#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

@roguishcat @weaverofnetheril @galedekarioswifey @hyperfixationstation128 @lastlight-inn

@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

[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-

[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?

[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.

[wasteful-sam]

Worthy [Part 2, Chapter 11]

Tags:

Slow burn, romantic, smut-ish, ongoing, F/M, Rolan/female drow.

Notes:

As the night falls, they both start going through it.

[Part 1, completed]

[Part 2, Chapter 5]

[Part 2, Chapter 6]

[Part 2, Chapter 7]

[Part 2, Chapter 8]

[Part 2, Chapter 9]

[Part 2, Chapter 10]

[AO3 Link]

+++

Worthy

Part 2 | Chapter 11

The unreveling

Once the night had fallen onto the Shadow-Cursed Lands, Rolan left for his routine spellcasting training. He needed a distraction and couldn't wait until dawn. The tiefling found the pier just under the veranda blessedly vacant, the Harpers nowhere to be seen.

For hours, the wizard was standing there, mouthing the incantations in a quiet voice, directing them into the water. Feeling his magic battery getting low, he moved onto the cantrips, switching between rays of frost and fire bolts just to occupy his mind.

For all the time Rolan had been casting cantrips, his eyes stayed shut - perhaps to block out distractions. But shutting them wouldn't silence what churned inside. As if his family's precarious situation wasn't enough to weigh on him.

"What even is this?" the tiefling hissed, his thoughts circling back to their conversation with Nimriel earlier. The buildup of frustration broke his focus. The firebolt in his hands flickered and vanished, leaving his palms empty. He opened his eyes with a sharp breath.

Tonight was uncharacteristically tranquil for the Shadow-Cursed Lands: the moon hung full and luminous, its silver light rippling across the water's surface. Yet, the serene beauty barely registered. It couldn't touch the firestorm brewing within him. Rolan felt feverish, his breath tight and labored. Was he falling ill?

The near-delirium drove him to the pier's edge. Desperation took hold as he yanked off his boots and plunged his feet into the river's cool embrace. Still, the water's cooling embrace evaporated almost as quickly as it came. He let out an irritated tsk, his gaze dropping to the reflection beneath him.

"What do you want?" he muttered, but the reflection offered no reply. It was a question that felt impossible to answer when you were in no position to demand anything from the world.

The burning sensation flared unbearably, searing through him. With a resigned sigh, Rolan began stripping away his clothes. Piece by piece, he cast them aside until he stood bare under the moonlight. Without hesitation, he dove horns-first into the river, the icy water swallowing him whole.

He surfaced moments later, floating on his back, staring up at the night sky. His breathing was still ragged, and he opened his mouth wide, gasping for air. Like a fish flung from water, flailing and suffocating on the shore.

Was it all because of the alcohol, Rolan thought, touching his stomach for signs of discomfort. No, not at all. Slowly, his hand slid upward, tracing the familiar ridges of his body as if hunting for an answer. It stopped just below his chest, where a phantom pressure lingered - a weightless, spherical ache lodged between his ribs. The sensation felt overwhelming, trembling in the void it created within him.

Looking at the moon, the tiefling let his mind drift. Nimriel said she wanted to go back to the Emerald Grove, and Rolan would take her there in a heartbeat. Just to watch her lay there by the Sacred Pool, safe and at peace. The tiefling fell into an even deeper haze, remembering. That night, at the pool, when the drow stirred something deep within him.

So much has changed since then. His longing for Nim had grown, evolving from physical attraction into something far more desperate. It wasn't just about holding her or seeking comfort in her presence. He wanted to shield her, to be the constant that soothed her storm. That need rivaled even his ambition to become a worthy apprentice to Lorroakan.

But this dream was unreachable, just like the moon looming over. Say, he confessed these feelings to her – a woman who's fighting against all odds. Could he extract the tadpole? Protect her? Be a valuable ally on the battlefield? No, Rolan is not a meaningful part of Nimriel's life equation. No number of potions brewed or words of counsel spoken could make him indispensable.

And yet - his fingers reached to the purple mark she left on his neck - the tiefling hopelessly clung to this dream. Making another deep sigh, Rolan submerged his head under the water, his eyes still chasing the moon across the sky.

He couldn't let go of today – the way Nim was looking at him, her touch, her lips…The memory was a flame he couldn't extinguish, no matter how much the cold water tried to smother it.

"It's nothing serious," the tiefling's cruel inner voice interrupted mockingly, "You are a distraction to her, a mere curiosity. She is not even honest with you. And yet, she moves a finger, and you act like a lovesick idiot."

Rolan clenched his fists as the inner voice continued, "Why so hellbent on her? No woman wanted to stick around you before, why bother now?"

The words coiled around Rolan's chest like iron chains. His fingers drifted to the mark again, tracing it as if he could draw strength from it. But even that small comfort felt hollow now, tainted by doubt.

"She's got real warriors by her side. What are you compared to them? A failed apprentice? A tiefling without a home? We both know who you are, oh great and mighty Rolan. A pretender."

Unable to bear it anymore, he opened his mouth, letting the water in. The sheer shock of it sent his instincts into a frenzy, and the tiefling broke the surface with a violent gasp. He clung to the pier's edge, coughing and sputtering, his body trembling as he expelled water from his chest.

When the fit subsided, Rolan took a final look at his reflection - silent, yet again, and lost.

Tired of dealing with himself, the tiefling climbed back onto the pier. He haphazardly put on the clothes and lay down on the wooden floor. Sleep, merciful and long overdue, finally claimed him soon after.

+++

“…at least ten merregon legionnaires by his side. And the orthon himself,” Astarion declared, raising his arms theatrically, “is massive. I see why Raphael seemed so shaken when speaking of him,” he chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Oh, how poetic - slaying a beast that even the devil fears.”

As agreed, part of the party was left behind to keep watch near the inn. It was a joy to return to their camp by the river shore after days of traversing the barren lands. Enjoying the night, the four indulged in drinking, trying to wash away their worries, at least for the time being.

“D-don’t get ahead of yourself,” Gale stammered, swaying where he sat. Somehow, he had ended up the drunkest of the group. “The odds of us winning are not exactly… toasty.”

Across from them, Karlach sat idly stroking the owlbear cub sprawled beside her. She shrugged, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “So, killing the orthon and completing Shar’s dumb ritual. What thrilling days we’ve got ahead.”

“The loot better be worth it,” Nimriel muttered, her attention fixed on the fox she was skinning. She worked with quiet precision, channeling her focus into the task to avoid letting her drunken thoughts run wild. “Gale, we’ll need heavy ice spells from you. And I’ll pick up some ice arrows when we resupply.”

The wizard’s head lolled toward Astarion, who sat beside him. “Obviously,” Gale mumbled, his eyelids fluttering shut.

The pale elf, bored of the battle talk, turned his sharp gaze toward Karlach and Nimriel. “Well, now that you’re all caught up on our glorious exploits, care to share how your day has been? I imagine the hardships of eating and drinking while we slaved away in the temple were utterly devastating?”

Karlach grinned at the jab, leaning back with a mock groan. “Yeah, just awful.”

Astarion’s smirk widened. “Oh? Was your blacksmith a bad dancer?” His tone was pointedly cheeky, but he held up his hands in mock surrender when Karlach’s eyes narrowed into a fiery glare. “What? I merely said what we all saw. I did catch you two in the act!”

“Yeah, and I’d have preferred you all showed up five minutes later so we could finish the dance,” Karlach said, rolling his eyes. Yet, the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her own delight.

Nimriel glanced up from her task, a smirk tugging at her mouth as she watched her friend’s happiness. She patted Acorn’s head and fed him a small scrap of fox meat.

“Now, now,” Astarion said, gesturing grandly. “Start from the beginning. Spare no detail.” Then he glanced at Gale, who was now fully nodding off, and sighed dramatically. “Ah, our distinguished gentleman. Truly the pride of Mystra.” He gently tugged the wizard closer, resting Gale’s head in his lap. “Sleep well, prodigy.”

"Well…" Karlach began, her voice slightly slurred as she tried to string together her thoughts through the alcoholic haze. "I came to the forge for some disarm toolkits. Dammon said Bex and Danis were about to celebrate their anniversary and invited me. He looked so excited," she smiled softly, her gaze distant," and so, we went."

She chuckled nervously, her cheeks darkening as the alcohol loosened her tongue, "You know, he's not my type even. But the way he looks at me with those eyes. Like a warm green forest," her hands springing forward in a squishing motion, "I just wanna grab and smooch his cheeks."

"Well, did you?" Nim asked, a sly smile curling her lips as she rubbed her bloodied hand on a nearby cloth. She leaned back and lit her pipe.

Karlach rubbed her nape, "Damn, I wish. But, you know, we were smack in the middle of the crowd practically the whole time. Would've been... awkward."

"Yeah, true," Nimriel said slowly, making a deep, nervous pull, remembering that she was in the same precarious situation today.

"Anyways," the barbarian continued, "Nothing much happened at first. I was sorta chatting with everyone. But then, Alfira started playing, Danis and Bex embraced, and Dammon just…" she jolted her hands forward excitedly, "out of nowhere, bowed and smiled at me. Didn't even have to say anything, I kinda melted and took his hand."

Astarion nodded with approval, "Classy move."

"Oh yes," Karlach giggled, "I…dancing is something else. I was never interested in it before, you know, the whole "going to hells" thing. Not gonna lie, I felt so embarrassed, I barely knew what I was doing, pretty sure I stepped on his toes at least a dozen of times," she sighed but then smiled fondly. "But Dammon? He was so patient. Made me feel like I wasn't just stomping around like an oaf.

The drow placed her hand on Karlach's shoulder, "Trust me, you both looked incredible."

"What, you saw us?" Karlach turned to Nim, her eyes wide.

"Mhm," Nim nodded, exhaling a soft plume of smoke. "And the way he looked at you? Karlach, he’s yours.”

"Heh," Karlach stammered, her mouth half-open as the engine inside her chest emitted a fiery glow.

The elf smirked, "So, my question is: why are you here?"

Karlach blinked, confused. "What?"

"The inn is five minutes away," Astarion clarified, gesturing dramatically. "If I were you, I'd be there instead of wallowing around here."

Karlach clenched her jaw, her fiery glow intensifying as she mulled it over. "You think?"

Astarion rolled his eyes. "Oh, darling. All this time, you've been going on about being pent up, and now, a perfect opportunity just lands in your lap, and you're passing on it?"

Karlach was silent for a moment, her lips curling into a playful grin. "You know what? You're right. I'll sober up a bit, and then you won't see me until morning."

She stood up, her excitement evident as she stumbled slightly before heading toward the river to wash her face.

As she walked away, Astarion shifted his gaze to Nim, his expression sly. "Speaking of tiefling fever… I spied something curious on the veranda today," he chirped.

Nimriel huffed, taking another pull from her pipe to buy herself time. The elf must've caught a glimpse of her and Rolan somehow. Her alcohol-soaked mind fumbled for an excuse but came up empty. Maybe it was better that way.

Before she could respond, Karlach returned, her face damp and glowing, a wide grin plastered across it. "Alright, I'm all freshened up. So, what'd I miss?"

Astarion gave Nim a quick, knowing smirk before nonchalantly cracking his neck, "I was just saying how unladylike it is of Nimriel to dress a carcass like that."

"Oh, so, her bashing heads is alright, but you draw the line at dressing carcasses?" the barbarian chuckled, "Your "ladylike meter" is all over the place, fangs."

The fact that Astarion didn't blabber on shocked Nimriel, as she was sure he wouldn't miss a chance to share a juicy gossip with Key. She looked at them both, thinking. These were probably the best people she could confide in. And, right now, she really needed it.

"Alright," she exhaled, taking a bracing swig of wine. She glanced at Gale, making sure he was sound asleep with his head pillowed on Astarion's lap. "I'm in trouble."

Karlach waved her hand dismissively, "Come on, Nim. So what that you're unladylike? Big deal."

Nim gave her friend a side-eye, "Well, thanks for that," the drow hung her head, "It's about Rolan."

Astarion raised a brow, his smirk returning in full force. "Oh, this is going to be good." He rested his chin on his hand, "Karlach, darling, you're about to witness the inconceivable - our Nimriel finally admits that she, too, can be wooed."

"Go on, Nim," Karlach said gently, sitting beside the drow and placing a warm hand on her shoulder. Her words were kind, but the sharp look she shot Astarion warned him to behave.

Nim puffed her pipe once more, letting the smoke curl lazily around her, "Well, first of all," Nim rubbed her temples and forehead with a left hand, "I'm an idiot."

Astarion bit down on his fist, his expression mockingly pained as if physically restraining himself from making a quip.

Undeterred, Nim continued, "Remember when we just arrived at the grove? Rolan was so rude about the whole drow thing," she shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping, "I mean, I'm used to hearing it from strangers, but by gods, he was such an arrogant prick about it. So, out of spite, I've made it my mission to pester him relentlessly, to make him regret what he said. Smiles, charm to the max, and all that."

Nim blushed, thinking about it, "We started to, more or less, get along later on, even shared some genuine moments," a small smile graced the drow's face as she remembered their talk near the Sacred Pool.

"Right under our noses," Karlach interjected, her voice light with teasing affection. Her expression softened as she added, "That's kind of cute, though."

Nimriel sighed, placing her hand on her forehead, partially covering her eyes, "Yeah, well, fucking jokes on me. Somewhere in the middle of all that, I realized… Rolan's pretty great."

"Oh, so you're properly smitten?" Astarion chuckled, "Wonder if it occurred to you during one of his endlessly brooding soliloquies?"

"I think it hit me after we left the grove," she admitted, absently twisting a strand of her hair. "But his true colors really came through at the Moonrise Towers. He's smart, genuine, brave… kind, in his own little ways."

Her cheeks flushed deeper. "Since then, the tension between us has been unbearable. And today…" She groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I messed up. I said too much, and now he knows."

"What, exactly, does he know?" Karlach asked, leaning in, her curiosity piqued.

Nim groaned again. "I completely lost control and… left a hickey on his neck."

"Well, well, well," Astarion said, unable to resist. "Those drow instincts are working overtime, I see. But on a serious note," he continued, toning down the teasing, "how is this a bad thing? I question your taste, of course, but who am I not to endorse such delightful chaos? Don't you agree, Karlach?"

The tiefling nodded.

Nimriel let out a frustrated tsk, puffing on her pipe to calm her nerves, "I don't know what to do. I am so bad at this," she paused, "And, I... ahh, to hells with it."

Suddenly, she stood, facing the river and turning her back to her companions.

"Nim?" Karlach's voice was concerned. "What is it?"

"I don't think you'll understand what I'm trying to say."

Karlach insisted, "Well, we will try at least. You know you can tell us."

Still facing away, Nim mumbled, her voice cold and wavering. "You'll think I'm a deranged moron."

Astarion, for once, abandoned his teasing tone. "Aren't we all?" he said quietly. "Go on."

"Shortly after Seishir died…" Nimriel's voice faltered as she gazed at the rippling water, her expression bitter and ashamed. "I met someone." She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "We lived together in my hut for seven months. Back then, I could've sworn he was in love with me."

Her hand tightened around her pipe, her knuckles pale. "One day, I returned from a three-day hunt, and he was gone. Took everything - all the money I'd been saving to leave the forest. Still, I was foolish enough to track him down. And sure enough, I found him… with a wife and a child. She was expecting another, and he needed the money to raise it."

She let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. "When I confronted him, demanded to know how he could do this to me, he just looked at me and said, "You're unlovable.""

Her voice cracked, and she turned her head away as though to shield herself from the rawness of the memory. "I went to the village headman, desperate, begging him to make the bastard return my money. But a drow's word meant nothing to them. I was laughed out of the village."

Nimriel's fist struck her thigh, trembling with suppressed rage. "I've never been so humiliated in my life."

As she talked, Karlach and Astarion kept quiet. And when she stopped, the silence prevailed for some time, heavy and unbroken.

"Nim," Karlach said softly, her voice tinged with helplessness. She had no words to offer, so instead, she wrapped her strong arms around her friend's shoulders and held her tight.

Astarion broke the silence, his voice unusually measured. "Were you in love with him?" His question was direct but lacked its usual edge as if he genuinely wanted to understand.

Nimriel shrugged, still facing the river. "That's the thing - I don't know," she admitted, her voice tinged with frustration. "I thought I was, but now… maybe I was just tired of being alone."

Astarion nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "And the others? There were others, weren't there?"

Karlach shot him a sharp glare. "Astarion, really?" Her voice was low, a warning.

"It's alright," Nimriel interjected, her tone distant. She hesitated for a moment before adding, "There were others. One-night stands. Just… distractions. Nothing more."

She pulled away from Karlach's embrace, turning slightly toward her companions, though her gaze remained unfocused. "And that was fine. I kept it that way on purpose. But now…" She trailed off, struggling to find the words, "I don't know what's changed, but with Rolan…. It's something I've never experienced before." Her voice dropped to a whisper, "I think I'm going to lose."

"And that terrifies you," Astarion finished, his tone almost tender.

Nimriel glanced at him, her lips pressing into a tight line. She nodded again.

Astarion's lips curled into a faint, bittersweet smile. "Ah, my dear. Let me offer you a truth you may find unpleasant but freeing nonetheless: you don't have to lose. You don't have to let anyone humiliate you ever again."

His crimson gaze locked with hers, steady and piercing. "Your problem is that you think like a human. It's no wonder, given your upbringing. But humans… they cling to these ideas of one true love, eternal devotion, and all the melodrama that comes with it."

His voice dropped to a silken murmur. "You're a drow. You'll live for centuries. Why waste your time chasing fleeting fantasies? Don't think. Don't feel. Just have fun. Seduce your tiefling if you must. Enjoy the chaos for what it is and leave the rest behind."

Before Nimriel could respond, a deep, disapproving voice cut through the air, "Such nonsense."

The unexpected interjection startled all three. Nimriel's hands flew to her temples. "Gale! I'm sorry - did we wake you?"

"I've been awake for a while," the wizard replied, his tone even but laced with weariness. His sharp gaze shifted to Astarion. "Is this your idea of protecting her feelings? Or are you truly this disillusioned?"

Astarion's surprise quickly twisted into irritation. "And what are you yapping about?"

Gale's voice remained calm but firm, like a teacher addressing a wayward student. "It doesn't matter whether you're human, elf, or even kuo-toa - you don't choose whether you have feelings for someone. By telling Nimriel to just "go have fun," as if there are no consequences, you're setting her up for failure. Whether it's tomorrow or a decade from now, pretending emotions don't matter is a dangerous delusion."

"Delusion?" Astarion hissed, his tone sharp as a dagger. "You. You, of all people, dare to lecture me about delusions?"

Gale met Astarion's glare with unshaken resolve, his voice measured. "You've been alone in this world for far too long. I won't pretend our experiences are similar, but I know the weight of isolation. I've carried it myself. For years, I chose to walk through life with my eyes shut, avoiding every connection. But this is not how life works."

Astarion's eyes narrowed, his simmering anger threatening to boil over. With a sharp movement, he shrugged Gale off his lap. "You know nothing, wizard."

Nimriel's panic flared as she reached out, her voice urgent. "Please, stop! I didn't mean for this to turn into an argument."

Astarion stood swiftly, brushing imaginary dust from his clothes with deliberate precision. "Pay no mind to this," he said, waving dismissively in Gale's direction. His tone softened, though the tension lingered in his posture. "Nimriel, my point remains: you must care for your own needs above all else. The rest of the world certainly won't."

"That's rich," Gale interjected, now lying on the ground, alcohol driving his argument further. "Why, then, did you care enough to try stopping me from detonating the orb? Wouldn't it have been more convenient for you if I had? After all, one less complication for you to deal with - no need to face Thorm."

Astarion froze, caught off-guard by the challenge. He turned slowly to face Gale, his expression hard and unreadable. But the sharp retort poised on his lips never came. Visibly annoyed, he spat, "I'm going hunting," before pivoting sharply and vanishing into the woods.

Watching him disappear into the darkness, Karlach scratched her head, a bemused expression crossing her face. "What angry mosquito bit him?"

Gale hummed, "Let him be. It's Astarion we're talking about. Although," the wizard added with a sly grin he quickly tried to hide, "it's oddly reassuring to see that his supposedly dead heart still beats with such vigor."

Karlach barked a laugh while Nimriel approached cautiously, her hand outstretched to help Gale to his feet. "I'm sorry about all of this," she said, her voice tinged with embarrassment. "Did you… hear everything?"

"I'd better lay like this, If you'd rather not see my half-digested supper," Gale said, reacting to her stretched-out hand, "As for what you've been talking about - yes, pretty much everything."

Nim's face involuntarily cringed, "Gods, that's embarrassing."

"Why?"

"Well," the drow scratched awkwardly at her eyebrow, avoiding his gaze. "You have this… I don't know. This air about you. Talking to you about all this feels like confessing to my father."

A genuine laugh rumbled from Gale's chest as he found the idea adorable, "Then would you like to hear what father has to say?"

Nimriel's expression got serious again as she meekly nodded.

"Very well," Gale sighed, watching the sparse leaves dancing to the wind on a nearby tree, "No matter what you decide, you have already lost."

Nimriel blinked, taken aback. "Oh," was all she could manage.

Gale didn't react to her surprise, raising a hand to magically guide a fallen log back into the campfire. "Allow me to explain. If you choose to walk away from this, you'll have regrets. The way you're torn up about it already tells me as much. But if you pursue it, there are countless ways it could end in heartbreak. That's the nature of these things."

"Hells, professor," Karlach cut in, rolling her eyes, "This is starting to sound like a math lecture."

Gale shrugged, unperturbed. "Perhaps. But the point stands: losing is inevitable. And it's not the end of the world."

Nimriel frowned, unsure how to respond, as Gale leaned back on his hands, his gaze growing distant. "There's beauty in that loss, you know. A tragedy, yes - but one that shapes you. It sharpens your edges, strengthens your resolve, makes you more mindful of what truly matters. You can't ask for better teachers than the heartbreaks of life."

Nim exhaled deeply as she sat down next to Gale, "You've given me a lot to think about," she admitted, her voice quiet. "I don't know if I agree with all of it, but... guess I have many things to figure out."

Gale gave her a small, understanding nod. "Take your time," he said, closing his eyes, ready to doze off.

"As if we have much time," the drow mumbled sarcastically.

Karlach, who had been leaning against a nearby tree, tilted her head at Nimriel's comment. After a moment of thought, she straightened up, "You'll be alright here, soldier?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

"Yeah, don't worry about it," Nimriel replied.

Karlach brushed off her clothes. "Well, as fun as all this philosophical mumbo-jumbo has been, all this talk of time reminded me. I'm... heading out," she said with a grin.

Nim grinned slightly back at her, remembering Key's intention to go see Dammon, "Have a good night."

Karlach shot her a toothy smile, turning to disappear into the shadows. "I'll try," she called back before pausing mid-step. "Oh, and my advice still stands, by the way."

Nim tilted her head. "Mm?"

"Just live, Nim. And try to be happy when possible," Karlach said simply, her words carrying an unexpected weight.

As the tiefling's figure melted into the night, Nimriel sat back against the log, letting the quiet crackle of the fire envelop her. Beside her, Gale was already dozing, his breaths steady and soft.

For all the relief she felt after confiding in her friends, Nimriel's mind remained a tangle of uncertainty. The weight of her thoughts pressed against her chest, and the firelight flickered in her violet eyes as she whispered to the night, "You too, Key."

[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)

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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. :)

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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.

[cityandking]

22, 26, 30, 39 for dairef and the gorls!

ty my dear // send me a ship

22. Does their work ever interfere with the relationship?

DAI/ZAREF — if you consider adventuring their job then yes. beyond the dying-in-the-line-of-duty thing, dai can’t entirely untangle himself from the impulse to protect others even if it puts him in harm's way, and that’s something they’ve both had to deal with. I think it becomes less of an issue as they get older and aren’t actively saving the worlds but it’s like. y’know. inherent tragedy of loving a paladin

BRAN/SABINE — not really. neither of them have a job that’s so all-encompassing that it comes between them. sometimes bran has to leave for a bit but it’s fine; they can do long distance

26. How do their friends feel about their relationship? Their families?

DAI/ZAREF — their friends are supportive and perhaps a little too invested, which is unfortunate for daichi “I Like My Privacy” amelkiir. his dad — once he gets past the initial surprise of a) dai having a partner in general and b) dai’s partner being a void tiefling — is pretty on board. he’s just happy that zaref makes dai happy. word of DM says that zaref’s brother damire thinks dai is “fine” (but damire is slow to warm up to people in general, and he and zaref have plenty of shit going on before bringing zaref’s boyfriend into the mix)

BRAN/SABINE — bran’s not really in touch with most of her family and simply doesn't give one whit what they think. the notable exception is ellis, who — after the discomfort of reconnecting with bran — would be a big fan of sabine and their relationship. also gawain loves sabine in any 'verse that he's present. sabine’s family is. well. (ulam would like bran, I think, which is what matters.) bran and haland would get on like a house on fire which is unfortunate for sabine. enikö is a little weird about it initially but sabine is also one of the only people he genuinely respects and listens to so they have their own thing going on. overall I think it’s pretty obvious that they the girls each other’s lives better and their friends see and appreciate that

30. Could they manage a long distance relationship?

DAI/ZAREF — I don’t think so. Not long-term anyway. I don’t think they’d have an issue being separated exactly, but I think their relationship would sort of be on hold if they were apart — so much of the way they connect and communicate is based around sharing space and being together. (word of DM is that they could handle being apart but it wouldn’t really be a long distance relationship, which I agree with. anyway it’s not really long distance when one of you has plane shift in his back pocket)

BRAN/SABINE — yeah they’d do okay. both of them have moments where they need to move and need their space, and I think they’d be good at understanding that. plus they're both like. y'know. pretty stubborn.

39. Who initiated the relationship? Who kissed who first?  When did they realize they were in love?

DAI/ZAREF — dai! dai kissed him, dai tired to have some conversations, dai said I love you first. he figured it out sometime around asdor.

BRAN/SABINE — it depends on the ‘verse but in most situations they spend a period of time in an idle flirtationship before it turns to anything serious (or before they admit it’s serious at least). I thiiiiink bran probably kissed sabine first in most scenarios but it wasn’t necessarily serious at the time. she realized she was in love at some point when sabine was being so incredibly herself (positive or negative) that bran simply couldn’t focus on anything else (this is funnier if it was the middle of the fight, which it was at least once). I don’t know if she fell in love first but I think she was probably the first one to bring it up

[masterqwertster]

Never done one of these before, how about 💕, 🦋, 🤪, and 🧭 for the consecution quest AU? Always interested in the AU's you come up with

AU Ask Game

So this is one of my AUs that needs some reworking/touch-ups because stuff has happened in canon. Like Ashton's titan and dunamancy being shown off to the world leaders, which Vasselheim leadership was not a fan of titan stuff, and the Bright Queen herself has decided to collect that magic rock because half-beacon brain. And actual, canon interaction between Essek and Bells Hells, along with how and what Essek is doing nearly a decade post-campaign 2.

Anyways.

10. 💕 - How are relationships impacted by the AU?

I mean the most obvious is that Essek half-adopts, half-gets-absorbed-into Bells Hells as the Adult in the Room for this quest to get the reincarnated (teenage) gang back together.

9. 🦋 - Share a downstream ‘Butterfly Effect’!

Well, this all technically a post-campaign 3 AU, so calling anything about it Butterfly Effect instead of straight-up plot seems a little odd, haha.

Anyways, I'd say that because Fearne did activate her deal with Asmodeus/Teven Klask during the Aeor excursion in-campaign, she reincarnates as a Blood of Asmodeus tiefling. Gods usually collect souls when they die, but Fearne got a consecution backdoor out of being physically collected, however it didn't void the deal/marker.

18. 🤪 - Silliest part of the AU?

Just for shenanigans, I'm really tempted to have Chet reborn as a woodpecker eisfuura/aarakocra. One, it goes with his love of woodcarving, but more importantly, Two, it clashes with FCG's hate of birds.

21. 🧭 - How is the character arc of [ insert character ] impacted?

Essek learns how much he likes or hates being in a full-time teacher/parental role. From what we saw with Bells Hells, he doesn't mind teaching and advising/guiding, actually maybe likes it because it's putting good into the world (hopefully). But helping out people you've only recently met for a short while is very different from being the driver for a cross-country trip with a growing pack of teenagers. Probably, Essek prefers dealing with Caleb being a cat hoarder 😋

[shadow-cleric]

@infernalapparatus // cont.

SHADOWHEART HAD A SOFT SPOT for tieflings. Blame it on her long lost and forgotten friendship with Nocturne , but her affection for Karlach has been undeniably growing despite herself. The cleric's void heart refused to feel for anyone or anything , so poorly misguided into Shar's teachings , but the barbarian has proved to be one impossible not to love. And this she tended to achieve rather naturally , leaving the Sharran defenseless and vulnerable, without the ability to hide behind any kind of armour or shield.

Her bra had been tossed to the ground , and she had turned to face her observer.Karlach was standing there , gawking at her flustered and Shadowheart's smile thrived upon her pale features , for the way the tiefling was watching her made her feel like some sort of deity . And the thought of being worshiped like this, rather than worshiping others, excited her. To the point that instead of sending the 'intruder' away , Shadowheart continued to remove the last pieces of clothing to indulge in her midnight swim.

Her head tilted to the side , and her smile beamed softer than ever as she continued to move under the moonlight , petite frame on display with the pair of fiery eyes on her tits , glaringly obvious.

" Need I?, " The cleric reiterated walking up to the other, smiling and dauntless. "Well, I guess I could use some heat whilst I indulge in my dip. Just as long as you don't venture and touch me...," The tug of her teeth at her own bottom lip suppressed a small chuckle as emerald hues wandered all over the other one's perfectly shaped and muscled body , on her turn, " Nonetheless. I don't see any harm in touching yourself, soldier."

Yes, the fire betwixt them was setting her senses ablaze, undeniably.

[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.