#Lump the Gnoll

[goopsnoot]

who DID all showed up to the dump wedding ?

Those who showed up to the Dark Urge and Lump the Enlightened's wedding would be Auntie Ethel, who brought the gnarly cauldron from her lair to the wedding buffet, anyones Tav's who were okay with the possibility of the buffet being completely made up of people, and some of Lump's side of the family; I'm thinking his mother, and can't forget about Chock and Fank! 

Then there's Sceleritas, who very much perished 10s of times after the vows were exchanged. So about the companions... to put it short, the story in my head is that the Dark Urge's urge got rid of all his companions in his sleep in Act 1. Ate Gale's bitter hand too from his compulsions, so no origin companions would've attended, rip 🙏

I sketched the wedding buffet some time ago, and Sceleritas is there by Auntie Ethel’s cauldron in the 'after' sketch:

Maybe Gnolls would’ve been invited too, as they seem like they'd bring the type of chaotic energy that Durge and Lump would like for their wedding!

Durge and Lump would probably invite potential food to their wedding so they can have a fun hunting and bonding activity after feasting at the buffet😁 (and these guests wouldn’t know it until it’s too late lmao).

Most of the Dark Urge's relatives are either dead, a god that wouldn't show up physically (but kept up to date with how it’s going through Sceleritas), or out to get him and beneath him, so I don't really see people from his side showing up!

[randomwriting-misc]

See How It Shines

Astarion has a plan, a practical, life-saving scheme. He doesn't need the realization that the druid traveling with him is unlike anyone he has met before. In which Astarion has feelings for the first time Inspired by Hozier's Abstract (Psychopomp) Astarion x Drow Druid!Tav 935 words I headcanon her as a circle of stars even though that is not available in BG3

TW: Animal Death, slight, tiny tiny Act I spoilers

“What are you doing?” Gale shouts as they watch their party Druid gasp and run towards the sound of an animal yipping. She doesn’t answer as she moves with a speed Astarion has only seen in the heat of battle. They all pick up the pace to follow behind but are stopped in their tracks by the troubling image in front of them.

Astarion watches her lean down over the creature, the scent of blood and gore thick in the heated air. It’s overwhelming to his senses as he holds back a gag at the putrid scene, but it doesn’t seem to even register to the Drow. The hyena was panting, eyes wide and frantic looking at her in confusion. She shushes the animal, and with a calming voice, begins to speak.

What is she doing? Is she crazy? He knew teaming up with a Druid would come back to bite him, no matter how easy it was to work his charms on nature lovers with their heads in the cloud.

“It’s okay darling, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay,” she coos, slowly petting its head. The tell-tale tingle of magic surrounds him as he sees a soft glow emitting from her palm, and the tension in the animal's body releases as it leans its snout into her hand. It finally hits Astarion, the realization of what is occurring here, the smell, the blood, and the carnage. Gnolls had savaged their way through what looked to be a caravan of merchants.

“We need to leave! Gnolls could be around any corner,” he hisses, his fellow companions sucking in a sharp breath of air, but the little Druid makes no move to leave. Instead, she holds her hand up, as if to signal them all to stop. He doesn’t know when she became such a force within the group, but her presence was commanding, and everyone froze.

Never in a thousand lifetimes could Astarion predict the actions of the odd elf next. She sat on the blood-soaked ground, unfazed, as she rests the creatures head in her lap. It’s gentle, so gentle that Astarion can’t remember a time he’s seen something cared for so delicately. Then, the Druid starts to hum. It’s an unfamiliar tune, probably something from the Underdark. It’s whimsical and a little haunting in its cadence.

Astarion realizes he has been holding his breath, a lump forming in his throat. He would have killed the creature. A gnoll ripping out from its body would have been a gruesome nuisance. It would have been a mercy. He’s never seen mercy like this, comforting, safe, and so incredibly sad. Why is he suddenly so overwhelmed with his own sadness? Why is she treating such a disturbing creature with such… compassion?

She continues to pet the wounded animal, its fate sealed long before the party stumbled upon the scene. Its eyes are closed, breathing soft and even as she continues to hum. He notices her eyes are closed now too, with a furrowed brow and slightly scrunched nose as she sways back and forth, rocking the animal to its final sleep.

All the companions are still, watching something so intimate feels like an intrusion. It’s as if the Druid is saying goodbye to her familiar, not a random hyena found on the side of the road moments before.

Astarion notices things about her he’s only noticed in passing before, but it’s as if he is really seeing her for the first time. Her hair, he thought it was black, but he can see where the sun hits her that it’s a deep blue. It’s falls down her back in loose waves, swaying back and forth with her movement. She has freckles forming on her shoulders and across her nose and cheekbones, unusual for a Drow, but emphasizing the time she has spent in the sun, potentially hurting herself in her goal of helping others. Her skin, pale and scarred, looks soft and smooth under his gaze. He thought it was strange a Drow could be as white as him, but she’s not. Her skin is a pale purple.

She is graceful. She’s beautiful.

Astarion hasn’t found anything beautiful in quite a long time. He doesn’t know what to do with these emotions, how to keep playing this flirtatious game of manipulation. Was it even working? Were the soft smiles he read as bashful really just her placating his advances? Druids are wise, despite their carefree lifestyle, he had forgotten that it seems.

A tear falls down her face as the hyena takes its final breath, slow and soft, before going limp in her arms.

“May Eilistraee guide you to peace,” she whispers, a tear falling off her cheek to the animal. Taking a moment, she lays its head down, and flowers appear around the body. Standing, she sniffs, before rolling her shoulders back and standing straight. Her gaze hardens as she reaches for the weapon her side.

“Let’s go deal with these creatures before they take any more lives.”

Her demeanor has shifted completely, her once kind eyes now set on vengeance. Revenge. Standing up to fix the unbalance created here, to bring justice to these animals who cannot do it themselves.

Astarion thinks he would follow her anywhere.

The thought is quickly shaken away with a feeling of dread in his gut, no. He has too much going on, avoid Cazador, avoid growing tentacles, and gain unprecedented power. There’s no room for a kindhearted druid with stars in her shining purple eyes to distract him.

When did he notice the color of her eyes?

[sorceresssundries]

A Battle of Wits

Summary: As an arrogant wizard and a jaded cleric set out to find a suitable campsite, tensions rise between them. Tav finds herself wrestling with Gale's shadowed past, as well as other feelings which are starting to make themselves known...

Word count: 3,4k

Notes: SFW. Felt the need to write a one-shot which featured a more arrogant version of Gale than in my longer fic.

It had been two days since Gale had disclosed his dark secret, and Tav had decided she preferred the enigmatic stranger to the apparent ‘open-book’ he had turned into. Now that everything was clearly laid out, it was as though the flood banks had burst  and the constant stream of references to being Mystra’s chosen were wearing Tav thinner by the hour. 

The two of them had been tasked with finding an appropriate location for their merry band to set up camp, as last time Astarion had lumped them alarmingly close to a pack of Gnolls. His scouting privileges had since been rescinded, and instead he had been demoted to foraging duty with Wyll -  to the vampire’s loud and dramatic disappointment. This left Tav to navigate the nearby woodland alongside the insufferable wizard to try and find a suitable resting spot.

“There was this one particularly riveting occasion, where Mystra twisted the weave into an exceptionally elaborate piece of magic which allowed me to pleasure…

"I'm going to stop you right there," Tav declared, halting in her tracks and fixing Gale with a stern gaze. She folded her arms across her chest, her expression blazing with disapproval. "I do not want to hear any more disturbing stories about you and your... mother of all magic," she emphasised, her tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. She couldn't bear to entertain any more of his unsettling anecdotes.

"Envy is a predictable response from a devoted cleric such as yourself," he continued, his tone dripping with condescension. His casual demeanour contradicted the gravity of his situation, an arrogance unbefitting someone carrying a self-assembled bomb in their chest. "But I wouldn't expect you to grasp the complexity and intensity of our relationship."

“Listen wizard” Tav retorted “I serve with appropriate devotion. I am not blighted with the arrogance of believing I should be entangled with the deity who decides my fate and guides my hand” 

He laughed in a pitying kind of way which made her want to rip out his stupid little earring. “She was more than my deity, she was my lover.”

“There is no ‘more’ than a deity.” Tav sighed in frustration, determined to end the conversation and talk of it no longer. Gale was a man lost. She was bound on a journey with a vampire, a Sharran amnesiac, an extinguishing barbarian, a tortured Warlock, and Lae’zel - who quite frankly was a breath of fresh, albeit sharp, air compared to the others. 

Gale was the biggest challenge of them all. At least Astarion, the vampire spawn, was transparent in his values, a quality Tav could begrudgingly respect. Self-serving, untrusting, and manipulative, Astarion possessed qualities Tav, with her decades of clerical service to the downtrodden, could navigate. She had faced the darkest corners of humanity, offering healing and support to the most burdened and jaded souls society had cast aside. Dealing with Astarion was familiar territory.

Gale was… complex at best and a dangerous hypocrite at worst. While he professed a deep-seated value for kindness and the safeguarding of the vulnerable, his path was often clouded by impulsive decisions and an overbearing sense of self-importance. In him, Tav glimpsed the flicker of greatness which he seemed determined to extinguish. He could be a beacon of light, if only he wasn’t obscured by the fog of his self-delusion.

"I could delve into exquisite detail about the intricacies of our romantic entanglement, but I wouldn't want to overstimulate your senses," Gale's smug smile returned, his tone dripping with self-satisfaction. "So, I'll leave it to your somewhat limited imagination, shall I?"

Tav tilted her head ever so slightly, a gesture laden with subtle disdain, and let out a dramatic exhale. “Yes, what an arousing thought. One of countless wizards plucked and discarded by Mystra. A drop in an infinite ocean. How impressive you must have been.”

Gale's pride remained unshaken "I was quite impressive, actually. In various aspects. The youngest chosen in a century..." he bragged, his blind arrogance failing to grasp the heavy undertone of exploitation in his admission. It made Tav feel sick. “That was before I was cast aside and abandoned, obviously.”

“Tough was it? Moping around on your sunlit balcony in the city of splendours, caged in a luxurious prison of your own making?” Her mind wandered back to her days in the lower city of Baldur's Gate, where poverty was an ever-present spectre. There, her sanctuary had been anything but opulent—a humble cleric's tent nestled in the harbour, among the downtrodden and destitute.

While others struggled in the comforts of their gilded towers, Tav laboured tirelessly amidst the suffering and hardship of the masses. Her hands, calloused from endless toil, offered solace where there was none. Exhaustion had been her constant companion, born of the ceaseless tide of poverty that swept daily into her little tent. Some she could aid, yes, with her limited skills and the grace bestowed upon her. Yet, for many, the damage ran deeper than flesh wounds, and her healing incantations were mere whispers against the roar of their suffering.

How vividly she remembered those penniless urchins, the spark in their eyes smothered by the weight of their burdens. She recalled the heart-wrenching sight of a child slipping away in the grasp of a grieving mother unwilling to let go. In that moment, she was not just a healer, but a bearer of sorrow, tasked with the duty of ushering a fragile soul into the afterlife.

As Gale raised his finger, poised to deliver what Tav anticipated would be yet another vexing remark, the murmur of voices drifted toward them. With swift determination, Gale ushered her behind the shelter of a nearby tree, their bodies pressed close to conceal themselves from prying eyes. His back against the rough bark, he drew her against him to minimise their silhouette against the midday sun.

Tav couldn't stifle her yelp as she found herself with Gale’s arm around her waist. His hand swiftly covered her mouth, preventing any further noise she might have made, eliciting from her a muffled protest that manifested as a defiant 'hmph'. Gale couldn't help but give a low chuckle at her discomfort.

Tav tried to focus on what the approaching voices were saying, but her thoughts were muddied by how soft the skin of his hand was against her lips. This spoiled magician had obviously never done a hard day's labour in his life, everything about him seemed to get her riled up. What a frustrating, arrogant, soft, lavender scented…

She lost her train of thought as the voices became clearer.

“...hidden it away from camp. Don’t fink she trusts the others not to fuck about with it.”

“I don’t even know why we shittin’ bothered. It’s just a bit of wood shaped like an old man. Betcha couldn’t even bash someone over the head with it.” 

“It’s not for bashing, you mush-minded lump. It’s for fuckin’ with the druids. Those animal-wankers will be all over the place with their precious idol gone. And now Mistress Minthara knows where the grove is, it will be easier to kill ‘em all. I can’t wait to tell her.”

“She won’t fuck you, you know. She’s some kind of Drow princess, and you smell like shit.” 

Gale’s breathing had quickened at Tav’s ear, surely he wasn’t scared of a couple of Goblins? 

So, the Drow had figured out the location of the grove. It was inevitable really, Goblin search parties had been increasing by the day and with the added pressure of the Tiefling refugees, the sanctuary of the glade was becoming more and more difficult to keep hidden.

"We need to question them," With a deft flex of her tadpole connection, Tav probed her thoughts into Gale's. Each time she delved into his mind, it felt oddly intimate, a sensation amplified by their current proximity—her back pressed against his chest, his hand firmly covering her mouth.

“Ok, let me - i’m much more capable at the art of negotiation than…”

“No. I'll do it. You’ll just piss them off.” 

His hand dropped from Tav’s mouth, and she turned to glare at him. His pupils were wide, and breathing still heavy. His eyes seemed to flicker over her face and settled for a brief moment on her lips. The close contact and the heat of the day must have been addled her brain, she thought to herself.

Quickly and quietly she rummaged through her backpack, and pulled out a leather dog collar and a bunch of rope the group had found earlier. Tav had been saving it for Scratch, but she was very much going to enjoy putting it to a different use. 

“Put this on.” 

“Excuse me?” Gale held the collar up to study and his distaste was clear in her mind “I am an infamous, educated, revered…”

“You’re a whiny prick. Now put it on.” 

He grumbled intelligibly to himself as he fiddled with the strap around his neck. The leather pressed tightly around his tanned skin, and the small silver tag sat pretty in the hollow of his throat. Tav made a small sound of smug satisfaction at the sight of him, and the silver tag bobbed tellingly in response. She then bound his hands with the rope, and tightened it just a little more than was necessary. She was surprised that didn’t complain, the only noise between the two of them were his increasingly heavy breaths. He must be nervous, Tav thought.

It only took a couple of seconds for Tav to cast a quick spell to change her appearance to that of a dark-skinned under-elf, and Gale quickly picked up on her plan.

“Oh for the love of…” he exclaimed out loud.

“Who’s there, show yourself!” The slightly larger Goblin pointed its spear in their direction, and Tav took pleasure in pushing Gale out from their hiding place, before she swaggered out behind him.

“Oh! A drow! In the sunlight?” The Goblins looked at each other in confusion, surely only a True Soul could bear to be in this blistering daylight without any discomfort?

“And here I was thinking Goblin heads are just full of flies.” Tav sneered at the two of them.

“Why were you ‘iding behind that tree?” The Goblin did not lower its spear.

“Ah, there’s that tell-tale buzzing noise of gnats in an empty skull, or maybe it’s just because of your pungent scent.” Tav’s voice dripped with as much venom as she could muster, and Gale did his best not to turn his head to glare at her. “I was not hiding. I was allowing my recently-caught slave to grant me pleasure. It’s a warm day and I needed him to lick the sweat off me.” At those words, Gale seemed to shift a little on his feet. Tav revelled in the fact she was making him uncomfortable. 

"I've been sent by Minthara to check up on you. She said you useless cretins were taking longer than expected. She does not like to be kept waiting." Tav took a leaf out of Gale's book and tried her best to mimic the arrogant lilt that brushed his voice when he talked about being Mystra's chosen. 

“Oh.. do not fear your excellency, your loveliness, your dark majesty… we have completed our task! We buried the idol good and proper…” The Goblin bowed low in deference. 

“You buried it?! Out in the wilderness, where there are Gnolls and other wild animals clawing around for scraps?” 

“We are good at burying fings! Bozza here buried her whole family last week.” 

“That’s awful..” Gale’s reaction was instinctive, and Tav gave him a sharp shove in the back as a punishment. 

“Not really, I was the one what killed ‘em”, Bozza shrugs.

“Oh..”

“Silence, pet.” Tav pressed her foot to the back of one of Gale’s knees, causing him to drop to the ground. “You speak when I allow it.” 

Gale grimaced, he was going to be unbearable after this. 

“Good boy.” Tav purred. She could swear she noticed him shudder slightly at her words. Excellent, maybe this would knock him down a peg or two. 

Before Tav could delve further into her interrogation of the goblins, a sudden thwack cut through the air, and a well-aimed arrow found its mark, striking Bozza squarely in the forehead and snuffing her out in an instant. Startled, Tav barely had time to react before two more arrows whistled through the air. One found its mark through the second goblin's eye socket, while the other veered slightly off course, embedding itself in Tav's shoulder with searing pain.

"Fuck!" Tav exclaimed, the agony of the arrowhead piercing her flesh causing her concentration to falter, her disguise fading back to her usual appearance as she crumpled to the ground.

"Shit!" A familiar voice rang out from the nearby bushes, and Astarion and Lae'zel emerged, rushing to their aid.

"We thought Gale had been captured," Astarion explained hastily.

Gale, exasperated, raised his bound hands in frustration. "I am an exceptionally competent wizard! My knees may be a tad on the creaky side, but I can assure you I am more than capable of locating a suitable campsite without getting captured by a couple of goblins and a drow!"

“Yes, of course darling.” Astarion sneered “And that leather collar suits you quite well. A true mark of competent wizardry, wouldn't you say?" His laughter punctuated the jab as he deftly freed Gale from his bindings.

Tav's pained groan cut through their bickering, drawing their attention back to her.

"Tav requires healing, oh competent wizard," Lae'zel interjected, her voice carrying a hint of impatience. "She is fortunate it was the vampire's arrow that struck her. One of mine would have spelled her end.”

“That was your arrow!” Astarion argued.

“Chh’k” Laezel stowed her bow away and counted her remaining arrows. “Your many years have made your brain slow and your aim weak, blood-sucker. It cannot be helped. “ 

"Guys!" Tav's urgent interruption finally broke through their squabbling, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand.

“Go on then, chosen one. Do your thing.” Astarion waved his hand dismissively as he started rooting around the dead Goblins to see what goodies he could find. He started removing a pair of boots as Gale knelt by Tav’s side to examine the injury. 

“Healing magic isn’t my forte” he admitted a little sheepishly.

“Of course it isn’t” Tav panted between strained breaths. Her vision was blurring as the pain began to overcome her senses. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” His voice was coloured with offence.

“A wizard naturally blessed with control of the weave, an archmage, the chosen of the Goddess of Magic herself, and yet you never devoted any real time or effort into learning how to heal people? Why am I not surprised.”

He did not respond, just furrowed his brow as he looked through his pack to find any healing potions. 

There was another rustle from the bushes, and just as Lae’zel drew back the string of her bow for another shot, Scratch appeared wagging his tail - paws dirty from digging, and with the Idol of Silvanus clutched in his jaw. 

“I fucking love this dog.” Tav exclaimed through her pain-gritted teeth. “Good boy, Scratch.”

“Do not give that to the wizard, hound” Lae’zel commanded. “He will only eat it”

Gale dropped his attention in indignation. “Firstly Lae’zel, I do not eat magical items, I absorb the stands of the weave residing within them to sate the arcane hunger of the voracious orb which resides in my chest. Secondly, I would not dare to drain away the magic of something so significant! The trinkets that have been offered so far are more than enough to… “

Pain made the anger which suddenly coursed through Tav burn hotter. “That trinket we gave you was from one of the Tiefling refugees, who soon will be out in the wilderness with barely two coins to rub together!” she snapped, and Gale at least has the decency to redden slightly. 

“So, listen to me, former arch-wizard - everything we have is hard-won. A magical locket that was a gift from a family for saving the life of their child has now been sacrificed upon a dark altar of your own making. And it was just as significant to them, as that religious idol is to the druids.” 

“I did not mean…”

But Tav did not get to hear the end of his protest, pain and blood loss overtook her, and the last thing she remembered was the feeling of being slung over a lavender-scented shoulder before drifting away into unconsciousness. 

Tav awoke much later, the setting sun casting a soft pink glow over the Emerald Grove. The air had cooled, and the crickets began to sing their evening song. A bandage snugly covered her shoulder, and her arm was secured in a tight sling. She found herself laid out on a bedroll in the central circle of the Grove, where the Idol of Silvanus sat back in its rightful place, bathed in the fading light.

“Do not fear, all is well.” Lae’zel was sat on the ground next to her, deep in concentration sharpening a dagger. “The Idol has been returned, and the druids warned. In the morning, we must waste no more time in eradicating the goblin threat.”

Tav nodded in agreement, pain still thrumming steadily in her shoulder and head woozy from the potions she had been given. 

"You've just missed Gale explaining the intricacies of the Astral plane to me," Lae'zel said through gritted teeth.

"Oh," Tav replied, her confusion evident. Partly at how that conversation must have started, but mainly at how Gale wasn't lying dismembered at her feet. "The place where you grew up and your entire race is based?"

"Yes," Lae'zel hissed as she stalked off to practice her sparring technique, no doubt with Gale's face at the forefront of her mind as she brandished her sharpened blade with warrior's devotion.

Tav eventually stood up, still feeling lightheaded but strong enough to stretch her muscles and go in search of something to eat. As she approached a simmering cookpot, she noticed Arabella the Tiefling girl sneaking around with something behind her back.

"What's that you've got there, little one?" Tav inquired, her voice gentle as she approached the child.

"Boots that make you move faster!! Aren't they cool!" Arabella's eyes sparkled with excitement as she proudly displayed the pair of boots in her hands. "The handsom—uh, I mean the wizard gave them to me to give to my parents! He told me to tell them I found them in that abandoned Harpy nest."

Tav couldn't help but smile at Arabella's enthusiasm, her heart warming at the sight of the girl's joy. Yet, Arabella's grin faltered as realisation dawned upon her. "Oh! I don't think I was meant to tell you he gave them to me either", she admitted, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Don't worry, your secret is safe with me," Tav assured her, placing a comforting hand on Arabella's shoulder.

Arabella dashed off to reunite with her parents, her excitement contagious as she handed over the prized boots. Tav watched with a tenderness as Arabella's mother erupted into laughter, her husband joining in as they struggled to fit the boots over her legs.

Tav scanned the room, and saw Gale sat amidst a small gathering of wide-eyed Tiefling children, his presence commanding their undivided attention. In his outstretched palm, a small purple dragon breathed delicate sparks before flitting around the heads of the mesmerised youngsters, eliciting giggles and applause. Tav smiled at the heartwarming sight, her heart softening as she watched Gale perform for the small, awestruck faces.

As the scene unfolded, one of Mol's gang approached from behind, their intentions less than noble as they deftly detached Gale's coin purse from his robes, swiftly pocketing their ill-gotten gains. Tav tensed, ready to intervene and reclaim what was rightfully Gale's, but before she could make a move, something unexpected happened.

Behind Gale's back, a subtle wave of his hand went unnoticed by the children, yet Tav caught the faint glimmer of magic. In an instant, the purloined purse reappeared in Gale's grasp, his smile warm and genuine as he met Tav's gaze with a knowing look. A subtle wink followed, and Tav couldn't help but burst into laughter, her heart light and fluttering.

Perhaps there was hope for him yet.

[queen-scribbles]

Bro was free to play today, so Tala and Bottlen rode again! With two major changes: Bro was having trouble making Bottlen's backstory fit with being a Ranger, so he respecc'ed into Paladin(of Lathander), Oath of Devotion/War Cleric Tala's first convert and gave him a makeover

I guess being a Ranger was his only excuse for being all scraggly? Anyway, he cleans up nice, and now has roughly the same charisma as Tala, so they're sharing diplomacy duty instead of it all being on her. xD

We still didn't make it to the goblin camp, so still no Halsin, but we dealt with the group after Karlach and then Auntie Ethel, and I got to hear my brother go "Okay, we're gonna do something that's a really bad idea" followed by our whole group using Protection from Good and Evil scrolls to wear the whispering masks. :D Bc that was the only safe-ish way to get through all the noxious fumes in the lower part of Ethel's hideout. So Gale failed the save once or twice. It was fine. We're all fine. And we saved Mayrina. (I had Create Water swapped in, so that was a help)

Also killed the ogres in the ruined village, so RIP Lump the Enlightened, Tala looks v pretty in your headband

The one hilarious part is Bottlen now wields a greatsword that I'm pretty sure is literally twice his height

It clips into the ground when it's on his back, it's amazing. Maybe next weekend we'll do the gnolls and/or goblin camp? or maybe more sidequesting? Stay tuned.

[tabitha42]

The Wizard's Apprentice - Chapter 8

Saffron is just a lowly apprentice with barely a successful firebolt to her name. So what chance does she have with the arch mage she's slowly falling in love with?

Gale x Tav, slow burn, eventual smut

Chapter 1 Previous chapter Next chapter

For a moment neither of them moved as the creature’s call echoed in the air around them, dangerous, threatening, and getting closer.

Quickly Gale ran to his tent and grabbed the quarterstaff he’d got from the grove. Saff followed behind him but stayed back as he instructed her to. He stood in front of her protectively, watching the trees as the noise grew closer and closer…

Suddenly it came, faster than anything, a four-legged monstrosity charging towards them. Gale barely had time to react before the gnoll was on top of him and he was thrown to the ground, slamming onto his back. He managed to raise his staff just in time to catch it in the creature’s mouth, desperately holding it off as gnashing teeth came down at him. 

“NO!” Saff screamed, reaching out to him. Quickly she gathered her wits and raised her hands. 

“Ignis!!” 

The firebolt slammed into the creature’s side, singing off its fur, but did nothing to deter it as it continued to claw at Gale, getting closer and closer as he could barely hold it off. She tried again and again, throwing firebolt after firebolt, but they seemed to do nothing. 

Finally the creature reared up, ripping the staff from Gale’s hands and throwing it aside. It dived down again with a bite, and this time Gale had nothing but his arms to protect himself with. He screamed out in pain as teeth sunk through the leather of his bracer and into his flesh, blood gushing down his arm. Saff’s heart nearly stopped, and she didn’t even register what happened next - she acted on pure instinct. She ran towards them, raising her hands as she did, throwing all her body into the movement. “Detono!!” 

The sound of thunder rang through the camp as the creature was thrown into the air before hitting the ground hard, sparks of static rolling over its skin. It whimpered as it got back to its feet and glared at them, teeth bared, wanting revenge. 

Saff wasted no time and ran in front of Gale, a ball of fire already burning in her hand. “Ignis!” 

The fire slammed into its side but again seemed to do little to it, and suddenly the creature was charging towards her. 

That won’t work.

Her hands fumbled for a new gesture as she knew she had to try something else, and ice began to form at her fingertips.

“Glacies!” 

The ice spear slammed into its leg and left it stumbling as frost formed over its paw. Quickly she summoned another, then another, each attack leaving it reeling. She took a step closer with every spell, throwing everything she had at it, until finally the creature turned and ran, whimpering as it retreated into the forest.

For a moment there was just the sound of her own breathing as the adrenaline gradually died down, her hands shaking as she watched the trees where it had disappeared. 

Then she turned and ran back.

“Gale!!” she gasped as she jumped over the scattered camp supplies and fell to her knees by his side. He was sat on the ground, clutching his wounded arm, covered in blood. 

“Gods…” she whispered in horror as she looked at the gore in front of her. But she knew she couldn’t let this get to her and had to act. Quickly she ran over to the supplies box and dug out the first aid kit they’d got from the grove, then ran back to him. She carefully began to remove the ruined bracer, trying not to let herself get distracted by his gasps of pain as she pulled the leather over the ripped flesh. Eventually she had it off, and after carefully peeling back the tattered, bloody remains of the sleeve, the severity of the wound was there to see. Huge lumps of flesh dug out, all the way down to the bone. She knew some basic first aid, but this was way beyond anything even a trained doctor could fix with such a basic first aid kit. A few bandages wasn’t going to help with this…

A feeling came to her. Something deep inside, telling her what to do, whispering a word to her. It wouldn’t work, she was sure… but that feeling told her to do it anyway…

She raised her hands and held them above his arm and closed her eyes. Gale watched her in confusion, unsure what she was doing. It was hard to make himself hold his arm there when every instinct wanted him to do something, anything, to try to stop the pain and the bleeding… but he trusted her. 

His eyes widened as he saw a golden light begin to envelop her hands. 

“Te curo.”

Her voice seemed to echo as her hands grew brighter, bathing them in warm, golden light that wrapped round his arm. Under the light he could feel the skin knitting itself back together as the pain diminished, and after a few moments the light faded away. His arm was still covered in blood, but the worst of the wounds were pretty much healed. It wasn’t perfect - a few cuts remained - but compared to how it had been earlier, it felt to him to be good as new. 

“You… you know Healing Word??” he gasped as he held his arm, looking at her in shock. 

“It’s… never worked before…” she whispered, equally in shock, til a huge grin spread across her face. “It worked! I can’t believe it!” 

He looked down at his arm again, looking at where the skin had knitted back together. 

“But… healing spells can’t be cast with arcane magic…” 

“No, but they can be cast with primal magic.” 

He looked at her, realising what she was getting at. 

“Druidic magic… you can cast druidic magic??” 

“Apparently!” she couldn’t help but laugh, being almost giddy with excitement. “I never could before! But just then I, I don’t know, I felt something and… it just… happened!” 

She looked at his arm again, and only now noticed the remaining cuts. 

“Wait, is it actually healed?” she asked, suddenly panicking. 

“More or less,” he answered, holding his arm out for her to see. She gently took it in her hands, carefully inspecting the wounds. 

“There’s still a few cuts… but I think I can deal with those the old fashioned way,” she said, reaching for the med kit. She took out a rag and a bottle of clean water and began carefully cleaning his arm. He closed his eyes and tried to focus his mind elsewhere away from the pain, though she could still see him wincing slightly as she dabbed the wounds, and tried to keep her touch as light as possible. 

As she washed the blood away she couldn’t help but wonder - had it tasted as bad to the gnoll as it had to Astarion? The gnoll didn’t seem to react at all, though maybe gnoll palettes just weren’t as discerning as a vampire’s. She considered asking him about it… he had said a story for another time, after all, and now was another time. Yet something stopped her. As if… she didn’t want to know the answer. 

Eventually the blood was all washed away revealing the cuts fully. They’d probably be considered quite bad if they weren’t compared to the state his arm had been in before. 

“I’m going to need to stitch some of these up,” she warned him. He just nodded, trying to keep his mind focused elsewhere. 

The stitching process was long. She felt awful every time the needle pierced the skin and she saw him wince, but it had to be done. After what felt like an eternity it was finished, and she began bandaging his arm up. Eventually she was done and his arm was clean and treated, unlike the rest of him, which was still covered in blood. 

“There,” she said softly, lowering his arm down. He finally opened his eyes and looked at the bandages, turning his arm over slightly. He was very quiet for a long moment, his breath still slightly raggedy. “Are you alright?” she asked, gently putting her hand on his shoulder. He took his eyes off his arm and looked to her, finally managing a smile. 

“Yes. Thanks to you,” he said gratefully. “Gods Saff, that was incredible! Not just the healing, but the way you fought that gnoll… I daresay the lessons have paid off,” he said with that smug grin again, and she knew from that he was definitely alright. “Though in hindsight perhaps teaching you the loudest first level spell in existence wasn’t the best idea…” 

“You think it attracted the gnoll?” 

“It’s a possibility we can’t ignore. Quieter spells from now on, I think.” 

“I don’t think I can manage any more spells today anyway,” she said with a weary sigh. “And you definitely need to rest.” “I think, more than that, I need to bathe,” he said, looking down at himself. 

“As someone who also recently lost a lot of blood, I’d say you should stay seated for a bit longer. Even if it’s unpleasant,” she said, glancing down at his blood-soaked robes. He chuckled softly. 

“As you say, doctor…?” he prompted, deciding to turn the roleplay around to learn her surname. She chuckled at the attempt, but shook her head. 

“Doctor Saffron, I suppose. I don’t really have a surname.” He blinked in surprise. 

“You… don’t have a surname?” 

“Nope,” she started as she got up and began to prepare him some food and water. “I never knew my parents, I grew up in an orphanage. They said I was left on the doorstep in a box one morning with just a note that said “Saffron”. So either it's my name, or someone ordered some spices and were very disappointed when they received a baby instead,” she said with a laugh, though Gale couldn't join her in that. For a moment he was shocked into silence, until he finally spoke. 

“I'm… sorry…” he said quietly.

“Don't be, it wasn't so bad,” She said, handing him a plate of food and a drink. 

“Still, to not know your parents… do you have any idea who they were?”

“Nope, and I don't care,” She answered simply, sitting next to him. “My mother was probably a single mother, or teenager, or prostitute too poor to keep me. That was the case for most of the kids there. My father… gods only know. But it doesn't matter. The matriarchs at the orphanage were my parents, and the other kids there were my siblings. Even if I found out who my parents were, that wouldn't change.” 

“Sounds like you were all very close,” he said with a smile as he ate. It was a nice change to the stereotypical idea of orphanages. “What was it like growing up there?” 

“It was… well, to be honest I hated it at the time, but looking back now, with the knowledge of how bad some orphanages were, I was very lucky really. The matriarchs were kind. The building was clean, if a bit cold in the winter. Food was… not exactly abundant, but we didn’t starve. It all got a lot better when I was around 10 and some wealthy patron donated a huge stack of books to the orphanage. I read every single one, multiple times. I suppose they provided an escape. I loved them, especially the ones about adventurers. But there was one in particular that was my favourite. It was about magic. It covered all the different types of magic, and most importantly, it had instructions for casting a few basic spells. For months I tried to cast those spells. I started to think the book was actually wrong and I was wasting my time, but then finally it happened. Just a slight shimmer at first, but it was there. Maybe I should try to find out who that patron was, thank him for introducing me to magic.” 

Gale smiled as he listened to her. It was a heartwarming story in a way, and he always loved hearing how people got into magic. 

“To be able to teach yourself a spell at that age, even a basic one - that’s impressive,” he complimented. 

“Thank you, though it was years before I could do anything more than a few shimmering lights. When I hit 18 I had to leave. I moved in with a few of the older girls I’d known in the orphanage and got a job serving tables at the local tavern. Spent most of my evenings in Sorcerous Sundries, reading all the books I could. Saved up to buy some of my own. Learnt some more spells, started looking into druidic magic. After a few years of that I met Malitas. He saw me clearing a table with mage hand and asked what a wizard was doing waiting tables. I told him about myself and my work and he said he'd take me as his apprentice. That was about three years ago now. He has a small annex on his tower that he said I could live in, gave me all the books I needed, told me to focus on my research with druidic magic.”

“And told you not to learn combat magic?” Gale asked, still a bit suspicious about that. 

“He said every wizard in the world is researching combat magic, and that I've got something unique, and I should focus on that. Plus, he said he'd be furious if I accidentally burnt down his tower,” she said with a small chuckle. 

Maybe it was as simple as that, the guy just didn't want errant fireballs flying around. Yet it still didn't sit right with Gale.

“I know you think it's odd,” Saff said, noticing his unease about it. “But he's given me everything I wanted. Lessons, a space of my own, the resources I need. I wouldn't know half the magic I do if it wasn't for him.” 

“He taught you a lot, then?” 

“Yes. And not just magic. Alchemy, too. And history, etiquette, all that sort of stuff. He always said if I was to become a full wizard I must learn to fit into wizard society. Be a proper lady, one no one would ever guess grew up in an orphanage and waited tables.”

“Hmph,” Gale murmured disapprovingly. “He makes it sound like those are bad things that you should be ashamed of.” 

“He said they are, if I want to be a respected wizard. And that, while he didn’t agree with it himself, the most powerful wizards of the land wouldn’t accept someone with such a poor background and that I mustn’t tell such people where I really come from if I want to be accepted.” “What a load of nonsense,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Some of history’s most powerful wizards have come from humble backgrounds. I’m glad to see you didn’t believe him.”

She narrowed her eyes a bit as she looked at him. 

“What makes you think I didn’t believe him?” 

He looked back at her, slightly surprised. 

“You told me everything without hesitation,” he answered. A smile came to her lips. 

“Ah, yes. Well, I didn’t think you were like that,” she explained, bringing a smile to his lips that mirrored her own. 

“I’m glad to hear it. I certainly wouldn’t want to give off that impression.” 

“You don’t, don’t worry,” she said sincerely. There was a pause before she spoke again. “It’s really not true, then? Wizards aren’t like that?” she asked, sounding a bit surprised by that.

“Well… some wizards are like that. But any wizard as bigoted as that isn’t one you want to associate with. You will go far in wizard society based on your skills, not your background.”

She smiled to herself. 

“Good. I’m glad to hear it,” she said softly. He looked at her for a moment in concern. 

“I’m surprised he would tell you such a thing…” 

“Well… you said some wizards are like that, right? I guess he didn’t want me to miss out on any opportunities with them. Plus, maybe it’s different in different places. Waterdeep and Baldur’s Gate have plenty of differences, that could be one of them. He’s an elf too, so maybe it’s different in elven society.” 

“Perhaps…” Gale murmured, less convinced. “Either way, I think a master should focus on teaching their apprentice magic, not… social etiquette.”

“Do you? Have you had many apprentices, then?” she challenged, not entirely agreeing with his critical appraisal of her master. 

“Not many, no. I've tried teaching in the past, but if I'm honest, I would always get too frustrated if they proved inept.”

“Gosh… how are you putting up with me?”

“You are far from inept,” he said with a chuckle as he looked over at her. “Teaching you has been a joy, in fact.”

She couldn't help but smile to herself. 

“Well, thank you. I'm glad,” She said, hoping he couldn't see the slight blush on her cheeks. “Did you ever have a master yourself? Or I suppose you knew everything already and didn't need one?” She asked jokingly. 

“Heh, no, I did have masters. Several, throughout my time at Blackstaff Academy, including the Blackstaff himself in my later years. And others after that, various teachers and mentors. Some were… more helpful than others,” he said with a chuckle, before taking the last mouthful of food and finishing his drink.

“I’ll tell you about them sometime. Right now though, I think it’s about time I washed this blood off,” he decided, putting the plate aside and looking down at himself. 

“Try not to get your arm too wet. Open wounds and river water don’t go well together…” she warned.

“Indeed they don’t. Not to fear, I’ll be careful. Wouldn’t want you to so valiantly fight off that gnoll only for me to die of an infection,” he joked as he stood up and headed to his tent.

“Don’t you dare,” she laughed, giving him a playful warning look. 

“I assure you, I don’t plan on doing that,” he said, giving her a smile before disappearing into his tent to get changed.

[jacqcrisis]

I love Gale's pose when talking to Lump the Enlightened. I've never seen him do it before. Karlach, Ronan, and Astarion are all basically in 'ready to go if this gets bad' stance but Gale?

what's going on there buddy? Why are your hands specifically clasped there? You're staff is behind you, so that's not very good form for a master wizard. Why you look so nervous? We literally just killed so many gnolls. An ogre and his two lackeys who say good words shouldn't be a problem for us so what's wrong, my guy?

What's your opinion on Large Eloquent Monster Man, pal o' mine?

[envysnest]

Pity the Mayfly (ch. 5/?) - an Astarion/Tav fic

AO3 Link Here

Chapters: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6

You had come to the Gate to forget your past, discard your elven name, and pursue alchemy against your family's wishes. On a visit to your old keep, you're found by the Nautiloid, and everything tilts sideways.

TW's for this chapter: Rape flashback (non-graphic) in the first two paragraphs of section 3; mild blood and descriptions of bruising (bite time!).

————

Wyll trails behind the rest of your group. With every new encounter on the road, Wyll ducks behind Karlach or Gale, hiding his horns from friendly strangers. He fights enemies with robotic fervor: stab, swing, toss. Stab, swing, toss: like a bored fishmonger beheading their wares. Everyone treads lightly around you two, and it isn’t long before you and Wyll are walking alone, yards away from the rest of your party.

You keep your voice low. “How did this happen, Wyll?”

“It's a 'gift' from my master. A token of her appreciation, you could say.” He looks miserable. “Pipeweed made it hurt less, so cheers for that.”

You shiver. “I’m sure I’ve got a numbing cream for the horns. Perhaps Violet Lily will do it?"

Wyll does smile a little, and you count it as a victory. “Didn’t you say something about an Ethel? Perhaps she’s got something for an Infernal Curse.”

“I…” You slow down to keep pace beside him. “She said she had Yellow Gnoll’s Ear back at her cottage. That mushroom would also help dull your pain.”

Wyll puts a gentle hand on your upper back. “You should have said something earlier,” he murmurs. “Had I known you needed extra care, I would have--"

The goodwill inside of you is gone, replaced by irritation. You shy out of Wyll’s grip. “I don’t need extra care,” you huff.

Wyll holds up both hands. He has that miserable look in his eye again. Shame, you realize, it’s shame.

“Sorry,” he says, and something in his face twitches— crumples, briefly— before he smiles. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

You grimace. “Let’s just…” You pinch the bridge of your nose and inhale slowly. The air smells like apple blossoms; fall would be here soon. It relaxes you. "We'll head south, but only for a moment. I’m not going to waste the group’s time—”

“I could use the Gnoll’s Ear too, Tav. If you need an excuse, then by all means, lean on me.”

An excuse: you didn’t have to tell the group why you needed to find Ethel’s cottage. Why would he offer that to you? What did he get out of it?

You pause in the path; Wyll stops with you. He waits calmly as you stare at him, at his new red eye and his horns and his ridged neck. Wyll worries something at his hip with his right hand: a small, braided rope of leather. It looked like something a child would make: a decorative little thing, a keepsake. It was tied to his belt, right next to his rapier. Wyll guides the braid over his middle knuckle.

He looks up at the sky. "Tav--"

“Tavvendish,” Lae’zel calls from further up the path. “A moment?”

“Coming!” you shout back. You turn to Wyll, who watches the group from over his shoulder. You curtsey to him. “Thank you, Wyll."

Wyll jumps and looks back to you. “Any time, Tav.” He gives you a little bow, but it’s unsteady. “Remember you’re not alone in this.”

Yes, you think, I am.

The party huddles around something, but what, you can't see; you catch a smattering of brown fur in the dirt road. Lae’zel cranes her neck to stare at you over Karlach’s shoulder. You exchange glances with Wyll. He raises both eyebrows and jerks his head towards Lae'zel. You approach the party.

Karlach nudges the brown, furry lump with her sword. “It’s so light. What in the hells happened to it?”

“I don’t see what’s so interesting.” Astarion stands some distance away, examining his nails. “An animal was killed by something-or-other, probably one of those vipers Tavvendish is obsessed with. We’ve seen hundreds of animals by now, haven’t we?”

You squeeze past Shadowheart and Gale. Finally, you see what the brown, furry lump is: it's a boar carcass turned on its side. Dark brown blood pools underneath it. Its neck bears two pinprick holes, each perfectly symmetrical: a bite of some kind, but a large one, bigger than you’ve ever seen before.

You touch the boar’s fur, and its corpse shifts easily under your palm. A pale tongue lolls out of its skull as it flops to one side. You press down on its neck, palpating around the bite, but nothing seeps from the wounds. You furrow your brow, press harder. Still, the bite remains stubbornly dry.

“It’s…empty,” you say aloud. “No blood.”

Astarion throws his hands in the air. “It probably bled out on the path! Fascinating!"

"Not enough for a boar," you reply.

Lae’zel crouches down with you. “It’s fresh. This must have happened hours ago. The rot has not set in yet.”

“’Least it doesn’t smell,” says Karlach. Her armor jingles as she shivers: “Brrrrr! Hate flies.”

“Yes, yes.” Astarion waves to the path. “Let’s move along before they lay their eggs.”

You place your index finger and thumb between the bite marks. From a rough estimate, the bite was too large to be a rosebush viper, or any snake in this region. Too small to be a gnoll’s, certainly, but then what else could it be? You can only think of the Monkshood Spider-- the males were as large as a man-- but that species preferred warmer locales, certainly ones lacking apple blossoms. And the Monkshood genus had a more obvious curve to their fangs—

“Any luck, Tav?” Gale asks.

“I can’t place this,” you say. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

Karlach’s hand appears in your vision, and she points at the bite. “Astarion, mate. Not enough blood around for a stab.”

You turn to your pack, fish around for your notebook and charcoal. “Do you mind?” you say up at the group. “I’d like to document this. It will only be a minute.”

Astarion presses both palms to his face and lets out a muffled, frustrated scream. 

Lae’zel stands. “We waste our time here,” she says, looking at each person individually. “If Tavvendish cannot offer an identification—”

“Let the woman work,” Shadowheart snaps. “It’s not as if we’re turning into mind flayers anytime soon.

“Not yet, we aren't,” growls Lae’zel.

“Oh, shit, Tavvy.” Karlach points at your drawing. “Looks just like it. You’re good at this!”

“Thank you,” you say.

“It’s a boar,” Astarion grits out. “Can we go now?”

“There’s another explanation for this.” It's Wyll, behind you. “The boar is exsanguinated.”

"Ex-sangui-huh?" Karlach mutters.

“Wyll,” you say, not looking up as you sketch the musculature of the neck. “That book was nonsense. You can’t possibly believe it.”

“I’m not talking about your book, Tav. Vampires are very real besides.”

Astarion scoffs. “Tell us more fairy tales, oh Duke Ravengard.”

“Quiet,” you snap at Astarion. “You’ve been a boor all morning.”

Astarion scoffs again and puts his hands on his hips. “I’m merely trying to keep us focused,” he drawls, leaning towards you. “We’ve all got tadpoles in our head, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Lae’zel reaches for your notebook, and you instinctively jerk it out of reach.

There’s a pause, then:

“Tavvendish,” says Lae’zel: low, and with an emotion you can't name. “Finish quickly. It’s nearly mid-day.”

“I know,” you say, willing yourself to keep your voice level and your charcoal steady. “One second.”

Her eyebrows raise, just slightly. “A minute more, then,” she says.

“By Silvanus, a minute’s all I need.”

Wyll speaks again. “We should proceed with caution. If there is a vampire lord in the area, then we aren’t adequately prepared for what follows. We need to warn the Grove.”

“I can do a little for a vampire,” says Shadowheart. “But if it’s a vampire lord, we won’t stand a chance.” She hesitates. “Wyll's right. Perhaps we'd better listen."

“Shall I beat my head against a tree, then?” Astarion says. “Will that make everyone listen?”

You blow dust off of your drawing. “It will certainly shut you up.”

“Tav,” says Gale, but he's trying not to laugh. “Be nice, won’t you?”

“I’ll be nice when he—” and you point at Astarion with the charcoal, “—returns the favor.”

Karlach tuts. “Dunno, Astarion. I wouldn’t mess around with a poisoner, not unless you want to shit out your mouth for a tenday.”

“I can’t do that,” you mutter, just as Astarion gasps: “How vile!”

Karlach leans in: you know, because you feel heat beating against your hair. “He doesn’t have to know that,” she stage-whispers to you. “I’m sick of the little ponce, myself.”

Across from you, Lae’zel huffs. It takes you a moment to realize: it's a laugh.

————

Back at the Grove, your party splits apart again. In one dark corner, Zevlor's speaking to Wyll with with great urgency; the warlock merely crosses his arms and stares at the floor, nodding occasionally.

With a shaking hand, Zevlor gestures to Wyll's horns. Wyll winces and turns away.

“‘Scuse me,” says a child.

You look down. A tiefling, no older than seven or eight, blinks up at you. He folds his hands together, then unfolds them, then folds them again.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” he says, digging one toe into the dirt. “But my friends and I need gold for our lunch—”

He points, and you follow his finger to a gaggle of tiefling children in front of the baker's, begging for food. Some of them are small, small enough to need tiptoes to see over the stall's edge. When the baker shakes his head, the children whine in unison.

The tiefling boy turns back to you. “Wouldn’t you mind? It’s just three gold for a mince pie. We can split it. Just need the one.”

A single mince pie wasn’t nearly enough for that many children. Your siblings, yourself included, usually demolished a pie each. You’d spent countless hours in the kitchen with your eldest brother Trisrel while your parents were in the workshop. Trisrel had married a Baker, and he brought back endless recipes, tricks for doing more with the Carvers's less.

You fish out your coin purse. Only a few ten-pieces roll around. Three per pie, per seven…and some of them were older, too, already towering above the rest. They’d need two each. You think of another night slaving away over rosebush viper antivenom, and then you remember Ethel’s promise of Yellow Gnoll’s Ear, and you briefly panic. You could, perhaps, beg Wyll for gold…

“I don’t know, sprout…” You trail off. The boy clasps his hands together in earnest supplication.

“Pleaaaase?” he asks.

Another timid voice pipes up beside you: “Is that really you?”

You turn around and lock eyes with a tiefling girl. You recognize her: the very same child from the Grove, the one Kagha had threatened with the Horned Opal.

“Thank you again, miss.” Her voice is soft, hesitant. She bows to you. “For the other day. I didn’t mean any harm by it.”

“Harm by what?” you ask. You crouch down to her level, and the tiefling backs away. She turns her face from you.

“It was just a joke,” she says. “Honest. I wanted to— um— I took Silvanus for a laugh. Won’t do it again! Swear on me mum, I won't.”

She looks so much like your youngest sister, Mira, that it pains you. The last time you saw Mira, the last time you visited Fox’s Keep, she had clutched your robes. Don’t go, sis, she had cried: sis, because back then, she was still too young for sister. You had planned to spend at least an afternoon with her on this upcoming visit, but then-- well, the Nautiloid happened.

You look between the children. “What are your names?"

The girl rubs her eyes with two closed fists. “Arabella,” she murmurs.

"Zaki," says the boy.

“Well, then, Arabella. Zaki.” You fiddle with your coin purse. “I am Tav. And I know the Oak Father would forgive you for having a laugh.”

Arabella lifts her head. “Really?”

“Really and truly.” You place one hand over your heart: “I promise, by Silvanus himself.”

“You’re not—” She turns to you, wringing her hands. “You’re not cross with me, are you, miss? Tav.”

Once, your Nana scolded your mother in front of you: Children must be disciplined. They should learn to respect authority. How your cheek had stung from her slap. Your mother had tugged on your wrist, then, urging you upright, just as Rav had done with Arabella.

You smile at her. “So long as you don’t do it again. Can you promise me that, Arabella?”

She presses her own hand to her heart, mimicking you. “I solemnly swear,” she says.

“Good girl. All is well.”

Arabella smiles back at you. She hesitates.

“What about lunch?” she asks.

Oh. It made sense that the statue thief would know how to spin a yarn. You frown. “You promised, Arabella. I mean it— don’t do it again.”

“Honest!” Arabella blurts out. “We’re just…” She exchanges glances with Zaki. “Hungry.”

“Really hungry,” Zaki adds. “Please? Pretty please?”

Arabella gasps. “I have rocks!” She digs around in her pockets and produces a small agate crystal. She shoves it at you. “Bet you anything it’s magic!” 

"Hmmmm." You pretend to appraise the stone with a critical eye. Arabella shoves the stone into your waiting hand: “See?”

“Very lovely,” you say. You put your hand to your chin and hold the agate to the light. There is a faint tingle of the Weave around it, eerily enough: low and droning, like a hum. You make a questioning noise. “No, Arabella, you keep this. I’ll give you the gold.”

Zaki claps and does a little spin. “Yay!” 

Arabella fights another smile as you pass her crystal back to her. “Really?” she asks, eyes wide; she clutches the crystal protectively to her chest.

“Really really," you say, and you turn to Zaki. “You should all be properly fed. I’ll give you enough for a pie each, with a little left over for a sweetie. How’s that?”

Zaki’s mouth hangs open. He and Arabella exchange excited glances.

“Only the once,” you say to your coin purse. “I’ve no money besides.” You count out gold pieces into Arabella’s waiting hands. “And what do we say?”

“Thank you!” Zaki stage-whispers. Arabella follows suit, albeit shyly: “Thaaank youuu.”

“Good children always say thank you.” You glance between Arabella’s palm and your coin purse. “How many of you are there, again?”

“Really?” Astarion drawls behind you, and you start. “Are you just going to give all our gold away?”

You glare at him over your shoulder. He raises his eyebrows and inclines his head towards you.

“Well?” he asks.

You turn back to the tiefling children. “Don’t listen to him,” you stage-whisper. “He also wants a gift."

Astarion splutters indignantly. Zaki giggles. 

You place a hand on Arabella’s shoulder, gently urging her towards her friends. “Go on, little sprout,” you say. “Buy whatever you’d like.”

Arabella runs to them with the fistful of gold lofted high in the air, shrieking with delight. Zaki scrambles along behind her. All of the children hop up and down. “Mince pies!” someone shouts, and the others join in: "Mince pies!" They dance around each other eagerly: “Mince pies! Mince pies! Mince pies!”

You dust your robes off and stand. Familiar black spots appear at the edges of your vision, and you stumble backwards, your hand pressed to your forehead. You kept forgetting to stand up slowly. The tadpole stirs, squeaks a little.

“I’ve never seen a group so excited over mince pies,” Astarion says over your shoulder. He crosses his arms. In a lower register, he mutters to you, “Rather irritates me, if I’m honest.”

“Children irritate you?” you say. The children have gathered around the baker’s table, all reaching upwards for their meals. You hear the coins hit the table with a clatter. The baker smiles, relieved, at you as they wrap the pies in crisp wax paper. One by one, they give the children their pies, and you hear their little voices: “Thank you!” “Thank you.” “Thank you, saer!” “Thank youuu!”

“--can’t stand the little monsters.” Astarion pouts. “Gods. I really can’t believe you gave our gold away?"

I think there's another child needs feeding. You gesture to the children. “They were hungry, Astarion. What was I meant to do, let them starve?”

“Well,” and here Astarion smirks at you, all sarcasm and bitterness, “perhaps you let some other poor fool feed the pigs next time.”

You turn on your heel to sneer at him. “I can’t believe you, Astarion! Denying food to children? Heavens forbid you think of someone else for once.”

Astarion straightens, and suddenly, he's not smiling at all. There’s a cold look in his eyes you can’t place. “I’m only looking out for number one, dearest,” he says, but there’s no mirth in it.

“Well—”

The children race past you with their food. A few bump into your legs, teetering you off-balance. 

“Oi!” you shout at Arabella. She stumbles and turns around, trailing behind the rest of the group as they vault over the grass. “Don’t go running with a full belly!” you call.

Arabella curtsies, giggling, and rushes to join the others. You can hear her yelling at her little group: “Miss Tav said to sit! Don’t run!”

Astarion gives you a pointed look. “Any other kind advice, mother dearest?”

You feel the barb in your side. “Seven younger siblings." You watch the children climb a grassy hill and settle at the top. “Sometimes I was the one who raised them.”

The tiefling children, some still standing, tuck into their meals. One stomps their feet excitedly; his friend bounces on his toes.

“Should’ve tormented the little beasts with your spiders.” Astarion immediately brightens. “Wouldn’t that be fun?” He taps your arm with the back of his knuckles, laughing. “How they’d scream!”

You jerk your arm out of his reach. “It would stress the children and the animals.”

“Oh no!” Astarion sighs with practiced theatrics. “Won’t someone think of the deadly, poisonous spiders?”

“Poison is something you eat,” you snap over your shoulder. “Venom is used by something that eats you.”

Astarion wails like he's been stabbled. He sways onto the path in front of you, staggering and coughing. “I weep for them,” he cries at the dirt, running his fingers over his cheeks. “The poor, defenseless darlings!” He looks directly at you and gasps. “Thank goodness Tavvendish Carver is here to care for them! Praise the Oak Father! It’s a divine miracle!”

You nod. “Finished?”

Astarion visibly deflates as he glares at you. “Yes, I’m finished. I put work into that, you know.”

Someone tugs your robes as he's talking, and you look down to see a curly-haired tiefling boy. He has half of the mince pie in his free hand; the other half— or what looks it— fills his cheeks to bursting.

“‘Fanks f’r lumch, ma’am,” he says; crumbs fly out of his mouth with each word. Before you can respond, he shuffles forward and wraps his arm around your leg.

Your heart leaps as he closes his eyes. You pet the boy's hair fondly, even though he’s now getting crumbs on your trousers. “Don’t talk with your mouth full. But you’re very welcome.”

From beside you, Astarion bends forward. “Come here, sweetling,” he coos at the boy. “Are you afraid of spiders?”

“Astarion,” you growl.

The boy’s eyes go wide. He freezes in place, mouth poised in mid-chew, hiding from Astarion behind your leg. He shakes his head dramatically.

“Ignore him!” you chirp, leaning into the tiefling boy’s eyeline, and he looks up at you. “Go and sit with your friends.”

When the child’s eyes, distrustful, slide back to Astarion, you usher him towards the other children. “Run along, sprout. Don’t mind him. Finish your pie.”

Slowly, with eyes still trained on Astarion, he lets go of your leg. You nudge him, and like a startled deer, he runs for the others. Some of the children have already finished their pies and lounge in the grass, chattering in small clumps. Two tieflings start a hand game, its pattern unfamiliar to you: 

"Stella and Bella, walking in two  Up the path where the wildbelles bloom Found a bard and this he said: ‘I can rhyme as many as…’  One, clap, two, clap clap, three, clap clap clap, four…”

“Hellooo?” Astarion snaps his fingers inches from your face. “You didn’t answer my question.”

You scrunch your nose. “What question?”

"Oh, forget it.”

Irritation flares in you. “Duly noted. I will.”

You turn your back on the tieflings and head deeper into the Grove. Astarion, likely smelling victory, follows in close pursuit.

“You know, I’ve never noticed before— there’s a bit of green in your hair!” He tousles your hair, and you bat his hand away. “In the light, it offsets the brown quite nicely. Though…” He cups his hand around his mouth, drops his voice to a whisper: “You’re also going a bit gray.”

“I am well aware.” You snarl at him. “Do not pull my hair.”

“And ruin those lovely curls? I’d never.” He fans a hand wide behind his head. “Haven’t you seen me? I know your texture like the back of my hand.”

“If it were you, Astarion, I would have fed you, too.”

His footsteps halt behind you, but you don’t care. You keep walking.

"Eats like a bird, anyway," you mutter.

Astarion is nowhere to be seen the rest of the day.

————

Kestral is on you again. His hands-- all-encompassing, warm-- are down your blouse. You hear someone else laughing; a woman congratulates him, then congratulates you. Kestral laughs with her. You cannot move; you are helpless here, in this forested darkness, with his hands holding you down. You can only stare at your fellow Trialmates, hoping one of them will pull him away. They do not pull him away. You can taste his lip piercing in your mouth.

Kestral swings his leg over you. No, you think, squirming under him, this isn’t how it went— this isn’t how he—

Someone is on top of you.

You gasp for air, and the scene resolves itself in an instant: you are at camp, and it is seventy-four years after your Trial, and there is a tadpole squealing in your head, and Astarion hovers over you with his mouth over your throat.

Instantly, you go rigid, eyes darting over the roof of your tent. Fighting would only make it worse, you knew that. Better let Astarion finish quickly and leave you alone. Fool, you think. You should’ve known better, should’ve seen the way he looked you up and down after a battle. You think of his cool fingers tracing the Witch Bolt, think of his laughter, and you shiver. How many times would it take for you to learn?

Astarion isn’t moving. Rather, he stays there, lying on top of you, and you hear him inhale. Your lips are moving, forming well-rehearsed pleas— no, stop, please, not here, don’t hurt me— but never speaking them. You’re trembling, you realize, and you’re embarrassingly, inexplicably aroused. You loathe yourself for it.

You hear his lips part— there's something sharp against your throat—

--and this time, with this man, you do manage to speak. “No:" Feeble. Pleading.

Astarion stumbles back, shielding his head with his arm. He’s talking and gesturing everywhere; you can’t hear a word over the ringing in your ears. You swallow, frozen in place.

He leans towards you, eyes wide and curious, and in the split-second it takes for him to clamp his mouth shut, you see them: curved incisors, long and sharp and glistening in the moonlight. 

The boar from earlier— the size of the bite—

Oh, you think. OH.

You sit up. Astarion cowers from you instantly, pressing his back to the other wall of the tent. Slowly, as if you emerged from underwater, his voice comes into focus: “—let me explain, I can— please, darling, don’t be upset—”

“Astarion,” you croak. You clear your throat, willing yourself to calm down. You need to know; you need to hear it from him. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he snaps, but the fear in his eyes is unmistakable. “Let me explain!”

Explain? Was there a justification for why he was...?

Your adrenaline tilts, dizzyingly, to anger. Before you can stop yourself, you lean towards him; he brings his knees to his chest.

“Start talking,” you hiss, “or I am going to rip your bloody hair out by the root.”

“I was hungry!” Astarion cries. “Pl—please, I— I was only going to be a moment, my love— you wouldn’t have known I was there—”

You have to know. “Hungry for what?”

“Are you dim?” He lowers his arms just enough to glare at you over them. “What did you think? You said you’d feed me—”

“I thought,” you say—

And you can’t bring yourself to say more: how you thought he was here to rape you, how you were ready for it. How this was an inevitability: the price you paid for social interaction with others. How you were a toy, and how the world was full of sticky, prying, greedy hands. 

You slump. “I don’t— I don’t know what I thought.”

Astarion scoffs. “Well—I wasn’t—” He tsks with frustration. “I was here for—well—”

He runs his tongue over his teeth, and you see his fangs again, and all at once you feel relief.

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes until you see stars. “Thank Silvanus. I thought it was something else.”

The peepers by the riverside are deafening. Astarion leans towards you, and the moonlight from the tent flap carves his face out in stark white. “You’re—” His voice is small. “What did you think I was doing?”

“Oh--" You wave a hand and smile. "Never mind.”

“No, not never mind. Tell me.” He pauses. “Did you think I would take advantage of you? Be honest.”

This was not a conversation you wanted to have in the middle of the night. You deflect: “How is biting me in my trance not ‘taking advantage?'"

Astarion leans back on his heels. “Fine,” he huffs. “You’ve made your point, darling.” 

“Why didn’t you ask me for blood sooner?” 

He curls into a ball at the foot of your bedroll. “Oh yes,” he says quietly. “Let’s ask the alchemist for blood. What a spectacular idea. You probably know a thousand ways to kill a vampire.”

You cross your arms. “I’ve never even met a vampire.”

“Congratulations, dearest. You have now. Or—” He waves dismissively. “A spawn, anyway. So sorry to disappoint.” 

You have a thousand questions: where is your master? When were you sired? Are your fangs hinged? How are you walking in the sun? Is this why you take the watch every night?

But Astarion’s eyes dart to the side, and you look closer: his bony, frail wrists, his right middle finger tapping a quick staccato on the mat below him, his defined collarbones. He breathes shallowly, rapidly; the staccato gets unsteady. You suspect those high cheekbones and sculpted jaw aren’t just vanity.

“You’d like to feed on me,” you breathe.

Astarion gives you a sarcastic bow, his mouth drawn tight in a mocking smile. “Yes, dear, how kind of you to notice,” but his voice shakes, and, oh—

The poor thing is hungry. 

You think of buying pies for the children in the tiefling camp, their eager faces, how they had all said “thank you,” in unison. You think of how some ate the pies standing, as if they couldn’t wait to fill their bellies. You thought Astarion judged you for feeding them, wanted to spoil the moment, but Astarion had done something else entirely.

He didn't come to you because you were easy. He came to you because you were generous.

“May I lie down?” you ask. 

He rolls his eyes. “It’s your tent—”

“No, I mean for the—” Feeding sounds strange, even erotic. You look away. “For when you— I faint easily.” You lean back on your elbows. “I’ll lose consciousness. I have to be lying down for it.”

Astarion blinks, but he leans forward, towards you, eyes wide. “You’re— you’re just going to let this happen?”

You recline on your bedroll. “Do not kill me,” you say. “That’s all I ask.”

“I— Tavvendish, really?” He’s already crawling around your bedroll, towards your head, even as he admonishes you: “You’d let a spawn, someone you just met, bite you? Have you no survival instinct?”

You fold your hands over your stomach. This was terrifying, yes; Astarion licks his lips over you, and you wince. There’s that expired Malice in your pack, within arm’s reach; perhaps, if things went sideways…

“Should I say no?” you ask.

“No no no!” Astarion says softly, voice pitching high. “This works out well in my favor, you understand.” He leans an elbow on the other side of your head, draping himself over your torso. “I just…” He leans away, catches your eyes. “Are you…are you quite sure?”

You stare down at his mouth. His fangs are long and very frighteningly sharp. They have a slight curve to them, like a snake’s fangs. Astarion can’t close his mouth fully like this. Hinged, you think; he must hide them in polite company. That alcoholic smell is overpowering now, like cheap liquor. 

He cradles your head in his hands; they are shaking. Tender like a lover, he turns your head towards him, exposing your neck. 

“Please,” he begs quietly, so low only you can hear. “I’ll only be a moment.”

In the space between one breath and the next, he clamps down. You grunt, jolting in your bedroll. You can’t move against his cold fangs, as if they’ve pinned you to the floor. Astarion inhales—

And oh: there's a rush of paradoxical warmth where Astarion’s fangs pierce your skin. You had always questioned the appeal of a vampire's bite-- had read plenty about swooning maidens and unholy marriages for pleasure, certainly very late at night, and certainly while under the covers— but this? You go limp in Astarion's arms; your pulse thumps between your legs. Astarion whimpers and sucks at the wound, slurping noisily at your artery; you can’t find it in you to care. It feels something like the pipeweed filling you, your body vibrating with pleasure, your stack of books breathing slowly where you stare at them. Perhaps there is such a thing as vampire venom: simple chemistry at work, a muscle relaxant secreted from his fangs to encourag you o relax, ncorage yu 

              t lt 

                            gooooooooo

o

      o                                                       o                              oooo

             oo               o                                                                            oooooooooooooooooooo

 o

                                  o                              ooooooo   o      o                                                                         o   

        o

                                       o                                           oo          o              o             

         o    

ooo                                     o                                                          o                    ooooooo     o

And all at once you remember, No, I’m losing blood, that’s too much, and you whisper, “Astarion,” hoarse and feeble, your head feeling as if it’s stuffed with cotton, and Astarion doesn’t stop, if anything he grips you tighter to his chest, and your ears are ringing and your vision is going black around the edges and you think of crushing hands and mouths and lip piercings and suddenly you push and that forces Astarion to unlatch with a gasp, as if he’s surfacing from some very, very deep ocean. His mouth is a bright cherry red.

You are very, very dizzy.

Astarion laughs; its tempting to laugh with him, but you're too exhausted to try. He wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand. “Tav,” he gasps. “That—”

You push yourself up, but your head spins. You slouch into your bedroll.

Astarion laughs again, disbelieving. It's nothing like the mocking laughs you’ve heard from him before: this one is light, boyish. “I… oh!” He presses his hand to his forehead and giggles. “I feel so much— stronger! That is lovely! Like...like a-- coffee on a rainy day--” 

There's a flush across his stupid, grinning face. You get the urge to kiss him, to jump into his lap, but your body refuses to move. White fractals explode behind your eyelids. You try to say his name, but all that comes out is a woozy, “‘ssstar—”

His fluttering hands land on your shoulder. “I thank you, Tavvendish,” he says quietly; his smile nearly splits his face in two; his fangs are still out. “You’ve given me an unspeakably generous gift.” 

Every nerve in your body sings. “Wh’yd y’ mean?” you mumble.

“I mean—” He cups your face in his hands. 

He is so beautiful, you want to kiss him so badly— 

“I can hunt now," he continues, touching his temple. My head is clear. Clear! For the first time in— why, I don’t know when.”

You can’t look at him without thinking of ripping off his clothes. Charm, you think weakly, the venom’s doing this. You turn your head and close your eyes. “Y’re welc’m.”

“Rest now, darling,” says Astarion above you, and you slip into blissful nothing.

————

“—the creche should be our priority—”

You startle awake.

“—said we should search for the druid Halsin—”

“No,” Lae’zel snaps. Her voice is hoarse around the edges. “I’ve had enough of being led across Faerun without rhyme or reason. We must focus. Our surest chance of a cure is the creche.”

“Now, Lae’zel,” Gale says, “our travels may bring us near the—”

Shadowheart cuts in: “Gale.”

Gale’s voice becomes harsh. “We will not survive a gith’yanki creche!”

Lae’zel growls. “You may not—”

You sit up in your bedroll. The sun is already quite high; its white light dapples through the tent. Your head pounds. How long had your trance been, and why couldn't you remember any of it? Had you actually fallen asleep?

Astarion’s wide eyes, his fangs, and then—

Something in your tent smells lovely. It doesn’t take you long to find its source: a gigantic, fresh bun, smelling of cinnamon and cream and sugar, lying on a plate next to your bedroll. A hot mug of coffee steams next to it. The bun is still warm, and the icing melts around your fingers as you lift it to your nose. You can’t detect any poison by scent: only that lovely cinnamon and sour-sweet icing.

Astarion, you remember, and a warm wave rolls over you. You tuck gratefully into the roll.

How strange, that you didn’t know; it seems obvious in hindsight. You sip at the coffee and wrack your brain, but your memories feel fuzzy, far-away. Your headache begins to ease with every bite. Hinged fangs: that much you could remember. Astarion’s fangs must be prehensile. Suddenly voracious, you shove more of the roll into your mouth. The blood loss must have affected you more than you thought. You nearly choke on the following mouthful.

Perhaps vampire fangs were like a cat’s claw: extended from gums for feeding, perhaps by relaxing a small tendon. They had to retract, now that you thought about it; there was no way you would have missed his fangs earlier.

And when Astarion bit you— for several minutes, you had felt—

Incredible.

Light, like floating on air. 

Like you were in love. 

Most importantly, your side had stopped aching. 

You spare an uneasy glance at the entrance to your tent. Part of you is tempted to write the author of Venomous Fauna: it’s venom, no doubt, though a Charm could also be involved. That cold, alcoholic smell on his breath must have been it. You realize, with a start, that he must have been secreting venom for days. You'd have to pay attention today.

The other part of your brain wanted to understand. If there wasn’t a Charm after all, then what could cause that dizzy, euphoric feeling? It couldn’t have just been the blood loss— you had had enough rough encounters to know what that felt like— but then…what else could it be?

You polish off the roll and wipe your hands with a handkerchief. The closest equivalent to that wonderful feeling was a pipeweed high, perhaps a mild hallucinogen. The euphoria made simple evolutionary sense: prey should relax into the bite. You think of his curved fangs, likely meant to hold prey in place. A vampire's victim would have to lie still under them for several minutes, enjoying every second, while the vampire fed.

Then…

He chose you because...?

Coffee in hand, you crawl out of your tent. The sun beats down on you; dragonflies skirt over the water to your right.

Gale, Lae’zel, and Shadowheart argue loudly over the creche. From Shadowheart's side, Wyll shakes his head. Karlach paces a short distance away, rubbing her temples as she goes, muttering, “Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods…”

Astarion’s eyes flick directly to yours. His lips are pressed tightly shut; he's not participating in the argument so much as quietly observing. As you stare at him, his tongue passes over his teeth-- 

—and he smiles at you.

Your breath hitches. You hold up a hand in greeting.

“Tav,” sighs Wyll, relieved. “Settle something for...us…”

He blanches.

You ask, “What am I settling?” but Wyll is silent. Did you have crumbs on your mouth? No— Wyll’s gaze dips a little lower than that.

You look around: everyone stares with the same vaguely disgusted expression, save Astarion. Astarion merely looks terrified.

“What?” you ask him. “What’s the matter?”

Why is everyone staring at your neck?

You press your hands to where Astarion bit you, but your fingers sink into a tender bruise. "Agh." You withdraw your hand; dried blood sticks to your hand. A muddy brown stain soaks the neck of your blouse.

Five different weapons are drawn at once— and they all point at Astarion. 

Astarion holds his hands up. “It’s— it’s not what you think!”

Lae’zel spits on the ground.

Shadowheart’s lip curls. “You were the last person to enter Tavvendish’s tent,” she says. “Talk.”

Astarion’s trembling. Badly. “It was— I-- she asked!” he shouts. He points an accusing finger at you; he can barely keep it straight. “It was her idea!” His eyes plead with yours. “Wasn’t it, Tav?”

Flames roll off of Karlach’s forearms. “Don’t blame this on Tav,” she growls; she rocks up onto her toes with anticipation. Your heart thumps, rabbit-quick, behind your ribcage. The others grow similarly restless, shifting on their feet.

“Karlach’s right, Astarion,” says Wyll. He narrows his eyes and turns his rapier, just so, and the point presses into the base of Astarion’s skull. “You may walk in the sun, but your bloodlust is as obvious as an ogre in a banquet hall.”

Astarion swallows. He’s still focused on you. “You offered, didn’t you?” he says. “You said I could.”

Gale’s hands are moving in the incantation for Paralyze, he’s trying to shut Astarion up, Lae’zel snarls at Astarion, you have to say something—

“It was consensual!” you blurt.

Gale’s hands stop short. Karlach blinks at you.

“Consensual?” Wyll asks, and his voice cracks. He clears his throat. When he speaks again, it's in his usual authoritative tone: “What do you mean by 'consensual?'”

All eyes are on you.  Astarion has that wide, wondering look again: the very same one from last night. 

You straighten up. “He was hungry. He feeds on animals, but animal blood can’t sustain a vampire. I’d say he’s held off for long enough, wouldn't you? Or are we meant to starve him?”

Lae’zel shifts her grip on her sword. Shadowheart narrows her eyes at you, and you stare back. Her gaze wavers, for just the slightest moment.

“And anyway,” you continue, “Isn’t it best if we rotate feeding duty amongst ourselves? Cut back on the effects of—”

“No,” says Shadowheart.

“No,” says Gale.

“Nah,” says Karlach. To Astarion: “I’d probably burn you, anyway.”

“Tavvendish speaks true.” Lae’zel. “We are only as strong as our weakest fighter. If blood is what Astarion needs for battle, then she has made a wise decision.”

Gale shakes his head. “I’d rather not be a meal for a vampire.”

“Then I’ll do it,” you say.

“As will I,” says Wyll, and the group turns in surprise. He sheathes his rapier. “Astarion, should you have need—”

“No,” Astarion says immediately. “I’m not interested.”

Wyll blinks. “Ouch."

“Is this, like…” Karlach’s sword wavers; she looks around the group. “Like a kink thing?”

Astarion snorts and covers his mouth. You wince. You remember wanting to kiss Astarion, and you shake your head hard, like a dog, as if you could will the memory away. “No, Karlach," you say, "It isn’t a kink thing.”

Karlach sighs. “Thank the gods. I don’t want to see that shit.”

“Now, now.” Gale makes a soothing gesture with both hands. “So long as Astarion—" He gestures to you. "And, er, Tav— keep this to themselves, I’m willing to call them my good friends.”

Astarion rolls his eyes.  “We’re hardly—”

“—friends, Gale,” you say at the same time.

You and Astarion exchange glances.

Gale coughs, his face scrunching in distaste. “Oh, well. Cheers. Teammates, I suppose.” He walks away, muttering to himself: “Gods, a little courtesy wouldn’t be lost on--”

“Keep your fangs to yourself,” Shadowheart huffs at Astarion. “Else I’ll be washing your clothes in holy water.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Astarion drawls. Shadowheart scans his face, and for one tense second, you’re sure she'll kill him--

But she sniffs and turns on her heel instead. “Whatever.”

Karlach lowers her sword as Shadowheart flounces off. “Guess that’s it, then,” she says, “Party’s over.” She gestures to Astarion. “How are you walking in the sun, anyway?”

Astarion rocks back and forth on his toes while he thinks. “I don’t really know. Since the Nautiloid, I’ve been waiting to burn to cinders. But,” he adds, smirking, “I’m not about to look that gift horse in the mouth.”

Karlach smiles at him. “You can say that again. Would rather not have a freaky illithid worm in my brains, but sunshine feels good. What can you do?”

Astarion nods. “Exactly!”

Karlach snaps her fingers and points at you with a smile. “Hey. No kink stuff."

You sigh. “Noted.”

Lae’zel is last to sheathe her sword. “Chk. Mind your manners, istik, or I’ll have no qualms running you through on my blade.”

Astarion gasps and turns to her. “Oh, won't you? I’m trembling like a virgin at the thought!"

Lae’zel tosses her braids out of her face with a smirk. “I’m sure you are." To you, she nods. “Watch him, Tavvendish. Make sure he doesn’t stray out of line.”

“Noted,” you say. “Again.”

Lae'zel returns to her tent. Wyll puts his hand on Astarion’s shoulder. “I mean it, Astarion,” he says. “Do not be a stranger. Only but ask, and you’ll have your blood. But don’t hurt Tav."

Astarion looks at Wyll’s hand. “I’ll…" He looks up at Wyll. "I'll consider your offer."

This seems to satisfy Wyll, because after glancing at you, he leaves. Now, in the daylight, you see Astarion's still wearing the shirt you bought him. His fists clench and unclench; his jaw works, as if he’s grinding his teeth. You look down at the blood stain on your blouse.

Astarion speaks first. “I suppose I owe you another coffee." He makes this awkward, slight little bow, as if he can’t figure out what to do with himself. “You’ll drink Faerun dry of it, darling, faster than you think."

“It was my pleasure, Astarion." Immediately, you want to slap yourself. What a trusting reply, when Astarion himself couldn’t be trusted: he pickpocketed, he teased you relentlessly, he had a nightmare of a temper. Doubtless, you'll have to fight him off of you, night after night, until this damned tadpole was gone. You think of Astarion hovering over you like that again, and bile rises in your throat.

He laughs, loud and sharp. “That adorable kindness will kill you someday." 

“Already has,” you say. “In more ways than one.”

You turn for your tent, but a cold hand seizes your wrist. You look back at him.

“You didn’t like that, did you? How our little meeting began?” Astarion is serious, suspiciously so. “I quite took you by surprise. Next time,” and he does that small, strange bow again, “You’ll have due notice beforehand, sweetheart, I swear. I won’t wake you. You’ll never even know I was there.”

You lips part. His ears are vaguely pink; you don’t think you’ve ever seen him blush before. It’s…attractive.

You try to keep your voice as neutral as possible: “You’d better bite me in a different place, then. I can’t walk around with bruises all over my neck.

Astarion nods eagerly. “Oh, yes-- yes, I will.” He holds his free hand up. “I promise. There will be more sweet rolls and coffee for your trouble.”

“Why, Astarion!" You can't keep the surprise out of your voice. "Are you well? You sound almost...princely.”

Astarion drops your wrist; he even makes a show of wiping his palm on his shirt. "Ugh. Don’t be ghastly.” 

This Astarion, at least, was familiar. You shrug. “I wouldn’t dream of thinking highly of you. Not on my life.”

“Darling!" Astarion tosses his hair. "We’ll see how much you hate a nightshade when it's in your coffee."

You roll your eyes. “I don’t hate a nightshade,” you sigh. “Nightshade pays the rent. Don’t be a child. I said they were boring.”

“Mm. Give me a discount when we're back home, little woodling." Astarion looks up at you from under his lashes; your stomach does something funny. “We’ll call it even.”

You back away, but there’s a waver in your step. “I’ll remember that." You point at him. "I never forget a face.”

Astarion smirks, and it's too much: you quickly avert your eyes from his, defeated. “Trust me." He draws a circle around his face. "This is a face you’ll never forget."

Your face burns, and you’re not sure if it’s the leftover venom. The other option is far more terrifying.

[anab-starr]

The List of BG3 OC's... so far

Resist-o-Durge: Oona, The Ghost Spider of Bhaal Szarkai Cleric of Eilistraee/Monk

Born of a ritual where an Underdark cult force-fed the flesh of Bhaal to a drider. She was then unceremoniously dumped above ground at the doors of an Eilistraeean church. Oona grew up with love, compassion, and a firm belief in redemption no matter the crime.

When the Slayer came for her, she razed the Church to the ground after murdering everybody inside.

Canon: Loves Gale Besties w/ Shadowheart & Astarion Hasn't killed any of the named drow. Nere, Drouin, Araj, Minty... all safe!

Yes that includes "he's drow enough" Kar'niss. She just knocked him out, dragged him somewhere safe, and left a moonlantern beside him for when he came to.

Crazy Fanon: Has a li'l Gortling daughter. I imagine the reunion would be Gortash bringing her to his office after she gets rid of Orin and being like "I mean you could kill me instead of helping me, but wow that would really upset OUR CHILD." Oona doesn't know this but the baby is exactly what caused her to rethink her Absolute plans. She didn't want to destroy the world for Father anymore, she wanted the world to be worthy of her Gortling! And maybe she could convince bae to just settle for Archduke of Baldur's Gate! She went to Moonrise Towers to talk to Ketheric about her second thoughts since she felt he'd be most apt to listen whether or not he agreed.

And that's when Orin struck.

Next, ANOTHER DURGE!

Embrace the Durge (for now): Edeva the Black Tiefling Rogue/Assassin

I wanted to do a tiefling version of Origin Durge, I just love the creepy white and red look. I don't know her background yet, I just know she has one rule: TIEFLINGS ARE OFF LIMITS. Everyone else is fair game, but when she walked in on Lump the Enlightened eating a tiefling, she went berserk. She also did not allow Lae'zel to be mean to Zorru.

But those Gnolls... were SO COOL.

Anyway, here's what I have of her: Canon: Crushing on Karlach, no besties yet :( unless you count Sceleritas Fel? Does NOT like Raphael, very much scared of him, even though she's the one who gets that good Devil-D in all my RaphxTav fanfics ^^;; Crazy Fanon: She's Orin's #1 hype gal, believes in her art skills, beat the absolute snot out of Sarevok for, as she puts it, "being mean to my girl". I figure, Sarevok is the driving force behind manipulating Orin into replacing Eva as Chosen because the thinks this Absolute Cult stuff is a waste of time and he feels Bhaal has better uses for Edeva.

My very first Tav, Meadowlark High Elf Druid/Circle of Spores

She's a Bard and a Druid, a happy woman with an 8 year old son who was playing with friends when the Nautiloid showed up. She hopes her kid's ok, neither one of them expected her to be kidnapped and tadpole'd. She did send word via the grove that she was alive and getting home ASAP.

She's giving me wicked Mommy vibes, which is why I felt she should have a child already. No romantic prospects at the moment with how badly she mother-hens her companions. She's especially protective of Lae'zel because of the gith's youth and naiveté.

That being said, she's crushing heavily on Barcus Wroot, and she hasn't met fellow druid Halsin yet...

Funny thing is, she's inspired by someone else's character! A long time ago I was in a Dragon Age fanart group on FB and someone created a mage named Meadowlark. The inspo pic the person used was of an absolutely gorgeous Turkish model. When I saw this face mod (Vamperen's Head's 2.0 I believe) I thought "omg that looks like Meadowlark!" and decided to make her a Tav.

Crazy Fanon: Her son is still in Baldur's Gate waiting for her... just not at home... :/

[bitchcake]

i lost lump the enlightened in the gnoll fight… the sick xp was not worth it

[recitedemise]

"are you too proud? and would you consider pride a fault or a virtue?" / from edelgard ouo

PRIDE & PREJUDICE PROMPTS: still accepting.

"Pride suggests I regard myself more favorably than I should. I like to think the more suitable term would be appropriately confident."

After all, in relation to casting, there live few more skilled.

Behind him, the fragrance of wind-whipping petrichor dawdles in the air. There warbles crackling currents, the hush of Gale's spell in the spring-strong trees, great bushels of tickweed curling to the magic and the soft hiss of lightning in the roots of their hair. When speaking of talent, few, rest assured, would ever stand so bright. But as Gale lowers his hands, the skin at his nails now split after fighting, he confesses his strengths are few beyond casting...or so he has determined. Been treated like.

He eyes his campmate, some spell-charred gnolls wreathing them in smoldering lumps. She, Gale supposes, may know much about this struggle. In both masks and pretense, she's a billion to boast.

"How I see it, there should be a balance in all things, and that would include one's vanity. Gloat, and you will give a lion a run for its money, but come off too humble, and you'll risk sounding insincere. In fact, had you said you were a poor artist, I might've believe you were fishing for my glowing praise -- and if you don't mind my saying so, meek doesn't quite suit you." He offers her a grin. He's teasing, isn't he?

[persephinae]

My Tav, Illium's tent would include:

practice dummy

portable/folding weapons rack

small weapons/armor repair station

small alchemical station for mixing potions

maps, journals

books on illithids, history, and some plays and poetry

surprisingly, some comfy pillows and blanket/sleeping pallet, but really well made and colorful since he comes from minor nobility

some crystals from the Underdark

his personal lute that he secretly practices on, initially sucking really bad, but eventually he became proficient enough to play in front of crowds

and some mementos from his travels:

a music box he found in the darkest part of the Shadowfell, reminding him there's always beauty even in the most desolate times

small teddy bears from the children's ward of the cursed hospital - he doesn't want these small treasures of children lost to war to be forgotten (he's really sentimental about them. The children's ward upset him more than he lets on)

Lump's War Horn, when he had 3 ogres at his command

Bex's cookies that are slowly going stale, he was really touched by her gift

The dog collar he found in the Underdark, as well as her books which spoke of her aching loneliness- he doesn't want Lenore to be forgotten and hopes to find her in Baldur's Gate

Komira's locket, his reward for saving Arabella, and in remembrance of those he couldn't save (he's keeping it for Arabella)

Barnabus's locket, he felt bad that the gnolls were made puppets and wasn't able to free them, even though they're evil creatures. It still bothers him.

Nere's Spider's Lyre, it reminds him of home

Alfira's lute, a gift that he treasures

The Feywild Bell from when he released that pixie, he finds it beautiful

The amulet he received from Sovereign Spaw, a promise of their aid in the coming battle

tl;dr: Illium is a big old softy

[thegnollhole]

look, i wouldn't have a gnoll oc if i didn't think threatening to eat people and biting them to the point of blood and injury was incredibly hot.

even eating them alive/dead is at least conceptually hot even if in practice i don't have the stomach [yuk yuk] for it.

Karra has absolutely eaten people.

but man i just don't get vore. especially not same size stuff.

eating someone realistically, or using someone basically as a sex toy by stuffing them up your cunt or ass shouldn't be lumped in with vore. because i like it obviously.

cock vore can still be vore because that is also weird and offputting to me.

i alone am the arbiter of taste. don't @ me

[vestrabishops]

Baldur’s Gate 3 update:

I went with a half-orc eldritch warlock (sage background+int/cha build). I like the subtle nods to your characters race in dialogue, hopefully there’s more interesting orc lore later in the game.

I went into this game almost completely blind with zero idea of even what type of game it even was and I’m very pleasantly surprised with how much it feels like an old school point and click adventure. The game feels new and impressive but invokes a lot of nostalgia somehow.

Also reminds me a lot of Dark Souls 2 (my favorite one)

The combat is intense!! But I do like the route of fewer, harder battles as opposed to tons of grinding. It’s not what I’m used to, so I’m still getting used to treating every battle like an big deal and not hoarding my items. It’s very satisfying though; I felt like a total badass taking out the undead in the crypt with just Shadowheart and Astarion with me. (Are you even supposed to do that battle so early?? I did it before finding Wyll)

In true DnD fashion, I have a chronic need to do all the side quests I can find and also talk to every random npc. Big fan of the tiefling couple that wants to get a kitten and open a café together. Also Lump the Enlightened. My beloved.

In terms of my current party, my ranking of the companions goes Wyll>Shadowheart>Astarion. Wyll is so my type of character- idealist being tormented by the horrors. I like that you can call his bluffs if you’re also a warlock. Shadowheart I unfortunately find very cute and will probably follow her to my doom because she is sooo sketchy and I’ve decided I love her. Astarion grates on me but like in a fun way. I can tell he has a lot of depth under the silliness and his fruity little ‘don’t touch me’ when he’s low on health cracks me up.

The mind flayer stuff is so fucked up and gross looking and I love it! They really did a great job at making it all feel so visceral.

Right now I’m off to find the big druid on campus who can hopefully stop the ritual. As soon as I stop getting my ass kicked by gnolls.

The immersion of this game is really increased when you have a migraine while you play.

[thebard490]

Paladins Chapter 10: The Halfling Village

I am the Bard, who has seen the suffering of mortals is a constant, since the advent of chaos, yet in spite of this, they are not overcome. For chaos cannot remove the foundation.

Senket and Kazador awoke as the sunlight beat down on the pair, slumbering quietly up against the warm side of War Pig. They yawned awake, surrounded by a small pile of refitted and reforged weapons: scimitars and maces, spears and axes, enough to outfit perhaps two score warriors. Kaz began loading up War Pig with the small armory, while Senket lit a small fire to boil coffee. Kazador forced his down and proceeded to wash it down with several more cups of water. After a short breakfast, the scarlet pair set out, riding swiftly back towards the meeting place.

There, the party assembled, hidden in the trees, some substantially stealthier than others as they watch the road. Soon enough, their target emerged. A large wagon, largely empty but for five hobgoblins riding in it, carrying crossbows, was driven by another hob who goaded the strong horses onwards. In front two marched carrying stout halberds, and two more marched behind. And with them came many goblins, far too many for even the paladins together to engage and defeat.

By some miracle of the gods, none of the sentries, passengers, or the driver noticed the giant War Pig lurking in the bushes some forty feet away, or any of the other paladins. The party let them pass by some two hundred yards before Yndri and her elk began to follow. After another few minutes, the party followed, keeping the white-haired elf in sight while she in turn stalked the cart.

As they continued forwards, a lump developed in Peregrin’s throat and a sinking feeling in his stomach as he recognized the area the cart is traveling through, realizing where it is going. His normally bright face became grim, and the rest of the party recognized the fell mood as not dissimilar to the cold fury that he showed during their battle against the gnolls.

Their fears were confirmed as Yndri dropped back after about an hour’s ride. “They’ve arrived at their destination. It’s another halfling village.” She said, watching as the cold killing intent sharpens the halfling’s hazel eyes.

“Another one? Considering the little folk are the only goodly races we’ve seen yet in this place I have to wonder if this was their land originally.” Julian said, raising a knuckle to below his nose thoughtfully.

”Mayhaps laddie, but the small folk dinnae build places like that abbey. That’s dwarven work, probably with human help.” Kazador confirmed.

“Yes. We don’t build like that. It’s why when everything else fell away, we remain. No castles to take, no empires to topple. If even my folk are under the goblinoid’s thumb, then there are no goodly folk left.” Peregrin said, his voice the quiet stone of determination. The party went quiet, long they had suspected that they would largely be alone in their fight for this land, but the confirmation was enough to give even the valiant warriors pause in the enormity of their task.

“So be it.” Julian said after a long moment, acceptance and resolve in his voice. “If we five and the colonists are what we have, then we’ll win with that. Now, let’s just think about how.”

The force was far too large for them to engage directly. They would need a plan. Julian considered the terrain and the circumstances carefully, musing over when would be wisest to strike. “It will have to be while they’re in the village. Their forces will start to scatter to steal their supplies. A decisive blow at that moment could inflict substantial damage. Speed and terror must be our order, maximizing confusion and striking at the enemy’s throat. This will also be the time they’re the furthest from the abbey, delaying any reinforcements.”

Peregrin frowned. “It’s not a bad idea, but what if they take hostages? It could potentially put the villagers in danger.”

Julian shook his head. “Keep in mind, they think so far they’re dealing with elvish raiders and gnolls. In either case, taking hostages wouldn’t be effective as a deterrent. They’ll realize what we are relatively swiftly, but if we strike hard and fade away, we can be in and out before they take advantage. As for our direction of retreat, I believe there’s a giant spider den nearby, no?”

Yndri grimaced at the idea. “We lead them in that direction, and then break away. Riding straight into a spider’s den is likely to leave us fighting both at once, while entangled in webs.” She paled at the idea, an impressive feat given her already fair skin.

“Agreed. The main thing will be to rout or kill as many as possible in the initial strike. We’ll split up, each one targeting a separate group.” Julian suggested. “This will maximize our impact and potentially confuse the enemy as to our true number of forces. After that, I will amplify their terror.”

That earned a raised eyebrow from everyone who had eyebrows. Yndri reached into her bag and pulled out some of the mushrooms she’d gathered earlier. “These may help with that. While the stalks themselves are able to be refined into a fairly nasty anticoagulant, the spores can also cause hallucinations. If I could dry them quickly, and grind them up, I could lash bags of spores to my arrows and fire them overhead, causing hallucinations and panic.”

“Absolutely not.” Peregrin put his foot down. “We’ve got civilians in that town. That kind of attack will just as likely poison the people we’re trying to protect.”

“Agreed.” Senket concurred. “Beyond that, causing hallucinations might cause the enemy to attack the civilians as well, thinking them to be some manner of monster.”

“Compromise.” Julian suggested. “We hit them with the spore arrows after we draw them away from the village. Keeps them panicked and puts them far enough away to not risk attacking the villagers.”

“Aye, that I can work with.” Kazador rumbled. “I dinnae like it, but it’s effective, an’ this way protects innocent folk from any side effects. Lay out yer mushrooms lassie. My fire’ll dry them out.”

Once the hallucinogenic weapon was prepared, the party moved forwards, sneaking to the edge of the clearing to observe the village. Now that they had a chance to get a better look, they saw perhaps fifteen houses, mostly all built in a small circle near the center of the clearing. On one side of the village, a stream, likely a tributary of the great river, ran through, surrounded by small nets and irrigated fields. it wasn’t much, but it would be more than enough to keep the village well fed. A hut off to the edge seemed off, until the wind blew, and the stench of tanning liquids revealed its purposes. The hamlet was small, but seemingly prosperous, if not for the look of the inhabitants.

The halflings here were the opposite of normal. Rather than the usually pleasantly plump and just pleasant in general folk, these children of Esther were pale, thin, and had an unpleasant, wicked look about them. Most unusual of all though is the fact that every adult had some form of red tattooing across their faces. Males have it around their eyes leading back across their temples, while the females have two lines leading down from their lower lips to their chins, giving the impression of mouths dripping with blood.

The Hobgoblins had drug up their cart into the center of the hamlet and begun extracting tribute, which appeared to mostly be large amounts of produce and meat. It seemed this village was helping contribute to their food storage. The goblins were going house to house, demanding whatever they could take. Protests were met with immediate and excessive violence, so most held their peace as they watched the last of their food vanish into the goblin’s hands. The hobgoblins themselves were set primarily about the cart, maintaining stern discipline. The paladins spied Jort among the cohort, though if he saw them, they gave no indication. The remaining goblins were organized into small groups, carefully keeping watch on wood and road with shortbows at the ready.

However, it was the paladin’s mounts that alerted them to yet another danger. Bartholomew, Peregrin’s steed, was first to notice, followed shortly by Pan. They halted, and turned this way and that, indicating a hidden threat. The paladins heeded their wisdom, and soon realized that hidden in the woods about the village were ten wolves, each bearing a goblin rider. Fortunately for the paladins, this net was spread thinly. Yndri and Peregrin quickly emptied their waterskins over themselves and their mounts to help hide their scent, and approached quietly. One by one, each rider and mount were eliminated by carefully aimed arrow and sling fire.

This step, while necessary, stole time from the Paladins, as the enemy prepared to depart. The groups began to gather back together, and soon would be unified once more. Their time was running short. Therefore, the Paladins came upon them with all fury, rage, and violence, roaring wordless cries as they suddenly fell upon the goblinoids.

Senket hurtled into the midst of the enemy, her strange reptilian mount unleashing an alien, birdlike cry. The sheer strangeness of the attack confused and frightened the goblins, and set the village’s animals panicking. Many were already herded to following the caravan, but the sight of a dinosaur set them to straining against their handlers and running in all directions. Into the storm of sheep and swine Senket rode, driving the animals to even greater terror and striking down any foe that came into her reach.

Peregrin raced along the village streets, finding any who lingered there or sought to harm his kindred. With wordless howl and deadly gleam in his eye, he slew any who trespassed upon his people’s lands. Dual blades danced as easily on dogback as they did standing still, utterly overwhelming any foe. They fell by the wayside, some bleeding from rent carotids, others with their napes slashed open as Peregrin rushed on.

Kazador went straight for the largest concentration of goblins he could find, and loosed the fire from his jaws. They fell away screaming and ablaze, as he crashed through one group and straight on into another. The bulk of War Pig crushed the smaller foe underfoot, and the great winter boar gored all who came within reach of his mighty tusks. Atop him, Kazador hewed the foe in either way, splitting apart skulls like timber. Shrouded in flame and fountaining blood, the dragonoid laughed as he slew, and his laughter was rousing and terrible.

Yndri circled the foe, striking with deadly accuracy from her bow. Wherever a sergeant or other leader seemed to arise, she fired again and again, cutting off the ability of the enemy to organize and recover. Yet not all were within her grasp. She spied a tall hobgoblin woman, clad all in full plate, charging directly at Kaz. Yndri fired against her, but elvish bows are optimized for rate of fire and accuracy, not raw power. They are hunting weapons, best suited for beasts and for lightly armored targets. They stood no chance against a fully armored knight.

            As such, Scylla was merely inconvienced as she charged headlong at Kazador. Wielding a mighty lance, she couched it and aimed true. The lance struck Kazador directly in his chest, and if not for his masterfully forged armor would have gone straight through his heart. Instead, the armor partially deflected the attack, sending it at an angle through his left lung. Kaz fell hard from his mount, crashing onto the ground with a wheeze. Scylla circled the dragonborn and his steed, drawing several Javelins from her back and wounding War Pig severely. Kaz tore the lance out of his chest, and came to his feet roaring. Already healing magic stitched the hole back together, and the hardy dragonoid readied himself regardless. Scylla drew a Warhammer and charged, bearing down on the wounded dragon. Kaz moved to meet her, chambering away her hammer with one axe, and bringing the other up to her steed’s throat. In a single motion, he cleaved the barded warhorse’s head off, sending it crashing to the ground atop Scylla. Undeterred, the woman grabbed the dead animal and heaved it over her head. She hurled the dead mare at Kazador, forcing him to dive away lest he be pinned by it in turn.

            Last, but certainly not least, Julian made his move. With the foe scattered and disoriented, he went for the transport wagon. Astride his black destrier, he moved with the speed of an ill omen across the ground. His warhorse bellowed a challenging whinny, terrorizing the geldings pulling the cart. They bucked and tore, refusing to heed their driver’s commands. Julian closed the distance, then flared his wings and leapt from Bucephalus’s back. He landed atop the wagon, cleaving the hobgoblin riding shotgun apart. Then he drove his blade through the driver’s solar plexus, and heaved him high into the air before casting him down. His wings stretched back, and he clenched his fist, unleashing his aura and sheer willpower upon the battlefield.

            The nephilim’s wings turned red, the light becoming like that from a dying star. Potent magical energies, the authority of an angel, and the dominating will of a conqueror lashed out around him. It caused no physical damage, but filled the minds of all about him with terror. Ambition drove itself like the nails of an iron crown into the brains of anything that looked upon the angel in his wrath. Jort, standing near to the event, physically staggered, and drew his blade. Some about him froze, many broke and ran for the forest’s edge, a few even fainted. But looking upon the terror before him, Jort felt a calm, cold, cool hatred. Everything in him surged with a single idea, that he needed to kill this man. His blades were drawn, and he began to climb the wagon. Julian turned towards him, slightly confused, and he lunged. The two men’s blades bet with a crash of steel. Jort was physically stronger, but Julian’s strength was supernatural.

            “What the hell are you doing?” Julian hissed quietly. Jort remembered himself, and quickly found an excuse.

            “Playing a role.” He snarled back. “I can hardly stand by and pretend to do nothing.”

            “What do you think everyone else is doing?” Julian asked incredulously. “Bah, forget this.”

            He shoved the younger hobgoblin back. The pair’s blades met once, twice, three times. Julian had the reach and the raw power, but he was a quite frankly amateur swordsman. Jort couldn’t quite push in to attack him, or chose not to, but neither could he land a telling blow on the hobgoblin. Stepping forwards, Julian delivered a powerful slash. Jort raised his blade to counter, but Julian’s magic flared. Jort’s sword shattered, and the hobgoblin was thrown from the cart, falling to the ground with the wind knocked from his lungs.

            With a shout, Julian commanded the horses pulling the wagon, and they swiftly tore away like whips of fire were at their backs. They rode directly for the forest, headed for the spider lair. The paladins took this as their cue, and quickly rode after him. Jort came to his feet, and shouted. “Any of you who can stand on your feet, after him! Don’t allow them to steal our supplies!”. He slammed his broken sword into his shield, as he began to run after the fleeing angel. “Come on you sons of bitches, are you warriors or are you slaves? Up, sons of Tamur! Gird up your loins and follow me!” The sight of this younger warrior, with naught but a broken sword and sheer courage, half shamed, and half rallied those who had frozen rather than fleeing. They let out a great cry, and charged after the retreating paladins. Scylla hurled insults, and a spear, at Kaz’s back, the dragonoid spitting fire back from astride War Pig.

            The paladins used their superior speed to quickly dash forwards into the woods, breaking direct line of sight. Even so, they left a clear trail, before quickly dismounting. Their steeds continued on, leaving a trail further forwards. Meanwhile, all save Peregrin, who was too short, worked together to pick up the wagon. They broke off at another angle, carrying the wagon over their heads as they did so. Peregrin covered their trail, and then they hid amongst thick trees and bushes far from their path. Soon, they heard the sound of charging warriors following after them, followed by the sounds of combat and screams only produced by those being ambushed by spiders about the size of a minivan.

            Julian staggered away from the group, before tearing off his helmet and vomiting. He spit up blood with his bile, and heaved until nothing came. Then he collapsed at the side of a tree, breathing heavily, with his eyes closed. Yndri moved to him and felt his forehead. “Fever, sickness, you idiot.” She shook her head. “You’ve given yourself mana burn!”

            “Don’t pull that trick that often, never tried to hit such a wide area before either.” Julian said, reaching for his waterskin and sipping carefully. “I think you can see why.”

            “No shit, and you clearly haven’t practiced it much either. That energy expenditure was wasteful, and absurdly dangerous. You could have killed yourself!” Yndri reprimanded him. “Once we’re done, bed rest, twenty-four hours, and not even a cantrip out of you.”

            “Twelve, and then we’ve got a cleric to kill.” Julian replied, trying to force himself to his feet, then collapsing onto his hands and knees. He drove his blade into the earth and used it to force himself upright, beating his wings to help lift his body. “Don’t worry, I’m too busy to die.”

[soldiermom1973]

Didn't get too much done today. Finished the Shadow Druid quest and recruited Karlach. That's about it. I called it quits early because I was falling asleep in my chair. I'm not a high enough level yet to want to take on the people chasing Karlach (really struggled on that one with Archie). I think I have Lump's War Horn, so that'll help. I'm also right at the edge of where the gnoll/Zhentarim fight is, too, so that'll help as well. I ended this session at camp - I'll take a long rest, wait for Mizora to show up and give Wyll his horns, then do a few more things. I still have to get to the goblin camp, but that'll probably be a couple more weeks (I'm currently only playing on Mondays).

I am picking up more/different ambient conversations - stuff between Wyll and Astarion is sometimes funny, sometimes frustrating (I hate how snide Wyll gets with the pale elf sometimes). I'm still impressed at how respectful Lae'zel and Gale are with each other.

I've also noticed that party banter seems to be location triggered, like it was in DA Origins, which is nice because if I want to see what everyone has to say to each other, I can just run back and forth between 2 points & listen to them talk. I hated in Inquisition that party talk seemed more on a timer or something because, damn it, there was some good stuff I never heard because I didn't want to wait.

Charlie's Run (BG3)

Ok, so the TL/DR for this is I started another run with a character named Archie. I was not having fun. At all. I realized I was expecting too much of myself, being the completionist that i am. While grumbling my way through Faerûn, I restarted my original Tav so I could acquire cross save files for my Dear Friend @emmavakarian-theirin I was playing both characters for about a week & realized I couldn't keep that up, so I decided to give the OG tav another run, then go back & finish Archie later.

This is the same character I initially posted about several months ago. I didn't name her then, but since I'm taking this a bit more seriously (from a creative/RP point of view), she needed a name. I settled on Charlie - short for Charlemagne or something stupid like that. She hates her name & much prefers Charlie. She and Archie are sisters. In case you've forgotten what she looks like, here...

She's a half-high elf sorcerer with Draconic blood. She is Very Tall. She will be romancing Gale. I'm planning on using what I learned the first time around & with my Archie run to take care of other things (for instance, I haven't killed Lae'zel and don't really plan to. I want to give her that egg.)

So, let's see.... I'm still fairly early in the game, so I don't have Karlach yet, so Wyll is horn-free. I've talked to Auntie Ethel and am making my way toward her home as well as heading to the swamp to take care of the Shadow Druid thing. I talked to the owl-bear and left the cave with both of us intact. I've found Scratch. I am currently in the Blighted Village and am about to get Shovel/Basket. I will not be making the mistake of not doing the convo to keep them as a permanent summon.

I'll tag this stuff as Charlie BG3, so you can filter out my nonsense if you like. Otherwise, enjoy the ride. Again.

[cthulhu-lulu]

Things to Know: Rykman and Lump

Rykman Alderbane

Animal Handling +6, Intimidation + 8, Deception +6

Former highwayman and ex-wizard, Rykman spent his younger days running a small group of thieves known as the Pocket-Cutters. The group was ambushed one day, and several of the members ended up in jail or dead at the hands of the town’s guard, Rykman able to escape by the skin of his teeth. Deciding that thievery may have too many risks, and that just because he was lucky this time didn’t mean he would be the next, Rykman joined the crew of The Grinning Sea-Goat, a large cargo vessel specializing in exotic herbs and spices. One day while in port, he was accused of pickpocketing a local noble and thrown into jail without a trial. He found that he was scheduled to hang alongside a wandering Gnoll who was in jail for the same crimes. Berlana, witnessing the arrest, decided to follow-up, discovering that the two were being framed by another noble who was trying to set them up as co-conspirators working for yet another noble. She presented evidence to the court, and was able to get the charges against the two dropped. The rest, as Rykman says, belongs to the tides now.

Rykman drives Nymphadora’s personal carriage and works as the lead Stablemaster for the Bellhouse Estate. He’s hired a small crew to help him with the horses and various other steeds the Miscreants bring home (‘Is that a Giant Wasp!? How the blazes did you get that thing to follow you home!? No, I AM going to worry about it, you blasted idiots!!’). 

Rykman is an expert pistoleer, and always has at least four pepperbox pistols on his person any time he is driving, ready to blast any unfortunate soul that thinks they can try robbing Adora’s carriage on his watch!

When he’s not driving the carriage or overseeing the stables, Rykman likes to spend time in the basement of the stablehouse, growing an assortment of exotic mushrooms in his custom built garden. He swears there’s nothing illegal, but the stablehands know better than to pry into his personal business…

Lump the Gnoll

Athletics +5, Acrobatics +5, Perception +11 (Passive Perception: 26)

Lump is a Gnoll

Lump is very fast

When Rykman tells Lump that someone needs to be shot, Lump shoots

When Lady Adora is in trouble, Lump protects

Lump is a very good boy

Lump can usually be seen riding alongside Rykman(the only person that seems to understand what his yips and barks actually mean) on Lady Adora’s carriage, Heavy Crossbow at the ready, always scanning the horizon for trouble.

Rykman swears that Lump ‘can smell bloodlust from the next town over, so when he thinks there’s trouble, there’s trouble!’ The Miscreants are very thankful to Lump for all the times he’s saved them, and never miss an opportunity to buy him a nice juicy steak or bring him home some giant monster bones to chew on. 

Lump acts as Adora’s personal bodyguard, and any time she is working, be it in some plague-poisoned city or a trade negotiation with some noble lords, you can bet he will be close by, paws on his twin scimitars, ready to jump to her defense in the blink of an eye. Trying to harm Adora is not a mistake Lump will allow anyone to make twice, ‘and that’s a damn guarantee!’ -Rykman

Nymphadora bought Lump fancy clothes and a fancy new uniform. Lump loves his fancy new uniform! Lump loves Lady Adora!

@sugarskullgrin @likeabirdinflight