wants to take me somewhere, alone, in the dead of night? How nefarious,” Breoch replied in a low, tantalising whisper. 

“Oh, you have nothing to fear, darling. If I were to make you scream, it would only be in sublime pleasure. I want us to indulge in each other. You want that too, don’t you?” 

Breoch gulped his mouthful of wine. Drinking so many glasses of the foul stuff in quick succession had made him giddy. He wanted to laugh cruelly as he pitied the rogue who thought he had ensnared him; a rogue oblivious to his own entrapment in the drow’s web. Both of them were exactly where the other wanted him. Breoch smiled sharply. 

“Nothing would bring me greater pleasure,” he said sultrily as he narrowed the space between them. Sparks flew past their faces in the heat of their smouldering passion. Astarion’s pale skin glowed as if illuminated by a great flame; Breoch’s white scales reflected glints of amber and ruby lights. Smoke wafted by and obscured their vision. 

It took an embarrassing amount of time for the two elves to register what was happening. They had been so lost in their pursuit of each other that they hadn’t heard Karlach asking if she could borrow Breoch’s blanket to lend to Shadowheart; nor did they see the fiery tiefling enter Breoch’s tent to retrieve it herself; and, perhaps most alarmingly of all, they did not see the moment when the drow’s spider-silk tent spectacularly caught fire. 

“Straj…”

[pedros-immaculate-vibes]

A Peaceful Elf

Part VI

Halsin/Tav fanfic (slow burn, fluff, angst)

One benefit to essentially saving the world is that it demands a lot of your attention. There was the overarching need to avoid becoming mindflayers, HOWEVER, the lands outlying Baldurs Gate seemed chock full of misanthropes and the like. All of this and more afforded you some breathing room from him.

Shortly after gaining Halsin to the camp, you discovered the presence of a hag in that disconcertingly serene wetland (surprise! It was a concealed bog), a woman who inherited a zombie husband, gnolls trapping two unfortunate men in a cave (along with a strange bottle? Urn? Seemed important), a Zhentarim outpost underground that lead to yet ANOTHER entrance to the Underdark, and now the discovery of the Githyanki crèche. Given what you knew of Lae’zel, her near constant scowl and use of her grindstone meant she was ecstatic. 

Halsin had heavily discouraged taking on these other adventures before journeying to Moonrise, but had difficulty saying no to both you and the others’ almost ambivalent approvals of this plan. You all knew experience in battle was necessary to survive below, and the best way to get that was to save the surrounding areas. Halsin resigned himself to patience and trailed along, investing his time in study at camp (thankfully, Gale had an almost infinite amount of books in his bag of holding to glean research from). He had felt particularly prepared for the under dark due to his “extended stint below in his youth”. He was uninterested in expounding on that any further. 

Roughly two-and-a-half weeks went by like this and the steady influx of villains to vanquish lead to camp life developing a certain pattern; almost like a family. A very strange, bloody family, but a family nonetheless. Each companion adopted camp habits and however quirky, you all adjusted to them. Shadowheart and Lae’zel began each day with morning exercises; separately at first, but over time, their spaces merged and they even began trading tips on how to incapacitate victims more efficiently. Gale usually cooked, and Halsin was quite familiar with the area’s herbs, so periodically they would plan meals, forage, or even find a farm with goods for sale, on occasion (apparently, the beverage Gale had made a few weeks ago was a fluke—he was an excellent camp cook). Karlach, Wyll and Astarion would regularly exchange stories while cleaning up after a meal and a battle of limericks (where the vampire mostly played judge) was almost a daily occurence after dinner over a few pints. They all seemed to warm up to each other. 

You felt yourself pull away, though. Shortly after the party, you were haunted by the presence of someone who called himself the “Butler”; he prodded you toward the most unspeakable atrocities while you tried to rest, and his influence kept getting stronger. It was hard to share with anyone, and you’d almost acted on the dark urges more than once. 

You had been ill at ease for weeks now trying to keep your normal facade up, but it began to show under your eyes. Your companions had begun to notice after almost a fortnight and were still deciding how to ask correctly. They knew most questions regarding your well-being would be brushed off or minimized; it was what you did.

In the meantime, there was always something to do.

With these responsibilities at hand, you hadn’t made much time to strike up conversation with Halsin since that first day. To be honest, you were overwhelmed and couldn’t spend what cognitive energy you had on the topic. 

Were you still distracted by him? Of course. 

Was he still brilliant and kind and patient and funny when he didn’t mean to be?

Obviously.

Did any of that make it easier to talk to him?

Absolutely not.

And from what you could tell, he wasn’t doing well, either. With each additional adventure, you could almost hear the heavy sigh and sense the tension rippling off the druid who trailed the ambling troupe, and you knew you were disappointing him.

Yet he stayed. 

You all knew your adventure to the crèche wouldn’t be brief. You had no idea what to expect from the monastery down the mountain, except more Githyanki, possibly a cure and probably lots of stubbornness. The rest was a mystery. 

***

The Butler hadn’t shown its hideous face for a few nights, and you started to feel like yourself again. You sat with almost everyone around the campfire and finished what was left of Halsin’s vegetable stew. Gale waxed poetic over the tragedy of Karsus’ Folley, yet another tale to share with the group. He spoke of it like a professor with a passion for his craft.

“Tsk’va, children’s tales of fancy. Perhaps, read more githyanki literature. It is replete with priceless wisdom and battles your gods wish they could have partaken in.” Lae’zel shook her head over her spinning grindstone, the first to finish dinner and return to her work. Oddly enough, she must have listened every night because she always had some critique of Gale’s stories. 

“I’ll add that to my ‘To Be Read’ list, Lae’zel, thank you,” Gale responded, humoring her recommendation with a smile. She nodded back, then returned to her work. 

You rose from your spot, in need of some tea, while everyone else drank and added their own questions or two cents to the wizard’s story. He was patient, but his limit was coming, you could tell. The camp knew this and tested him several times a week, like a dog toying with an old tressym. 

Halsin had been the second to finish his bowl, returning to his tent to continue pouring over books. He seemed to appreciate the entertainment around the campfire, his scowl only breaking when he heard someone’s question fluster the wizard.

You grated and brewed the remaining chunks of ginger, turmeric and a few other spices into your makeshift sachet, and glanced from the campfire over to him. He sat so calm; calm and alone. It was colder that night than it had been so far, and something inside you wanted to reach out. 

A few minutes later, you sighed, ignoring all of the internal horns and blaring alarms at the thought of approaching this gentle giant, and made your way over with two mugs. 

“Hi.”

He looked up slowly but obviously still surprised.

“May I join you?”

The camp suddenly hushed a bit. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as you felt everyone look in your direction. OmFg can I not just sit down and talk to this man without you all making it SO fucking weird. Thankfully, they were all behind you as you faced in toward the large tent.

Halsin also noticed the sudden decrease in activity and looked toward the campfire. He turned back to you with a humorous smile. “Of course.” He patted an open spot a few inches from him along the log.

A throat cleared by the fire. Gale and the rest of the peanut gallery resumed.

“I brought some tea over. I saw you studying and it’s colder tonight, I thought you might—it might help you stay warm. I mean—you know, help you focus.” Godsdammit.

“Mmm, that was very kind,” his callused paw eclipsing yours as he took the cup. The contact made the hair on your arm bristle. “What type of tea?” He asked. “No, let me guess,” lifting the mug close to his chiseled face and wafting the aroma toward him, eyes closed. “Mmmm, fresh ginger, clove, a bit of pepper, and…what is that last one?” Halsin’s eyes settled on you again. A gentle look you hadn’t seen from him before.

“Uh, that’s—that would be turmeric. Not much, just a trace. I used up the last of the root just now.” Hells, don’t make him feel bad about it. “I could probably grow more though, you know, the whole druid thing,” you flicked your hands out to your sides and shrugged. 

“True, although it might change the flavor. The soil is different here as opposed to the grove.” He lifted the steaming mug to his lips and sipped. He closed his eyes in a satisfied sigh, “I haven’t had golden tea after any fashion in years. I’ve forgotten how it can warm the bones of this old druid.” He was actually smiling; the frown lines from all of his recent study had almost disappeared.

You BEAMED. “Well, I am very happy I could afford you such a treasure. You deserve it,” you slipped, beating down the growing shade of red in your cheeks. Change the subject. 

“Um, what are you studying now?” Averting your eyes to an open book on his desk. Everything was illuminated by two lanterns at either end of the tent’s wide entrance.

“Mmm,” he sighed, then took another long sip. Shifting the book so you could also see it, “It’s a book of lore regarding the Underdark. There are limited options based on true geographical knowledge; Gale and I have already picked those apart. What remains are ghost stories and fairytales. As we all know, though, even these tend to have a kernel of gold at their center.” He angled his eyes to you. “I hope to find it.”

Pretty sure your heart truly stopped beating for a second. 

“A—Ah, I see, hmm, that—that does make sense,” you nodded in earnest, knitting your brows now as you skimmed the page, gathering absolutely nothing. 

Either from the overstimulation of being so close to him and his gravely voice being directed at you under a candle lit tent canopy, or the gust of cold wind, you shivered. Halsin noticed.

“Ah! We can’t have our fearless little leader catch cold. Here,” he took a half-folded blanket from his cot. “This one should have the least amount of fur.” He shook it, trying to convince both of you that it was decently clean. “May I?”

“…Mm-hm.” You sounded like a mouse. 

The former Arch Druid, stood behind you, gently draping the thick woolen blanket on your shoulders. He tried, awkwardly, to make sure it was secure enough on you before a soft pat-pat on your shoulders. “There, that should help…You deserve it.” Another blush pricked at your face. Both the heavy blanket and his words kept you warmer than the campfire ever could, you were convinced.

You pulled it tighter around your neck and frame, realizing that My Gods, the bear druid had excellent taste in blankets. You realized, again, that you needed to breath. Inhaling, you smelled, sage, thyme, and, well, just him. 

You were going to find some excuse to keep this blanket. If it killed you. It was yours now.

It was then that you heard the silence from the campfire again. You couldn’t care less: you were warm, you had your tea, and you could finally, albeit awkwardly, keep a conversation with Halsin. 

Sometimes, life has it’s moments.

It was a moment later, you heard snarls.

[dmagedgoods]

4, 8, 13, 30 for Rowley please!

Ohhh thank you so much! 💕 4: If your Tav was a companion, where would they be found? Very early, after you collected Astarion and before you find Gale, in the wreckage of the Nautiloid, hiding in the shadows and playfully threatening the MC once they cross the area. 8: Who are they suspicious of? In the very beginning? Of Astarion more than anyone. But since Rowley falls in love with him fast, he doesn’t mind being suspicious of him, and the fact that he barely can believe a word he says for quite some time becomes painful instead of a concern for his own wellbeing. Aside from that? Rowley doesn’t trust fast in general but also doesn’t mind that distance. Everyone tends to be out for themselves, it's only natural. But at the same time, they are all in the tadpole mess together. He assumes no one in the camp will try to slit his throat (well, no one but Astarion and Lae’zel so far), and if he’s wrong about that? Well, they’ll have to overpower him first. 13: What are their thoughts on killing? Is it a necessary evil or do they enjoy it? Rowley is an assassin, he killed for a long, long time, since his late teenage years. Still, his thoughts and feelings about killing are more conflicting than one would suspect: It’s what he’s good at, sometimes he feels all his talents, all the things he has to offer at all only serve this one purpose: to take lives fast and efficiently. There hasn't been much of a choice in it when it started and not even a true question. He was able to kill, he found out early, and he wanted his brother safe, they needed the money and there only was one way to support his dreams and give him more than a life of constant fear and misery. Yes, there are moments when Rowley enjoys the killing. By now, he's free in it. Because of it. It places him out of reach. There is nothing that can limit his freedom as long as he kills without remorse. Furthermore, it comes with the satisfaction of a job well done, with the excitement of a challenge and a hunt when he is lucky, with the adrenaline that makes him feel alive instead of empty for a while, and – in personal cases – with a grim pleasure to make them pay. All of this is short-lived though and quickly replaced by cold once the deed is done. He struggles to see a purpose in life, but killing seems to take even further from glimpses of sense he spots. Over the years, he reached a point where he wanted to stop the killing altogether and use his skills for non-lethal missions instead. The death of his twin brother made him slip again, caused an abyss in him far worse than anything he felt before, and pulled him deeper into darkness and despair he tends to answer with a cold grin. But life is good for surprises, isn't it? Maybe he can find a new purpose. Maybe he already did. If he is brought to a point of caring, Rowley is able to do a lot of good without asking anything in return. If he is brought to a point of cold indifference and consumed by pain, he is able to commit atrocities (or simply destroy himself). I’m not yet sure where he’ll stand at the end of the game or if he'll stand at all. 30: What's your favorite thing about your Tav? My favorite thing about Rowley? The reckless strength and selfless, unconditional determination with which he protects those he loves. And also his admirable freedom to say and do whatever he wants. He doesn’t overthink people’s opinions about him unless it's someone he really cares about and even his dearest friends and loved ones aren't safe from his teasing or annoying behavior sometimes. Of course, he goes too far in it with those who aren’t close to him, says terrible things here and there just to trigger an interesting reaction or to put himself in the worst possible light (and portrays himself as even worse than he actually is), but aside from that and the rest of this ability? It has something uplifting, the thought of walking so unbothered and without anxiety.

[eye-of-yelough]

uhhh 22 23 24 for the ask game!!

yippeeee answering for aeryn and leo hawke because idk i’ve been missing him and i can do whatever i want‼️💥

do they sleep well at night?

lol. lmao. no. ironically, and very sadly, he probably sleeps the best around gortash. wether from gortash directly putting him under, or as an effect of gortash’s continuous drugging. like his body just unconsciously and “relaxes” around gort. 😬

like a baby. she can work himself to the bone for days on end but then as soon as he’s home he CONKS. OUT for 10 hours and then gets back up and does it all again

how would you describe their voice?

i think it fluctuates a little, either low and slow and deliberate or RAHH IM GONNA FUCKING KILL YOUAKFJSKKDFODGRIF as for the voice itself it’s uhh just Rough. gravelly and nasal. a little like Lae’zel actually? and of course chiana farscape is his voiceclaim, which has led to him having her accent in my head? which kinda american sounding for some reason despite the actress being Australian.

Loud. average butch woman voice (who’s definitely not forcing it to sound lower and more masc than it is, fuck you) kind of a gortash-esque voice now that i think about it ie clear and commanding. and almost permanently tinted with barely suppressed rage 🥰

do they have any creative hobbies? (art, writing, music, etc?)

hawke first for this one, he surprisingly loves fashion though you usually can’t tell just by looking at her. loves a trashy, gaudy display of wealth. makes her own sharp gold dentures/clawed gauntlets out of the melted down jewellery she gets at the Champion ceremony. uses them for reaver atrocities. other than that uhmmm. maybe poetry now that i think about it. yeah. my little (6’1 tank who drinks dragon blood) warrior poet <3 not good at it at all but that doesn’t stop him from trying :’)

aeryn would consider stitching and general wound tending to be a creative passion. the mercy killing part too. cooking together in complete silence and enjoying it is the only time gort and aeryn get close to domestic. (they mostly only do this cos gortash does Not like the idea of aeryn unattended in his kitchen) he also plays piano as well as dr gort, but not nearly as well. more dresden dolls style. he is not a bard and he doesn’t sing well but by god he won’t let that stop him.

i actually think a lot about aeryn and the music he’d make despite him not being a bard. best example i can come up with for his hypothetical style of music is this specific live performance of this song. (studio version ain’t shit) like, how haunting it is, the simplistic yet driving force of the piano, the incomprehensible lyrics, the way the singer sounds like singing is hurting him lol.

EDIT: MASK MAKING. how could i forget he MAKES MASKS

[mumms-the-word]

Together

Day 8 of the BG3 Fic February Challenge

Sometimes you just have to write poetic BS instead of romantic BS because you love all the companions equally and you don't have enough Tavs yet to share the love with all of them.

Wyll Ravengard is BG3's biggest hype man and you cannot convince me otherwise. No companion has so much faith in you as he does, though honestly Halsin, Karlach, and Lae'zel are close seconds. But Wyll? We all need a hype man best friend like Wyll to encourage us when we're feeling at our worst or against odds that feel impossible.

So anyway, have a Wyll appreciate post in the form of a half-decent fic

Check out my masterlist of BG3 fics here!

---

8. "It will be okay as long as we're together."

---

Invi was convinced that Wyll Ravengard was incapable of doubt, especially in his friends. Nearly every word out of his mouth, when the days were tough and the battles long, were words of encouragement and affirmation. He saw the best in all of them. There was no convincing him that they could achieve anything short of a perfect victory in every circumstance, so long as they stayed together.

She noticed it first when Gale revealed his condition to them. As they pondered and worried where they might find enough magical artifacts to sustain him, Wyll had shrugged. 

As long as we work together, it should be easy. It will be all right, Gale. Seven heads are better than one.

When Mizora had visited and transformed him, gifting him devil horns and a devil’s eye, Invi wanted to repay his kindness back to him. She had mentally rehearsed the words she would say to him, wanting to get them right, even though encouragement didn’t come first nature to her. But when she spoke to him, letting him vent his frustrations against Mizora and the injustice of his pact, he ended with a sigh and shook his head.

It will be okay. Truly. So long as we stay together. It’s good to know I have friends at my side when she comes back.

When Lae’zel fell to her knees at camp, her faith in Vlaakith well and truly broken, anger and despair raging in her eyes and in her words, it was Wyll that had roused her back to action. 

Come on, Lae’zel. You’re better than this. Remember, we’re stronger together. We’ll find the answers you seek and all will come to rights.

Invi couldn’t fathom how he did it. How he kept up such relentless optimism even in the face of dire circumstances. When the shadow-cursed lands threatened to swallow them whole, and her dark urges threatened to consume her body and mind and tempt her toward worse and worse atrocities, against innocents, against Isobel, against the man she loved, Wyll’s hand on her shoulder provided comfort and focus.

Trust us to take care of you, Invi. When your dark desires threaten to overwhelm you, tell us. It will all be okay in the end, if we stick together and help one another.

He’d said much the same when Shadowheart emerged, broken and hollow, from the Shadowfell, her entire life upended by her decision to spare the Nightsong and defy her goddess. As she was emerging from the dark fog, Aylin’s words of truth giving her clarity and purpose, Wyll had smiled at her and offered her a little toast with his glass.

See? Your truth is finally dawning, Shadowheart. It will be okay, so long as you’re with us. We’ll help you find the light.

Even Astarion, who normally brushed off Wyll’s words as empty fairy tale promises and pointless platitudes, paused to consider his words one night. He’d spent several minutes pacing, trying to plan his battle against Cazador but failing at every turn because he didn’t know what awaited inside the mansion. When he’d paced past Wyll, who sat lounging by the fireplace in the room, Wyll had finally had enough, standing to block his path.

Astarion, stop. It will be okay. What can Cazador do against the likes of us? Trust me, we can put an end to his evil together.

So confident. So sure. Invi and Astarion had exchanged dubious glances, but Wyll never wavered. To him, defeat was unthinkable. Not that he was afraid of defeat—he just didn’t consider it as a possible outcome at all. Iniv wished she had his confidence. She wished she had his conviction.

The day Mizora offered up his father’s life in exchange for breaking the pact and Wyll agreed, Invi finally found the chance to give him comfort. She wrapped her arms around him the next morning, hugging him close, and spoke with all the conviction she could muster.

It will be okay, Wyll. As long as you’re with us, one day, I promise, you will be okay.

He had returned her hug easily and thanked her. When he pulled away, she saw the lingering sadness in his expression, felt his touch linger on her shoulder a moment too long before he collected himself. She remembered a moment, weeks ago, in a shadowed glade, when she had caught him dancing. He’d turned, surprised, and then offered her his hand with a smile and a bow.

Trust me. I can teach you. It will be okay. We can get through the steps together.

In another life, she thought to herself, one where she was normal, natural-born, not the spawn of a literal evil god and not plagued with desires to murder and mutilate…in another life, she might have taken his hand. She might have let him show her the steps to the dance, let him twirl her around, let him bring her close for a kiss. 

But this was not that life. So all she could do was shake her head and turn away before she could see his disappointment. 

She knew she had made the right decision, though, when they found themselves kneeling on the docks in Baldur’s Gate, hands reaching out for Karlach as the flames erupted from her body. Invi was frozen, unsure what to do, her mind screaming for her to tell Karlach to run to Avernus but her tongue dead in her mouth. It was Wyll, always Wyll, who gave voice to her silent plea. 

Come with me, Karlach. I’ll make sure Zariel will never touch you. Come with me to Avernus. Come with me and live!

Karlach had stared up at him through the flames enveloping her body, her hand clutched over her heart, wavering on the edge of doubt and trust. She had seconds to decide, but Wyll’s gaze on her was steadfast and full of faith. In her, in him, in their ability to defy the odds, even in the depths of the Hells themselves. What choice did she have but to relent under the force of his irrepressible optimism? 

Karlach, I swear. It will be okay as long as we’re together.

Those were the last words that Invi heard from him before they disappeared into the portal to the hells. Though Invi had struggled to believe him a hundred times before, she had no doubts now. As the portal closed behind them, preventing her and anyone else from following after, she took comfort in what she knew now to be fact, not speculation or hope. 

They would be okay as long as they were together.

[fagdykefriendship]

i know it’s underdeveloped but mintharas romance made me kick my feet and giggle despite the atrocities i committed to get to it. omg she says “i am yours” every time you ask to kiss her. playing right into my posssessive hands… my durge being a tall drow woman and minthara being shorter is also so good. the camp party scene? best one imo (tbf i haven’t done them all. just shadowhearts full romance, the first scenes for lae’zel and astarion and wylls silly little dance <3) hot drow lady is hot. and evil playthrough is interesting just to see what happens

[abyssmarked]

i thought it might be fun to write out my headcanon dynamics for neph and the companions in her party ( this is solely based on my playthrough and doesn’t necessarily reflect how neph feels about any of these muses in threads i might have with anyone, and neph’s feelings about companions also don’t reflect MY personal feelings of said characters, i promise i actually really like gale. ).

astarion ; nepharia started manipulating him from the beginning, very quickly picking up on the fact that he was doing the exact same thing to her. after each of them realized that the other was being disingenuous, and only using the other, desperately seeking someone they could trust in these stressful and dire times— an actual bond began to form. a trauma bond, mostly, opening up about their time as slaves to people more powerful than them. nepharia encouraged his hunger for power, just as he did her — they were partners, but ultimately realized they needed a friend more than a lover in the other. eventually, she helps him ascend.

shadowheart ; the cleric’s secrecy and incredibly reserved demeanor bothered nepharia none, because she didn’t want to talk about herself either. she didn’t want to reveal to anyone the true nature of what she was, lest they not trust her, or worse, leave her alone to deal with everything by herself. she respected shadowheart’s privacy, and never pushed for information that wasn’t willingly given. now with shadowheart, though— nepharia convinces her not kill the nightsong, not because she didn’t want to see shadowheart get the things she wanted, but because she knew that their next battles would be far more difficult without a powerful demigod on their side. neph even helped save her parents. :’) i like to think these two are close.

lae’zel ; the way lae’zel would compliment neph’s brutality in battle is what made this demon really like lae’zel. having lae’zel in combat was always such great motivation. and scary devil though neph may be, she knew better than to get on lae’zel’s bad side. did she think she stood a chance in a fight against her? honestly, it’s a 50 / 50 in the succubus’ mind, but only if she was in her true form. out of it, she stood less of a chance.

minthara ; as much as nepharia loves dabbling in her fair share of vicious and brutal bloodshed, releasing those atrocities on innocent refugees certainly wasn’t the succubus’ idea of a fun time. but it was the safer choice, better than going up against the entire goblin camp and risk blowing her cover as an unsuspecting tiefling, or worse, dying. she doesn’t reciprocate minthara’s advances at camp that evening, and not because she didn’t find minthara— intriguing, something about her immediately made nepharia curious. what was a woman who wields so much power and authority in the sound of her voice alone doing with a charge of… goblins? and why attack meaningless, minuscule tieflings, when she seemed so very capable of so much more than that? nothing about it seemed right, but nevertheless, the image of dead tiefling children etched into her mind was enough to kill any sensual mood, even for a succubus. it’s not until they meet again at moonrise towers, when nepharia smells the sheer terror and helplessness coming from the drow, that the devil for the first time empathizes with minthara. she’s known that fear, that helplessness. minthara becomes neph’s biggest motivator in every sense of the word, and encourages her to take control of her life again— she gives neph that fire back, that absolutely unhinged, feral drive that she lost long ago.

gale ; neph honestly almost didn’t pull him out of that portal as soon as she heard his voice, and then when she did, and he didn’t. stop. talking. she wanted to shove him back in. she resisted the urge for a very long time in the beginning to seduce and kill this man, the only thing really stopping her was the orb in his chest, not knowing whether or not it would kill them all off if she did. she found him unbearably sad and pathetic, but eventually— he does grow on her, as much as she’s annoyed by it, and she might not ever admit it. but he hated her guts for a while as well, especially after the grove raid…

karlach & wyll left the party. :’)))))

[ripley95bg3]

My Tomorrow into Eternity - Chapter 10

Pairing: Wyll Ravengard/f!Tav

Rating: Mature

Story Summary:

The threat to Baldur’s Gate is looming when Tav makes a discovery that changes everything. She must fight for her city, fight for her people and fight for herself in order to earn her happy ending.

Link to Chapter 1 on AO3

-

Tav and Karlach made their way through the city streets again. Along the way, they helped where they could while searching for the rest of their party. The walk around was much easier without the additional forty pounds of armour to lug around, and it helped that she had an apple to eat casually along the way to give her a little more energy.

Even after going around most of the city, their companions were nowhere to be seen. The thought had occurred to her that perhaps they were all circling each other, but she didn’t know what else to do with no formal meeting location. Until she caught a glimpse of Yenna’s characteristic red hair near the docks. She grabbed onto Karlach’s arm to get her attention.

“Yenna?!”

The small girl turned at her name, Grub securely in her arms. A large, bright smile spread across her face. Tav and Karlach both ran in her direction. As they got closer, they saw the others. Astarion, Halsin, Gale, Shadowheart, Lae’Zel, Jaheira and Minsc, along with Boo and Scratch. When they got closer, Karlach was the first one to hug Yenna. It gave Tav a better chance to look at the group. Everyone except Wyll. Her heart sank at the revelation. Where was he?

“Tav!” Yenna said, excitedly.

Tav turned to her with a smile. As distressing as it was that Wyll wasn’t here, there was still something good to focus on. Tav knelt down to be on Yenna’s level and opened her arms. Yenna hugged her tightly, and Tav reciprocated, rubbing Yenna’s back comfortingly. After some time passed, she finally pulled out of the hug to take stock of Yenna’s condition. Her face and clothes were dirty, but then, who of their group couldn’t say the same? She looked otherwise quite healthy and uninjured.

“Are you hurt?”

Yenna shook her head proudly. “No. We found a safe place in the sewers. Part of it collapsed, but I was small enough to crawl through.”

Tav looked at her proudly, even if her heart hurt thinking of it. This poor, sweet girl was all alone through all that. “What did I tell you? Strong and resourceful. I expected nothing less.” She meant what she said, of course, but it wasn’t lost on her that Yenna may have seen some atrocities. Something she would no doubt need to monitor and ensure she was alright.

Yenna looked at her with a bright and genuine smile. For now, Tav would take that as a good sign. She was happy and relieved to be back with her people, and they’d all be dealing with the trauma of it for the rest of their lives. She just hoped being there for Yenna along her journey with it would be enough.

Tav gave her one last smile as she stood. She put her hand on Yenna’s chin, pulling her gaze up. “I’m so happy you’re okay.”

“Me, too,” Yenna said with a bright smile.

The rest of their group encroached around them, all with smiles on their faces. They all fought hard to see this reality, and she was glad they made it.

Read the rest on AO3

[beeftony]

No but really it’s interesting to me that like 90% of the BG3 posts I see on here are some variation on people woobifying Gale or Astarion and talking about the abuse they suffered (I get that grooming is something that doesn’t get taken as seriously esp with male victims but some of you are making it sound like Gale had way less agency than he did), and hardly anyone brings up the way that trauma also shaped characters like Lae’zel just because she’s mean to them at the beginning and is seemingly on board with all the atrocities she was made to carry out.

There actually is a really interesting parallel between the way Lae’zel still clings to her faith in Vlaakith well after the point where her goddess betrayed her, in much the same way that Gale is a Mystra apologist for almost his entire story arc, almost like the ways that people deal with trauma and abuse are a major theme of this game, but I don’t see anyone bringing that up. I’m sure misogyny has nothing to do with this

[musezieren]

Oh, this was a mistake. A horrible one... he probably should just have asked Astarion to break in and get that damn book, too. But no, he had tried to act like an honorable teacher of the best magic academy... he would not do that again.

“I just thought you forgot to read, considering that you do nothing with all the knowledge you hoard!” a shrug, and arms crossed loosely in front of the archmage’s chest.

What was a make-belief-king to a man that had made love to a Goddess? Then disappointed her and then befriended her again to become her Chosen once more. Not much, but a mortal fool.

For a second, he imagined to just punch the man. As gratifying as magic was, that’d most likely be even more fun... maybe he’d ask Lae’zel for some punching training... or visit hell to ask Karlach. Was it worth to travel planes just to learn how to punch a smug wizard? In that very moment, it felt like an actual genius plan.

“The second part of Khelben Arunsun’s Beauty of Illusions. My students actually enjoyed the first part. And it is an ATROCITY that a book of the Blackstaff is not at his own academy in the first place...” Gale was about to go into a long tirade about why and how. But actually shut his mouth instead.

“We, of course, would offer some other book as a trade offer... I might even open up my personal library...” the last sentence was spoken with a face like he had bitten into an especially sour lemon.

“I have a few ones of Elminster... with personal notes by him...”

Lorroakan took his time before acknowledging him, meticulously jotting down some notes with his quill ; he then allowed the ink to set for a moment, closed the book and neatly set it aside.

Then, finally, he looked at the oher wizard —— as though Gale was a mere peasant who was kindly granted an audience with a 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆. Lorroakan gestured for Gale to have a seat before his desk, his smile faux polite.

"20 letters, you say? My apologies, I must have missed your desperate attempts to get my attention amidst the more pressing matters of my day," he drawled. Taunting. Arrogant.

This was clearly very gratifying for him.

"One might assume that even the densest individual could understand my silence as a 'no,' but perhaps in Waterdeep, customs differ."

He paused, reclining in his chair ( truly, he sat there as if it were a THRONE ) and made a dismissive wave with his hand.

"However, I couldn't possibly send the illustrious Gale Dekarios away empty-handed, considering his efforts to come and see me." His tone was oh so benevolent and laced with smug self-satisfaction. "Which book was it you needed again~?"