#Void-Touched Tieflings

[whitewoodwriter]

My Children of the Stars!

Two Void-Touched Tiefling siblings: Pelle Melle in pink and Helltor Skelltor in blue.

Pelle embodies Affection, while Skelle embodies Sorrow.

You can learn more about how Void-Touched Tieflings and make your own with the homebrew I wrote for our #kickstarter stretch goals!

Check out the link below for the #InfernalHeritageZine and follow @losthavenguild for more updates and info about the project!

http://kck.st/45j9o70

[amica-aenigmata-naboo]

Can’t

Astarion x Y/N - drabble - 883 WC

Masterlist

Warnings: talking about sex, brief mention of intimacy, embarrassment, inability to orgasm, sweet Astarion, our understanding and loving boy

—————————————-

Astarion had been between your legs for ages. You felt frustrated your body wouldn’t cooperate with you. The first time you were having sex and your body felt good but that was all. No build up, just good. You felt so disappointed in yourself. Sex had never brought you much pleasure, it was just something that never equated to what you had been told about. The heat. The passion. The carnal, primal need to fuck. You enjoyed sex, but you had never been able to climax from it. It’s why you avoided it so much, you hated disappointing your partner when they weren’t able to get you off. The look on their face was almost always insulted or annoyed. It’s why you had turned Astarion down at the tiefling party. And again in the Underdark. And now here you were, resting after defeating Kethric, ready to go to Baldur’s Gate tomorrow. Astarion had made it well known he liked you. Maybe he even loved you. So you thought you’d try, maybe this time would be different. But as you laid there you began to feel disgusted with yourself and your uncooperative body. You pushed Astarion away from your heat with your foot as you sat up. You pulled a large shirt over yourself, covering everything in a black cloth that swallowed you into a void. You crossed your arms over your chest, putting your defenses up.

Astarion’s face scrunched up, confused. “What… what happened? What’s wrong?” His eyes were worried as they raked over you.

You sniffled before you coughed as you wiped your eyes quickly. “I just… um, can we stop?”

Astarion put his clothes back on, “Of course.” He said. He stayed where he was, not wanting to invade your space.

Your mind was splitting, everything yelling at you to get rid of him and that this was a huge mistake. “This… we never should have done this.” You whispered, mostly to yourself.

Astarion’s face dropped, “I can do other things darling, you merely got a taste of what I can do. If there’s one thing I know for certain it’s that I’m an excellent lover.” He smirked, trying to get you to look at him or smile.

“I…” you said before your voice wobbled, watery and holding back a flood of tears, “can’t.”

“Can’t?” He said with confusion all over him, “Can’t what?”

“I can’t do this… I’m sorry.” You said, gesturing between the two of you.

“Can’t have sex or can’t be with me?” He asked bluntly, fear bubbling up inside of him.

“One in the same, aren’t they?” You scoffed slightly.

“No.” He said with every bit of confidence.

“Of course I want to be with you…” you said, reaching out a hand for him.

He took it immediately, scooting closer to you before he kissed your knuckles. “But you don’t want to have sex?” He asked, looking up into your glassy eyes.

You avoided his gaze, having never disclosed your little issue. “I… I don’t know… maybe?”

“Pet, if it’s not an enthusiastic yes then it’s a no. Plain and simple.” He said.

“It’s not that I don’t want to… I just… I um…” you felt your cheeks heating up by the second. You closed your eyes and took a breath, “I can’t… climax during sex. I’ve never been able to.” You said quietly, “Don’t get me wrong, you were lovely and I am wildly attracted to you, body and soul… but my body… it just… I don’t know.” You hung your head, holding your face in your hands.

Astarion took your hands from your face gently. “My sweet, that’s ok. It doesn’t make me want you any less. This is good information to have. Thought I had lost my touch for a moment.” He said with a smile.

You chuckled, he always knew how to brighten your spirits. Even if only for a moment, he always managed it. “I’m really sorry, I know it’s disappointing and frustrating…” you sighed.

“Don’t do that. Don’t apologize, this is just how your body is. I can still love you. And maybe we can try things out, see what you do and don’t like. Or you can show me how you get yourself off? I’m getting ahead of myself. Bottom line - nothing is wrong with you, don’t be sorry, and know that I still want you more than anything.” He smiled at you, a genuine, toothy grin.

You nodded, caressing his cheek as you pulled him into sweet kisses. “Thank you.”

“Would you like to do something else? Anything you want, the night is young.” He said.

It definitely wasn’t, it was deep into the night but to him I guess one could call it early? “Can we cuddle? And maybe have some tea?” You twiddled your thumbs, not wanting to sound stupid.

“That sounds lovely.” He smiled as he got up and got the tea ready.

You both sipped at your cups while snuggled up together. You blew out all the candles when you were done drinking. Astarion saw your eyelids growing heavy, he felt your heart slowing down. He cast dancing lights, knowing you liked watching the hypnotic lights before sleeping. He massaged your scalp at the base of your neck while muttering phrases of adoration to you.

———————————————

Naboo’s Note:

Hey! A quick little one shot for ya. Idk if anyone else struggles with this kinda issue but I def do (TMI? Sorry 😅) so I thought maybe this would be interesting to write given Astarion’s intimacy issues and having a reader with different kinds of issues. Anyways, love yall and will post again soon! XOXOXOXOXOXO

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

Power

Thank you @dansnotavampire for this delicious prompt! TW blood.

‘Your Grace,’ whispered a wretched shade, forming and breaking as it spoke. ‘The king returns. Will you allow me to open the way? Please?’ The thing cowered, once a tiefling man and now simply smoke. He gazed up at the woman on the throne high above with fear and adoration, a beaten dog. Tav met his eye and he held her gaze, trembling.

‘No,’ she said softly. ‘Let him walk.’

‘As you wish Your Radiance.’ He scurried off. The other shades raised their voices in a chorus, the rustle of wind, tiny spots of cold in the oppressive heat.

Tav waited, listening. The throne room was empty, the House void of any living thing save herself and Haarlep, who curled into her at night and now sat quietly with his cheek pressed to her thigh. He was here to keep her husband in line, not her. A telltale roar from outside, the scream of a tormeted soul, and the doors banged open.

She knew the walk was long. He seemed so far away from up here on the throne, a figment of her imagination. And yet as he moved into the room with its sumptuous velvet and glittering gold and infernal marble warm like a body to the touch, he became real, and realer still. Brimstone hit her nose first, so concentrated it was sickly sweet, the musk and cherries barely masking it. She’d almost forgotten, but her head swam with it, made her turn away.

‘Beloved,’ she said flatly as he surged towards her, face twisted in a snarl. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘You would have me walk?’ he hissed, trembling with fury. ‘In my own house? My darling little mouse, you-’

Her gaze fixed on him then, hot and vengeful as a lightning strike. ‘Be quiet.’ Beside her, Haarlep held his breath.

‘You would dare,’ Raphael whispered, ‘to order me? I, who brought you here in good faith, fed you from my table, allowed you to share my bed, you- spiteful child, you would dare-’

Her lips pulled back in a sneer. ‘I am no child. I am your queen. Your wife. And you left me to fight your stupid, suicidal war.’

‘And you would take the incubus,’ he said, voice scathing as he gestured to Haarlep. ‘I suppose you didn’t even wait until my side of the bed was cold, did you, Your Grace?’

‘Of course not,’ she said, scoffing. ‘You treated the poor thing terribly and made him do all the work.’ She leaned forward, back straight, smiled a thin, mirthless smile. ‘The house is mine now, Raphael. Your subjects mine. The gift your father gave you, mine.’ Haarlep purred in agreement, a wicked little smirk on his lips. ‘You should not have come back.’ She stood, descended the stairs, watched the devil stand straighter even as he glowered down at her. ‘Something you’ll never understand is that they love me. Sometimes they look at me the way they looked at you and it makes my stomach turn because they are afraid. But they’re my people now. You lost your right to that seat-’ she gestured upwards, ‘-the moment you left on your absurd quest. All I can say to you is good luck, if you think the God of Ambition will allow you to steal from him.’

‘And who made him so?’ Raphael growled, clawed hands gripping her shoulders, eyes burning with longing and anger. ‘You, beguiling vixen, you created him. Our own enemy. If you had simply told the boy to kneel to his goddess, none of us would be in this mess!’

‘You chose to leave!’ she snapped, baring her teeth. ‘We could have been a united front, faced everything that came at us, but your selfishness knows no bounds.’ She pushed at him but he did not budge, towering over her. He dug in his claws, nostrils flaring in anger.

‘My selfishness,’ he hissed, ‘is why you are here, and not washed up on the docks in Baldur’s Gate, blown to pieces by a fucking Netherbrain! Perhaps I should have left you on the mortal plane! You would have come back here anyway, a little lost soul, to call me Master! Yet here you are!’

She lunged with a cry of rage, the sharp slap of her open hand sending him reeling back in shock, infernal eyes wide. She crouched, hands curled as though she had claws, a feral howl ripped from her throat. ‘ENOUGH!’ She was tiny compared to him, fragile, her nails and teeth blunt, and yet in this moment she felt a surge of power such as she’d never had.

There was fear in his eyes.

‘That word will never leave my mouth.’ Tav stepped back, conceded ground, but Haarlep rose behind her, bolstering warmth at her back, his tail curling soothingly- and possessively- around her ankle.

‘Your Grace,’ he said, voice silky, ‘do you want me to get rid of him?’

‘No,’ she said, not taking her eyes off her husband. ‘You’re king of this realm, are you not?’ He narrowed his eyes, swished his tail like an angry cat. ‘Answer me.’

‘I am.’ His jaw clenched. ‘Though you have made yourself quite comfortable in my seat, my dear.’

‘Someone had to rule.’ The retort was venomous, meant to wound. ‘You will not remove me.’

‘Oh?’ He was amused now, grinning with fangs on full display. ‘It was hardly a fair conquest. You stole it when my back was turned.’

‘Come and get it, then,’ she said boldly. ‘If you’re no coward.’

He stalked forward, eyes dancing with malice and mirth. Ah. He thinks he’s in control. ‘You’ve had your fun, little mouse.’ His voice held a dangerous lull, too soft. ‘Come here. All is forgiven.’

‘Oh, that’s cute! You think I’m the one who needs forgiveness! Are you insane?’ Tav drew a blade from within the folds of her dress, flipped it in her hand, hissed. ‘You should be on your hands and knees begging me Raphael.’

He hesitated, the smile dropping from his face. ‘Insolent pup, you’re actually serious.’

‘Queen. Do as I say.’ Haarlep’s tail tightened around her ankle; he was enjoying this.

Raphael was at war with himself, clearly; his tail swished angrily, but his eyes bore into her with pure lust, and he almost looked proud. He smirked, holding onto any semblance of control he could, and pressed his palms and knees to the infernal marble, wings folded neatly over his back, eyes locked to hers, waiting. ‘Well?’ he said smoothly. ‘Your enemy is defeated. Press your advantage.’

She could’ve done. But that would have meant going to him, and that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, in the most commanding voice she could muster, she said, ‘crawl to me.’

And he did. Slowly, without taking his eyes off her, he crawled to her feet, leaned onto his haunches and gazed up at her with such false innocence a flush of heat swept through her and she broke out in a sweat. ‘What next?’ He was enjoying this. She realised with a jolt he would’ve done this plenty of times, because of-

‘Oh, Your Grace you’re having so much fun… may I?’ Haarlep leaned over her shoulder, lips inches from her ear. ‘I would hate for the king to take all the spoils of war…’

Raphael looked down, seemingly fighting with himself. She could hear him taking steady breaths, claws kneading his thighs.

Tav shivered, felt the incubus close his teeth on her ear. But there was still the devil at her feet; she couldn’t show weakness. Reaching out with the dagger in her hand, she placed it under his chin. ‘Eyes on me,’ she said softly. His eyes blazed, claws digging into his skin, but he obeyed. He tensed, showed his fangs and got his feet under him, readying to pounce. He would, she thought, if I let my guard down.

‘What’s the matter, little mouse?’ he whispered. ‘Feeling a little in over your head?’

She growled, pressed the dagger to his skin. Beads of blood formed and trickled downward, slipping beneath his clothes. Haarlep pulled with his tail at her ankle, bringing her off balance, his arms snaking around her to take her weight.

And trap her there.

‘Haarlep. Whose side are you on?’

‘Oh, yours my queen, always yours. You seem a little tense. Perhaps you’d like to relax?’ He pawed at her breasts through her dress, kissed the pulse in her neck. She did not take her eyes off the devil, who licked his lips.

‘Put in the effort for once,’ she croaked, dropping the blade. He leapt for her, catching her by the hips and rucking her dress around her waist, his claws digging into the softness of her thighs. Blood welled, coursed slowly across her skin, and she yelped in surprise at the heat of his tongue lapping it up. He groaned, vibrating through her, pulled her forward to his tongue and teeth as he bit at the inner thigh, sucked a bruise there, fucking laughed when she moaned in response. The incubus hardly helped; he tore at the fabric of her dress, wrenching it from her shoulders and biting. He was pulling at her, the devil snarling at the competition. She had to wrest back control somehow. Reaching down, she grabbed a fistful of Raphael’s hair and pulled hard, hoping against hope that her resolve would not slip entirely.

‘As the conqueror commands.’ He was toying with her even now, even as his mouth closed around her clit and his claws raked her thighs, as he hummed into her core and shook with amusement as she jolted back in Haarlep’s embrace.

‘Patience little thief.’ The incubus gripped the back of her neck, turning her head to kiss her deeply, his tongue hot in her mouth, saliva sweet and heady. Heat bloomed again in her belly, gathered at the apex of her thighs, only made more intense by the infernal creature between them. She curled small hands around his horns, trying not to melt into a puddle on the spot. Haarlep pinched a nipple between two claws to bring her attention back to him and she gasped into his mouth.

‘You little wanton whore,’ said Raphael, breaking away to glare up at her. ‘Let go of him and cry for me.’

‘No.’ Tav turned, tried to ignore Haarlep at her throat. ‘No, I’ll do as I please. I- ah!’ She cried out as the devil returned to his ministrations with renewed vigour and aggression, sending her close to the edge- and stopping. ‘No, don’t,’ she whined, digging her nails into his scalp. ‘Keep going! I fucking command you to!’ He hummed against her but acquiesced, sending her crashing into orgasm, lightheaded from its force.

Haarlep ground against her, impatient. Raphael seemed to take pity, snapping his fingers- their clothes vanished into fire and ash, and the incubus wasted no time in taking her, thrusting into her body with the ease of many times before, his fingers shoving roughly into her mouth to stifle her cries. Raphael rose to his feet, watching her face contort as the incubus fucked into her at a near brutal pace, never seeming to tire. He could feel it, of course. The echoes of touch in his own body. She bit at the incubus’s fingers, laughed as he yelped and withdrew.

And then she pulled all the strings again with a single word.

‘Stop.’

Haarlep obeyed, staring at her in astonishment. It was echoed on Raphael’s face, slack-jawed shock. The infernal creatures here held sway with fear and violence, pleasure and pain, and yet this mortal woman, this fragile soft thing, had leashed and muzzled them, so they could do nothing but exactly what she told them to do. Not out of fear, nor force.

But out of loyalty. Tav ignored them both, ran her fingers through her hair and felt two pairs of eyes follow her hands. She smirked, still not gracing them with eye contact, and slid a hand between her legs, the other sliding softly over the swell of her breast. They burned, both of them; she could feel it in the crackle of the air, the catch of their shared breath as she exhaled, like they could breathe only because she did. The power had shifted and she held it all. The queen played her own body deftly as a lyre, and the liars watched enthralled; she cried out into the vastness of the throne room, her domain now, anointed it with heat and light and nectar they could not taste or touch. Devil and incubus were rooted, frozen, even as they ached to press fingers to flesh- hers or their own, it hardly mattered. She crooked her coated fingers, watched the king crumble. He took a step and she shook her head, laughter bubbling from her throat like bursts of sunlight.

‘No, you don’t,’ she purred. ‘Get down and beg.’

His knees hit the floor, his arms reached up to grip her by the hips, his gaze half fear and half adoring. She had become infernal iron in his absence, strong and wild and too hot to hold in the mortal world, destructive and terrible. But here, in the hells, she dragged him up to her level while he dragged her down to his. They would meet someday on an even keel, but for now… for now…

‘Please,’ he rasped, face pressed to her belly, eyes beseeching. ‘I don’t… know what to feel. I want your body but I am tired of trying to take it. I want you to give, freely. You have consumed my mind, my fiendish soul is lost somewhere within your own. You are becoming a creature, a monster, or my resolve is turning to ash at your touch. I don’t know which, I don’t. I hardly care. You vex me-’ here he whined, pressing his forehead to her skin, horns either side of her throat, struggling to rein himself in. ‘You torment as I torment, making one another bleed. You make me more human as I make you a little less. Some feeling is lodged in my throat and you will call it a lie, I know you will.’ He met her gaze again, her stomach jolting at the sight of tears. ‘My little mouse. What have you become? I fear I love you. I know I want you. I want to rip you open and crawl inside your ribs and stay there for eternity. What have you done? What have you done?’

‘I couldn’t have love from you, so I wanted power,’ she crooned, stroking his hair softly. ‘I have power. You would do anything I asked of you, wouldn’t you?’ She looked past him to the incubus, who whined like a dog. She pushed her fingers into Raphael’s mouth, reached out to Haarlep with her other hand. ‘I trust you can see to your frustrations,’ she murmured. ‘Seek audience tomorrow and I may grant your wish.’ She hissed when the devil bit at her fingers, but would not relent. This was about power, not want, Her own desires would wait. The truth of it would reveal itself come dawn, when their minds were not clouded by lust.

‘Draw me a bath,’ she said to Haarlep, dismissing him. He slunk off, unsatisfied, and Raphael drew a shaking breath and stood.

‘Negotiations are going well, I trust?’ he asked quietly.

‘As expected.’ Her eyes flicked down his body. ‘Take care of yourself before someone sees you like this.’

‘If I could-’

‘No.’ Her voice held the ring of authority. ‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow, you will learn. Tonight you sleep alone. Show me you understand.’

He drew her close, enveloping her body entirely with his own, kissing her deeply until her head spun with heat and the pounding of blood. Then he withdrew, equally unsatisfied, a bared soul aching for something he dared not name.

Tags:

@bluerosetarot @dansnotavampire @further-than-forever

@forget-me-maybe @poetryvampire @sasha199 @wandawillow

@boufsy @owlseeyoulaterpal @lanafofana @amorgansgal

@auroraesmeraldarose @aryancunin @miradelletarot @marlowethebard

@crimson-and-lavender @reeseykins @medra-gonbites

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@astarryvamp @feedthepheasants @dabigstinky @dreamingofthewild @ladyofcrowsandcoffee

[dent-de-leon]

It was the last Blood Maledict that did it, finally tipped him over the edge. A Vanguard warrior bearing down on him, poised to strike, his blood soaked blade raised high overhead, glinting in the ruby moonlight--Caleb fumbling with a spell, hands shaking as he stuttered out the words, reaching for his last drop of fading magic--

Kingsley beat him to it. No words passed his lips, no clever retort or snide comment. Just a gutteral scream, blood-curdling and fiendish, a wild battle cry of the Hells. The sharp, piercing screech of Infernal shook the soldier to his core, his own voice a strangled cry as his eyes turned void black, shedding bloodied tears--

He swung out wildly in a wide, desperate arc, the blade sailing right past Caleb. He let out another scream as he staggered and fell gracelessly to the earth, stumbling blindly as his whole world went dark. Another gurgled gasp, a pained cry, and the life left his dark, empty eyes.

And Tealeaf--Tealeaf. His own eyes wept bloody tears, and Caleb didn't miss the fresh blood hunter scar torn open at his forearm, vibrant lavender skin fading to a drained, deathly pallor.

No--no. Not again--

Reeling with the rush of adrenaline, dizzy with blood loss--King listed back with a drunken sway, eyes falling shut as the whole world fell out beneath his feet--

He sinks to his knees and falls just as Caleb catches him, holding on as tight as he can, calling Tealeaf's name again and again. His whole body is trembling, heart racing, and the tiefling feels so small and vulnerable, lying still in his own shaking arms. He chokes back a sob, nails biting deep into King's skin as he pulls him closer, and finally--finally--his friend starts to stir, tail thrashing restlessly as he tosses and turns in Caleb's desperate grasp, crimson eyes fluttering open wide.

And to his absolute horror, Tealeaf's hand falls to the hilt of his sword, the tiefling fighting to stagger blearily back to his feet, his gaze already darting back to the bloodied fray.

If the blood maledicts don't kill him, Caleb certainly will.

Kingsley is slow, unsteady--easy to take by surprise. Caleb seizes him by the wrist and pins him to the nearest wall in a burst of sheer adrenaline, a surge of sudden strength. Panting for air as he caught his breath and held the tiefling's burning gaze.

“No, Kingsley. You are only going to get yourself killed." He knows he’s not strong enough to truly overpower Kingsley and keep him held here, but the nauseating combination of shock and pain is just enough for King to freeze beneath his touch. 

Caleb leans in close, until they feel the warmth of each other’s heavy, punched out breaths. 

"You won't spill another drop of blood tonight," he hissed through gritted teeth, his hold loosening a touch as Kingsley stilled, falling limp in his grasp. "Understand?"

King barks out a laugh, cold and spiteful. His fangs glint sharp and feral in the bleeding red moonlight, and Caleb can feel the tiefling's whole body tense beneath his touch, ready for a fight.

"You don't get to decide that for me, Mr. Caleb. I'm not the same Circus Man you remember all those years ago--you have no idea what I can do."

Caleb wills himself to just stop and breath, to banish the image of Kingsley turning his back to the Nein, sailing off somewhere far beyond the horizon. The unanswered calls, the empty room always waiting in the tower. The nights when Caleb woke in a cold sweat, desperate to hold Tealeaf in his arms again and feel his beating heart. Waiting for his little stray to wander home again.

“Bitte, for once in your life--listen to me. Please. You’ve lost far too much blood, Tealeaf,” Caleb says, letting his voice drop to something quieter. Softer. “I am running out of spells and we are without a healer. You cannot take anymore risks. And I--I won't lose you to this."

Kingsley grits his teeth, still panting ragged breaths. Despite the determined set of his jaw and burning glare, Caleb can see his eyes losing focus, glazing over. He’s starting to really feel the blood loss and won’t hold onto consciousness much longer. 

"Please," Caleb begs again, ice cold dread crawling up his spine, the whole world closing in. "Mr. Tealeaf..."

Kingsley can't even look him in the eye. He mutters one last Infernal curse, then falls back into unconsciousness.

[fey-gloom]

void-touched tiefling i started designing a while ago

[la--brujaja]

Gale x Amanita writing exercise

in which Gale and Amanita discuss Mystra's request for him to use the orb in his chest after avoiding each other's touch so Gale wouldn't literally blow them all up. trying to figure out their voices, esp Amanita's, and maybe i'll do a one-shot/short story.

“So, is that it?” Amanita was leaning against a rock, the coldness of it biting into her skin. A breeze came in from the mountains, carrying on it the smell of pine. “You’re just going to do as she says?” She was trying her best to stay level and calm, but in reality she was furious. If getting her hands on Mystra was easy, she would have been long gone, a different journey driving her forward. The gods never meddled when they should, but when they did - it only brought carnage.

Gale paced in front of her, a hand absentmindedly pressed against his chest. “To do as she says would be to save you all. Am I to pretend that I don’t have a solution built into me? A solution to all of our problems?

Amanita rolled her eyes and tutted. “We can find another way. Falling to your knees in acceptance is unbearable to witness! She does not love–”

“I know that.” His tone was biting, sharp. She realized then that the hold Mystra had on him was far tighter than she had imagined. Selfishly she wondered if she could ever amount to a chosen, a god.

How could she be worthy of a man who had touched the edge of everything?

“And yet, here we stand, on the precipice of your death.”

“There are many steps between now and then.” Gale looked at her now, the steeliness in his eyes softening. “Don’t you see, Amanita? We have been given a gift.” He took a few steps towards her now, closing the gap between them. One of his hands rose to her face and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes.

Amanita looked up at him, her gaze reflecting sadness. “And here you stand, looking at this pauper’s gift with admiration. In exchange for your touch, we walk towards your demise. Your cruel goddess would have me fall for you flesh and soul before rendering you completely void to me.” She scoffed. “A petty lover, to be sure.”

“If I have to go, I would want to go with the taste of you on my lips.”

“Do not try to romance me right now.”

Gale smiled down at her and gave her a small shrug. “What can I say? You call it a pauper’s gift, but all I see is the chance to take what I have wanted this entire time.”

“You will not quell my anger with a lousy kiss.”

“Lousy?!”

Amanita couldn’t help but grin back. She was so angry, so upset, and yet he still could make her smile. Even when she could clearly see his body split into pieces. “That’s right. I imagine that goddess taught you nothing.”

“I imagine you can’t even remember how to kiss.”

“Oh, get out of my way, you smug bastard!”

She pushed past him, but before she could get very far - honeysuckle and dirt. Florals and rain. Gale had surrounded her with a purple mist, the very same that had gathered around them during the party with the tieflings. Amanita crossed her arms and didn’t turn to face him, committing to her anger.

“It’s my turn to show you.”

Like small vines, the tendrils of his thoughts slowly eased into her mind. She flushed with warmth, the sight of him pressed against her taking over. Gale’s kisses were soft, urgent, as they trailed down her neck, her shoulders, and her arms. He kissed her palm and every finger. Amanita’s skin pricked and her hairs stood on end as she saw him lower himself between her thighs-

Gasping, she felt his real fingers gently wrap around her hand. The vision turned to smoke in her mind, releasing her into the reality of him behind her. “I hope that was not too forward. But you see, I cannot rest another moment without letting you know how you plague me.” Amanita felt his chest get dangerously close to her back and her eyes fluttered at the imagined feel. A lingering touch as they passed each other a weapon was enough to weaken her knees these days. And now, now… “Stubborn and stern, you vex me more often than not. Argumentative and then distant, I cannot read you some days. Truly, there are nights you fill me with fear, apprehension. And yet I think of nothing else. I want to know of nothing else. I worry that even taking my own life will not relieve me of you.” Gale leaned in and buried his face into her hair and neck, causing her to lean back into him. “I have only known want in this life, but you make me face need.”

“Gale-”

“Do not deny me Amanita, not because I won’t allow you, but because I know you do not want to.”

She spun around to face him, hands placed on his chest - the final barrier to keep him from her. “Promise me you'll let me hunt for another solution. Promise me that you will not just give in to Mystra. Instead, give in to me.”

“Please-”

“Promise me or I walk away, and you will never know whether my kiss could blow apart all of Baldur’s Gate or not.”

Gale sighed, taking her in. He took a hand off of his chest and kissed her knuckles. “I promise. We will attempt to find another solution.”

Amanita needed no other words - she grabbed his face and pulled him down for a kiss. Their lips met in a cataclysmic crash, the Weave still pulsing around them. It swirled now, pulling in tight and forming a circle around them. Whether the orb in Gale’s chest would have detonated at her intimate touch before would forever be unknown to her. What she knew for sure was that his kiss could end her.

Had she known sweetness like this in her life? Had she known what it was like for the earth to fall out from underneath you?

[wellthebardsdead]

Follow up to Lucy’s unexpected arrival to faerûn after cutting off Zariels head

———

Mizora: We had a deal Wyll. And by the way Karlach, Zariel Sends her regards.

Lucy: *feeling the fiendish urge return to scratch at the back of her tadpole, knowing she’ll corrupt another part of her soul if she feeds into the devil powers she’s been gifted, but unable to stand by* really? I haven’t heard a peep out of her.

Mizora: What?

Lucy: *pulls the bloodied burlap sack from by her pack and opens it, pulling out zariels decapitated head* silent as a- mouse. *grins assuming her archdevil form, growing in height as she spreads out large bat like wings* Now then. As the appointed replacement to Zariel by the disembodied voice of Asmodaeus himself, I hereby, set Karlach free. And- *summons wylls contract* since you’re under, my, jurisdiction Mizora. Wylls contract is now void, effective immediately. Besides, he didn’t break it anyway. Karlach, has a heart.

Mizora: sh-she does?

Lucy: *smiles and grabs her by the neck, digging her claws into her chest and ripping out her still beating heart, snapping her fingers and placing it in Karlachs chest, and the engine in Mizoras* now she does.

Karlach: *coughs as the flames die down, and the heart becomes hers* I… I have a heart…

Mizora: *screams and claws at her chest dropping to her knees* my lady you can’t! I made a mistake I simply didn’t know! I didn’t know it was you forgive me! It burns! IT BURNS!!

Lucy: *waves her hand making her disappear* away with you… *looks at karlach and wyll* I… have some explaining to do. Don’t I?…

Wyll: that… would be putting it lightly but, yes.

Lucy: okay, I kept this hidden because. Both of you would’ve killed me. Without hesitation. Wyll you were hunting a devil, and Karlach you were being hunted by a devil. Specifically- *holds up the head before dropping it back in the bag* this devil. And… I was. Just a human before this… I’m… I’m still learning how to deal with this… this world, exists only as a- oh god how do I explain a videogame-… as a story. Where I’m from… and… the more I feed into this body I’ve been given… I feel a part of my soul change in a way that I may never be able to change back… like the tadpole seemed to, bite off a chunk of it when I had to over power the goblins… I know I’ve no place to ask you to stay, or ask anything of you but-… Wyll, you need power still, and without mizora you’ve just got your sword so-… *thinks before feeding into the power again and hoping an act of good would make a difference as she summons a contract, words appearing on it as she speaks* you, can borrow some of my power. And in exchange… just don’t die… that’s all I ask don’t die… there’ll be no repercussions if you do just it costs 200 gold for withers to revive you and right now we don’t have that sort of money.

Wyll: *reads it and finds every word to be genuine with no room for her to cause harm* alright. *signs it making a ring appear on his pinkie finger and one on hers*

Lucy: it’s a pinkie promise then… thank you- and, Karla-

Karlach: *lifts her into a tight, warm hug* I can touch, I can touch people again… thank you. Thank you so, so much.

Lucy: *smiles and hugs her back* you should have never of ended up in the hells, and I’m so sorry it took this long to set you free.

Karlach: I’m free… I’m really free.

*the next morning*

Raphael: My my, what manner of place is this?

Lucy: *appearing as a lilac tiefling again* Aw look, it’s Mephistopheles boy. Done with your little tantrum over the crown I see?

Raphael: *brain short circuiting having no idea how she knows who he is yet or about the crown or who his father is* I? Pardon?

Lucy: Well? Come on then. Do your little song and dance, present me with your bread and circuses. I know for a fact you’re not really here to help us in exchange for our souls.

Raphael: *brain still reeling* Ah- I… What??

Karlach: Mephistopheles? That’s his son?

Wyll: never mind that I think she broke him.

Lucy: it helps knowing things, you can throw it out like a proverbial smoke bomb and catch even devils off guard-

[multi-lefaiye]

sunbringer's song preview: elsewhere

hi i wanted to share a preview for sunbringer's song. teehee.

this is a bit from the end of the prologue--very light on actual spoilers for the game, but hints heavily at things to come. this also highlights three characters that aren't eden, but who will be important to varying degrees to the ongoing storyline.

tagging (tentative sunbringer's song taglist form?? idk just tagging people i think would wanna read this rn): @skitzo-kero @anexor @chaieyestea @vacantgodling @chaieyestea

@paradoxspir1t @moonflowerrss @invaderskoodge @albatris @void-botanist

--

Elsewhere, the nightwarden stands in her watchtower, her eyes scanning the map before her for the hundredth time.

Below her, the sound of her soldiers celebrating echoes through the still evening air, slurring vulgar drinking songs and banging on their drums.

It’s grating, their incessant hedonism, but by now, she’s able to tune them out. They may be disgusting and foolish, far beneath a warrior of her standing, but she can tolerate them as long as they remain useful, as long as they remain loyal. The nightwarden doesn’t need enlightened minds, only willing bodies.

In the coming days, the goblin horde she commands will march again, conquering thousands more in Her name. Until then, let them revel in their filth.

The nightwarden is brought out of her musings by a loud, booming thunderclap, and she startles briefly as she looks up at the sky. Rather than a storm, however, she sees a ball of fire plummeting towards the ground. She watches as it passes overhead, narrowing her eyes as she listens to the roaring fire and screams above. Something about the shape is familiar… Almost as if-

Just as soon as her mind begins to wander, she comes back to herself, wrenching her gaze from the sky and down to her map. A heartbeat passes, and she realizes that she’s gripping the parchment tightly enough to tear. She loosens her grip, ever so slightly, and lets out a quiet breath.

She has work to do.

-

Elsewhere still, a pale tiefling stands on a rocky ridge, peering through a telescope and jotting notes in her journal. She has a tiny, relaxed smile on her face, idly sketching the constellations above her. Her mother was right, loath as she is to admit it--they are far, far more beautiful in person than in a textbook.

At the thought of her mother, her hand stills, pencil still pressed to the page. She takes a breath, her shoulders slumping, and shakes her head.

No need to dwell on the past.

A sudden thunderclap catches her attention, and she turns her head towards the east, dark eyes widening and her mouth falling slightly open. Just over the horizon, she sees a ball of fire manifest and tumble through the sky, bigger than any comet she’s ever seen. Her little smile grows into a full-fledged grin, and she nearly breaks the lead on her pencil as she continues her sketching.

As she traces the meteor’s trajectory and mentally calculates its landing site, the breeze picks up, ruffling her blue nightshirt and long, silver hair. A distant smell wafts past her nose, nearly imperceptible were it not for the way it burns her skin. Sulfur.

Abruptly, the tiefling’s smile falls, and her drawing hand freezes. It takes her a long moment to start moving again, turning to pack away her journal and telescope for the night. Her hands shake, near imperceptibly, as she does.

That’s enough for one night, she thinks.

--

And yet elsewhere still, a githyanki knight lands his dragon atop a snowy mountainside. The creature has only just touched the ground when its rider is dismounting, cursing through shuddering breaths as he puts a hand to his side. Even with his armor and years of training his body, he wasn’t able to escape the battle unscathed, left with a sluggishly bleeding gash just under his ribs.

It’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. Hells, he’s had far worse injuries before--his instructor had been unforgiving, unyielding, uncaring for those who were anything less than perfect warriors. But today’s failure is just added salt in the wound. He’d been so close, and yet once again the comet had slipped through his grasp.

If the knight were a less determined man, less devoted to his cause, he would have gone mad long ago. As it stands, however, he knows he must persist.

He lets out a long, slow breath and clenches his fist, willing himself to push through the pain. Behind him, the dragon lets out a quiet huff, and he turns his attention to the creature. The dragon’s golden eyes shine in the night, watching him with a solemn understanding. Despite himself, the knight smiles as he lifts a hand and places it on the dragon’s muzzle, the beast leaning into his touch with a gravelly purr.

They both know they have more work to do come morning. There is no time to waste. The knight squares his shoulders, and he sees the dragon mirror his posture.

“Once more, my friend,” he murmurs. “We must return to the search.” The dragon clicks its tongue in agreement. They can only rest when their work is done, even if that day never comes.

[ghost-proofbaby]

She’s said the wrong thing. She doesn’t fully understand how, but she can certainly feel Astarion bristle at those words. Nettie remains unaware of their internal conversation, digging around at her table full of alchemy sets and important looking herbs.  If you think that, as a reward for simply existing, the world is going to hand you kindness, you are a bigger fool than I took you for.  When Nettie turns around, finally having finished her piece, she holds a thorny branch.  If I must be a fool, at least I am a kind one. 

summary: the tadpoles prove to have some use, and aruna proves to be a bigger fool than astarion expected when she trusts the wrong person.

wc: 4k+

warnings: continued memory loss, being poisoned? just canon-adjacent violence and such. nothing crazy.

a/n: mom can you come pick me up i think i'm projecting too much onto one of my ocs again (also experimenting with placement of the read more this time don't mind me)

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Was Aruna someone’s daughter once?

It’s the only thing she can think of after she speaks to Arabella’s parents. A young tiefling girl, currently being interrogated, her parents desperate and brimming with fury as they try to find a way to save their daughter.

Surely, Aruna was someone’s daughter once. And if she was the one in interrogation, life at risk, she’d want someone to offer to help her as well. 

The druids that had been arguing with the tieflings let Aruna and Astarion through under the premise of Kagha wanting to speak with them. Which, in all honesty, doesn’t sound very promising. But Aruna is determined, mind rattling with thoughts of Arabella, someone’s daughter, and her singular goal of saving her. 

“What in the Hells are they doing?” Astarion questions the center of the grove, several druids gathered around the center point that appears to be a small idol. 

Aruna hadn’t even noticed the green flow of magic, had hardly heard the chanting, “Who knows?”

It’s a pathetic response. Hardly humoring him, falling terribly flat as she continues to take large steps in the direction of the stone door the druids had pointed out to them. 

Was she someone’s daughter once? Did she have parents out there, just like Arabella’s, anxiously seeking her return?

“You’re telling me you’re not the least bit curious about that?” Astarion squints after her. When she doesn’t respond, he reaches out for her, fingers wrapping around her sleeve just as she had done to him by the ox. But his touch is a bit rougher, a bit more secure. Less instinctual. “I find that incredibly hard to believe. What’s wrong?” 

She blinks rapidly at that, taken back by his sincerity, “Since when do you care about something being wrong with me?”

“Since you’re leading us, specifically me, into a possible fight while seeming impossibly distracted.”

Right. He didn’t want to be led astray, walked straight into danger, when she was in this state. It was nothing more than that. And that was reasonable. 

But she can’t stop picturing it; was she something small once? Something impossibly delicate? 

She sort of feels delicate now, void of memories and uncertain of just who she is. 

“I can’t remember if I have parents,” she admits all in one breath, uncomfortably aware of both his eyes on her and his hand that had yet to leave her arm, “I can’t remember if I had a childhood.”

“That’s all?” he scoffs, hand finally dropping, “You’re worried about if you had a childhood after agreeing to free some foolish tiefling girl?” 

His words are hard, but she can still see right through his mask – her words have given him something to think about as well. A kindred emotion, a flash of something lost, sparking behind his eyes for only a moment. 

“Yes, that is all. You seem to forget while you all have your own personal journeys and motivations that I can as well.”

She doesn’t know herself. All she knows is this, whatever this journey of their group had become. All she knows is the tadpole, the beach, her companions. She just recently learned about her magic while it’s clear the rest of them have an entire artillery of memories in which they’ve perfected their crafts. 

Of course Astarion is better with his daggers. He must have practiced wielding them for years, and remembers that practice. Aruna might have also, but she can’t recall it. The fact that she remembered how to even hold them properly is a miracle. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she says just as she sees Astarion’s hard exterior beginning to soften. She doesn’t want pity, doesn’t want empathy. She just wants to help the girl, “Let’s just talk to this Kagha and help Arabella.” 

Before she has the chance to turn, Astarion is speaking to her lowly, disregarding the way she clearly wanted to move on from the matter, “I do apologize. Your condition… does slip my mind. I forget myself.”

“It’s not a condition,” she snaps, “It’s… it’s temporary. Maybe once we get rid of our parasites, I’ll regain my memories. It’s fine.” 

Parasites. That’s what these tadpoles must be, leeches that have taken home in all their minds, and Aruna is just the unluckiest of the bunch to be stuck with one with a craving for memories. 

She’ll remember. She has to. 

“For what it’s worth,” he takes a step closer, nearly whispering, as though he’d rather die than allow anyone to hear his next words, “I do believe you had a childhood. We all must have, even those of us who can’t recall them.” 

If she had been a little less absorbed in all her own issues at the moment, she might have picked up on that little word: us. 

She would have noticed Astarion’s grouping of himself in that category. 

But she doesn’t. She only turns and continues onto their mission, to find Kagha and Arabella, completely unaware that Astarion has bared a vulnerable fragment of himself to her. The moment passes, and she never witnesses the fall of his face as he realizes that the thread of connection has gone entirely over her head. 

—

Aruna doesn’t know what her experiences with snakes had been prior to all of this, but she’s starting to sense they were not good. That, or all her survival instincts that were a product of human evolution were far more overactive than everyone else’s. 

Astarion doesn’t even flinch at the snake. In fact, he looks monumentally disappointed when Aruna manages to persuade Kagha to not kill Arabella by letting the bloodthirsty creature sink its fangs into her. 

“What a waste of a perfectly good show,” he sighs wistfully, watching the girl run off and out of the underground room they were now standing in. 

One sharp warning glance from Aruna, and he’s smart enough to not make another comment on it. 

“You wanted to speak with us,” Aruna says as she approaches Kagha once the death viper has long since departed. If Astarion notices, he certainly keeps quiet with his teasing. 

“Indeed,” Kagha looks up. She still wears a veil of authority, holding herself bigger than she is as if to prove herself, “You are the ones who fought at the gate against the goblins.” 

Suddenly, Aruna feels a squirming in her mind, a sudden presence pressing against her tadpole. It’s unfamiliar, sharp, but not unbearable. 

The same experience as when she had met each of her fellow ailed companions, but to a less intense degree. 

Obviously.

Aruna is shocked when she swears she hears Astarion mutter the sarcastic reply as it echoes in her head. She turns to look at him, but his lips are sealed tightly, wearing a bored expression that morphs into offense when he catches her glance. 

Why is she looking at me like that? I didn’t say that outloud, did I?

It’s nearly impossible to school her shocked expression, but Aruna manages. 

Astarion certainly did think the sarcastic reply, but he didn’t say it outloud. Aruna shouldn’t have been able to hear that. And yet the squirming in her head increases, and she has the sinking suspicion of who the culprit behind the shared thoughts might be. 

Interesting.

“We are,” she answers Kagha before the pause grows so long it becomes suspicious, “And the druids at the entrance said you wanted to speak to us. So, please, by all means…”

She trails off, but her eyes continue to flicker towards Astarion. He’s growing more antsy under her watchful gaze, but she’s not going to scold him for being a sarcastic ass in his mind. 

Maybe she had imagined it. Maybe the tadpole is draining her of memories and sanity. 

Imagined or not, tadpoles to be blamed or not, Aruna remains distracted for most of her conversation with Kagha. Her focus wanes, only leaving just enough sensibility to make out that Kagha wants their group to clear the way for the tieflings to leave the Grove. The ceremony that Astarion had questioned outside, was being executed with the intent of sealing the Grove off. No one leaves, no one enters. 

It’s all a bit morbid. And it makes Aruna’s bleeding heart ache for the tieflings. Predictable, she swears she hears Astarion’s voice say as her face contorts at that shared information. 

She feels the crashing waves of Astarion’s irritation over all else when Kagha finishes her short speech. 

“I’m asking you to help them. Will you?” 

He already knows her answer. And so does Aruna – there’s not a single way in which she’ll walk out of here without agreeing to do so. 

But she does take pause, and she does consider her options. Astarion may be shocked at the fact that she takes his reaction into consideration during these decisions now, but she does. And for all he seemingly loathes helping others, he is concerned with the parasite – he’s concerned with finding a healer, just like everyone else in her party. 

“I’ll help,” the quietest of groans are already escaping Astarion’s lips, but they grow quiet when she continues, “On one condition.”

“Offering conditional help?” he admonishes, “I didn’t think you had that in you.” 

For once, please shut up. 

She doesn’t say it outloud. She thinks it, shooting the thought like an arrow, straight for the pressure of the presence against her tadpole. 

It wasn’t an imagined connection. It’s clear Astarion had heard her by the way he nearly staggers not even a second after the thought has passed. 

Very interesting. 

“What’s your condition?” Kagha demands, looking between the two with brewing suspicion. 

If she knew about their tadpoles, she’d probably kill them. With that damn death viper, no less. 

“There’s a healer here by the name of Nettie,” Aruna feels Astarion perk up, all his dissatisfaction with the idea of helping the tieflings quickly fading, “I’ll help them, if she helps us.” 

“And what would you need a healer for?” 

“None of your business.”

Even Astarion is shocked by the sharpness of Aruna’s words. But when she looks at Kagha, all she sees is a woman turning her back on the helpless. And it sparks a new anger inside of her, a sense of righteousness that had to have been ingrained in her at some point. Whether it be before all of this or if it is simply a pillar of who she was, who she is, doesn’t matter. 

Kagha is someone cruel. And Aruna suddenly realizes that cruelty is not part of who she is, not at her core. 

Kagha smiles, a forced diplomatic grin that reeks of ingenuity. “You’ll find Nettie somewhere around here, feel free to seek her out as you please. But after you’ve seen her, I do expect you to speak to Zevlor, and to keep up your end of the bargain.” 

There’s no need for Aruna to bristle at the words or her condescending tone. Astarion does it for her, and without looking, she knows his hands twitch beside his daggers. 

Her dagger-happy friend, her shadow. She was never worried about blindly walking into a fight when it was him at her side. 

Nods are exchanged, and when Kagha turns her back, Aruna is quick to guide herself and her companion across the room, narrowly avoiding the abundance of mud. 

He doesn’t say a word until they’ve walked through a second doorway, entering what almost resembles a library of some sort. She expects a comment on her lashing out.

He surprises her when he simply says, “We have to talk about it, you know.” 

“Out of all our companions, you are the one I least expected a lecture from regarding being rude-”

“I couldn’t care less regarding your attitude with the druid,” he interrupts, stopping them just before they cross into what looks to be a living quarters. A hospital, of sorts, “I mean the tadpoles. You spoke to me, without uttering a single word aloud. How?” 

He doesn’t know that he initiated that connection. “I- You’re serious, aren’t you?” 

His lips curl, nose scrunching, “If you’re about to tell me I’m going insane, I might go find the nearest stake and put myself out of my own misery.”

Stake? How oddly specific. 

“See?” he exclaims suddenly, pointing at her accusingly, “I heard that! And yes, death by stake is quite specific, but don’t read into it too much, darling.” 

“Get out of my mind,” she hisses, more mindful of being quiet than he was being, “Gods, Astarion, I don’t know. Technically, you opened up that connection. I heard your thoughts first. Which, by the way – thank you for not being such a smartass out loud in front of Kagha.” 

His eyes widen, “Oh. Oh, you… heard that?” 

Instead of answering properly, she only puts on her worst impersonation of him, accent and all as she tries to perfectly mimic his “Obviously.”

“I do not sound like that.”

“You certainly did when you said it in my head.” 

“No, I did not. My voice is far less nasally, far more refined-”

“Who cares?” she cuts him off, “The point is, we can use these parasites for our benefit until we rid ourselves of them. Imagine the potential of using those private… channels to speak to each other when we’re in front of an enemy.” 

“I’d hardly call Kagha an enemy,” he snorts. But he doesn’t dismiss her idea, softening up in consideration, “I suppose you’re right. The only issue, of course, is how we opened up the connection to begin with.”

He’s right. Aruna isn’t so prideful as to fight him on that, nor is she idiotic enough to force the misfortune of figuring out the answer to that solely on him. 

“Well, what were you feeling when you first thought that?” she asks carefully. She isn’t trying to pry, something she’s starting to figure out he’s not fond of, but to simply get answers, “I wasn’t hearing your every waking thought before then.” 

He blinks rapidly, and she swears for a moment that he’ll take a step back. As though she’s gone too far. As though what he was feeling in the moment is private information that she hasn’t earned the knowledge of yet. 

He doesn’t. “I… I suppose I just wanted to say that outloud, to you.” 

That alone has a dozen implications.

“I need more than that,” she squints her eyes, “Especially considering it wasn’t something very important-”

“Making a sarcastic quip,” he looks pained as he elaborates, “Whenever I have something… particularly annoying to say, I enjoy watching your reaction to it. It’s fun to see you scramble when I run my mouth.” 

She doesn’t know how to respond to that, but it does make sense. When she had sent her own message to him, she’d been feeling almost the exact same way – regarding wanting to talk to him, not so much as wanting to annoy him. 

“I focused on the presence, or whatever it was, of your tadpole in my head,” she says, glancing over his shoulder as she catches sight of movement in the next room. A woman of shorter stature, hovering over something on one of the stone platforms, “So I suppose that’s the secret to it. Knowing us, another situation will arise soon enough for us to test our theory.”

He has more he wants to say. She can see it clearly in the press of his lips and the flare of his nostrils, but he doesn’t dare to speak whatever weighs on his mind, “Right. Of course. Knowing us.”

It was probably just another complaint of the way Aruna keeps getting them into trouble. He held his tongue, and she’s probably better for it. 

Probably.

When they continue their exploration of the area, Aruna decides to take her time in surveying the new room rather than heading straight to the woman she had spied over Astarion’s shoulder. Tables of medicinal items, ranging from mugwort to jars of odd liquids, almost appearing to swirl with the night sky inside. The shelves of books, tomes, and slabs alike also pique Aruna’s interest. She wonders just how much trouble they might get into if she sent Astarion on a quick roundup of some of the interesting reads; his hands were far quicker and more adept for slipping them unnoticed into their packs. He’d proven such with the apple. 

She doesn’t even notice that the thought has slipped down their tadpole connection until Astarion is shooting her an amused look, crossing his arms as he stares her down. 

“And I thought you were against thievery,” he murmurs, voice low enough so that the woman on the other side of the room won’t hear them. 

Aruna really has no defense. Besides, aside from his torment of teasing, Astarion doesn’t seem to actually judge her for having any slip-ups in morale, “I am. Hence why I didn’t ask that of you.”

“Say the word, and I’d do it,” he holds up a hand, wiggling the fingers for emphasis, “You could have your own precious library to rival the wizard’s – for a price, of course.”

“A price?”

Her grin is impossible to miss. Radiant, it’s golden cast reflecting right back at her off of Astarion’s own lips.

“You didn’t think I’d do that type of work for free, did you, darling?” 

It’s a fun dance. A momentary distraction. For just a few brief seconds, they’re simply two people teasing one another, unbothered by their current circumstances or situations. 

“Of course not. And, just out of curiosity,” she hums, well aware that in a few moments, they’ll need to approach that strange woman. They’ll have to drop the illusion and return to reality. But that specific warmth that only he seems capable of triggering has begun to burrow into her chest again, and she chases after the feeling, “What would your price be? If I did request that of you?”

He hesitates. She had expected a quick answer, a rapid-fire she’d struggle to keep up with. She hadn’t expected for a genuine look of contemplation to cross his face, as though he was struggling to even come up with a response for the hypothetical. 

“Your daggers,” he says, although his tone isn’t quite as playful as it had been. His eyes flicker down at the blades tucked safely into each of her hips, and when they rise to meet her eyes again, it’s clear he’s somewhere far from her. Lost in thoughts, lost in his own mind, “You seemed quite defensive over them the other night. If they are special, and you’re hardly adept at wielding them, I might as well make use of them.” 

“You’re not getting my daggers,” she shakes her head.

“Then I suppose you’re not getting your library.” 

She laughs, and she prays he doesn’t hear any of the concern brewing beneath it. She prays that he’s still too far in his own head to recognize the way her attitude dips to meet his own deflation. Her laugh is as disingenuine as his forced smile he offers her, effectively ending the conversation.

He’s gone somewhere, somewhere so far that she couldn’t possibly follow, tadpole or not. 

She finds herself hoping it isn’t quite as lonely as her own mind. 

—

Nettie is… nice. 

Or, rather, nice enough. 

She’s fairly patient with Aruna and Astarion when they first approach, ignoring Astarion’s rude comeback to her requesting they give her just a second. She reacts kinder than necessary when Astarion prods the bird she had just healed as they pass by, prattling on about how the bird needs time to heal and how Astarion could benefit from exhibiting kindness to others. 

At least his responsive scoff stays between Aruna and Astarion, echoing down the connection of their tadpoles. 

She’s nice as she inquires what’s wrong with Aruna, she’s nice as Aruna explains the tadpole, and she’s nice as she offers to bring them back to her own private enclave for further examination. Hells, she’s even nice as she explains her entire experience with tadpoles thus far; a story involving another healer named Halsin, another unfortunate tadpole to be studied, and the dead drow on the table that Aruna tries to not stare at. 

Something about the sight of the drow makes Aruna’s chest ache. An indescribable sorrow. A mourning she can’t recognize. 

Halsin sounds more useful than this bore. 

Astarion’s voice in her head cuts through all that odd grief, helping her shake it off easily. 

Give her a chance. 

I gave her a chance when I didn’t interrupt her ridiculous spiel regarding that damned bird and kindness. 

And what makes that bird any less deserving of kindness than you or me?

She’s said the wrong thing. She doesn’t fully understand how, but she can certainly feel Astarion bristle at those words. Nettie remains unaware of their internal conversation, digging around at her table full of alchemy sets and important looking herbs. 

If you think that, as a reward for simply existing, the world is going to hand you kindness, you are a bigger fool than I took you for. 

When Nettie turns around, finally having finished her piece, she holds a thorny branch. 

If I must be a fool, at least I am a kind one.  

He doesn’t have a snarky response for that one. As a matter of fact, all that Aruna can feel through their connection is a resigned sadness. Something old, something yearning, something learned from a different lifetime. It makes no sense to Aruna. He doesn’t know her. Her being a fool shouldn’t affect him. Aruna’s own feet being set on the path of kindness has nothing to do with Astarion in the grand scheme of things beyond their journey to rid themselves of these worms. She’s the one with the ominous letter, she’s the one with debts to be paid regarding him once it’s all said and done. Her foolish kindness shouldn’t affect him. 

And yet, it does. To a startling degree that Aruna can’t even offer proper focus to at the time being, because her focus must remain on the healer in front of her.

Because Nettie is nice enough, until she isn’t.

A series of questions, as if Aruna was on some impassable trial, is all it takes for the smaller woman to lose that nice exterior. And Aruna is unsure if maybe it was her tone to blame, being a bit too snippy with Astarion’s anxieties pounding at the back of her head. Or mayhaps if it is her memory loss to blame, making certain gaps impossible to fill and certain answers impossible to be honest. She doesn’t know where she went wrong, but she did – she’s gone terribly wrong the moment that Nettie’s face hardens in a flair of certain impassive determination, and she reaches out for Aruna’s hand. 

Don’t. 

Aruna can’t decipher if it was that knowing animal inside of her or Astarion that warns her so ferociously. Perhaps it had been the tadpole, a self-serving parasite that got them into this mess to begin with. She doesn’t know, she doesn’t know, she doesn’t know. 

She only knows that the moment those thorns scratch her palm, it hurts like all Hells. 

It burns. Terribly. And Aruna, for all her cluelessness, knows that healing shouldn’t burn. 

She tugs her hand away from Nettie impossibly fast the moment the tips of the thorns have dug in, looking down at the angry pink scratches left behind. Only surface level, but they burn.

“What in the hells-” Astarion starts, taking a step forward as Aruna cradles her hand to her chest. 

If I must be a fool, at least I am a kind one. 

���Be careful – your legs will probably give out first.” 

It’s not a cure. It’s not a plant of healing. It burns, its venom sinking its way into Aruna’s veins, spreading with a painful speed, her racing heart only quickening the process.

Aruna doesn’t have the chance to so much as blink before Astarion’s daggers are against Nettie’s neck. 

Kind fool indeed. 

TAGLIST: @emmaisgonnacry @writinginthetwilight @moonmunson

[littlejuicebox]

Caught between comfort and chaos

(Astarion x F!OC)

-----

Chapter number: Two Themes: BG3, slow burn, original female character x astarion, dialogue heavy, mostly canon behavior Masterlist: Click here. Notes: I know only a few people have seen part 1, but these little pieces of the story keep playing in my head. I always welcome feedback and suggestions. If anyone is seeing this, hope you enjoy! Please leave a comment to let me know your thoughts/give feedback. It inspires me to keep writing in to the void. :)

----

Karlach and Gale made quick work of washing themselves up before they made their way back to camp, located less than half a mile away. The wizard and tiefling — self-appointed head chef and sous-chef... and did that make Astarion the sommelier? — had much work to do for dinner preparations in the next hour. The sun was just starting to kiss the horizon in its descent towards night. Everyone would be hungry soon. Everyone... instead of just the rabid rogue that carried an insatiable ball of hunger in the pit of his stomach every step of the way.

Not one to particularly enjoy the group activity of preparing a meal that he wouldn’t dare touch — even if he could — Astarion had offered to stay behind with their leader. Mostly to get out of having to help the others, and partly because he found he’d seemed to enjoy the ranger’s company just a bit more than he enjoyed the others. Though, to be fair, the bar was insufferably low.

“You know, you really can be quite the tactician.” The pale elf mused, standing on the banks of the river, arms crossed, trousers rolled up around the calf, as he eyed his female companion. A sly smirk danced across his lips as Wren scrubbed at the mud that practically coated her face and arms. “And… honestly, darling? Quite the klutz.”

“You’re lucky it was me, and not you, you fool! At least Gale’s feather fall spell prevented the worst of the damage.” The little bird chirped, her tone jagged with shards of irritation. If looks could kill, and the vampire weren’t already undead, the scalding eyes she focused on him would’ve ended his life right there.

“Had that damned phase spider shoved you off the crag instead of me, I’m not so sure Gale would’ve bothered to wave his hand your way — he’s still irritated that I’ve gone and given you that stupid book, you know — and then that poor pretty face of yours would’ve been smashed to bits! So, Astarion, what I really should get is a thank you for intercepting that thing. You’d been so distracted during the whole blasted affair — Karlach was fighting off the hatchlings practically alone up there for half the encounter!” The frustration bubbled over Wren as she washed her skin, angry patches of red appearing on her freckled arms.

Astarion knew she was right, of course... he’d been distracted. When one of the arachnid hatchlings sunk their fangs into Wren’s arm earlier today, the smell of her blood consumed his senses. He had been wrestling with the unbearable desire to sink his own fangs into her neck. It had taken everything in him to control his urge. But he couldn’t tell Wren that — she and her other little followers would finally see him for the danger he was and run him off. Gods, he was so hungry, and the memory of her taste was so tempting that even now his senses were primarily focused on the remnants of dried blood she angrily swiped off her skin.

“Darling! So, you finally admit it! You think I’m pretty.” He twisted his words against her like one of his expertly wielded daggers, a carefully crafted deflection. He won a small creep of rosiness stretched across her neck. His white brow lifted in its signature cockiness as he held her gaze. ‘It really is all too easy….’ He chuckled to himself, proud of his tactic. Ruby eyes glossed down the brunette's face, to the crest of her collarbone, where her blush slowly rose up her neck.

'Tempting...' But no, he couldn’t. She hadn’t offered since that first time, and surely another mishap like that would leave him cast aside and utterly unprotected in the wilds he knew nothing about. He needed her influence in the group and her expansive knowledge of the wild terrain, which she navigated as if it were her own backyard, to keep him safe.

“Is that really all you got from that, Astarion?” The archer questioned, dryly. Despite her embarrassment at his quip, it was clear she still aimed to hold him accountable for endangering their companions. He loathed being held accountable, but she seemed to do it at every turn; the habit was infuriating.

Wren began wading his way, the splotches of embarrassment beginning to fade. How he longed to sink his fangs into her and satiate the hungry fire in his belly. He hadn’t consumed a single animal today — the caves really only had poisonous spiders and, even worse, rats.

‘When did I eat that fake paladin that had been after Karlach? Must have been nearly a week ago by now. And even then, their blood was nowhere near as satisfying as—'

“Agh, Wren, what in the hells!”

Wren had launched herself at him, contorting her limbs around his torso and leaning herself backwards, the shift in his gravity center causing both of them to tumble into the water. A shock of icy river water enveloped the vampire and jerked him out of his thoughts.

The pale elf shot up and out of the river like an arrow released from one of the ranger’s bows, haphazardly shoving drenched curls from his face. “Why you— how dare you—“ He sputtered, spinning in the direction of the traitorous wench.

“You have to admit, you kind of deserve it for leaving Karlach high and dry today.” The half-elf stated smugly.

She burst into laughter, and suddenly Astarion had her lifted into his arms, posed to launch her into the water. The river had washed away all thoughts of hunger, making room only for revenge.

“Little bird, I think you’ve gotten too big for your britches.” He said through gritted teeth as he shifted her weight in his arms, swinging her around like he was an Olympian throwing a shotput.

“Wait— Astarion, wait!” Wren shrieked, palms facing him, feigning innocence. “Truce! I have a gift for you… but I’ll only give it to you if you promise a truce.”

The offer was intriguing enough, and Astarion straightened his stance. Scarlet, cat-like eyes narrowed at the half-elf as he placed her back down on her own two feet. “This had better be good, Wren.”

-----

The rogue huffed as he watched the gang leader rummage through her pack, full to the brim with bits and bobs. “Gods, you’re just like that blue jay in the grove, hoarding every shiny thing! No wonder you’re named after a bird. You really ought to—'

Just then, she produced a giant hunk of amethyst from her pack. She proudly thrust the stone at him, and Astarion snapped his mouth shut, measuring the weight of the purple orb in his hand.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying about my hoarding habits?” Wren quipped, eyes daring him to continue his lecture.

Astarion’s undead heart skipped a beat. He'd recognized the significance of the item instantaneously; every free moment this week had been spent attempting to open that blasted book. A thrilled smile plastered his face. “My dear, I was just saying that a little bird like you needs a better backpack… or at least some repairs and upgrades made to that one if you’re planning to carry all of Faerun on your back… literally and metaphorically.”

The brunette woman rolled her eyes at the vampire, nodding her chin towards the treasure in his hand. “I found that when I fell off that crag today. You three were still trying to kill that stinking spider so I shoved it into my pack as fast as I could before returning to help. Now come on, let’s go put it in that ugly book of yours.”

This was now three gifts she had given him — blood, book, bijou. His mind rushed with anxiety… kindness was never this free, it always came with strings. The debt ratio was swinging further out of his favor, and even though Astarion was elated by the potential this purple key would unlock, his stomach also twisted at the fact that he kept owing this half-elven woman he barely knew more and more as the days crawled by. She seemed to know exactly what he couldn’t refuse and offer it to him at every opportunity. ‘Kindness or cunning?’

-----

They were nearly to the camp when Wren’s pack began to tear. “Shit!” She hissed, shrugging the bag off her shoulders to hold it in her arms as if it were a precious babe.

“My dear, you really need to drop some of that riff raff.” Astarion sighed, waving his hand dismissively at her backpack.

“When we get back to Emerald Grove, I’ll sell a lot of this stuff. Besides, we need the money.”

Astarion really couldn’t argue with that logic. He hated scrounging up things to sell off for money — he’d never had to do such a thing in his life, as far as he could remember… even in the life that only consisted of hazy memories before his Master took over. But, they had maybe a bit over one hundred gold between the lot of them, and that wasn’t going to go very far since Wren seemed set to adopt every straggler and animal she could along the way. They'd just picked up an annoying dog -- 'Scratch, what a poor excuse for a name.' -- 48 hours ago. Plus, his pickpocketing, admittedly, hadn’t turned up much in an area without the usual nobles and artistes he regularly scammed in Baldur’s Gate.

An exasperated sigh escaped his lips. “Fine then. Come and put all that trash in my pack, instead.” He offered, shrugging his bag off his shoulders and holding it open and out for her. His clothes were still wet and sticking to him from her earlier prank, and he really was getting very hungry. He desperately needed to hunt, and this silly exchange was slowing them down, but the ache in his stomach from owing Wren several favors was, at this moment, burning more than his hunger for blood. Maybe this gesture would start to swing the pendulum back into his corner. Indebtedness did not suit him well.

Wren beamed, dumping everything into the vampire’s pack; spoons clanged together at the bottom with a lump of moldy cheese and several… bones? ‘What in the hells. Is she a bird or a raccoon?’

“Gods, you’re absolutely ridiculous.” He grumbled. The vampire was shocked at the impractical weight she carried every day without a second thought.

“Thank you,” Wren replied, choosing to ignore the annoyance in his voice as she followed after the pale elf. The camp so close they could hear Lae’zel and Shadowheart bickering about the best weapon to use in a battle and smell whatever concoction Gale and Karlach created with the scant supplies in their inventory. Stars began to dapple the night sky, and the welcoming glow of the campfire drew them like moths towards the heart of the group.

As they walked the last bit of their journey, Wren couldn’t help but to sneak a few glances at Astarion, his wet shirt sticking to his torso, the nearly transparent material revealing glimpses of his pectorals and biceps. The first rays of moonlight started to dance in the vampire's hair, and she smiled as she recollected their earlier encounter in her mind's eye. Maybe the small glimpse of her companion's physique hadn’t been the motive of her actions earlier — it was mostly to shut his cocky mouth up — but maybe it had turned out to be part of the reward.

-----

Astarion found the Necromancy of Thay to be an interesting read… if you could get past the voices that wouldn’t just SHUT UP. Those spirits kept egging him to kill his camp mates… and what good would that do? He’d entertained the thought of killing Gale. At least he’d no longer have to hear the camp scholar ramble on and on about his precious Tara — was the wizard really in love with a goddess or was his true love his cat? But even the rogue had to admit that the purple pighead had a useful skillset and couldn't be disposed of just yet.

The silver-haired elf had almost made it to the end of the tome before he felt the voices driving into his mind, their influence infecting him with madness. If he wasn’t going to let Cazador control his mind, he sure as hell wasn’t about to have a dusty, inanimate object do so either. The book would have to remain closed for now... at least until he found another way around.

A quick stop to the druid camp to unload some of Wren’s junk, pick up some potions and specialty arrows, and the merry band of misfits and weirdos were nearly ready to head back out.

Wren sat on a boulder at the front of Emerald Grove, needle and thread in hand. The others wandered around, in various stages of their own preparations, as they all set their sights on finding the Goblin Camp. Astarion had already finished his bit of pickpocketing and purchasing, so he meandered lazily towards the little bird, where he would wait for the others to gather.

‘She’d make a terrible seamstress.’ He thought, noting that Wren had chosen to mend her pack with a running stitch that wouldn’t hold the weight of all the knickknacks she insisted on hoarding. Her focus was intense, brow furrowed on her project as he took a seat on the boulder, one knee up, head slightly tilted. “I would recommend a backstitch, instead, my dear.”

“Wha— ouch!” The half elf hissed, wincing as she pulled the silver sliver from its new home inside her pointer finger. A thin stream of blood began to ooze out of the flesh wound.

Astarion reflexively snatched her hand and pressed the injured finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip of her digit. His eyes closed briefly as he savored the delicious taste of that elixir running through her veins -- sunlight and cinnamon -- before his mind caught up to his impulsivity. He felt Wren’s hand jerk slightly at the contact of his tongue; the shocked widening of her eyes ghosting across his peripheral vision. His hastiness really was going to get him killed. Where was his usual, unfaltering control? ‘What the hell are you doing, idiot spawn?’

“Can’t let such a delicious and precious thing go to waste, can we, darling?” He purred. One more sensual lick of her finger, all for show, and he released his grip.

Wren remained frozen. Silence passed between the two. Astarion felt panic rise up in his gut, mentally running through a way to smooth over the interaction, when suddenly the little bird burst into a fit of laughter.

“This explains so much!” She exclaims, throwing herself back on the boulder and covering her eyes. His favorite scar danced along her lip as her giggles rang through the grove. “You’re hungry! Astarion, why didn’t you say anything?”

The rogue furrowed his brow, still trying to calculate how something he’d made so overtly sexual caused Wren to burst into a fit of laughter rather than melt into a puddle of lust. Was she immune to his charms? Not attracted to men? Had he been turned into a hideous mindflayer already and everyone was too polite to tell him so? “Well, after last time, when you had to shove me off of you… frankly, darling, I didn’t think—“

“I’ll let you feed on me, Astarion. But first, I need you to do something for me.”

‘Ah, there it is, the string.’ Thinks the vampire, as he cocks his head at the woman. “And what, exactly, do you have in mind?”

Wren reached around her side and grabbed hold of a small book. She waved the tattered thing at him, a shy smile crossing her lips. “Just help me read this, okay? And maybe help me sew my pack together, since you seem to be such an expert.”

“A book. You just want me to help you read a book?” He is unable to hide the disbelief in his voice from her and the internal glimmer of relief from himself.

The half-elf playfully taps his shoulder blade with the thin novel. “Not just any book, Astarion. It has healing spells inside… I stole it from Nettie earlier today. I want to learn a few. You read all the time at camp -- even before the Necromancy of Thay, so I figured you wouldn't really mind. Plus, like I told you... reading tires me out and I really want to learn this.”

“You stole it?” The pale elf can’t hide his amusement; his eyebrows raise up into his forehead and a small chuckle crosses his lips. Wren didn’t seem like she had to gall to commit such an act; she was always too busy playing goody-two-shoes-savior-of-the-world-and-every-living-creature.

“Serves her right for trying to poison me the last time. She owes me.” The ranger mumbles, with an unbothered shrug.

A small hum from the elf as he considered the agreement; it seemed easy and innocent enough. If a string had to be attached, perhaps it was best that it was something as banal as reading the little bird a bedtime story. ‘The purple bookworm at camp would’ve loved to offer his services to her, I’m sure.’

Another thought crosses his mind, and he turns to Wren, where she is waiting expectantly for an answer. “Deal, darling. But what makes you think you’re going to have any success? Most rangers I’ve come across only know how to employ the uses of yarrow and calendula. Spellcasting never really seems to be their strong suit.”

“My mom was a cleric… it’s in my blood.” Wren sighs, and he can tell by the tone of her voice and the hardened line her mouth makes that he will not get more information if he presses.

Astarion gestures for the half-elf to hand over the pack and quickly takes up the mending. Skilled fingers make quick work of the task, and he bites at the thin flash of blue thread in order to finish off the job just as the rest of the group makes their way to the front of the grove.

Handing the pack back to Wren, he locks eyes with her for just a moment. “When?”

The little bird takes her bag from his hands, admiring the beautiful needlework. Karlach is headed towards the pair, recounting her adventures in Avernus to some of the tiefling children. The red woman's animated hands are waving around, followed by "oohs" and "ahhs" from her tiny admirers. Wren paused their conversation briefly to watch Karlach's show and Astarion thought he saw her eyes well up before she blinked and turned back to face him. “Tonight is fine with me," she murmurs, absently, before looking down again at the new stitches of blue in her backpack. "You really did a wonderful job here."

Astarion's mouth waters at the anticipation, and he struggles to swallow as he aims to keep his face an unreadable mask. “I’ll see you tonight, then, darling.” He murmurs and stands to shoulder his pack before being roped in to settle an argument between Lae'zel and Shadowheart about which color of wine is superior -- red or white.

‘Don’t lose control, you idiot.’ The thought flares in both the rogue's and ranger's minds at the same time. Perhaps it was the parasite wriggling in their minds, connecting them briefly, neither of them aware... or perhaps it was another string of fate tethering them together in a way neither could envision for themselves.

[maleficore]

Sceleritas: Oh Master, consider the tiny mishap with the bard you had the last time we met.

Sceleritas: Your unconscious, clever mind hungers for extreme violence.

Sceleritas: Who knows you might kill next if you do not satisfy your Urge?

This bit of dialogue from Sceleritas fucks me up so bad. As Durge (unless you're metagaming for a particular outcome instead of going full roleplay) you're being placed before an impossible choice. Do you kill dozens of people by taking out Isobel or risk taking the blade to one of your companions again?

You know you can't control yourself fully so the threat is not empty. And you definitely care about your companions more than you do about a bunch of Harpers you've just met. But there may also be the tieflings involved, mostly children. Sparse in numbers now, but still people you've once saved. Was all that for nothing because now you might need to sacrifice them all? Do they tip the scale? How much is too much? What price are you willing to pay for your friends' safety and your own peace of mind?

"What is the worth of a single mortal's life?"

You and your companions are fighters, you have a mission. Fate of legions more people depends on you taking out the Absolute. Can you truly afford the risk? Whose survival is more important? Yes the Harpers may be valuable allies, but you are the ones with the prism. Without the party they don't stand a chance.

I hate how that's not ever touched upon properly in the game.

Killing or sparing Isobel is the only path-defining choice for Durge until the end of their personal quest and is treated as reference for their entire attitude towards being a bhaalspawn in act 3 no matter what other dialogue choices you make. Kill her and you more than embrace your heritage, you revel in what you are. Any other choices made up to that point are immediately voided.

But what if you did it out of fear? What if the "prize" you were awarded for it in the form of the Slayer terrifies you even more than the Urge itself? Which is a feeling you are able to express, but it holds exactly zero value because there's only two paths for you to take and nuance is not allowed. Why are you not able to express regret and have that matter? Not to mention that if Isobel dies due to unforeseeable consequences of other actions, it's still treated as if you went up the stairs and dug a knife in her back when nobody was looking because you simply felt like it.

Yes sacrificing Last Light is not the choice of a perfectly good aligned hero, but it is also not something only a villain would do. People make terrible choices when there's an axe raised over the nape of their neck and where the Urge is concerned Durge has absolutely no close confidants or support system who could help them make a better one.

The foundations of a complex character are there and every time I notice the game fumbling like this, railroading into an evil/good binary despite that, it ruins my fucking day.

[bardic-perdita]

In your hands

Genre: Comfort, but also a tinge of angst

Pairing: Astarion X Named male Tav (Breoch)

Word Count: 1500

Warnings: Explores the edges of Astarion's trauma, especially around touch

A/N: a short drabble about the shift in Astarion and Breoch's relationship at the start of Act 3. It's much more of an Astarion introspection than anything with plot.

Astarion could smell the Elfsong Tavern before he could see it. The malodorous musk of stale ale and sweat shrouded the streets around the tavern in a thick miasma. It was uncanny seeing the establishment in daylight after only seeing it under the veil of night. Its gaudy livery glowed in muted oranges and reds; the sun’s glare exposed the innumerable cracks in the paintwork and years of scrawled graffiti that adorned its walls. The clientele seemed different during the day too, much more respectable than the rabble of drunkards, blackguards and fools that scurried to the bar after sunset.

The party seated themselves at the heart of the room, but the table was a chair short. Once Breoch had realised the error, he stood and motioned for Astarion to take his seat. Acting the gentleman was as natural to him as his sorcery; the culmination of his lessons were etched into his very bones. Astarion shook his head. After a short pause, the drow sat down again, unwittingly granting the vampire the opportunity to strike.

Astarion plopped down onto Breoch’s lap with an exaggerated foppish flair. The gesture earned him an exasperated murmur from his companions, and a few curious stares from the other patrons, but it was worth it for the wry chuckle that rumbled in Breoch’s chest. His thighs were plumper than he’d expected and were surprisingly comfortable to sit on. Yet even through the layers of clothes and armour, he could feel the taut muscles and slender frame of the sorcerer under him. It was a body that he’d seen and felt many times before, however feeling him in this new context made the differences in their physique all the more apparent. There was a certain security to playing the fop in a place like this. Even if he was recognised by some acquaintance of a former conquest, he doubted anyone would dare approach their table. Not many would have the nerve to confront the exiled son of the Archduke; a burly tiefling whose rage and heart pulsated with the ferocity of hellfire; two of Baldur’s Gate’s heroes of legend; a (former) Sharran; a battle-scarred githyanki warrior, and, well…Gale. All of his companions would be formidable in their own right, even Gale (though he’d loathe to admit it). Not to mention that there was a special sort of power that derived from lounging in the lap of a handsome noble evidently dripping with gold. He held one of Breoch’s hands and gazed at the array of jewels and silvers crowning his fingers as they glittered in the lamplight.

Their hands were pure antithesis. Each other’s features were contrasted and refined in the other’s. One hand was pale as moonlight, calloused by centuries of cruelty and wielding blades, yet had been painted to appear flawless in its manicured nails: a guise of nobility to conceal a tormented existence in the kennels. In the absence of a reflection, Astarion had placed a lot of value in the appearance of his hands. There were times when he felt that his face was nothing but a great void: a shapeshifting mist that altered to suit his victim’s tastes; the slew of compliments about his appearance seemingly changing with each seduction. Sometimes he was beautiful and fair, other times roguish and sharp-smiled and, on rare occasions, a disgusting pockmarked whore. But his hands were real and solid. He could still see those. Those never changed.

The other’s hand was a shimmering lilac and as delicate as petals. The soft skin across his palms was more accustomed to stroking silks than pitching canvas tents on the road. His cuticles had been battered by the elements until they blistered and bled. It was not a hand used to the hardships of adventuring after centuries of decadence. Astarion stroked the unblemished skin along Breoch’s knuckles down to his wrist. He hardly remembered the days when he too had the luxury to be soft; when he armed himself with quills and parchment, rather than daggers and fangs. Even if he didn’t know that the drow was nobility, a single touch of his hand would have betrayed his heritage.

For a rare moment of distraction, he allowed his attention to drift to the sorcerer’s fingertips. They were ice-cold, but that was hardly unusual for him. His nails had splintered, some half-snapped and exposed the deep purple nail bed underneath. Strands of skin peeled down his cuticles, thorn-like and brittle, and bled where they had snagged and ripped off. Faint scars radiated from the tips of his fingers. A lattice of near-invisible lightning bolts were the only trace of his overuse of cantrips, as though the magic coursing through his veins was scarcely contained by the lacework of veins underneath, and had attempted to burst through his skin unbidden. Compared to the existential threats they had faced to get here, fretting over the state of somebody else’s hands seemed incredibly foolish. It was stranger still to think that the future of Faerȗn now rested in hands like these. Everybody’s lives depended on hands that were too fragile to withstand sunshine and dirt.

Astarion had been so engrossed in his meditations that he didn’t notice how in spite of his curious exploration of Breoch’s hands, Breoch had made no attempt to hold him. His free hand rested on the arm of his chair. His fingers remained still and malleable, never once moving to clasp hold of Astarion’s own. It would have been so easy for him to grip Astarion’s waist, pressing into his back to breathe on his nape, and clamp onto his hand to stop his fidgeting. It’s what any other man would have done.

But Breoch didn’t.

Was he too afraid to touch him? Or was this pity? Did he truly think he was so pathetic and helpless that he couldn’t handle something as simple as this? It was Astarion’s choice to sit here, and Breoch had never shied from returning flagrant displays of flirtation in kind before. These games of faux romance were as integral to their relationship as the confessions of past misadventures and victories, half-whispered between each other beneath the moon, as they huddled beside the campfire. A roiling contempt bubbled to his cheeks.

Why won’t he touch him?

The question caught him off-guard. To feel frustrated by the lack of touch, to be angry when his acts of physical affection aren’t reciprocated must imply that he wants to be touched by him. Only a few weeks ago, Astarion might have sacrificed his soul to a devil if it meant that all who touched him would burst into flame. Some small part of him almost envied Karlach: he had wished to be untouchable. And yet, this was different. He felt unsettled not by the abundance of physical contact, but the lack of it.

He ventured a glance over his shoulder to peer at Breoch’s face. He was politely listening to Gale’s ever-riveting cascade of conversation, and smiled when he caught the elf looking at him. The flush of warmth in Astarion’s cheeks remained, but it was not fuelled by impetuous irritability any longer. There was a gentle patience in Breoch’s gaze; a vulnerable longing that he made no attempt to disguise, even though such a look would have spelt his demise in his former life in Menzoberranzan. He didn't want to push too far by seeking affection for himself, to pull at the thread connecting them and risk snapping it, instead he allowed Astarion to take the lead.

Astarion’s hands moved before his mind caught up as he held both of Breoch’s hands to wrap them around his waist. He hugged them close.

“I’ll fall off if you’re not careful, darling,” Astarion quipped, but they both knew he was lying. Breoch tentatively rested his head against him, although adjusted his position when he felt Astarion shiver when his breath tickled his ear. The two of them shuffled and eventually eased into the embrace.

Astarion’s attention now settled into relaxed awareness. The various snippets of conversation, the clinking of tankards, and chair legs scraping across hardwood floors flowed across his senses as effortlessly as water. Given his history with seducing countless victims within these walls, he had a lot to be wary of. That was before factoring in the close proximity to Cazador’s front door, his six siblings prowling the streets in search of him, and the encroaching elder-brain led army that was about to descend onto the city. To say that he was well and truly fucked would be quite the understatement. This was the most dangerous city to be in right now, especially for Astarion, and a stake in the heart or fangs at his throat could find him at any moment. And yet, nestled in the arms of his not-quite lover, surrounded by the convivial hubbub of his fellow adventurers, he felt the safest he had ever felt in centuries.

[whitewoodwriter]

"I set your heartbeat to thunder, I stole lightning to sing in your veins, I put a storm inside you called Chaos and I gave you control. I made you to be reckless and ruthless and wild."

Our Kickstarter is now live!! You can get your copy of the #InfernalHeritageZine here:

http://kck.st/45j9o70

My Chapter, Chaos of Creation, focuses on the creation myth of my homebrew Void-Touched Tiefling Subrace! Featured here is my art of one such Tiefling: Harrum Scarrum!

You can check out the chapter in the main zine, and the Homebrew is one of our Stretch Goals! If you really wanna see what makes Harrum so special, help us reach the stretch goal by backing the project!

[halla-hunts-the-wolf]

The Last Light Inn

- The First Night -

Declan finally reaches the Last Light Inn, but his hardships are far from over.

Pairings: Male Tav / Wyll mentioned

Warnings: Character Death, Mentions of Gore

There was something about traveling through land shrouded in shadows that made chills creep down their spines and left their hair standing on end. The darkness could leave a searing pain lashing across one’s skin, turning their sound mind into something akin to madness. Declan Davenport had felt his paranoia creeping in within the first hour, and although his eyesight was poor, even his night vision couldn’t console him as they traversed through those haunted lands. 

He was glad when Kar’niss fell to a heap on the ground. His spiraling legs curled in on themselves as his thorax gushed with warm blood. Declan shook the ichor from his boots, doing his best to ignore as the Drider’s beady black eyes stared up at him, void of life.  Fortunately, he couldn’t dwell for long as the light from the lantern and the Harpers disappeared around the bend. 

Jaheira appeared to be a force to reckon with, and Declan liked her. She reminded him of his mother, who was likely waiting to hear from him at their homestead on the outskirts of Baldurs Gate. The two women shared the same no-nonsense attitude and a sense of responsibility that was hard to find when the entire world continued to fall apart. They had found tiefling bodies on the way to the Inn.  Declan had felt particularly ill to see them. Gale and Wyll had the decency to stop their group for a while. To their credit, they had tried their best to soothe the tears brewing in the corner of his eyes. 

Halsin had done his best, parting the dirt and covering their graves in withering grass, providing them a proper resting place under the worst circumstances. It was easier to continue the journey with their friends’ corpses out of sight, but guilt gnawed at each of them. The tieflings may not have survived in the Emerald Grove, but Declan and the others had sent them towards what they assumed would be an easy trip to Baulders Gate. 

Mol was the first friendly face they saw at the Inn. The young entrepreneur vouched for their group, and Declan’s heart soared upon seeing her.  She was a little shit, that much he knew, but if she had survived the journey, then so could the other tiefling children that she protected.  Declan tried to follow her, eager to see for himself, but then he felt the faint shove of Karlach’s sword pommel as she motioned toward the stables.

“Hey, there’s Dammon! Let’s go say hi!” The woman’s relief was infectious, so their group shuffled off in different directions. Declan was vaguely aware of Wyll’s touch skimming across his shoulder, a silent farewell before he inserted himself in the effort to build barricades for the Inn. 

Once Halsin and Jaheira had turned their backs to discuss the wellbeing of the Inn’s refugees, Gale and Astarion made themselves scarce to search the grounds for supplies.  Wherever Shadowheart and Lae’Zel turned up could be anyone’s guess, but Declan found himself not caring, as long as they didn’t try killing one another along the way. 

His heart was still heavy once he finished speaking with Dammon, glad Karlach would have a temporary solution to her infernal engine but weary of the bad news they hadn’t yet heard. He finally earned some reprieve when he stepped into the Inn, finding a familiar face at one of the tables. 

“Alfira?” His legs didn’t feel so heavy as he crossed the crowded tavern, inching himself through a crowd of Harpers and Flaming Fists to reach his twin flame. “By the Gods, am I happy to see you!” 

The bard had been staring down into her mug of some piss-smelling ale, her golden eyes murky with all she’d had to endure in the passing weeks. However, the sound of Declan’s soft-spoken voice cutting through the tavern’s atmosphere of doom and gloom has her rising from her seat. 

“Declan!” She cheered, the smile on her face nearly as infectious as Karlach’s, and Declan embraced her before he could say a proper hello. “I bet you didn’t expect to find me among the survivors, huh?” 

“You’ve got the luck of a bard, my dear.” Decan’s words accompany a watery laugh, and he does his best to keep his exhaustion and remorse from creeping into his voice. “I’m so sorry, Ira. Had I known this would happen, I wouldn’t have sent you here alone. We found some others on the way here, and the rest…” 

“The Absolute’s forces took them,”  Alfira confirmed his worst fears before motioning him to sit across from her. She’s the first one to acknowledge the hitch in his shoulders and the sweat on his brow, offering him her drink to dull the aches he was feeling. “Jaihera has considered storming Moonrise to save them, but the Absolute’s forces are stronger than her own, and the fight seems like a risk.”  

“I’ll bring them back,” Declan vows breathlessly, his words a rush after guzzling the contents within her tankard. 

“Ever the hero, aren’t you?”

“Until it kills me.” 

There’s a sadness in the way Alfira shakes her head. Her lilac lips pull into a frown, and her glowing eyes haze with the painful acknowledgment of someone else’s self-sacrifice. She’d written a song about Declan after he helped defeat the Goblins, but her drunken slew of words at the time hadn’t included how much he cared about other people. The song captured his explosive spells, charming wit, and wealth of knowledge. It was an ode to the clever way he’d destroyed the Absolute’s supporters.  The tale of how he’d played a song to distract the guards, poisoned their barrels of alcohol and recruited their feeding spiders into an uprising against their captors.

Many of the tieflings knew Declan as the hero from the tale she wove, but Alfira knew him as the adventurous farm boy way out of his depth. They were the same, and because pain recognized pain, Declan knew he was about to receive a lashing for taking on more responsibility than he could handle. 

He’s saved from the lecture as a hoard of children raced to their table. Mirkon leads the rest of the pack. His dark curls and beaming smile remain intact, even after everything he’d endured. “Mr. Wyll told us you were here!” 

Mirkon was by far the sweetest child that the tieflings had to offer.  Although he worked for Mol and conned others to earn his keep, he maintained a kind and virtuous heart.  Declan was grateful he’d saved him from the harpies at the lake shore. Mirkon had written him a story to say thank you, and Declan kept it tucked within the cover of his favorite book. 

“Mirkon, I’m so pleased to see you.” He reaches out to ruffle the boy’s curly hair but pulls back once he notices how matted it has become during their journey. He made a mental note to ask for a hairbrush before regarding the others, “Ide, Meli, Umi!” 

Each child waves to him in return, unable to contain their surprise that he bothered to remember their names. “Have you eaten? I’m sure I could get some of these patrons out of the way.” 

“We’ve had our meals,” Mirkon reassured him before brushing his hand over Declan’s newest outfit of fine green leather. “You look fancier than before.” 

“That’s because I’m a tried and true adventurer now.” 

“That so?” Ide tutted back. “You might see Mattis before you leave. We could have something in our wares to complete your look.” 

“Well, I couldn’t leave the Inn without stopping to trade with my favorite merchants, could I?” 

The children shared giggles and knowing looks. Their sharp teeth betrayed their keen smiles. Mol loved it when they brought in customers, but Declan wasn’t someone they tried to con. He was one of the few people who always played along and paid more than their wares were worth. 

“Hey!” A voice cuts through all the noise, and Declan turns in his seat to find Rolan, one of the more battle-ready Teiflings, as he waves his tankard in the children’s direction. “Hasn’t Jaheira placed you in charge of serving our sorry lot?” 

Mirkon and the others offered Declan a quick goodbye before returning to the bar, and Alfria took up the silence once they were gone. “Rolan’s the reason the rest of us are alive.” 

Declan turned back to her with a grimace. “His siblings?” 

“He was defending the children when the Cultists called for reinforcements. Cal and Lei were some of the ones taken. He hasn’t been the same since. He’s a hardass but did his best to keep us together on our journeys. I feel for him.” 

The guilt washed over him with a renewed vigor. When Declan first arrived in the Druid’s grove, he overheard Rolan trying to convince his siblings to flee while they could. He convinced Rolan to stay in the grove, but if he hadn’t intervened, perhaps the siblings would still be together.  

Declan reached across the table to lace his hand over Alfira’s. She met his gaze, and, for a moment, they shared in quiet resolve and a like mind.  Declan couldn’t read her mind like he could with the other Mindflayer victims, but he could still tell what she was thinking.  The Tieflings stood a chance at survival now that everyone was together again. 

Declan leaves her to begin strumming her lute, offering a soft instrument to overtake the tavern.  He wouldn’t hesitate to join her on most occasions, but his feet carried him toward the bar as she began humming the opening chords to Old Time Battles. 

“If it isn’t the hero of the Grove.” Rolan’s voice comes as a drunken drawl, and it’s clear by the clench of his jaw that he has no intention of offering Declan his thanks.  Declan couldn’t blame him. 

“I heard about Lia and Cal, I’m sorry-” 

“Save it. They would still be here if it weren’t for you.” 

Declan flinched, his dirtied boots squeaking against the floor as he jeered backward a step. “I know.” He finds his voice. “I’ll get them back.” 

Rolan growls. The noise starts in his chest and reverberates to stir the ale at the bottom of his cup. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”  From over Rolan’s shoulder, Declan notices Ide mime a drink, or two, or four, giving the impression that Rolan had been at the bar for some time. 

“I deserve that.” Declan concedes, saddling up to the bar to stand at Rolan's side. “But I say this with sincerity. I’ll go to Moonrise Towers and do everything I can. No risk is too great.” 

Rolan scowled, twisting within his bar stool to glare at the half-elf before him.  Declan’s freckled skin caked in grim, his light armor accosted by blood and other bodily fluids he dared not name. He was far from the awkward and bumbling young man who had stumbled into the Emerald Grove a few months ago. “No one asked you to play hero, least of all me.” 

“I’m just trying to help.” 

“And look where that’s got us! My siblings are gone, children are dead, and the rest of us will never make it to Baldurs Gate with so few of us left.” 

It takes everything in Declan not to snap back or shut down. He was usually cheery, ready to laugh or smile at any moment, but he’d had one hell of a day. “I’ll leave you to your drink.” 

Declan retreated from the bar, managing another mild-mannered smile as he passed the children to approach Alfira once more.  She was still strumming her lute but appraised him with a sympathetic gaze. “Didn’t go well, I take it?” 

“Not in the slightest.”  

She gestured to his back, where the Spider’s Lyre he retrieved from the Goblin Camp rested. “The mood in this place is pretty drab. I think everyone could use a pick me up, don’t you?”

“I think you’ve read my mind.” Declan could put on a smile for a performance, and in the passing weeks, he’d learned how to fake things until he made it. His boisterous confidence was often a facade that made those around him feel safe, and he would perform again if it meant making the tavern of weary patrons feel secure for a night.

He pulled the lyre from his back, and before he knew it, he and Alfira were standing on the table they’d been having a heart-to-heart at not a few moments before.  Decan taps his foot in time with the music as they plunge into Bard Dance. His fingers ached from countless hours of spellcasting, but he ignored the pain in favor of the music. 

It doesn’t take long for a crowd to gather.  Soldiers and refugees alike struggle to box the two performers in, gradually beginning to jeer and sing along to the music. Some people whistled, others clapped, but Declan could tell that the spirits in the tavern had lifted considerably. 

Declan finds his foul mood lifting with them, and as his traveling companions gradually find their way into the Inn for the night, the half-elf can’t help raising his voice to be heard over the crowd, serenading his friends as he did every night beside the fire.  

So enthralled by the song, he wouldn’t notice Wyll come through the entrance.  There wasn’t any room for the warlock to break through the crowd, so he leaned against the doorframe instead. His head leans against the wood, his brown eyes surveying the performance before him. 

As if sensing a fetching pair of eyes on him, Declan turns away from Alfira. He finds Wyll watching, his silhouette captured by the lamplight just outside the door. Wyll smiles, its Genuity and warmth a welcomed sight after the day’s cruelty. 

 

When the song finishes, Declan swears he can hear Wyll’s clapping above the rest, and he bows just for him. The moment is sweet and all-encompassing, leaving the pair enraptured until someone in the crowd screams for an encore, and the music begins again. 

[shnowbilicat]

May I introduce to the world my three TTRPG bbys; Void, Saphira and Daraen!

I love these three with a dying passion <333 qwq

Void the Tiefling

When Void was young he joined a group of thieves. But not so long after he joined there was a heist gone wrong and Void was caught by the towns guard. He was the only one and was left to die. The guards put him in chains and together with other criminals and creatures was dragged through the land, waiting for punishment ... only to come across a rich family. The Mistress of the family wanted Void to join the Maids and Butlers in their manor, even ebing a playmate for her son. Begrudgingly the Master bought Void off of the guards and Void cursed his now slave life ... if it wasn't actually that bad. Thanks to the Mistress Void and every helper in the manor, human or human like, Void soon fit right in.

Surprisngly he felt comfortable, seeing as everybody treated him like one of their own. Everyone but the Master, who warned him that if he would harm or even just touch his son Void would be thrown into the dungeons below. The Mistress however encouraged Void to feel free to be portective of his young Master and play with him and soon Void was the young Master's personal Butler and closest friend.

One day, while playing hide and seek, the Master of the house saw his son touching Void's tail and the Tiefling was immediantly thrown down below, never to see sunlight ever again. Void was in shock and begged to be freed, but that would never happen.

Not long after the manor was attacked. In a panic the guards dropped Void's prison keys and the Tiefling could escape, only to see his friends and family killed on the floor, blood everywhere and expensive items missing. Worried Void checked on the young Master's bedroom, only to see a rouge jumping out of the window, leaving the room empty. Something inside Void ignited and searched the manor for supplies to take with him. The Mistress and Master were also found dead, the former hurt Void a lot, the latter not at all. Lastly Void took one of the Master's coats for the road, he didn't need it anyways now that he was dead.

With that Void had a new goal; find the thieves guild that took the Mistress' life and avange his young Master.

--

Void is the face and leader of my TTRPG trio and actually my very first DnD character!

Back in the day I played a lot of TTRPGs/Pen and Paper in my apprenticeship and when one of my friends offered to try and DM DnD for us I was stoked and created Void; who is obviously based on Vincent, cuz why ot have your comfort character to be in your first DnD game?? X3

Sadly he only got one session in before we all had a winter break and then covid hit and I'm still hoping to get together with my DM to maybe have a solo adventure or something :'33

I also finally finished his redesign yesterday, so I'm so happy to finally show off my new bbys X33

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Saphira the Dragonborn

Saphira grew up in a humble village. Her father was a proud and strong Paladin and a follower of Bahamut. He always believed in justice and equality and taught his daughter everything he knew, even how to fight. Since Saphira's father was a well known adventurer he talked a lot about his quests all around the country and her mother was always reading her stories about heroes when she was small, Saphira got so inspired that she also wanted to become an adventurer as well. Her curiosity about the world outside of her village was eating her up, so she loved listening to merchants and travelers that were traveling through.

She read any books she could get her hands on, whether it was about adventuring tipps, the history about her world or even about Bahamut himself, and developed abilities to help her outside of the village, to protect the innocent and the ones she loved most. She even started to bring justice to bad guys and thieves in her village to train.

One night her heroic actions and her deep want to go adventuring caught the attention of Bahaumt and he gave her his blessing. Saphira vowed to the great dragon to follow him and the path of justice and rightiousness, becoming a cleric in his name.

Saphira's father was so proud of her that he opened the gates for her to go out and adventure on her own. In tears Saphira thanked her parents for their support and promised she would fight for every race and creature in need and that she will come back as a hero deserving of her father's pride.

--

Saphira is my dragon bby and I love her. She's such a cutie and always sees the good in people ARGH so cute qwq

She is my second DnD character and is an active participant in a current DnD campaign and it's so nice to play DnD with her ... if our DM would stop having such good rolls and SAphira freaking out at her companions, and herself, dying :'33

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Daraen the Strix

Daraen had a nice life in a small village with his parents. Even though Strix look like they are dangerious and there had been really bad rumors about them, Daraen's parents were the sweetest bird like folk around, and so they taught Daren to always be a kind child. As a kid he loved helping his parents in the garden or cooking or even finding out his great affinity to magic. He was the happiest little Strix around ...

... until, one day there was a knock on the door. daren's parents told him to hide away as they opened the door. There soldiers arrested his parents for being a danger to the land and chained them up to be executed in the town's plaza. Daren was terrified and with a blanket over his head and wings he snuck after them all. Only to see his parent's get ropes around their necks. Even though they cried, they still smiled and thanked their community for letting them exist and live here as long as they did. With that the small Strix saw his parent's get hanged.

Distrought Daraen ran, crying his lungs out and hding in an alleyway until the next day arose. With a heavy heart and without any more tears Daraen returned to his now empty home, the only thing that he still had left from his parents. He locked himself inside, lived life and rarely went out. When he did he hid his wings and claws from the outside world. He grew his magical powers, reading up on any books he could find ... or even steal. Many years later the soldiers returned, but Daraen was ready. He attacked and tricked them to enter his house, and while Daraen escaped without a trace, the house exploded and was set ablaze.

With that Daraen left his village for good and flew into the night never to be seen again ... and withthe hopes to find a place were he could belong without getting his wings clipped for existing ...

--

Daraen is my lastes bby and I have to say my favorite?? I love them all, but I just adore wings and claws, okay?? :'3

Also he's a little tsundere and a sorcerer, and I LOVE magic qWq

Compared to Void and Saphira, Daraen is actually from a Pathfinder game my IRL friends host. When I was invited I looked at the races that Pathfinder had and something about wings and claws just ... spoke to me, you know?? ewe

----------------------------

I don't have a name for their group yet, but they are my bbys and I will fight for them to live a long and adventurous life :'33

[mallowberryshake]

hi i wanted to do something self-indulgent enjooooy

uhhh evil spirits and executions that didn't QUITE take under the cut :3

They say, deep down in the Cryolite mines beneath the old, abandoned temple in the Canton, is a Demon. Not a normal Demon - not a loud, imposing Pridekin, or a deviously alluring Lustkin, or even a profit-minded Greedkin Demon. Nor a half-breed - not a Tiefling, nor a Nephilim, nor a Dragyr. No, something else, something made from pure spite. They say, after all, that the ghost of the Northstar lives in the old, collapsed mines.

With a deceptively benign name, the Northstar has nearly faded into myth, nearly become a shadow of herself. Nearly. But the Dwarves know. The Ice Spirits on the mountains know. The Devout who make pilgrimage up the mountain, who must pass through the cursed, ruined Temple to reach their own Gods' shrines all know.

Something dwells there, in the mines. It rarely leaves - and you are never to travel during a snow storm because it seems to like the cold, seems to move with it. Little Tara knew this, because her big brother had gone missing during a snowstorm, here on the mountain. Here next to the cursed temple, she'd watched Arthur take a dare from his friends.

I dare you to go touch the Altar.

That was the command that sent Arthur towards the large, central structure. Tara had watched him walk across the cracked Cryolite stones of the courtyard, and had screamed for him to just give up when she saw eyes down the tunnel across the yard. Nobody believed her, though - its just your imagination, you're seeing things. But Tara had seen it, and it had seen Tara. Worse, it had seen Arthur.

A blizzard fell over the yard faster than should have been possible. It engulfed the youths, drowning out their voices yelling for Arthur to come closer, that it was okay. He didn't have to do it anymore. Tara screamed until her voice went hoarse, but she couldn't even hear her voice over the wind.

But Tara could hear Arthur's voice. Even covering her ears wasn't enough to block the sound. He sounded so scared, so pained. She tried to look out and find him, but she only saw the shadow of a large, nine-tailed fox in the white void in front of her. It watched her with ominous, blue eyes, and tilted it's head.

Tara knew it's name. She clutched the little Snowberry branch in her hands. It was a fake, of course - a souvenir from a gift shop a few miles down the mountain. Arthur had wanted a book on the Northstar, their mother had wanted a replica of the dead god's wedding band, and their father had wanted a replica of the spears she supposedly used.

But Tara had fallen absolutely in love with the little Snowberry charm in one of the displays - it tied perfectly around her little wrist, the dark green ribbon trailing down and flowing with her movements. Tara did not want stuffed animals or video games or name tags - she had wanted this, a little ornament.

And perhaps it was a coincidence, but when the blizzard cleared and Tara was dug out of the snow, she was the only one from that day to be found alive. Arthur hadn't been found at all.

Tara clutched her Snowberry Charm as her parents made the journey again, back up the mountain. She stopped a bit behind them, staring at the altar. She saw the eyes within the tunnel, and she stared back.

It blinked, and Tara felt the wind shift. She hurried back to her parents, before the thoughts of wandering into the tunnels could make her curious.