#and is chilling in cazador's dungeon.

[pinacoladamatata]

You are a competent paladin. A Nightwarden. Capable of leading soldiers in battle. A formidable woman. Tricked into being mind controlled via your insatiable curiosity. and your baby sister the theater kid saves your ass from some cultists. Everyday Minthara Baenre wakes up.

[chilljustacat]

Baldur's Gate 3 locations 24/?

[theurgists]

⋆｡‧₊°♱༺ SINNED SOIL ༻♱༉‧₊˚.

astarion ancunin x gn!reader

summary: after a restless night, astarion finds himself seeking comfort. your tent is where he finds it.

warnings: some angst?? a little fluff, not proof-read

a/n: this is my first one-shot for bg3, and i'm lowkey excited?? not as familiar with the game as i'd like to be ( on my first unfinished playthrough ) so bare with me

There’s a nagging in the crevices of the fluid that occupies Astarion’s skull; aside from the tadpole wriggling about - making home directly in his frontal lobe. He tightens his jaw, grinding his teeth together so harshly that he could feel his spine reverberate in the process; a small pinch near his salivary gland. 

This is a recurrence- something he hates dearly with his non-existent soul; thinking. Even though his heart no longer thrummed in his chest, the air was long gone from his lungs, and cold permanently tainting his body, he still had his thoughts.

More often than not, that bothered him severely. No, it tortured him as he lay mindlessly blinking in the darkness of his tent, arms pin-straight by his side, lips pressed together to keep from wobbling slightly. 

He supposes he could cry, albeit having to be silent about it. Astarion’s done it before; in the musky abyss in one of Cazador’s many dungeons underneath his luxurious castle of torment, but it’s difficult tonight. Clenching his left fist, he felt the blood drain from his knuckles as the even ridges of his fingernails indent his frigid palm, the muscle of his tongue darting out between his teeth to graze over chapped lips.

Through the silence that seemed to suffocate him slowly, his pointy ears perked at the constant chirping of crickets and the crackling of the firewood a few feet away from his bedroll. Astarion was coming to realize that those sounds sounded oddly serene; nature. The grass, the moon, the sun. Oh, how warm it had felt on his marble skin. A nice low heat to the teeth-chattering ice that sat dormant in his veins. He could practically bathe in it, arms outstretched toward the big ball of fire in the sky, trickles of light seeping through his pores, heating every fiber of his being.

It basked his figure in a glow so bright and fuzzy that Astarion swore his dead heart actually skipped quite a few beats, a low buzz in his sternum. He cherished it.

It was something he would never utter aloud, his sharp tongue suddenly dulling when he felt his gaze soften during interactions, a subtle but noticeable change in his mood he always tries to mask with his cracking facade. Vulnerability did not look good on him as much as his prized tunics did.

Letting a sigh seep out into the chilled night air through glossy, spit-covered teeth, Astarion shuffled within the comfort of his bedroll, his bones cracking slightly as he rose to his knees slowly. Blinking back the burn developing in his sockets, he lifted an index finger to wipe at his hooded lids, sharp canines puncturing a pillowed bottom lip. 

Secretly, he hoped that no one would be able to tell how stressful he’s been lately, especially you. You could always read people like an open book; a story laid bare before you - cut and dry and easy to decipher. It didn’t take much for you to come to simple conclusions in dire situations of need. Everyone else in your small group could attest to that with blind faith.

That was something that made the pale elf roll his eyes in slight distaste, as if your actions were something that inconvenienced him severely, as if everything you said was something he was supposed to agree with. But, you weren’t like that.

Astarion figured that out under the glow of the moonlight, hidden by thick tree branches and surrounded by the overwhelming smell of dewed grass merely a month ago, back when his attempts to bed you were more than apparent. His brows had furrowed in confusion then, a small pang in his chest as if the knife lodged within the tissue of his heart was dipped in poison. He was confused. For the first time in a while the elf was confused as to why you didn’t take him as you saw fit that night. 

Closing his eyes, Astarion took a wasteful breath, feeling as if it was needed in the moment as his lashes brushed against the blotches of watercolor black, blue and purple that adorned his under eyes, hand reached out to swat away the flap of his tent soon after.

Crimson eyes darted to look through the treelines, a sense of alert flooding through his body as leaves rubbed together, sounding like crumpled parchment as he averted his gaze to Karlach’s back, her nightwear frumpled as she hunched over, sharpening one of the many weapons laid out on the soil next to her; dirty and dull. 

Shuffling past her as quietly as he could, Astarion blew air from between his lips in hopes of adjusting the snowy white coil of hair that blocked his vision, making his way to your tent. A certain hunger arose in him when his pointed ears picked up the sound of your blood flowing through thick veins, sweet like the rolls you’d occasionally bring to the camp from a nearby trader if they had a few.

His throat is dry, the thirst for your blood creeping up on him just like the soft spot for you had after you had confided in him after accidentally bearing witness to the angry scars that littered the expanse of his back, a constant itch to follow the raised skin. He knew you wouldn’t refuse his request to drink from you, having let him sink his teeth into the pulse point of your neck multiple times to keep his hunger at bay. 

Nocturnal animals didn’t satiate his cravings as much as your essence did. It was a pull stronger than he ever thought possible, even if his belly was full - he was not, not until he had your sweet, sweet blood pooling at the tip of his tongue. Instinctively, his upper lip curled, teeth bared before he swiped the muscle of his tongue over them, swallowing the sandpaper that covered his esophagus. 

“‘Starion?” Your small whisper carried in the wind, straight to his ears. 

Within the thin fabric of your tent, he could hear you shuffling about before your head peaked out from the open flap, eyes still ridden with sleep looking up at his towering frame through long lashes. “What are you doing?”

“Restless night.” 

At that, your brows furrowed, warm, clammy palm cupping his; an invitation inside your private space which he accepted without another word.

In the darkness, he could make out the array of worn out pillows covering every inch of the small space, alongside a couple of different items from past journeys and small trinkets that reminded you of your childhood; innocence lost. He figured it was something you were trying to gain back - a sense of control over your dysfunctional life.

Crouching down, his knees ached slightly, palms flat against the ground before making himself as comfortable as he possibly could given thoughts plaguing his mind. With narrowed eyes, he watched as you spun on your bottom to face him, knees knocking with his as you pressed your lips together thinly. 

“I must admit I'm struggling to find peace tonight as well.” Mumbling, your hand raised to smooth over the goosebumps that had found their way to the surface of your arms, raising every individual hair. “Dreams become much too vivid to me now.”

Leaning as far back into the pile of pillows as he could, he could see your eyes, glossy and wide as they locked onto his. “Do tell, darling.” 

His tone is slightly playful, a small inch of concern weaved between his words as his spine stiffened from his position. 

Huffing, your shoulders lifted in a small shrug before falling back into place, ears growing hot from the embarrassment oozing through your pores. You weren’t one to confide in others about your state of distress, especially to those who you deem untrustworthy. 

This was merely a Freudian slip, a loose tongue, but you continued despite everything in you telling you to sew your lips closed with thick thread. 

“There was this… looming sense of dread in my dreams. I was in a field of tall grass, it reminded me of this meadow my father used to take me to when I was ten and one.” Your voice trailed, the scenery of a multitude of flowers and lucious, bright green grass appearing in the forefront of your mind. “I can still smell the manure of the nearby pigpens, but everything was just so bleak. I’m sure I was alone, and even though I somehow knew it wasn’t real, everything else felt like it was. There was a red rose sitting in a bed of white ones, almost as if it was being cushioned just for me.” He could hear the smile in your words, although from the tone of your voice, he could tell that it wasn’t a genuine one. 

“I reached out toward it, and then felt a slight pinch almost as if something poked me.” rubbing the pads of your thumb and index finger together, you stared at them, expecting a trickle of dotted blood to seep from the barely visible wound you had received in the meadow in the crevices of your mind. “It was a thorn, a big one at that. That’s when I woke up, and then I saw your shadow outside…”

The pause that followed was one of comfort, a way for you to know that the vampire before you was listening, grasping onto each word uttered through chapped lips, your warm breath on his face.

Astarion gnawed on his bottom lip gently, careful of his two sharper teeth as his gaze never left your troubled face, a twinge of empathy. “I have those dreams sometimes too. When I let my eyes drift shut, there’s a sort of vulnerability that follows; renders me defenseless.” 

You nodded in the darkness, grasping onto the words that he forced out of his throat like bile, unwanted and already digested. Astarion was a secretive person, for many reasons that were acceptable, drenched in endless pain and suffering. “My skin still burns. It’s all so fresh.” 

Scooting beside him, you cautiously took notice of the way he curled into himself, knees now tucked into his chest as he raised a hand toward his back, sliding it under his shirt to let his fingers ghost over the scars on his back. The muscles in his face contort, a pained expression painting his face, no developing laughter lines, no crows feet at the corners of his eyes. He was forever a little star; his name a memory of a past he can’t recall.

“He can no longer touch you.” You stated firmly, each word spat with venom. It was true as far as you were concerned. You’d never lie to Astarion. You’d never lie to any of your friends about the impending death that loomed over them, the blood that would be on their hands in the following weeks as you continue your trek to Baldur’s Gate. 

“You’d think after being a slave for nearly three centuries that I'd bask in the glory that freedom has to offer me.” A curt, bitter laugh escapes his lips as he throws his hands in the air, “But I-I can’t, and I have no idea why.” 

Twisting your neck just a couple of inches, you stared at the side of his face, bottom lip tucked between your teeth. 

Astarion could hear how loudly your heart thumped in the solace of your ribcage, the blood flowing through your veins, the quiet hum of your throat as you swallowed. And for once - he wills himself to think about life without his affliction, even if just for a second before he could no longer stand to see himself so meek and small, so… helpless.

“It’s the fear he instilled within you. He tormented you your entire existence and it’s not something you can let go of so easily, I un-”

“Please don’t tell me you understand.” His words were nothing above a whisper as he leaned closer, the material of his sleep shirt rubbing against yours before you felt the chill of his skin on your upper arm. 

In those rare moments of genuine words exchanged between the both of you in the safety of each other's company, you had never seen him so fearful. Fearful of becoming a slave for the desires and sexual needs of others  once more, hands forever touching bodies he’d force himself to forget, washing the dirt and grime off of every crevice of himself with tears in his eyes and silent sobs. “I’ll never return to that, to him.”

“I won’t let that happen. You’re more than what he created you to be.”

Hesitantly, you wrapped an arm around his shoulder, causing his spine to grow rigid for the third time it seemed, before he melted under your touch, soft curls tickling the skin under your jaw before he buried his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of lavender and pine wood that always seemed to be glued to you. It wasn’t the first time you’ve touched Astarion like this, in an intimate way, without the premise of sex in the foreground, but this time felt different. 

It was different.

You were more soft than he realized, weren’t you? Astarion thought himself to be nothing concerning a warm-hearted, selfless individual. He was anything but. Bred for destruction and submission, bloodletted countless times through frantic and harsh whips, lashes - anything that could make the smell of his coppery perfume permeate the air.

However, for once in his eternal existence Astarion realized he felt something that had grown foreign to him; love.

Love for you. 

Love for himself. 

And he’d be damned if the sinned soil of this earth took any of that away from him.

[umbralsong]

Lady Incognita

Cazador Szarr's "niece" is named Amanita Szarr. You can find her story scattered throughout the palace's attic, dungeon, and the House of Hope. She was a girl who grew up near Anga Vled raised by old servants. At 13, she was brought to visit her uncle in Baldur's Gate...

The day her entire family exposed themselves as vampires.

Alternate Text: An east Asian girl with medium-brown skin and dark brown then red eyes looks away from the viewer. One with brown, facing away. Twice with red and shoddily cut away dark hair, looking away in despair and notably darkened, red, downcast eyes and short hair. Once more with darkened eyes and a cloak and red eyes to match, long dark hair flowing from her hood.

Unfinished, but hey. I want to show fellow artists that things just don't come to you. Sometimes, you have to work the lines and paint until they do. Use Glaze to protect your art from AI scrapers.

The notes you can find in order:

Alturiak 1477 Tarsakh 1477 Mirtul 1477 Kythorn 1477 Flamerule 1477

Please read about issues with Cazador's depiction [here]. Thank them for their kind contribution and show support.

Donate to Gaza here: https://gazafunds.org/ Support good causes with a click here: https://arab.org/ Ceasefire Now: https://ceasefire-now.com/ Donate to the [Sidewalk School] [Pay your rent], settlers. [KOSA Resources]

The city palace, straddling the wall between the Upper and Lower City, was more than creepy, it was somehow chilling.

Cazador Szarr the Avid rose to power in 1296. She stayed at the estate for at least four months before she was killed. She was turned in Kythorn 1477, 15 years before the start of the story.

'Uncle' Cazador made me a vampire, but I refused to participate in the family rites. He gave me the Hunger but he could not break my will. He had Blovart imprison me in the attic. I weakened. They sent up human blood, and eventually I drank it. For a year, they stopped sending anything. I tore at the walls in frustration. Then they sent up a bound captive.

Cazador's favorite punishments are cruelty, hunger, and isolation.

His staff, "Woe:" The gentle tap-tap-tap of a staff on stone sparked terror for all in Cazador's palace. It signalled an approaching storm, and all they could do was shrink into the background and pray its wrath would not fall on them. His dagger, "Rhapsody:" Cazador's love of poetry arose after he read on the naked stomach of a dead child in his homeland. The child was hung from the lowest branch of a tree. Cazador read the poem, and looked at the child, and he knew that here was the artform for him.

Her coffin is on a wooden table overlooking a window. There are chains by her bed, a candle, and a skull. There are three skeletons in the attic, one headless with a crossbow and garlic cloves in their cage.

I succumbed. I am a vampire, and damned. I curse the name of Szarr and reject it. Now I stay in the attic by choice and write my little histories. I am Lady Incognita. Amanita is no more.

I think the snippets of her story were so impactful because of the complete betrayal. The fact her family were never around. The fact they lied for her entire life. The fact they forced her to transform, which we know from Astarion's partial ceremorphosis dialogue is incredibly painful:

Player: Unlike you to be so unwilling to receive a new power... Astarion: That was before I knew the cost. Before I knew it meant transforming into some grotesque beast. I remember how it hurt when I turned to a vampire. My body writhed and warped while I was utterly helpless, the grip of death owned my heart as it beat its last. I - I don't want to turn into anything else. I can't do that again. I can't watch my body be taken over. Player: You're afraid? Astarion: I'll happily murder my way to whatever powerful artefacts we can make use of. Point at the back and I'll stab. Just don't ask me to sacrifice my body. It hasn't been mine for so long.

We know thematically there is a parallel between vampirism, abuse, and sexuality. Cazador appeared to lose interest in his 'niece' altogether. Nonetheless, he locked her into an eternal childhood under "true vampirism," never to grow to adulthood, and denied her a "typical" life forevermore. There is something particularly grotesque about that.

Astarion: Nearly two hundred years and I never came back. Not since the night I woke up down there. I had to punch a hole in the coffin and claw my way through six feet of dirt. Then when I finally broke the surface, retching up dirt and congealed blood, Cazador was waiting. From that day on I was his. Until today. Player: You were never his. Whatever he had, he took by force. Astarion: Maybe, but he did take it. There's almost nothing left of the person I was. Just a name on a rock. For nearly two centuries, I stalked the streets like a ghost while the person I was lay here, dead and buried. Now I need to figure out who I am. What I want.

We find The Tourmaline Depths in the room beneath Cazador's room. She wrote Diseases of the Blood to tackle vampiric illness. She wrote the names of ruling vampires, their titles, and their successors. She is, what, 28?

I like to think she knew all of Cazador's secrets, from the corpses in the suspended cages to his dungeon. I'm impressed by her mental fortitude in the face of such odds as a child and young woman. I'm impressed she chose to do what she loved, escaped, and became such a relevant figure in the study of vampiric physiology. I wish we knew her better. I wish we had the opportunity to meet her.

She is the historian who sullies his name and documents his endless crimes. She escaped. Cazador underestimated her.

[crenarei]

Blissful Imperfection

Pairing: Astarion x Tav (Entropy)

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Length: 2,024

Tags: Blood Drinking, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Named Tav, Warlock Tav, Non-Binary Tav, First Time (Drinking People Blood), Astarion has 10 charisma

“You knew? You knew I was a vampire and you didn’t say anything?”

They shrugged, “I didn’t think it was important.”

“You didn’t think a vampire spawn in your camp was important,” he repeated.

It was typical that, when gifted the joy of feeling the sun on his skin after 200 years of miserable darkness, Astarion’s new companions would see fit to bring him into the Underdark. The dim glow of fungi glistening with luminescent spores was the only break in the darkness that engulfed them.

Well, that and the campfire that had burned itself into gently simmering embers, a blanket of warmth radiating over sleeping bodies. They slept soundly, as if there was no monster within their midst.

Astarion felt the tell-tale ache in his muscles. It was as if he was coming down with a body flu, but instead of flushed cheeks and sweat, it was a cold, dry pain. His teeth ached. It felt like his gums were pulling back, growing his incisors from the gum line up, reminding him he had perfectly good little weapons to ease his affliction.

It turns out the Underdark was not an easy place for a vampire to acquire blood.

There were only great expanses of caves, so tall and wide no creature could ever see the entire vacant mass of them. He had wished for a single, living soul to stumble across their path earlier that day. Then they’d been attacked by Minotaurs made of made of hulking muscle and had barely escaped alive. When had wishing for anything ever worked out in his favour?

Heading out of camp was more likely to leave him grievously wounded than sated. If he was really lucky he might be able to find a rat. Even the thought of them made him stiffen, bile rising in his throat. There was no point in his freedom if he continued to act as if he were in Cazador’s grasp.

The larger beasts on the surface were better than anything he’d had before; he’d almost felt full for the first time in his life gorged on the blood of a pig. Rats were for dungeons. Rats were for suffering. Rats were for barely staying alive.

His eyes darted to the sleeping figures of his campmates. They were the safest they’d been in days after befriending monstrous, mushroom creatures that offered them some security from the depths of the Underdark. The clueless group didn’t realise they’d never be safe with him around.

First, thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures.

Cazador had four rules for his vampire spawn, and Astarion had broken all but one. A chill swept across his chest, at the idea of breaking the last rule placed upon him. He’d like to think he was experiencing exhilaration, but even he wasn’t so good of a liar to make that feel truthful.

He had not broken Cazador’s rules, they had been broken for him. He grasped his newfound freedom tightly, as if he might have some claim of it, some claim over his life. Truthfully, his freedom had nothing to do with him. It was a precarious, delicate thing handed over by a disgusting parasite.

Feeding on one of his newfound allies… he could make that choice.

He could claim to be hungry and desperate - he was hungry and desperate. He had been hungrier than this, yet he felt less in control of his urges than he had ever been. He could rip out their throats, gorge on their blood, and they might not even be able to stop him. They could all die before they even awoke.

Of course, he wasn’t a filthy, uncontrolled animal. It was worthwhile keeping these people around while he got his bearings. He could abandon them to their heroism when they had fulfilled their usefulness. He wouldn’t kill anyone yet, but a taste?

Renewed with a sense of purpose Astarion considered who would be the safest choice. Wyll looked positively delicious, but a monster hunter wasn’t likely to show mercy. Karlach was out - he didn’t fancy molten blood. Shadowheart and Lae’zel may well kill him in their sleep. Gale was an interesting option, but who knows what that thing in his chest was doing to the rest of his body. That left their dear leader, Entropy.

Entropy wasn’t an easy target. A strange, dusky purple tiefling, they had a disturbed, supernatural energy to them. Astarion didn't know much about warlock magic, but Wyll seemed normal in comparison. Still, there was kindness in them that could be exploitable.

Astarion was a shadow as he approached, lit only by the fading embers of the fire and the glow of spores far above. The perfect predator.

He could feel saliva flood his mouth as he caught a glance of their soft neck. Crouched above them, mouth open, his fangs on full show, he was so close to the meal of a lifetime.

He brushed against Entropy’s shadow. He could feel it, dense, as if it held weight. Something was wrong with it. It reacted like a frightened animal, darting into Entropy’s skin.

Their eyes snapped open.

“Shit.”

They didn’t move. Instead, their black eyes stared up at him blankly. A small frown creased their eyebrows, and their nose wrinkled up into a picture of disgust.

“No, this wasn’t what it looked like, I swear!”

Of course, the weird warlock would have some strange magic shit up its sleeve. He hadn’t thought Entropy would be paranoid enough to lay traps while sleeping.

If he’d been wrong about this, was he also wrong in thinking they wouldn’t hurt him?

“You weren’t about to bite me?” Their tone was soft, as if speaking to a wild animal about to flee.

“Well, yes, but I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed, well, blood.”

Entropy blinked and slowly sat up to a crossed-leg position in front of him. He was tense, poised to escape if they stood up to attack.

“That would have been easier if you made me aware beforehand.”

“Made you aware?” He replied incredulously. “You wanted me to ask? You don’t just tell people you’re a monster!”

“Not usually, but if you were trying to hide your vampirism, might I suggest being more subtle?” Entropy rose from the ground, stepping towards him. He stepped back.

“I was being subtle before your weird shadow ratted me out. You’d have never known.”

Entropy let out a small snort, tilting their head to the side. His eyes fixated on the unobstructed view of their neck.

“You were never subtle. I’ve been aware of your… affliction since the second blood-drained boor we found near our camp.”

The saliva in his mouth dried up instantly.

“You knew? You knew I was a vampire and you didn’t say anything?”

They shrugged, “I didn’t think it was important.”

“You didn’t think a vampire spawn in your camp was important,” he repeated.

“I have no issues with monsters as long as they aren’t attacking me.” They paused, considering. “Of course, you have tried to attack me.”

They went silent, mulling over their next move. Astarion almost expected them to drive a stake through his heart. No sane person would allow a vampire who tried to bite them to walk away unscathed. Of course, no sane person would allow a vampire to hang around their group of tasty blood bags. Gods, he was hungry.

“I agree.” They finally responded.

“You… agree?”

“Yes, you can drink from me.”

Astarion blinked, narrowly preventing himself from rearing back with more obvious surprise. If they could read him so easily he needed to try harder to keep them out of his head. Smoothing his face into the picture of passivity he briefly wondered what they were getting out of this. A fetish? Some strange warlock thing? Maybe they wanted him to owe them. At this point, he’d pay that price.

“Let’s make ourselves more comfortable, shall we?” His face plastered with a seductive smile.

Entropy sat back down on their bedroll. They tucked their wavy, black hair behind their ear, and tilted their head to the side for easy access to their neck. Astarion had never seen such an appetising gesture. Their face was smooth; the only sense they were even slightly uncomfortable was the release of a tense puff of breath as he moved closer.

Astarion knelt on their bedroll with them. He places his arms on their shoulders, securing them in place. They were softer than he expected, weaker. He leaned his head down, lips barely brushing against their neck. He could feel the warmth rising from their skin, the strong beat of their heart pumping blood just under the surface.

“I’ll be gentle.”

“Lia-” Entropy’s response cut into a startled groan as Astarion sank his teeth into them.

Rich, warm blood hit his tongue. He was a man offered a feast after 200 years of starvation. It was absolute decadence. His awareness shifted dreamily, the dark, the damp, the desperation; it was all replaced with the splendour of blood.

His fingers gripped deeply into Entropy’s shoulders, nails leaving moon-print marks in their purple skin. They were lying on their back now, Astarion’s arms boxing them in as his mouth latched to their throat.

Astarion felt a heartbeat flowing through his body for the first time in 200 years. He was alive.

The fog blanket that typically shrouded his mind melted away, replaced with the overwhelming sensation of joy.

Blood pooled against his tongue as it ran down his throat. Mouthfuls and mouthfuls. More than he could contain. He cursed himself for allowing a small amount to dribble out of the corner of his mouth. What a waste.

He wanted to be immersed in it. To crawl inside their neck, bury himself beneath their skin, and be enveloped in the vitality of their blood forever.

A weak voice entered his consciousness. He couldn’t make out what it was saying against the roaring sound of fresh blood pulsing through his veins. It was an annoyance. He tightened his grip on his prey.

The voice came again, more urgent this time. It cut through like a sharp ray of sunshine. Entropy. They were lying flat on their back, hands balled up in his shirt. He was unsure if they were trying to push him away or pull him closer. Their breath was shallower than it should be.

Releasing Entropy took more effort than Astarion would have liked to admit. Every instinct was insisting he dig his teeth in further, rip their throat out and leave them a dried husk. It would be their fault for allowing a vampire’s bite. However, he was interested to see how far their kind heart could take him. How much would they be willing to give?

He released them.

“That… that was amazing,” slipped from his mouth.

Entropy’s robes were hanging off them, hair dishevelled, eyes dilated, breathing hard. An image of them in a similar state after a different activity flashed into his mind. If this was how they reacted to him now, perhaps there would be an opportunity there.

He noticed then, that he was in a similar state. A reflection of his thoughts echoed in Entropy’s eyes. He could have them right then, he was certain of it. Secure their allegiance.

Not now. Entropy had always had an unsettling presence around them, but at that moment they were mirrors of each other. He didn’t want them to see too much, and there was no need to repay this tonight.

“My mind is finally clear, I feel strong, I feel… happy.” As he said the words he realised them to be true. He was light for the first time he could remember; he was reborn.

Entropy’s eyes crinkled into a weak smile, their back straightened, the longing in their face replaced by a gentle calmness. If he hadn’t watched them do it, he would have thought the intensity he’d seen moments ago never existed.

“I’m glad you’re happy.”

The words sounded genuine. He paused unsure, before uttering a farewell and turning to put some space between them. There was more to their little leader than he’d thought. Something horrifically similar to affection stirred in his chest, but he could easily pass it off as his dead heart beating strongly for the first time.

[blackjackkent]

Had Hector check out that weird door that Jaheira couldn't get through and it just leads to a passageway to the sewers. Not super clear on what you would do if you came into the palace from that direction because there doesn't seem to be a way to get back up once you're down there, but luckily that doesn't have to be my problem today. XD

Onward to the last door in the dungeons!

More doors!

The doors on the left and right appear to be jail cells; the left is full of children and the right some adults. I think these might be the captured Gur that we promised to try and rescue. The door straight ahead leads to a very large room that looks plot-important so we'll go there last.

Narrator: Approaching the cells, you're met by hollow-eyed faces. There's an almost physical stink of decay and neglect.

"Gods..." Hector mutters. "These poor people..." How long have they been down here? And what's been done to them? He has a sudden sinking feeling that he may not be able to fulfill his promise to the Gur after all; those red eyes say all too much.

"Oh, they're disgusting," Astarion mutters, wrinkling his nose as they approach. "Cazador never fed on wretches like this. How did they get here? What is Cazador doing with them? My brethren spoke nothing of this..."

One of the men in the cell looks sharply towards them as Astarion speaks. Then he steps against the barrier, and those glowing red eyes burn with pain.

"You. I know you..." the man groans hoarsely. "You're the one from the tavern. You smiled... and joked... and got me drunk..."

Astarion goes completely still and his eyes go wide. Hector is sure that, were it possible, he would go even paler than he already is. "You..." he whispers. All the disdain has vanished for a moment; he looks shocked to his core. "No." He takes a step backwards. "You're dead."

"You called me... so many sweet things..." the man says. "My name sounded like a lyric on your tongue..."

"Sebastian..." Astarion answers, and it's as if the word is wrung from him without his consent.

The thrall's eyebrows lift. "You remember me..."

"You were handsome," Astarion says haltingly. "Shy. You'd never been kissed..."

"You taught me how," the thrall says bitterly. "And then you destroyed me."

On the last word, without warning, he surges forward with a roar, shoves an arm through the bars of the door, reaching out to try and grab Astarion, to strike him.

But he can't reach, and slumps against the door, falling to his knees.

"It can't be..." Astarion whispers unsteadily.

(A/N: INCREDIBLY SAD HECTOR FACE happened here. :( )

Hector is feeling a little ill listening to this all play out. The abject cruelty shown by Cazador, the terrible pantomimes Astarion was forced to play out-- the bewildered grief and anger on his companion's face which so often shows such a carefully constructed shell of disdain...

One would think I would be more used, by now, to the terrible things people with power do to those who lack it. I have seen it so much in this city, and among the Absolutists... but every time it feels worse than the last, not better...

"Who is he?" he asks Astarion softly.

Astarion swallows. "It's not just him," he says. His voice is unsteady, just on the edge of trembling. "I know so many of these faces. They're... my conquests. I pursued them, seduced them, then brought them to Cazador. He told us he was feeding on them."

His fists clench at his sides. "But he turned them to spawn," he hisses. "He turned very last one so he'd have souls for this cursed ritual!"

Hector's eyes widen as he looks around, taking in all the faces of these poor broken creatures. Oh, gods... A chill runs through him as he remembers the cell full of children behind him.

"How long...?" Sebastian groans out.

Astarion flinches. "What?"

Sebastion stands, very slowly, returning that fixed gaze to Astarion's face. "How long have I been down here?"

It will be a bad answer, Hector is already sure. He feels himself struggle suddenly with the urge to babble out words of reassurance - we'll save you, we'll kill Cazador, we'll end this whole terrible nightmare of a place - but what reassurance can there be, really, to these people whose lives have already been shattered?

Let Astarion answer.

Astarion's eyes drop to the floor. "One hundred and seventy years," he mutters. "You were one of my first."

Sebastian's shoulders slump. "My friends..." he whispers. "My family. They're... all gone..." His glowing eyes narrow. "You took them from me! You took everything from me!" His voice builds to a desperate roar.

Hector draws back a step, puts a hand to the side - not quite touching Astarion's arm but gesturing him back. [PERSUASION] "We'll set you free," he says firmly.

Sebastian's head twitches slightly, a half-shake. "Free?" he says bitterly. "We'll never be free while that monster lives."

"That's why we're here," Astarion says sharply, eager to turn the subject from his past failures to his present hope of success. "To destroy Cazador."

"You can't," Sebastian says despondently. "It's not possible."

"We'll find a way," says Hector.

"And then?" asks Sebastian, rounding on him. "What happens to us?"

The question gives Hector pause for a moment. It's a valid one, really. His instinct is to tell them to run from this place and never look back - but if Astarion is right, they're spawn now just like him. And Astarion feeds on animals, but can such a crowd of people all be depended to maintain such discipline?

"What do you want to happen?" he asks slowly after a short pause.

Sebastian looks at him with a steadiness that does him credit given the length of his torture. "I don't know. I just don't want to die down here. Please... Whatever you do, just do it quickly. I can't go on waiting..."

Astarion is clearly fighting the urge to look away, but he holds the other man's gaze as he answers. "We'll be back. You have my word."

[ghostkingart]

WIP Whenever

still have a bunch to figure out for this AU but I wrote this in the past half hour so have it fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 pairing: Astarion x Valeriy (not originally a DND/BG3 OC so the lore will get wonky, sorry) AU explanation: the nautiloid abduction didn't happen, Astarion is bound to Cazador; he received the task of luring Valeriy in for his master words: 385

“Once again you return to me empty-handed. I am not a patient man, and you know this.” Cazador’s voice was a low hum, calm and, paradoxically, patient-sounding, even though Astarion knew that patience was the last thing on his master’s mind.

“Perhaps if you had informed me that this target would be more difficult to woo than your usual tavern-goer, I would have been more successful.”

Cazador narrowed his eyes at Astarion. Could it be… That he didn’t know?

“The man is blind,” Astarion explained.

Cazador hummed in thought. “How intriguing. In any case, I cannot tell you what I myself don’t know, love. Besides, I don’t see how it makes a difference.”

“It makes all the difference! How do  you expect me to seduce someone who is physically incapable of appreciating my beauty?”

“Don’t sell yourself too short,” Cazador said dismissively. “It’s true, your looks are your biggest asset, but you do have other charms about you. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“Find someone else,” Astarion spat.

Cazador didn’t need to do anything, not to make any sudden movement to sow fear into Astarion. His piercing glare was quite enough. “Watch your tone,” he said in the same monotonous, chilling tone.

Astarion bowed his head.

“Sit down,” Cazador said. Astarion was overwhelmed with the familiar sensation of losing his free will as he walked forward involuntarily. He sat beside Cazador. Seemingly out of nothing but boredom, he laced his fingers in Astarion’s hair and wove through his curls in a mindless, almost tender motion. It might have even been pleasant even if it wasn’t him.

“I suppose it is a bit of an unusually challenging task. Alright. I will concede and allow you more time than usual to bring him in.”

Astarion’s shoulders relaxed.

“But,” Cazador continued.

Astarion had allowed himself to feel relieved too soon. Of course there was a but. Nothing was ever simple with this man.

“If I do not have Valeriy Aksamit in my possession within a fortnight, you’ll find yourself in that dungeon for another year. Do we have a deal?”

The deal was a rather shitty one, but it wasn’t like Astarion had any other choice. “Yes,” he said.

Cazador gently rested his hand on top of Astarion’s head, like one would to a pet. “Good,” he said sweetly.

[razrogue]

WIP Whenever (since I forgot to post yesterday lol)

Tagged by @mightymizora and @omgkalyppso (thanks y'all! 🧡)

Have a snippet of a post-canon Gan & Astarion fic I'm working on:

The platform came to a halt after a few moments and Astarion drew his robe a little tighter across him at the slight chill in the air. He began to walk the hall, passing the few empty cells of their dungeon. It was nothing like Cazador's, only made for instances of brief encounters and a snack or two, with the exception of two rooms. Both were personal areas just for them, rooms they were free to do as they please, no judgment and neither partner could enter if they deemed it so. His room was for more carnal delights, a place to enjoy a person or three, that would never see the light of day again. He'd made one of their trusted spawn in that room after a particularly hedonistic evening with them. But her room? It was practically sterile in comparison.

No obligation tagging: @eeldritchblast @the-eldritch-it-gay @we-staybhaalin @bhaalbaaby @grandmother-goblin and YOU!!!

[skolas-aprilia]

Her eyes find an all-too-familiar face across the ballroom - an aged elven lord in decadent robes, scowling and scrutinizing everything before him like always. It was none other than her uncle, her cruel uncle, Daraven Arvelthian. A chill runs up her spine as his gaze meets hers, and she breaks the eye contact before he could realize who she is, only for her to bump into another man. Another familiar presence, perhaps slightly more welcoming. "Astarion-!" Astarion pulls her closer to him, an arm encircling her waist. "You look worried, darling," he smiles mockingly, though there is a tinge of sympathy there, in his eyes. "Haven't I promised I'd help you deal with him?" Elora lets out a bated breath. "I-I know...," she looks down to the marble floor, pursing her lips. She meets him in the eyes again and his gaze softens. Perhaps there is still a heart within him indeed. "I'm just... not sure I'm ready to face him." He gives her a soft smile, with more gentleness than ever before. "Relax, my dear. I'm sure you will, in time. You helped me face Cazador, after all," he tilts her chin up. "You know that is different," she protests. "Is it?" She sighs in defeat. "Very well," she places a hand on his chest. There is no heartbeat there, and yet she feels as if warmth is radiating from him. Astarion smiles again. "Now let's just enjoy the gala, shall we? The Volta is coming up next, and I would hate to miss it." She cannot help but let out a chuckle. "You really do miss dancing, don't you?" "Clever little bird," he grins, his fangs glinting beneath the chandelier light. "Indulge me, will you?" "Gladly." ------------- A bit of a.. happy ending what-if to my high elf bard PC, Elora Arvelthian (Elora Argyre in original setting), romancing Astarion in Baldur's Gate 3 :")) I'm not sure we'll get to cure him of his vampirism but ya know... I really hope we do get to kill Cazador and well, lead Astarion down a better path. Was previously posted in @cantessa-nea Astarion (c) Larian Studios Baldur's Gate 3 (c) Larian Studios, Wizards of the Coast Forgotten Realms (c) Wizards of the Coast Dungeons and Dragons, 5th Edition (c) Wizards of the Coast