#at least she had enough Sense in her head by the time the tiefling party rolled around that she didn't fuck him

[paarthursass]

i still think about how, the morning after killing alfira, my durge immediately went up to astarion and told him to feed on her that night. his whole seductive monologue only made it worse. "I will eat you right up. Just enough to give me strength and enough to leave you wishing for more" Astarion she is giving you a thousand yard stare right now as she disassociates this is NOT a sexy moment. this is self-harm for her.

[luxheroica]

I wrote Wyll/Karlach, inspired by this art. I have been shipping them hard for months and knew I needed to contribute to the ship in some way. Also on AO3.

Tonight the camp is drunk on success and copious amounts of wine. There is still hardship and danger on the road ahead, not least for those who still bear the tadpoles in their heads. For tonight the goblins are gone and the druids ritual halted, the wine is sweet and the fire bright and that is enough to banish thoughts of darkness ahead. 

The bard Alfira has struck up a string of country dances on her lute, the kind of songs played at festivals and weddings for all to join. Wyll, in good humor and more than incidentally tipsy, joins the first one– a circle dance that has him linking arms with Lia on his left and Zorru on his right as they careen faster and faster around the roaring bonfire. 

There is something liberatory about dancing among the tieflings. None of them stare at his horns (still heavy on his head) or his strange eyes, instead taking them in stride. 

Wyll is the only one among the group that he has privately begun to think of as ‘companions’ to join the dance. Tav snuck off some time ago to find a private tent with Gale. Astarion is skulking around somewhere with a bottle of wine. Lae’zel scorned the idea of any revelry and has gone to bed, and Shadowheart in rare sympatico with the gith has also retired early. 

He is surprised not to see Karlach among the party– until he turns and sees her at the edge of the firelight, drinking out of a flask and watching the dancing, her feet tapping along with the music. 

The song comes to an end with a repetition that is so fast it nearly has all of them tripping over their own feet. Wyll has to catch his breath when at last the lute sings out its last note, and the gathered tieflings break out in applause. 

He excuses himself from the fireside and finds Karlach, who tips her drink at him and nods when he approaches. 

“You don’t wish to join the dancing?”

“Oh, ah,” Karlach shifts on her feet. She’s always in motion, he’s noticed, whether she’s fidgeting or pacing around the camp. “I don’t really feel like setting anybody on fire tonight. Plus I don’t know any of the dances.” As if sensing she’s brought the mood down she grins at Wyll. “You looked like you were having fun though.” 

“It was quite fun,” Wyll says, eyeing Karlach, who is watching the firelight circle with half an eye. “Most of these dances don’t have complicated steps– they’re easy to learn, if you follow what everyone else is doing you’re more than halfway there.” 

“Doesn’t solve the problem of me turning that whole line dance into kindling.” 

She’s keeping her tone light, joking and grinning, like she doesn’t really care that she can’t ever touch anyone without harming them. 

Wyll follows her lead in this. “I’ve got a nice sturdy pair of leather gloves,” he cajoles, pushing her just a little. “And Mizora’s present should make me at least a little resistant to infernal fire.” 

Karlach grins again, softening a little this time. “Don’t worry about me, soldier– I’m all left feet, you get me out there I’ll just careen into everything. Get out there and enjoy yourself.” 

Wyll doesn’t believe that– well, he does believe the part about her careening, she seems like the type to careen– but he doesn’t believe that she truly wants him to leave her to go enjoy dancing. Karlach puts up a good front, but were he in her shoes he would want nothing more than the simple things that had been so long denied him. 

He fishes in his pouch and draws out his pair of sturdy leather gloves which he slides over his hands, like a courtier drawing on his silk gloves so that he might offer a hand to a lady, then bends at the waist in his very best courtly bow. That it is a little out of practice he thinks she will forgive, especially when an irrepressible laugh burbles up out of her. 

Wyll winks, and Karlach laughs again. 

“Well, my lady?” Wyll asks. “May I have this dance.” 

She’s grinning truthfully now, as she takes his hand. There’s a bit of heat, like he might feel pulling a pan from the oven, but it’s shielded by the leather. “You may,” Karlach says, a laugh still at the back of her throat. 

Wyll pulls her towards the firelight. Careful to give her enough space that any careening won’t be a danger, but still within the flickering orange glow of it. A few of the tieflings look at them and grin when they join. There’s a new tune starting up– he knows this one, a sprightly hop meant to be danced with a single partner. 

“This one isn’t complicated, just follow my steps,” Wyll murmurs to Karlach as he begins twirling her around the fire. At first she is clumsy, all left feet as she said, but after a few turns she starts to anticipate the little skip-hop on the third beat. Wyll smiles. “There, you’re getting it.” 

Karlach shakes her head, still grinning. “You’re playing with fire, you know that right?” 

Wyll meets her eyes. Grins right back. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He sends her out in a spin, and her laugh echoes all the way to the sky above. 

They whirl around the bonfire, until the flames become embers and the music slows and they all at last stumble off drunk and sleepy to bed. Wyll’s thick leather gloves are covered in scorch marks, but he considers it worth the sacrifice to see Karlach’s soft smile when at last the dancing finishes for the night. 

There will be danger on the morrow, but for tonight his heart is warm. 

[thebigbiwolf]

Starvin', Darlin' - Chapter 1

Pairing: Not quite friends to lovers Astarion x OC/F!Tav

Chapter Summary: Astarion knows his power is waning, and seducing their leader Evelyn has gone poorly at best. If he is to keep himself in the tiefling's good graces, he's left with no other options. He must drink from a thinking creature.

Everything goes according to plan... until it doesn't.

Fic Tags: Minor spoilers for Act 1, The Bite Scene, Emotional slow burn, Angst, Teasing, Frottage (god I'm sorry), Pining, This is my first ever fic so idk how to tag things appropriately but you get the gist.

Fic Warnings: Eventual Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubcon (I cannot stress this enough), Bloodlust/Loss of control, Mentions of blood, lmk if you need anything else tagged.

Word Count: 6.1k

Read on Ao3: Here

A/N: I started this as a way to get this fruity fuck out of my head but I think I just made the situation worse. If you know me, no you don't. If you've followed me for a long time, sorry in advance. I may make this a mini-series depending on time and reception, but we'll see! OC is a rogue who seduces men to gain their favor but we'll get to that in later chapters.

Astarion's trance did not come easily that night; his hunger manifesting as a throbbing headache that refused to subside. It had been hours of tossing and turning in his tent, willing his body to settle, forcing himself to ruminate on the past few weeks.

Before he joined this disgustingly merry little group of adventurers, hunting rabbits and the occasional boar had been enough to sustain him. In fact, dining on larger animals had been a significant upgrade from the meager flies and rats he’d become so accustomed to under his master’s rule, but that was before all of this incessant hard labor. 

He could feel his strength waning over the last several days. His senses were dulling, his reflexes numbed. Just this morning, he had failed to gain the upper hand with a particularly nasty kobold. He paid for it dearly when the damned thing all but pummeled him into the ground. 

Luckily, Lae’zel had been there, hammer at the ready to divorce its jaw from its head. Beautifully done, by the way, but his blunder did not go unnoticed. All this sneaking around for barely a nibble during his watch was beginning to take its toll.

Astarion knew he was on thin ice, considering his relationship with their fearless, incomparable leader began with him pulling a knife on her and grappling her to the ground -  in front of the damn wizard, no less. Some friction was to be expected.

But things hadn’t progressed much between the two of them since then. The pair rarely saw eye to eye on anything, and she seemed to have an innate passion for berating him over his unwillingness to stop for every single injured bird or helpless child as they traveled - as if playing the part of a hero was a favorable distraction from the literal time bomb in both their party and their heads. 

“The world is full of potential allies, Astarion,” she had told him, sprinkled with a hint of her usual irritation. “I’m simply expanding our network.” As if a group of starving refugees and mud-slinging tree huggers were going to find them a decent healer any sooner. At this point, he’d heavily considered taking his chances with the goblins. At least they knew how to have fun.

What made matters even more frustrating was that Evelyn was seemingly unaffected by his charms.

Just how exactly was he supposed to secure his place under her protection when the woman barely spared him a second glance? Surely he wasn’t losing his touch. He was a master of seduction. Thousands of others had thrown themselves at his feet for far less effort. He’s had centuries of practice. The mere notion would be ridiculous.

In fact, he couldn’t remember a single moment in the last two hundred years where his advances had been so callously brushed off. Every attempt to make her laugh with his (admittedly morbid) quips was met with her chastising him for being insensitive and making threats to send him back to camp. She dismissed every flirtation, even if her lovely little blush betrayed her. She seemed determined to make him play her little game. He just hasn’t quite figured out what the rules are, yet.

Astarion couldn’t afford to take any more chances. If sleeping his way into her good graces wasn't an option, he was left with little choice. He wanted to make himself indispensable, so he was going to have to take drastic measures to ensure that his strength and physical prowess would never come into question. At least, not again.

He would have to drink from a thinking creature.

The idea of it was as invigorating as it was terrifying. He had spent the last two centuries enduring unimaginable cruelty, starved in ways mortals couldn’t begin to imagine--for years--without any reprieve. 

No, starving doesn’t even scratch the surface. No words could ever describe the tortuous, gnawing, ravenous hunger that consumed his every waking moment under the heavy weight of Cazador’s boot.

Though, Cazador wasn’t here now, was he? 

Curious.

Astarion had spent some time ruminating on who to approach before settling on Evelyn, though his options were limited at best. The githyanki was entirely out of the question; gods forbid he get caught, she would make quick work of him without allowing him so much as a single word of explanation. Shadowheart was…tempting, but that mark on her hand frequently caused her pain, and who knows if that magic would have any affect on him or worse, her taste? And Gale, well, he would rather subsist on a diet of garlic sprinkled with holy water before he put his lips anywhere near that man.

So, Evelyn it was. The tiefling wasn't terrible to look at. She was a younger woman full of vitality, so surely she wouldn’t miss a bit of her blood. He would just have to mind the horns. 

He would be in and out. A quick nibble, then he'd be right as rain. One bite, he tells himself, barely enough to leave a mark. Then, he’ll pass it off and say that they had been attacked by bats during his watch and, not wanting to wake everyone, he quietly dispatched them and saved the day. Unfortunately, not before one of those wretched little beasts managed to puncture their illustrious hero. It was the perfect plan. Infallible. They'll eat it right up.

He continues passing through camp undetected, catlike in his silence, but when he reaches the canvas entrance of her tent ready to pounce, he freezes at the sight of her.

She looked…different while she slept. Softer, gentler, almost; surrounded by a nest of fur blankets, snoozing away instead of attacking his ego. Her hair was puddled beneath her head and horns like dark, red wine; rich and unrestrained by her usual loose bun. 

Another realization hits him: this is the first time Astarion has ever seen her in her sleep clothes, a simple basic black wrapping across her breasts. Practical. Of course.

Her skin is pale enough to rival his own, even with the warmth of the firelight. She’s lying on her side, her uncovered shoulder lightly dusted in freckles, much like her cheeks. Her lips are slightly parted, and in the silence of the night air, he can hear her light, even breaths.

Cute, he thinks to himself. He could almost forgive her for being so maddeningly aloof with a face like that. Almost. 

Astarion leans over to brush her hair away from her neck; the strands softer than he had anticipated. The thrum of her pulse underneath is magnetic. It pulls at his very being, beckoning him closer.

Settling on his knees beside her, his arms form a cage around her body.

He takes in the image of her form one last time and allows himself a moment to savor it. She is toned and lithe, much like himself, but smaller. Perfect. Delectable. 

He bends closer, feeling her gentle puffs of breath on his shoulder; the warmth of her body. His ears ring with anticipation; manicured nails clench the sheets by her head.

She’s going to be so-

Something brushes his leg, hidden beneath the furs.

Her tail. He forgot about her bloody tail.

Evelyn stirs, and fully awakens right as his teeth are at her throat, eyes meeting his. 

Shit.

“Shit.”

With incredible speed, she reflexively reaches for the dagger closest to her pillow, lunging at him. He just barely seizes her arm in time to save himself from being skewered.

“What in the hells are you-” he clasps his palm over her mouth to silence her.

The girl’s eyes are wild with panic, their golden hues burning a hole in his skull. He notices them flit down to where his body hovers over hers before she begins to struggle against him. “No, no, shh,” he whispers. “It’s not what it looks like, I swear.” 

Her expression shifts from panicked to confused. She ceases her squirming. Good. Well, not good, but better. He can work with this.

“When I take my hand away, you have to promise not to scream and wake the whole camp,” he continues, hushed, “unless you’d like for them to find us tangled up in your bedroll. You wouldn’t want to give them the wrong impression now, would you, darling?”

Her eyes widen. Her face flushes deep red, warming his palm against her skin.

There, he thinks, that should-

Her body turns, and suddenly he feels the hard edge of Evelyn’s knee make contact with the corner of his ribs. A direct hit. Pain shoots up his chest as he rolls off of her and onto his side, clutching himself and coughing, heaving air back into his lungs.

She hurriedly covers herself with her sheets, glaring at him as he struggles to collect his breath. He can see her fuming through the tears forming in the corner of his vision. If looks could kill, he’s sure she would have him skinned alive. Maybe use what's left of him to scare away the crows. 

She’s still holding the knife out toward him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? What do you think you’re doing in here?” 

A fair question, one he was not prepared to answer. Perfect. He’s just going to have to wing this. Possibly with two broken ribs. He can’t believe he expected this to go any smoother.

“I-I wasn’t going to hurt you.” He raises a hand and falls back on his thighs with a grunt, grimacing in pain. His other clutches his side, a bit of sweat forming at his brow. “I just…” 

Okay, this is it. He’s got this.

“I just needed, well,” 

Aaaaand,

“Blood.”

There. Excellent form, Astarion. Good show.

“I - You needed what?”

She blinks at him, whether in disbelief or shock, he cannot say.

It takes a moment before his words start to sink in. She takes that time to scan over his body, purposefully. 

He couldn’t quite tell if she was looking for something or if she was deciding whether or not to believe him, but then again, what other explanation could he give? 

He works over his options in his head, considering just how difficult it would be to pass this all off as a terrible joke, but just as he’s about to open his mouth to start on damage control, he hears Evelyn heave a deep sigh. She lowers her weapon, then tosses it to the side, massaging her eyes in frustration. 

Oh. Well, alright.

After some time, he watches her expression soften into understanding as a few notable things dawn on her. He’s never really eaten any meals with them, has he? Then there was the drained boar, which he so carelessly left out by the road.  The damned beast hadn’t even taken the edge off that night, and he was so desperate to quell the nagging ache in his stomach that it lay there forgotten until she found it the next morning. He admitted to her himself that it had been drained by a vampire, after all…

A bit of silence follows.

Astarion doesn’t say a word, doesn’t dare move a muscle. He just allows her the time to process whatever she’s feeling. What’s important is that he’s still alive, she hasn't run him out of camp, and she hasn’t screamed for help. 

He may be able to salvage this, yet.

She scratches the back of her head, carding her fingers through her hair to ease her irritation before finally meeting his gaze.

“Astarion.” The sound of his name leaving her lips pulls him from his thoughts. He can see the disappointment on her soft features just as plainly as he can feel it humming through their psionic link. 

He didn’t think himself capable of guilt, but there was an emotion akin to it brewing within his chest. Ugh. He breaks eye contact, searching for anything to pull his attention away from his discomfort. The miscellaneous bags of clothing and trinkets she had scattered about her tent were just oh so fascinating. And was that a new hairbrush? Hm. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

He’s taken aback by her question. He expected a more offensive reaction. A few insults, maybe ones pertaining to his sharp teeth or bloodlust, but an olive branch?

After all the lies, the invasion of privacy, and the failed attempt at assault?

She really is just full of surprises.

“Well, we aren’t exactly close, you and I. Though, you must admit, I’ve made several attempts to…” He waves a hand between them for emphasis, “mend the gap, so to speak.”

“Well, have you ever considered maybe not being such an asshole?”

Ouch.

But in fairness, no.

“I…” He thinks carefully about what to say next. The buzzing behind his eye socket acts as a threat, reminding him of the very fragile barrier between their minds. Should she choose to dig her claws in and pry the information out of him, she may find more than he's comfortable sharing, so Astarion makes a decision that surprises even himself. 

He chooses to be genuine.

“At best, I was sure you’d say no. More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs.” He gestures towards the dagger at her side. “But believe me, I’m not some monster. I’ve never killed another person.”

Evelyn raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Well, not for food,” he quickly corrects. “I’ve been subsisting on animals. Boars—like the one you found the other day—deer, kobolds, whatever I can get my hands on.”

“And what exactly was the plan here? You were just going to kill me and expect the others not to notice?” 

He recoils at the accusation but fights to keep his expression neutral. “I had no intention of killing you. I would never do such a thing.” He leans in closer to her and lowers his voice, as if letting her in on a secret. “We need each other.” 

Evelyn shifts to lean her weight on her arm as she listens, dark hair falling to the side of her shoulder. With the new level of exposure, he can hear her pulse settling into a more comfortable rhythm. 

He swallows. Hard. His hunger is rearing its ugly head again, just at the sound of her.

Oh well, might as well lay all the cards out on the table while we’re at it.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and continues, “As it stands right now, I’m too slow. Too weak. If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better.” There is a question hidden in his words, a favor to be asked.

She seems pensive as she considers him, mulling over everything he’s said in her mind. She lifts a thumb to her mouth and starts nibbling on her nail, no longer looking at him. Nervous too, no doubt. How could she not be with what he’s asking of her, as if he had any right to ask in the first place? 

“I understand you detest me, but-”

Evelyn appears to snap to some conclusion, sitting up straighter and placing her arms to her sides before she responds.

“No, I should detest you, Astarion, but I don’t. You just don’t impress me.”

Wow.

It feels as though he’s been slapped. He barks out a laugh that’s a bit too loud for the intimate setting, trying to mitigate the damage to his ego. “Excuse me?”

She has the nerve to shrug at him. “I’ve seen every trick you’ve used to fill your little black book, probably a thousand items over. I’ve used them all myself. So, frankly, I'm uninspired.”

For the first time in his undead life, he’s totally speechless. His face contorts in indignation, disbelief. This devil.

There is something dangerous in her expression as she leans further forward, neck tilted, exposing herself to him. Her eyes are hooded, with long lashes casting shadows over her cheeks. Her shoulders relax as she lifts her chin to stare down her nose at him, sneering. 

He works his jaw, clenching the muscles unconsciously.

“Astarion, men are idiots. I’ve spent my entire adult life toying with them and robbing them blind. I’ve heard and seen it all. You really believed a few empty praises and mediocre jokes would have me jumping into bed with you? 

Wha- Mediocre?

He opens his mouth with every intention of retaliating, but Evelyn’s palm unexpectedly rests itself on his calf, and the action stuns him into silence. She begins leisurely dragging her nails up towards his thigh. 

His body responds involuntarily; eagerly, frustratingly, the delicate little motion leaving his skin prickling with excitement. 

She regards his chest, admiring the hard planes of muscle. Then, her attention slowly inches down the toned curve of his abs until, finally, they stop at where his cock hardens disobediently beneath his pants.

“Your pretty face doesn’t detract from the fact that you’re still just a man.”

It finally clicks.

She’s baiting him, attempting to get a rise out of him. 

Hm. Impressive.

Normally, at this point in her little game, he assumes most men would take her flirtations at face value. They would likely mistake this performance as an enthusiastic plea to bed her, but Astarion is not like most men. He sees her little game for what it is and recognizes it with ease because he has spent lifetimes playing it himself.

She leans back, satisfied with her little show, and smirks at him.

“So, you admit I have a pretty face?” He teases, his own smile twisting, becoming more mischievous.

She rolls her eyes, but this time she laughs. It’s a soft sound, genuine.

A pinkish hue crawls up her face and paints the tips of her pointed ears, but he can’t discern if that's supposed to be part of the act or, more likely, an unfortunate side-effect of the living experience. He’s finding it hard not to admire her dedication, regardless. 

Well, that’s quite enough of that. Back to business, then.

“It’s settled,” Astarion clasps his hands together, “I’ll just need to impress you with my more eclectic talents if I am to earn your favor. We can start by gracefully slaughtering a few goblins, depending on how the rest of tonight goes. Which is entirely up to you, of course.”

The tiefling squints at him. “Oh no, if you want something from me, darling, you’re going to have to ask politely. With manners. You have those, don’t you? Familiar with them, at least?”

Under normal circumstances, he would find this amusing; nothing like a little role reversal to spice up the evening. But this feels different, heavier, as if her feigning indifference will alleviate the weight of what he's asking of her.

Fine. He supposes relinquishing a little bit of his pride is a fair price to pay.

He takes a deep breath. "Please." 

"Please, what?" She lifts an eyebrow at him expectantly. "Come on, Astarion. Use your words. I know you’re quite fond of them."

He scoffs at her shamelessness, and for a moment, he honestly considers whether this is worth it, but he can't back out now. He'll make it through this, surely. He's been through worse. 

Through gritted teeth, he barely spits out, "Please, may I drink from you?" 

Gods. He's going to be sick.

"Good boy. That wasn't so hard, was it?" 

He’s going to fucking kill her.

There is an uncomfortable silence that follows. So many unspoken questions and a rising suspense that makes Evelyn adjust herself uncomfortably where she sits. Astarion is also musing to himself, still wondering how it's all come to this. Why did he choose her, again? Something about her not killing him right away? Death may have been preferable to this, actually, but he is pulled back to reality when she finally speaks up.

“So," she's picking lint off one of her pillows, avoiding his gaze as she asks, "how exactly should we do this?”

Well, it occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know. He understands the mechanics behind it, of course, but how exactly were they supposed to go about this?

Should he tell her that he’s never actually fed from a person before? Would it make her more or less comfortable to know that he’s just as clueless about this as she is? 

No. He decides against it. Astarion has always done best when he’s playing the role of the confident seductor. This should be no different. He’ll just treat this as if he’s bedding a virgin: guide her, take things slow, and she’ll no doubt be begging him for more soon enough. It’ll be easy. All she has to do is behave.

“Lie back and get comfortable.”

He moves himself closer to her, settling at her side as she does what she’s told. The flap of the tent remains open, letting in the faintest amount of warmth and illuminating Evelyn’s features. With such close proximity, he can see the gold flames within her irises flickering and dancing, a genetic trait attributed to some luckier members of her race, and a feature of her’s that Astarion would have never otherwise noticed. 

He can hear her pulse quickening as he closes the space between them, lifting himself a bit to settle above her, once again caging her between his arms. One of his knees parts her legs, and he can tell in the quietness of her tent that she’s struggling to hide her uneven breaths. Her stare is intense, but he can’t read the meaning behind it.

He decides to give her another out, just in case. Better safe than sorry. 

“We don't have to do this, you know,” his voice is composed, as if his body wasn't currently screaming with anticipation. “I appreciate the consideration, regardless.” 

“I’m fine.” Her response is clipped, dismissive. Her face remains stoic though her fingers fidget with the blankets at her sides. She had moved the furs to give him better access to her body. The darkness inside him preens at the concept.

Best get on with it, then.

He leans down and, unable to help himself, takes in the scent of her: woodsmoke and the faintest hint of vanilla, which he had watched her pick up from a merchant in the grove just the other day. “For Gale’s cooking,” she amended, when he gave her a questioning look.

He gives her one more moment to stop him.

She doesn’t.

A bit of pressure on the skin before it snaps and gives way, his fangs finally sinking into her. He can feel Evelyn’s body tense at the sudden intrusion. She hisses through gritted teeth, her arms involuntarily raising at her sides, reaching for him, but she stops herself before she touches him. He wants to tell her it's fine, expected, even, the need to ground herself, but all of his higher thoughts are plunged into complete chaos when he finally registers her taste. 

Every cell in his body awakens.

The iron flavor of her floods his throat and sets his nerves ablaze. Its heat fills, expands, and splits every crack in his self control into deep, cavernous fissures. 

A groan escapes Astarions throat before he has the chance to quell it. Of course it would be like this - drinking from a thinking creature. Drinking from her. He understands now why Cazador forbade this. Before, he had assumed it was a matter of keeping his spawn weak and compliant, but this was entirely different. This was far more than a method of control. The bastard had been withholding ecstasy greater than he’d ever known.

A feeling swells in him, crashing like waves through his veins. Warmth. It invades him and fills every fiber of his being. He wasn’t naive enough to believe his first time wouldn't have some sort of great, emotional impact, but this? 

This was everything. How was he ever supposed to come back from this?

"Agh - Astarion," he barely registers her pathetic little whine through the haze. She finally allows herself to grab onto him, the loose sleeve of his nightshirt tightening in her fist. For purchase, he tells himself with what little is left of his consciousness, practical. That is until he lowers himself fully onto her in an attempt to relieve the strain on his biceps.

With no space left between their bodies, he doesn’t anticipate the blazing heat of her core on his thigh, even through the several layers of clothing. She gasps at the sudden pressure,  fingers twitching, nails digging little crescent shapes into his skin. What surprises him most, though, is when the taste in his mouth melts into a flavor so much sweeter. 

Something primal within him recognizes it instantly; it twists in his gut and sits there heavily, as if the emotion were his own: arousal.

Oh.

She is burning for him.

Good.

After all of that teasing, the woman he’s spent weeks enduring endless lectures from actually does desire him, or at the very least desires his body. Which is just as favorable, in his opinion. It’s just nice to know all his hard work hasn’t gone to waste. 

If she lets him live, he's going to spend every waking moment tormenting her over this. His lips vibrate against her skin as he chuckles to himself, causing some of her blood to run down his chin in hot rivulets, blooming new stains onto her sheets. 

He knows he’s had enough. He means to let go, he truly does, lest he end up draining their groups' only hope of survival. Surely that wouldn't go over well with their companions. Pitchforks, and all that. 

But her whimpering, her heat, coupled with the ferocity of his hunger, all provoke a feeling that has been building beneath the surface which he’s unable to name; it's desperate and possessive, a predator guarding its kill from hungry scavengers. The monster in him casts a dark shadow over his mind as he feeds. His body no longer feels as though it is his own, betraying him; a slave to the demands of his appetite. 

He needs her, needs all of her, and he cannot will himself to stop, too lost in sensation and the sound of her mewling to bow to his higher thinking. 

He mindlessly rocks his weight into her and grunts—a slow, unintentional grind against her mound. The motion comes easy to him, like breathing - instinctual. The blunt edge of his clothed cock drags deliciously through her parted thighs. Evelyn’s breath hitches at the feeling, her squirming beneath him giving him the sickest form of satisfaction, but the animal within him demands her compliance.

His hand gathers her loose hair and pulls, growling, warning her to keep still. She whines at the force, back arching. The other grabs her arm, pinning it down, and tightens, thumb gently stroking against her wrist.

"Astarion,"

She’s no doubt making a mess in her smallclothes as she quivers beneath him, all flushed cheeks and furrowed brows. She may deny it later, but her taste tells him everything he needs to know.

Her body is burning against his cool skin, and her gasps are only spurring him on. He laps at the wound, dragging his tongue up the length of her throat, indulging himself in her. It's too much. 

He feels her pulse weakening, her rhythm slowing.

It isn't enough. 

He's about to latch on to her again, teeth at the ready and blinded by his eagerness, when he suddenly feels a piercing sensation behind his eye - the tadpole, he assumes, writhing in panic. Screeching at him to open himself to it. The discomfort is just enough to pull him back into his body. Then Evelyn's voice invades his mind. 

‘Astarion, enough!’

He disentangles his limbs from hers, practically jumping off of the poor woman. He’s gasping for breath as he comes to his senses, the mix of her blood and his saliva staining his lips pink. It dribbles down his chin. He wipes his face with the back of his knuckles and licks them clean.

But then, the cold realization of what he’s done is thrust upon him like a bucket of iced water, shocking him back to the present. He’s going to need to come up with one hell of an apology to get himself out of this one. Or maybe he should just run? Baldur’s Gate is really only a few weeks travel at most. 

“Shit,” he whispers, more to himself than to her. "Are you alright, dear?"

Evelyn's eyes meet his. Her pupils are blown, almost entirely overtaking the gold of her irises when she glances away from him to assess the damage.

"Gods damn it," she quietly groans and applies pressure to the wound, thankfully finding that it isn't too deep or particularly painful. She tends to it, wiping the thin sheen of sweat from her brow. She searches for a rag as she avoids his concerned stare

A deep purple bruise spreads across her pale skin. Small red droplets trickle down the length of her nape, dampening her black breast band before soaking into it and disappearing entirely. He collects himself, willing his mind to cease its incessant urge to lick the damned liquid from her neck. She is flushed and sweating, unbalanced, panting from exertion as much as her own embarrassment. Her dark hair is a tangled mess from his attention. She looks ravaged. 

It… suits her.

Astarion clears his throat, trying his best not to get caught admiring his handiwork.

She was right about one thing. He was, at least in some respects, just a man... 

“Here,” he insists, grabbing one of the smaller furs and holding it up to her. She takes it from him without acknowledgement.

“I -” He begins, but he’s at a loss for words. What does one say in this situation? ‘My sincerest apologies. I don’t know what came over me! I must have gotten swept up in the moment!’ as if that pitiful excuse would overshadow the fact that he manhandled and almost devoured her.

He wants to laugh, but the sound dies in his throat.

He begins to worry that she really may not forgive him. He fears she'll wake the whole camp, or maybe finally cast him out like the monster he is. He wouldn't blame her. She took a great leap of faith in trusting him with this, and he rutted against her like some horny bugbear. Or worse, a teenager, he sneers.

Evelyn pulls the rabbit skin away from her neck, examining it. The brown hairs are matted and crimson, but the bleeding has stopped. She runs her fingers over the puncture marks, feeling the skin dip slightly where his fangs pierced her. She sighs with resignation, surely thinking about how the others will approach her with a plethora of questions tomorrow morning, face reddening at the idea.

“You could have warned me, you know.” She rolls her eyes at him. “I didn’t realize I was agreeing to…all of that.” 

His heart sinks. 

Of course she thinks it was on purpose. I mean, look at him. He’s all but thrown himself at her since the moment they met. He’s spent this entire time playing the part of the rake. It's only natural she assumes the worst.

“Evelyn, darling,” speaking her name aloud brings her focus back onto him. 

The gravity of it is suffocating, condensing the already small space they shared. The tension pulls at something undefinable within him that he thought was long dead—a sincerity that betrays the character he’s been crafting for as long as he can remember. 

It sways him.

More truths to forgive more transgressions, then. A fair transaction.

“I’ve had this condition for over two centuries, but, truth be told,” he clears his throat again, because ugh this is awful. And why does she have to stare at him like that, with her earnest, wet eyes? “You were my first. I’ve only ever fed on beasts.” 

The implication is there: how could he have known?

His confession takes her by surprise. “You don’t…” she pauses, taking everything that transpired tonight into consideration. He must be giving her a look akin to pleading, because she takes mercy on him and disregards whatever question she was about to ask. 

“Please tell me you didn’t do that to the boar.”

Seriously, a joke?

He barks out a laugh before he can stifle it. Whether it's from the sheer ridiculousness of the question or the disbelief towards her acceptance of it all, he truly doesn’t know.

“No, my dear. Just you, and you were delectable.”

Her expression is difficult to read. She’s not looking at him; refuses to, when she replies, “So then, did it work?”

Astarion moves to stand, peering down at her form. He exhales in relief, feeling as though he is a century younger. His muscles are lax; all the stress has been drained from his body. A novel experience. “Yes, I would say so. I feel stronger. My mind is clear. I feel…happy.”

He adds the last word in an effort to appease her, but it does ring true. His main source of joy since he contracted this affliction has been causing others pain, ripping out throats and such. This feels distinctly different, less exhilarating, but pleasant all the same.

“Well, I look forward to seeing you fight.” 

He acknowledges her, then stretches his back out, extending his arms to the sky with his hands clasping behind his head. The motion pulls the rest of his nightshirt out of his trousers and tugs it upward, exposing the hard edges of his hips. He can’t confirm it, but he swears he sees her eyes flit quickly towards them before making an expeditious retreat.

“Shouldn’t take long. So many people need killing.” He lifts the flap of her tent to peek outside. No sign of anyone stirring, and the night is still young. Knowing the wildlife in this area, he may still have a chance to sate himself. With his newfound strength, he may even be able to wrangle up a bear. What a feast that would make.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.” He bows his head to her in thanks. 

He’s about to step outside, one foot exits the canvas before the rest of him, when it hits him that he feels…odd, uncomfortable leaving her like this. He can’t place his finger on why. He’s ridden atop many women and left without saying a word.

But, he supposes this is dissimilar.

Evelyn listened to him tonight, heard him out when anyone else would have carved him into pieces without second thought. She let him drink from her, forgave him for getting…carried away. 

The most shocking part of it all is that regardless of her dismissiveness, he now undeniably knows that she’s attracted to him. Yet, she didn’t capitalize on the opportunity when it arose to take advantage of his altered state; of his needs. With that, she’s shown him more kindness in the last hour than he’s experienced in his entire undead life. 

He likely owes her for this, of course, but there are worse fates he could endure.

The elf looks over his shoulder at her and catches her watching him intently, as if she wants to continue this conversation but can’t quite figure out what she wants to say. The intensity of her gaze almost forces him to turn back towards her, drawn to her by an unfamiliar ache; a thrill in his spine, the compulsion pulling at his chest like some sort of spell.

“This is a gift, you know.” The words escape him, hanging in the air between them with raw authenticity. He means to make himself sound more frivolous, but before he can edit them in his head, more truth spills from his lips, “I won’t forget it.”

His throat tightens. He considers her for a moment, wondering what he might find if he does turn to meet her eyes.

But, Astarion resists.

She must be exhausted. He shouldn’t take up any more of her time.

He leaves before she can respond. There wasn’t anything left for them to discuss, and he’s desperate to break free from the uneasy weight of her presence.

The second he steps fully outside, he feels as though he can breathe again, not that he needs to, being undead and all. 

What a strange feeling, that was. 

One he decides he’d rather forget. Best to not burden himself too much with it.

The taste of her lingers on his teeth. He finds himself savoring it for a moment too long before stalking towards the forest, confident. Ready to hunt. 

[unreadpoppy]

Party Banter #4

Read on AO3

Part 3 here

Series summary: A bunch of short scenarios involving Minthara and Galatea, based on some of the party's in-game banter.

A/N: This is longer than I intended. Also, some Halstarion on the side.

Astarion and Minthara’s relationship had always been a turbulent one. The fact that the vampire used to bed Galatea only made matters worse, and each time the two interacted, there was a vague sense of hostility in the air. 

Galatea felt that Astarion was still upset that the drow came in between them, and that Minthara was jealous over her being shared with someone else. Regardless, the tiefling tried to keep things civil between the two, although as their journey progressed, that was looking even more difficult than defeating the elder brain. 

One such time was during their journey to Baldur’s Gate, after fighting Ketheric Thorm. Galatea and Minthara had just recently become an item, and the snide remarks coming from Astarion would not end. 

He had approached the drow silently, as she watched Galatea walking a few paces ahead. Astarion likened her to a guard dog, but kept the thought to himself. Instead, he said “So…what’s it like caring for someone other than yourself, Minthara”

She was aware of his previous history with their leader, and how…less than stellar things had ended between the two. Usually, when the elf tried to get on her nerves, Minthara would simply ignore his presence. This time, she gave in. 

“You have never tried it, I assume.” She said, not looking at him. 

He laughed, sarcastically. “Gods, no. It is a lot of work and last time I tried,” He looked directly at Galatea and then turned to Minthara “It did not end well for me.” 

“You say that but It takes less work than you devote to maintaining your foppish facade.” She began. Then, turning to him, she whispered. “It would not phase me if that was one of the reasons your past relations have not ended well.” Speaking loudly once again, she finished with “And, besides, it is far more rewarding.”

Astarion’s nostrils flared and he bitterly replied. “Well, at least I was a better man, for the brief period in which I was loved.” He looked Minthara up and down. “Can’t imagine anyone wanting to do that for you though, dear.” 

He began to laugh but was soon interrupted when a fist made contact with his nose. “What the hells!” He groaned, holding his nose, while Galatea looked at him angrily. 

“I cannot stand you and the constant snide remarks about us anymore.” She held the lapels of his shirt, shaking him as she said “If you talk about Minthara like this again, I swear by all gods-OW” She screamed as Astarion bit into her hand, freeing himself. 

“What’s going on here?” Karlach said, as she approached. The others too had come to see the commotion. 

The vampires wiped his mouth and said “Say, are you going to leave the drow too, when you grow tired of her as you did me?” 

“Son of a bitch!” Galatea ran and jumped on him, as the two began fighting each other like cats. Minthara looked at Karlach and nodded, each woman grabbing one of them, to separate the two. 

Minthara held Galatea, as she struggled to free herself from the drow’s grip. Astarion did the same. 

“Enough.” Minthara said. “We have an elder brain to fight and this is how you’ll spend your energy? I expect better from both of you.” 

With a huff, Astarion freed himself from Karlach’s grip, and marched off without a word. The others followed, leaving Minthara and Galatea by themselves. 

“You can let go now, you know.” The tiefling said and the drow relented. She clutched her wounded hand.

Minthara crossed her arms. “Care to explain yourself.” 

“I’m irritated.” Galatea sighed. “I heard the whole conversation. I know why he keeps throwing jabs at you and I both and I just-” she shook her head “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re right. You shouldn’t have.” She said, sternly. “I can fight my own battles.” 

“I’m well aware, but I’m also not going to stand idly while someone speaks like that to you.” Galatea looked down. 

Minthara’s gaze softened, as she uncrossed her arms and took a step closer. She held the tiefling’s wounded hand, covering it in between her both. A glow of warm, blue-ish light spread from Minthara’s hands to Galatea, and soon, her wounds were closed. 

“You’re sweet. Sometimes, I believe it is a detriment to your person.” She brought the now healed hand to her mouth, and gently kissed the palm. “I do not want to keep curing you because you decided to defend my honor.” 

Galatea nodded. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.” 

“Good.” 

Not far from where they were, Halsin worked on Astarion’s nose, while the vampire didn’t stop complaining for a single moment. 

“I just hate how they keep throwing those love sick puppy eyes at each other. It is irritating.” He said. “Gods, Minthara looks more like a guard dog than a lover with how possessive she is.” 

“And why does that bother you so much?” Halsin asked, wiping blood from Astarion’s forehead. “Weren’t you saying the other day that you didn’t care about them anymore?” 

The vampire huffed. “Not funny.” 

“I am asking sincerely.” 

He crossed his arms. “Well, it’s just…it’s annoying, don’t you think? Being surrounded by so much love.” Astarion said that last word as if it was something sour. 

“I, particularly, do not mind. However, I think you and Galatea were acting exactly like that before.” 

“Excuse me, it was completely different.” Halsin lifted one brow and Astarion turned his head. “You wouldn’t understand, and quite frankly, I am done with this conversation.” He began to move away, prompting Halsin to say one last thing. 

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to pry. But if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m all ears.” Astarion nodded and marched off. 

….

After that situation, things seemed to get slightly easier. Astarion began to spend more and more time around Halsin, which means that his constant yapping near Minthara had gone down. 

That didn’t mean that the provocations were fully gone. 

It was after a long day’s battle, everyone had settled in around a table in the Elfsong tavern, drinking and making casual conversation. As always, Galatea was sitting next to Minthara, as the drow complained about surface food. Astarion sat on the other side, circling his wine cup in hand, looking at the two of them. 

It was after the tiefling laughed at one of Minthara’s scowls that he stood up straighter and said “So…how does Lolth feel about romance?” The drow turned her attention to him, a murderous look on her face.

“I mean, I know things can get quite…brutal in the Underdark. Are you expected to bit your mate’s head off afterwards?” He finished his sentence with a smirk on his face, one the drow was too happy to get rid off. 

“Be grateful I no longer follow the Spider Queen’s teachings, daarthir.” She looked deep into his eyes. “If I did, you would be the first to fall into my web.” 

The elf’s jaw almost dropped to the floor, as his expression soured. “I can’t tell if you’re joking-” He turned to Halsin, asking nervously “She is joking, right?” 

The druid looked between the two of them, then to Galatea, and once again to Astarion before replying “Well, during my time in the Underdark, I never saw what you described happen, though the…metaphors of spiderwebs were constant.”

That seemed to distract Astarion, as he urged Halsin to talk more of his previous experiences. Meanwhile, Galatea turned to Minthara, brushing a strand of white hair from her face, and placing it behind the drow’s ear. 

“I am a bit jealous that I wouldn’t be the first to fall in your web.” She whispered in her ear. 

“There is no need for that.” Minthara turned towards her, a half smirk on her face. “If that were the case, you’d enjoy a much more privileged position.” 

Galatea raised a brow. “Oh? And where would that be?” 

Minthara didn’t reply, only moving out of the table and motioning for the tiefling to follow along. She quickly excused herself before holding the drow’s hands, the two moving upstairs to their room. 

But the two wouldn’t be the only ones sharing a night of passion, as after all had gone to sleep, Astarion and Halsin, having spent the rest of the time there sharing their thoughts of one another, would sneak off, only returning when daylight came. 

[blackjackkent]

Tiefling party time!

I really do feel like we could have cleaned up the giant blood sigil left from Rakha's reign of terror before inviting guests over, but what do I know?

Rakha is definitely REALLY nervous about this whole situation. She remembers when Alfira came and what happened to her, and this is way more guests now. The beast is stirring irritably in her brain at the flood of relative strangers and she knows, all too well, that she is capable of slipping tonight just as she did then.

So she keeps to herself, at least at first, which is how she ends up on the beach at the edge of camp with Wyll.

She didn't entirely mean to follow him, at least not consciously... but she's aware that she feels the strain in her head relax when she realizes he's there. Somewhere along the line, of all the members of their little band, he became the point where she feels the most at ease - he answers her questions without judgment. He has guided her first fumbling attempts to stand against the beast's hunger.

Even her trust in Lae'zel, firm as it is, does not quite bring the same sense of... comfort.

For a little while, she stands and watches him silently. He seems lost in thought, staring out at the slowly rolling surface of the river. Finally she takes a step forward; her boot knocks against a small pebble, sending it clattering along the rocky beach into the water, and he jumps, spinning around.

"Agh. Hells," he mutters sheepishly. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice I was gone."

She raises an eyebrow. Why? she wonders. Does he think his presence insignificant? Does he think she thinks his presence insignificant?

"Are you all right?" she asks quietly.

He smiles ruefully. "Oh. I'm deeply proud of you. A touch less so of myself."

She stares at him. Proud? Of all the things she expected him to say, that was not one of them. She has come far enough in the time since the nautiloid to know that there is a battle to be fought within herself - that there is more to her than the beast if she is willing to find it. But she has not come nearly far enough to believe that battle is being won, not yet.

But he says he is proud of her. And the fact makes her feel... strange. Warm. As if she has crossed some milestone she was not aware of reaching for.

Thank you, she wants to say - but then she registers the second half of his comment, and gives him a questioning look. Not proud of yourself? Why?

(A/N: Look at his poor sad eyes. :( Wyll needs a big hug stat.)

"In truth, I don't feel in a festive mood," he says with a slight shrug. "And I didn't want to cast a grey cloud over the night."

She nods, thinking he means the recent revelations about his father - which would be understandable enough - but he keeps talking. "I'm a devil. I love the people from the grove, but I unsettle them deep down. As I seem to unsettle everyone nowadays."

His face twists with sudden anguish, and he turns away, looking out at the water. "You don't want a devil at your party," he mutters bitterly. "Horns this sharp will pop the balloons, you see. And the guests won't take kindly to scars quite so monstrous."

Ah. She listens in silence, taking in these new details, filing them away. Wyll's transformation makes him like those who drew the teeth-lings into the Hells in the first place. It makes him look like their enemy. Like many people's enemies.

But not like hers. "You don't unsettle me," she says. It's a blunt statement, matter-of-fact. "You know that." There is much worse in me than anything you have ever shown me. And you have looked at me without blinking.

His head lifts and he looks at her intently for a moment. She can't quite read the expression in his eyes, but his voice is low and heavy with some sudden intensity. "If only half the world had half the heart you do," he says softly.

There would be nothing left living, I think, Rakha thinks with her own surge of bitterness. But she doesn't say it aloud, because she recognizes the compliment, even if she doesn't agree with it. What does he see in her, that he keeps saying these things?

And why does he see so little in himself?

For a moment they both stand there, eyes locked; the air feels suddenly charged with electricity. She finds herself wishing, out of nowhere, that she could show him what Gale showed her the other night - the depth of the Weave, the peace of it. The magic he carries is something very different, something darker, tainted by Mizora... but perhaps he could still channel it as she did...

The thought of the magic connecting them, of the intimacy that went with that bond, makes her feel suddenly unstable in a way that she can't define. For a moment she is almost certain one of those wild surges of magic is going to burst through her without warning and set the whole place ablaze.

But she holds his eyes with hers, and though her heart has suddenly started to thump like thunder... her magic calms, and the beast quiets, and she simply breathes, and waits, and hears the water lap gently against the shore by their boots.

He draws back suddenly, a brittle smile flickering onto his lips, and the moment breaks. "But off with you. This is your day! Have a dance. Enjoy the music."

She looks over her shoulder, back towards the party, and she clicks her tongue with a disinterested expression. No. She feels much more comfortable here with him, and perhaps that was why she walked this direction in the first place. "Can't you tell why I really followed you out here?" she says, with a gruff tone unaccountably laced with a sense of indistinct embarrassment.

He blinks, snorts. "Clearly Mol has put you up to stealing my britches so you can turn them into a flag for her gang." A pause, and then he adds, "Not that I'd necessarily object." His lips twitch in a slight, cautious grin.

She laughs softly. It's a sound she's heard so rarely from herself that it startles her - hoarse, low in her throat... but amused. "Nope," she says. "Guess again."

His grin widens. "Let me think. Why are you really here?" He snaps his fingers, coming to a dramatic conclusion. "You must be Volo in disguise, out here to harangue me for some tales of the Frontiers." He leans back on his heels and shakes his head in mock-sorrow. "What a cruel disguise! My nerves started hammering the second I thought *she* was the one looking for me."

It takes her a moment to parse this joke. She, meaning me. Ah... The idea that she would have that effect on him, after everything she's done... it doesn't really make any sense, even as he's articulating it. "Keep trying," she says, and her voice feels suddenly thick, unwieldy.

He hesitates; she sees his cheeks suddenly darken and his eyes flick away from her, the playful air fading abruptly. "It's a long shot," he says softly. "But maybe you've grown fond of me. Gods know I've grown fond of you."

There it is. Spoken out loud - by him, because she had no words for it. Fond. It feels... inadequate, but also correct. At the least, it encompasses something of the sense of safety and guidance he is able to instill in her.

She remembers the hectic, ferocious night with Lae'zel - which was also built on something of the same foundation. But this is not where this is leading, she can already tell. This is something different, something she has no words for.

"Maybe just a little," she mutters.

He smiles. Perhaps he registers something of her uncertainty, because his tone lightens deliberately. "Then we share a similar affliction, for I've grown fond of you too. Though I can't say I've earned the honor. I haven't even managed to kill one measly devil. I'm hardly a prime catch."

(A/N: We have the option for a persuasion check to ask for a kiss here. It's honestly more verbally direct than Rakha feels just yet, I think - an impulsive kiss immediately without the words would feel more likely - and I checked and it's just the one kiss anyway and then he sends you back off to the party regardless. So we're going with the more slow-burn setup here.)

She snorts dismissively. "You don't need to be the 'Blade of Frontiers' for me. Just be yourself." She respects his cause as one of the things on which she can model herself in the battle against the darkness in her head. But she has little interest in judging him for whatever ideals he has stood up for himself. He has done her that credit in return many times over already.

He shakes his head sharply. "The Blade *is* my best self," he insists. "On my best days, I've even lived up to the name."

There is something else he wants to say, she can tell - but he shakes his head again, visibly putting whatever it is aside in favor of a firm, sudden smile. "Now - you've got a party to get back to," he says firmly. "Don't forget - tonight is about you."

He draws closer for a moment, rests a hand carefully against her arm, and his smile softens. "There will be another time for us," he says, his voice low. And then, before she can respond, he turns and walks away down the beach.

[drhu0806]

12. "Did you hear that?"

Fandom - Pathfinder: Wrath of the Righteous Content warnings - depictions of blood, injuries Pairing - Woljif x knight commander

The little abandoned house creaks and wheezes with age as the party carefully steps through it. Its surrounding structure is so weak that even the slightest puff of dust is enough to make everyone freeze and wince as they wait with bated breath for impending disaster.

“Come on, why are we all here? Just send me in to take a peek and swipe anything that needs to be swiped and we wouldn’t have to go through this!” Woljif protests in a hushed voice, afraid that even a raised voice will shake the frail cottage’s walls.

“This isn’t reconnaissance, Woljif. We have reports that there’s something dangerous here. We’d all need to come in at one point or another,” Seelah explains.

He huffs. “Well, can I at least go on further ahead to give you guys a heads up on what’s coming up? It still can’t be good that we’re all grouped together like this—”

He’s cut off when their commander hushes them all. Her eyes narrow as she concentrates.

“Did you hear that?” she asks, glancing at Lann. His face twists.

“Yeah, it’s not just you. I think—”

He doesn’t get to finish before a bloodcurdling cry rings out, and everyone instinctively moves into battle positions. Just in time, as some kind of monstrosity crashes through a nearby wall. Almost everyone turns to face the immediate threat, but at the last moment, Ollerus notices something amiss and glances in the direction of Woljif and Daeran with a look of horror.

“Look out!”

She dashes to their side, but she’s not fast enough to protect them from something that smashes through the ceiling above, crushing the three of them under its weight. Something wheezes and snaps, and Woljif feels something break underneath them before everything goes dark.

When he comes to, he isn’t sure he’s even awake for a moment as he sees nothing but darkness. But as his vision slowly adjusts, combined with a thin sliver of light coming from above, Woljif is able to get his bearings. With a groan, he rises from the craggy ground beneath him to peer into the shadows.

He’s landed in some small cave, surrounded by the rotting wreckage of whatever came from the cottage above. He listens for the sound of fighting, but senses little beyond the faint dripping of water. His tail raised in alert, he gingerly steps forward, searching for anything familiar in the darkness.

And he finds it, glowing faintly off to the side. He’s never been more grateful for the faint glow that aasimar give off as Woljif spots Daeran’s golden locks, but he stops short, along with his breath, when he beholds the crumpled form in his arms.

Daeran cradles their commander’s head in one hand, her long rosy locks splayed messily beneath, eerily resembling a pool of blood. He regards the tiefling’s approach with thinly veiled worry, and Woljif’s heart nearly stops when he sees the actual red that stains Ollerus’s clothes.

“Well, at least I don’t need to worry about you,” Daeran greets tersely. The tiefling falls to his knees next to them as he desperately assesses her.

“How bad?”

“She’s breathing,” he replies, an exact, brief description that makes Woljif’s heart tremble with unease. A small rivulet of blood drips from her hand onto the ground, and Daeran’s hand glows as it hovers over a wound on her torso. There’s dried blood in her hair, yet he doesn’t spot any obvious injuries there.

Daeran sighs, releasing the tiniest bit of tension in his shoulders. “Her head is fine. I’m just patching her up at this point.” Looking up towards the distant surface, he continues, “But I’m not comfortable moving her right now. We might just have to wait for the others to find us first.”

“What happened?”

“Well obviously someone wasn’t happy with the tacky floorboard designs and chose to redecorate in the least delicate manner possible.” He gestures to something off to the side. “And our lovely commander had some disagreements with the local demolitionist.”

Woljif peers into the darkness and jumps when he makes out the slumped body of a large demon. The signature reek of ozone and singed flesh is unmistakable, painting enough of a picture for him to piece together how it met its end.

“By the time I came to, she was already finishing it off,” Daeran relays. “When I could get to her, she just… collapsed. There wasn’t anything else I could…”

His voice trails off, but Woljif doesn’t need him to elaborate further. The snobbish, highbrow air is gone, replaced by an uncharacteristic frustration and worry. He understands, perhaps too well. He doesn’t like thinking about it, the visceral terror he feels when Ollerus is in any sort of danger, when she’s out of his sight on the battlefield for too long. He knows she can take care of herself, he knows he should be worrying more about himself like he has for so long, but he can’t explain it, this encompassing urge to keep her safe and away from danger, this roiling nausea and discomfort he feels when he sees her get hurt.

Woljif has spent a majority of his life looking out for no one but himself; he knows he’s perfectly capable of that. But watching someone else’s back? There are times he’s never felt more helpless.

He wishes he could do more.

They sit in silence for a while, hyperfocused on the tempo of their unconscious companion’s breathing. Sitting still doesn’t feel right to Woljif; his fingers twitch as he fights the urge to fidget. He tries to focus on what Daeran is doing: the commander is no longer actively bleeding, and the color is coming back to her cheeks. He looks down at his hands; he can pick locks, he knows spells. He’s on his way to save the world and having his name known across the lands.

All that, so why does he still feel like he’s nothing? That he’s barely changed from the lowly urchin he’s been since childhood, that he deserves nothing more than to remain with the rest of the trash of the world?

He doesn’t want to believe that, if only because she doesn’t believe that. For some reason, she’s kept him around. And he has to make it worth it for her, doesn’t he?

Woljif sets his jaw, clenching his fists as he swallows his pride. “Hey Daeran, I got a favor to ask. Could you… teach me that spell?”

“...I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

After some cajoling, as well as enduring some lighthearted needling at his expense, Daeran humors him. It’s enough to get started at least, in spite of the less than ideal circumstances, and Woljif welcomes any reprieve as they continue to await rescue.

The noble, wanting to stretch his legs, entrusts their commander to him. By now, her most grievous wounds have been addressed, yet Woljif still holds her tightly, as if he can’t bear the slightest chance at letting her go. He’s left with her minor injuries to address, and even though they’re small, he can’t help but sigh in relief as he sees the various cuts and bruises disappear.

“You’ll be okay, Chief,” he whispers, more to himself than anyone else.

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

“Ow,” Ollerus quietly yelps.

A small drop of blood oozes from the paper cut. She sticks the tip of her finger into her mouth to stymie the flow, tossing the offending piece of parchment away in annoyance.

Woljif, loitering nearby, sticks his head into the room at the sound of her voice. “You alright, Chief?”

She waves. “Pay-puh cuh,” she drawls around her finger. The tiefling snorts as he approaches, holding a hand out.

“Let me see that.”

Confused, Ollerus offers her hand. Woljif’s grip is soft as a warm glow envelopes their joined hands, and the small cut quickly disappears.

“You’re getting really good at that,” she says, impressed.

His chest warms. “Ha, well, you know me, Chief. I’m full of great surprises.” He pauses, before continuing, softly, “I’m not as good as you at the whole magic thing, but I try.”

“Why do you say that?” Ollerus cocks her head to the side, genuine confusion reflected in her eyes. “Don’t sell yourself so short, Woljif. I’ve never been able to get the hang of healing spells; I’m downright dreadful at them. You’re able to do something I can’t, and I think that’s really impressive.”

He has to struggle to hide the blush creeping up his neck. There she goes again, looking at him like that and saying things that make him feel things he’s never felt around anyone else. Even when the cut has healed, he still instinctively wraps his fingers around her hand, simply enjoying the feel of holding it.

“Thanks, Ollie.”

[bharv]

Fic: The First Leaf on the Tree after Winter

Part 1 of 3. Halsin/Jaheira, background Wyll/Karlach Their time was a century before, she thinks. What can they be, these old souls rooted in their ways, these observers of the world, these failed heroes? or Read on Ao3

There is a deep pain in the back of her legs. That is new. She has taken all the healing that she can and still it is deeper than her magic at least can reach. There are others here who are better healers, but it is not the night to ask such things. For them, it is the night to celebrate.

The air is already starting to taste sweeter, the acrid poison of the Shadow Curse is starting to leave this place, and it will not be long until there will be the first leaves on the trees again. She sometimes thinks she is not a very good druid, but sometimes the land likes to remind her who she is. She can feel it, the touch of balance coming back to this land, and it is as sweet as the first honey off the honeycomb. Her mind is alive with all of the promises of a new spring. 

She does not know when it happened, when she ceased to be at the head of any party, and instead became a silent observer. In the past she would have been singing with the best of them, her cup drained dry and her voice carrying across the distance. But now it wasn’t her time. Now, it was theirs. She watches as young Ravengard raises a toast to the room, and a good half dozen tieflings practically swoon over him, Karlach chief among them. The room erupts in cheers and applause, but her senses are still strong enough to hear him come up behind her.

“It is a good night for merriment, High Harper.”

She looks up and smiles. “That it is, First druid.”

“Ah, First druid no more, I am afraid. Just Halsin, by the Oakfather’s grace.”

“Ah yes, just so.”

He towers above her. She remembers tales of him all those years ago, the elf the size of an ogre and twice as fierce both in battle and in bed. Was it really so long ago that they fought for these lands and failed? And with just a few nights, and the right hero, it was over. Their failure would be lost to time as a new age took root. 

“The land heals. Can you feel it?” He looks down to her with a kind smile, an excited glint in his dark eyes. He is as excitable as a cub, despite everything. 

“I do,” she says, the admission sparking in her blood. “And it is wonderful.”

“Isn’t it? What a gift it is, to feel the power of the land fighting to break free of its bonds. To feel the determination of nature to live. It’s thrilling.”

She can see it in him, that deep pool that she remembers. It is in her too, buried beneath thickets of thorns; the deep pulsing recognition of all of nature’s gifts. She has neglected it too long. His eyes are wide with it, he is almost drunk on the feeling of the stirring of the earth beneath them.

“I confess,” she says, pulling herself back to her wine, “Part of me had lost hope.”

“I can confess the same. It is easier for this young blood. They do not know what it is like, to see the years pass and for hope to fade. But hope is here now. Powering through the very ground on which we stand.”

There is a cry of joy from the fireside, as their erstwhile saviour is hoisted on the shoulders by his companions. He is full of wine and laughter, and he deserves every minute of it. She knows that beneath it, there is a great weight in his heart.

“Wyll really is a great hero,” she says, watching as he slides back to the ground, looking up into Karlach’s eyes with admiration. There is something there that sparks a feeling in her, something placed away for safekeeping many years before.

“And a good man,” says Halsin, “Those two things do not always go hand in hand, sadly. We are lucky indeed.”

He learns past her, picks up another bottle from her table and removes the cork with his teeth without a thought. He smiles at her before striding over to the party, handing the bottle to the pretty young Fist by the bar. He does not drink from the cup, she notices, but he is drinking in everything of this young man, his eyes set on his throat as he swallows.

The power of the earth courses through them, but where it makes him strong, it suddenly makes her feel only too weak.

*

It is their time, the time of these new heroes, but still they ask them both to stay. Wyll is adamant; he will have the High Harper and the Great Halsin at his side as he returns home, and she finds it impossible to refuse.

She speaks to Halsin first as she joins their camp with only what she can carry. They will be moving soon, and the city will have plenty of comfort for her, should they make it. What remains of her men stay in a camp further back with the Fist, and part of her feels she needs to be back with her people.

“My heart breaks to leave,” he says. “Seeing Thaniel again made me feel like a boy. It is not something I thought I would hold in my heart again.”

“Time will pass before you know it,” she says, “Wyll will take on the Absolute, and he will win, and then we can choose our lives as we see fit.” 

She believes he will prevail. Despite everything, she believes it. She has lived long enough and seen enough men and women take up the mantle of hero, so many cocksure lordlings and educated mages, fierce warriors and quick witted rogues. She knows the depth of character it takes now to be a leader in that way, the selflessness, the courage beyond strength or cunning or skill.

“What will you do,” he asks, “When all this is over?”

“I have my duties,” she says, finding a space nearby and setting down her pack. When she was a young girl, she thought that such things would feel like suffocating vines holding her down, but quickly she had understood the importance to her of strong roots. “They will lead me on, as always, and I do not mind.”

He is different, she thinks. He is full of the spirit of wildness; it is an energy that pours off the very meat of him, in every flex of his arms and every burst of laughter from his chest. She cannot imagine how he stayed in the grove for all of that time, how he could have stood still to let the needs of others weave their way around him.

She looks to him and realises he is looking over her, taking in all of her as she bends down to pull a soft fur bedroll from its bindings. 

“Can I do something for you, Halsin?” she asks.

“Forgive me, High Harper. I was simply thinking of life beyond duty. It has been a long time since I have had the freedom to think on such things.”

“Call me Jaheira, if we are to be companions now,” she says. “It is nice to finally be standing together in a fight.”

*

She could always smell the city before she could see it. It has been years and she can never quite get used to it, the intensity of the scent of all of those people living on top of each other, but this is the place that the Harpers need to be, and she needs the Harpers.

“This place,” he says with a growl. “It is putrid. How can you bear it?”

“You learn to bear many things, Halsin, when you have to.”

“I wish I had your fortitude.”

She doesn’t think he would wish such a thing, if he knew what she had to bear to gain it.

“We have not even reached the walls yet. There is worse to come. You must be ready.”

*

She can breathe differently like this. Her body feels powerful again, clothed in night-black fur and pulsing with the need for the hunt. She does not, of course, but she takes the energy that this sleek feline body affords and runs through the woodlands just outside of Rivington, like she has for many, many years since she first called this city her home. 

The locals have made a legend of her, the Beast of the Hill, and she has enjoyed chasing some of them tamely through thickets to let her legend grow. There are always young boys, venturing into the woods with excitement on their breath, desperate to prove themselves to their lover or their idle, waiting friends. Sometimes they are armed, but more often they are quaking in their best boots in a way which, she admits to herself sometimes, she might have once inspired simply as a young woman. She allows them a low growl, a pounce that lands just far enough from them to avoid a hidden blade but close enough to make them run, and she roars at them as they stagger back to their little lives in their little town. She will be the legend in their short little existences, and they will each live in her mind too, a scattering of small stars in the constellation of the night hunt. 

There is somebody on her tail tonight, she can sense it. He is far enough away that she cannot tell what kind of man he is. This is always the best part of it, the anticipation, the low prowl, the waiting, hidden away, for them to make a mistake, to reveal themselves. Perhaps a sweet slight elf, clutching a poorly made sword and a half-baked dream of being a hero. Perhaps a strapping dwarf, bolstered by the desire to spill the blood of the beast and be a big man. Perhaps a woman this time, desire for the sight of the extraordinary steeling their resolve. She can easily lose any of them, but she has been away from here for so long. She wants to see them. She wants to be caught.

She finds a clearing, one she knows well, where the stars can be seen through the canopy. The moonlight hits the ground and she waits for them to reveal himself. He does, of course, in a tentative step from the darkness into the light.

“I followed you here,” he says, his voice a low hoarse whisper. “Perhaps you knew that? Your senses are keen.”

She growls at him instinctively, letting it thrum through her, standing her ground. She can feel the weight of her paws in the leaves on the ground, claws sinking into the earth as she looks up at the shadowed figure of Halsin. He blocks the moonlight, his hand extended towards her with a confidence he has not earned. He makes a move towards her and, with surprise in his eyes, he drops to his knees and begins to transform, the brown of the fur pushing through and expanding him into the beast that dwells inside him.

He stands in front of her, his breath loud and deep, as he inhales a breath and roars.

She turns.

And she runs.

She runs as fast as this body can take her, she runs with all the power she can push through, the branches of the trees scraping at her skin. She can hear the lumbering of the strength of him behind her as he chases, but he will never catch her like this, he can never be lean and swift enough to catch her, but part of her wants to turn and face him, to bare her teeth and to stalk around him.

She runs. She runs until she cannot run anymore, until the dawn starts to leak over the horizon and she collapses on the edges of the woods, the form sinking away and leaving her exhausted and panting on the ground. 

*

Their eyes meet over the camp, the flicker of the firelight drawing her to him. There are no words needed, nothing more to be said. The understanding is complicit. They will run in the woods together again. It is done.

[spacebarbarianweird]

The Dhampirs of the Sword Coast - Chapter 4. The Lost Cause

It's been a while but I've finally written the 4th chapter! Upon receiving a quest to find an ancient spellbook, the dhampirs form an unlikely party of adventurers. Also we learn some gruesome details about vampires and dhampirs in the Underdark and meet a mysterious stranger in the woods.

Read on AO3

Link for Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Thanks @themadlu for beta-reading!

The List of Chapters

Masterlist

Headcanons

Ulsha (Half-Orc/Paladin) - age 26. Lawful Good.

Alethaine (High Elf/Necromancer) - age 25. Astarion's daughter. Lawful Neutral.

Theris (Tiefling/Bard) - age 27. Chaotic Neutral.

Mierni (Human/Wizard)- age 14, Gale's foster son. Suffers with selective muteness. True neutral.

“So,” Theris the Bard stops and puts away his viola. ‘We are positively lost.”

“You are observant,” Ulsha shrugs.

“Oh, Ulsha, perception checks are my specialty!” Theris places his clawed hand to his undead heart. 

“When you aren’t high.”

Alethaine shivers.

Autumn has gone from “warm and tolerant” to “disgusting and cold” within two weeks. Rain is pouring down on the four dhampirs and Alethaine feels like a wet, sad, lost cat. Besides, Ulsha and Theris— her two-meter-tall half-orc and tiefling companions – constantly quarrel.

As for Mierni, the little wizard raised by Gale Dekarios, he has been surprisingly quiet ever since their little group left Waterdeep behind. 

“Shut up,” Alethaine mutters walking forward. For the last two weeks, the party of dhampirs had been following the Trade Route south to reach Dragonspear Castle where, according to Gale, Bowgentle of Silverymoon’s spell book was hidden. 

But as time goes she wonders if she should have inquired more  about the location of the book and the dangers that lie ahead.

But patience has never been her strong side.

The storm wind starts howling and the trees creek as if about to break.

“We need to set up a camp,” Ulsha says leaving Theris behind. 

“On the open road?” Alethaine cringes. “I don’t know about your folk, Ulsha, but I am not a fan of sleeping in the dirt.”

“We belong to the same kind, last time I checked.”

“But neither of us is waterproof! We need at least somewhere dry!”

Ulsha makes a weird sound similar to a hushed roar and Alethaine takes a step back. Well, you can’t overcome genetics. After all, Alethaine Ancunin is a Moon Elf and Ulsha is a Half  Orc.

And elves are afraid of orcs.

“Mierni! Are you alright? Could you cast something that can protect us from the wind and rain?” Ulsha suddenly speaks very softly like a nanny or a mother. She very well could be both considering the tiny dark-skinned wizard is even shorter than Alethaine.

The boy shakes his head. He opens his mouth as if trying to say something before turning his head away and grasping the magic staff.

“Great! And the wizard is mute again!” Theris hisses.

“It’s not his fault!” 

“Of course it’s not, but it doesn’t change the fact that we are in the middle of nowhere,” Theris bares his fangs.”We have a paladin who gave an oath to never use her very useful dhampiric skills, a sorceress whose spells and skills are a mess and a wizard who is mute! At least you have me, so I can play some tunes at your funeral. Is this spell book even that valuable?”

“It probably is,” Alethaine looks around. 

“Very well Alethaine, what do your elven eyes see?” Theris asks.

Alethaine is too tired to have an argument about “not all elves have great eyesight, not all elves are good archers, and not all elves are delicate, elegant creatures”.

“I see a lot of dirt. One of you was supposed to be smart enough to get a map.”

“This is the wilderness, it won’t be mapped,” Ulsha notices.

Alethaine takes a step forward. Then another. The rutted road makes it difficult to move even for a dhampir and she feels her boots getting disgustingly wet 

She would sell a soul for a warm bed at an inn if only there were one.

The woods are alive, they are alive in a grotesque, decaying sense, with leaves turning into rot, dirt, and mold. But still – alive.

Alethaine feels an eerie presence. She stops and turns her head slightly  to better catch a strange sensation.

“Do you see something?” Theris asks. Ulsha stops him with her strong green hand. “I just wanted to ask!”

Alethaine closes her eyes. Her mind is filled with shadows, marks of decay. 

Here.

She drops her traveling bag on the ground and picks up a shovel. 

“Theris! Would you be a kind tiefling and help a maiden dig a grave?” Alethaine calls to him.

“No. Dig it yourself!” Ulsha nods in agreement and closes Mierni’s eyes.

“Pen-channas!”  Alethaine mutters piercing the ground with the shovel. It’s difficult to dig, the ground feels like Mire.

“Does anyone speak Elvish here?” Theris protests. “I am not comfortable with her speaking Elvish when she can speak Infernal perfectly!” 

“Samit olme ulundova,” Alethaine says out loud. “Caretya lusta ná.”

Digging graves is a pleasant thing. It’s like submerging into water after a long day. 

Finally, the shovel touches a half-rotten corpse. It looks like a halfling, but it could be a very thin dwarf. 

Alethaine hears steps behind her. Ulsha mutters something between a prayer and a curse and Theris is more curious than disgusted. 

“Speak!” Alethaine orders. Green runes appear in the air and a small, unnatural flame ignites on the palm of her pale hand. A pleasant sensation runs through her body – it’s like a caress, fresh water after a fever, a pain after wound debridement. 

The corpse levitates a few feet above the ground, its mouth and eyes glowing with the same unnatural green light as Alethaine’s hand.

“Where are we?” Alethaine asks.

“On the Sword Coast.”

“Fuck, I know this already. How far is Dragonspear castle?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are there inns around?”

“There was one… But it was burnt to the ground.”

The body levitates in the air. Two more questions before it shuts up for good. But Alethaine can’t think of anything useful to ask considering the corpse had the same level of geographical cretinism as the dhampirs.

“Oh, I know! Let’s ask how it died!” Theris gets enthusiastic.

“What for?” Ulsha protests. The corpse turns its head to her. 

“Because it’s always interesting to know how someone died,” the corpse replies.

Ulsha takes a step back.

“Oh no no no, I’ve broken my oath by speaking to it? Did I? Did I break my oath? Lathander forgive me.” Ulsha looks absolutely helpless.

“No, it doesn't count,” the corpse says, and promptly returns to its grave.

“Alethaine, I forbid you from digging any more graves!” Ulsha says after the dhampirs give up and decide to set up camp hoping their tents will protect them from the rain.

“Who are you to forbid me to do anything?” Alethaie glares at the half-orc. It’s a difficult task given the stark height difference.

“I am in charge of our party. I don't want you to attract unnecessary attention”

“Ulsha, our party is made up of a paladin of Lathander, a constantly high tiefling, a mute kid, and an elf. We are attracting attention by default.”

Ulsha moves closer using her size for intimidation.

“Alethaine, no grave digging while I am in charge.” 

“Don't you dare use your intimidation skills on me!” Alethaien suddenly gets angry. 

“You want to question my authority?” The half-orc bellows. 

“No, I am fine with you being the one at fault.” Alethane lies on her bedroll. “But I am going to dig as many graves and talk to as many corpses as I want!”

Ulsha gives up and goes to check on Mierni and Theris. Mierni still refuses to talk and Theris has already drunk half a bottle of fire whiskey he’s found somewhere.

Suddenly, Ulsha drops toher knees, raises her face to the west, and prays

Farewell, Illuminated one until we meet again

We carry the sun in our hearts until then

Give us the strength to carry on

Until the next dawn

The moment she ends the prayer, Alethaine feels how the night starts.

Even though she is not a vampire, she always knows when it’s night and when it’s day. Sun isn't an enemy, but not a friend either. 

Why is Ulsha so adamant in her faith?

“Ulsha.” Alethaine approaches her. “You were raised in the Underdark right?”

The half-orc nods.

Alethaine scoots closer.

"How bad was it there?"

"You really wanna know?"

"I do."

The Half-Orc chuckles.

"It was bad. When the spawns were released from the dungeons, they rushed to the Underdark, murdering, raping, and feeding. It was a bloodthirsty horde worse than then the abyssal demons. Some of them disappeared to return to their homes, to their past lives, mostly dwarves and drows. But I am afraid many returned to the surface to be vampires, the hunters of the innocent. Among those who remained underground, only 1,000 were still sane. The others… They are more like animals than sentient beings. They live in small colonies, like stray cats, and constantly travel looking for prey. As for the sane’ 1,000…"

Ulsha paused, collecting the thoughts.

"Dalyria, one of the ‘leaders’ tried to be their queen or chieftain, whatever. She called them a Coven. But soon, 1,000 divided into 10-15 clans in a never-ending war with each other. It's a feud. A fight for food, resources, and territory. All the clans were more or less equal until … dhampirs started growing older. Dhampirs became the ultimate weapon – we can sense the presence of vampires, we can stalk them in running water, in sunlight, we can starve them…”

Alethaine catches a glance of Theris who has made himself comfortable in his tents and started playing a viola. 

"My clan never pretended they ‘got’ me for any other purpose than to make me their champion, to fight their wars for them. Dalyria was in a rage when she learned about me and she called upon her sons, the twins Eben and Eren, who lived on the surface. They massacred every vampire in my home. It was a bloodshed I had never seen before and I wish to never witness it again. I thought they would kill me, but they showed me the way up to the surface and told me to never come back. The Underdark is no place for dhampirs, it will be our demise should we return there.” Ulsha exhales loudly before turning to Alethaine. “What about you? You don’t look like an orphan or an outcast”

Alethaine sits beside the half-orc.

“I am neither. I was raised by my vampire father and mortal mother.”

“So your father just kept a mortal on a leash?” Ulsha suggests.

“What? No! They aren’t slave and master,” Alethaine protests. 

Childhood memories pass before her eyes. Her father, Astarion, angry because Tiriel left for some dangerous quest without heeding his advice. Her mother, joking about something plain stupid. 

And often – cries. Alethaine knows that her father’s past tortures him and he often can do nothing about it. 

“They are married,” Alethaine finishes. “And they treat each other well.”

Ulsha shrugs.

“It’s not uncommon. After all, all vampires were once mortals. My clan was led by Sebastian. He was a noble from Baldur’s Gate and spent seventeen decades locked in a cell starving and tortured. He met a mortal man in the Underdark and left with him. Sometimes, I am happy for him. Sometimes, I am angry because, once he left, the new leaders started a shitshow. You know, there is a difference between a vampire who comes from a distinguished family and a psycho-pedophile who used to own slaves. Vampirism just makes you more aware of everyone’s flaws.”

“You probably think I am some spoiled girl,” Alethaine chuckles.

“I don’t. Lathander teaches us not to be jealous. I am happy for you and I wish I had the same upbringing.”

Theris suddenly jumps to his feet.

“Finally! I caught that stupid, dumb bitch!”

“Who?”

“Inspiration.”

Ulsha groans. “Spare me”

Alethaine stands up to leave Ulsha’s little tent, the half orc grabs her wrist.

“Be careful, Alethaine. Here on the surface dhampirs are still rare but in the Underdark, we are juggernauts who change the game for vampires. Be careful of whoever asks you for help.”

Alethaine nods and crawls inside her tent. It’s more or less warm and she soon starts slipping into oblivion. 

… Only to be woken up by a ruthless sun and a scared wizard.

“Mierni, what’s the…” Alethaine mutters, quickly stopping herself before saying a “bad word” in front of a fourteen-year-old boy.

Mierni points at the campsite. The fire has been extinguished. Ulsha grabs her ax in a fighting stance while Theris is hiding in the bushes.

“What’s wrong?” Alethaine asks.

Ulsha groans something incomprehensible.

Theris points in front of them.

Now, in the dusk of the morning, Alethaine sees that either she and her cousins are blind idiots or there is some dark magic at play. 

Dragonspear Castle, or at least what is left of it, towers above the forest in all its ancient and macabre beauty.

“So we could have spent the night under a roof?” Alethaine mutters and immediately gets kicked in her ribs by the little wizard. “Oh… I see.”

At least a dozen ogres are wandering around the castle at a very close proximity to the dhampir camp.

“Anyone implying they are my kin,” Ulsha warns, “Will lose their limbs.”

Mierni opens his mouth, but the words are stuck in his throat as if he was under the Silence spell. Definitely embarrassed by this, he tries to hide behind Alethaine.

"Here is the plan, short and simple,” Theris says. “We go to the chief ogre, double dog dares him to help us, he goes to the closest town, folks there come to kill him, poor fella, the ogres start a fight for the throne, we chose the one we like, support his claims, he becomes the new chief and we gaslight him to let us in the castle. Voila, problem solved!"

"Theris, are you ever sober?" Alethaine asks

Theris looks at her with his red hell touched eyes and Alethaine suspects that the answer is “no”.

The Black Death, an albino rat, squeaks.

“Alright, simple plan,” Alethaine says. “Theris and I sneak there to find the spellbook and then we leave before they notice us.”

“You are an elf, they will catch your scent the moment you are close,” Ulsha groans.

“Then only Theris?” Alethaine suggests. “No, he won't find the book, he can’t identify magic.”

“I’d love to disagree but I won’t. Maybe Ulsha can … talk to them?”

Ulsha collapses the two-handed ax on the ground. “What did I tell you, Theris?”

“But you do speak Black Speech!” Theris hides behind Alethaine and the elf realizes she doesn’t really enjoy being on the first line between the half-orc paladin and her enemies.

“So what? No, if we are to complete the quest and bring that book to the distinguished wizard,” the last part of the sentence doesn’t sound mocking at all. “We need to get inside together.”

“Or we can pretend we didn’t find it,” Alethaine suggests. “What, it’s just a spellbook?”

Theris surges forward.

“It’s an expensive book! I am not losing a fortune because you are all so stupid.”

“Theris!” Ulsha bellows but it’s already too late.

An ogre grabs the tiefling’s collar and lifts him up like a vermin.

“Smells dead,” the ogre comments. 

“At least I don't reek of piss and rot.” Theris says, offended.

“You,” the ogre says. “You are also dead.”

“Aka’magosh,” Ulsha puts her hand to her chest, hiding the symbol of Lathander. “What is your tribe doing here?”

“Power. Abyss. They have called. We have come,” the ogre says somewhat proudly. “Dirma. Abyss. The red eye in the skies.”

Alethaine puts a hand on Mierni’s shoulder. The little wizard is so scared thatshe is afraid he will run away (and will definitely be eaten by ogres).

Well, there are always stories that mimic your every step, Alethaine thinks.

Forty-five years ago the cult of Absolute took hold on the southern areas of the Sword Coast, infecting ogres, goblins, and drows, literally making no exception, with parasites who would turn them all into mind flayers. All pawns in the hands of the Bhalists and the rogue Illithid who’d decided it was his chance to seize control.

An attack on Baldur’s Gate. Random passengers. 

A vampire who’d decided the painful death from the hands of mind flayers was definitely better than his life as a spawn.

A lonely traveler from the East who was looking for a job.

In two months, the cult was destroyed. All glory was received by Duke Ravengard and the archmage of Waterdeep. The half-elven warrior and the vampire disappeared in the vast wastelands hoping to forget the horrors they both had endured.

Scholars say the cosmogonic myths are the most important of all because they explain how things came to be. Other scholars note that, since family and home are the whole universe for children, they need to know their own myth of creation.

Alethaine knows everything about the cult of Absolute starting from “and that’s when we awoke in the pods” to “and then we fall into the Chiontar river after killing the brain.”

Can the Absolute come back? Just like in those fucking neverending stories when problems just pass from one generation to another!

“You,” The ogre points at Alethaine. “Abyss.”

“Yes,” Alethaine exclaims. “I accept the Abyss and whatever lives there as my only lord!”

Ogre cringes but it seems like Alethaine’s words persuaded him because he finally releases Theris, causing him to fall on the dirty ground.

“The abyss. Will eat. The land. Be only wasteland. Nothing lives. The great old one shall come back.”

“Can we,” Alethaine suggests. “See the castle? I mean we’ve made a long path to pay respects to… the great old one?”

The ogre contemplates. Alethaine thinks she can physically feel how thought crawls in the ogre’s mind.

“Yes. You can. But not her. She prays to the sun.”

Ulsha nods, hardly hiding her joy when hearing that she won’t have to come closer.

“No!” Theris protests. “She is coming with us. I am not going anywhere close to them without a proper warrior in our ranks! She is… she is about to betray her false god and she wishes to pay her respect to the Abyss!”

The ogre takes a sniff.

“I SEE. I WILL SHOW YOU.”

“Oh, Latander please forgive me,” the half-orc mutters but doesn’t try to run.

“I am expecting some gratitude for my amazing deception skills,” Theris nags.

“It’s not your deception skills, it’s him who has bad perception.” Ulsha doesn't give Theris a chance.

Alethaine moves forward. The ogres camp stinks - not of the pleasant smell of death and decay, but  of dirt, blood, and gore.

Even Ulsha feels uncomfortable, especially since she has to hide the symbol on the chest.

The chieftain (the string of fresh halfling heads on his belt indicates that he is indeed the leader) proudly announces something in Black Speech. Ulsha refuses to translate.

“ABYSS, ABYSS, ABYSS!” The ogres chant. 

And then Alethaine notices a pit.

The pit that appears to be the primary source of the stench is placed by the gates of the castle. Alethaine approaches it, quietly wishing to be too small for the ogres to notice her.

The pit is made of flesh.

“What the…” Alethaine mutters in common. “Rhaich!”

The flesh pulses as if alive and it’s probably deep enough to reach the Underdark. The pit whispers and Alethaine concentrates to try to understand something.

The unnatural darkness holds a grip on her half-undead mind. It lurks in her memories, her fears, her insecurities.

A dead kitten resurrected by necromancy.

An old grave that smells like home.

Loneliness. Fear. Where do dhampirs go when they die?

Then she sees woods and fields dying, becoming a twisted version of themselves. The maw of the Abyss devours the world, leaving nothing but the undead, who starve to death.

“Alethaine!” Theris drags her away from the pit. “What in hell's wrong with you?!”

“What… I am fine!”

“You’ve almost jumped there!” The tiefling hisses. 

Suddenly the chieftain bumps his staff and the ogres start throwing stuff into the pit.

Parts of victims' bodies. Stolen gems. Pieces of clothes.

“I think they mistake it for the garbage pit,” Alethaine mutters.

“No,” Ulsha answers. “Those are offerings.”

The chieftain keeps sputtering words in Black Speech and Ulsha cringes at every syllable. 

Alethaine decides not to ask for a translation.

She keeps watching as things drop down into the bottomless pit.

And then she feels a tickling sensation in her fingers.

Magic.

Not the twisted and unnatural one she just experienced, but the real Feywild magic.

And it’s somewhere close.

Mierni starts tugging at Alethaine’s sleeve while making incoherent sounds. 

“What?” She follows his finger.

The chieftain grabs an intricately decorated book with runes that start shining the moment the dirty hands of the ogre touch it.

“The Silvermoony Spellbook,” Alethaine whispers.

Mierni starts nodding.

“Well,” Theris leans on him. “Cast magic hand or something!”

He shakes his head. 

“Someone, turn his speech on,” Theris spits. “Maybe we should scare him?”

“Touch Mierni and I will drag you to Gale as a test subject for his magic experiments,” Ulsha warns.

Alethaine tries to squeeze through the ogres, but their thick bodies keep pushing the dhampir back.

The chieftain opens the book, almost ripping the cover, and throws the expensive item into the pit.

“MAGE HAND!!!!” Mierni screams at the top of his lungs. A hand weaved of blue light floats towards the book and grabs it by the cover before the greedy pit devours it.

The ogres fall silent and Alethaine has this uneasy feeling of being watched by rather unfriendly creatures.

The mage's hand rises into the air so high the ogres can’t touch it. 

“Now we run?” Theris asks.

“Yes,” Alethaine agrees. “No, we run.”

The mage's hand dissolves and the book starts falling. Ulsha lifts Alethaine up and the elf manages to catch the book before it falls into the ogres’ hands.

“Run!” Ulsha puts Mierni on her wide shoulders. “Zigzag and spread in different directions!”

Alethaine rushes to the right while Ulsha and Mirni take the left.

“Oh, so you’ve left me! Of course, no one ever feels sorry for the bard!” Theris curses as he sprints towards the castle’s walls.

Alethaine sometimes doesn’t like being a dhampir.

Sometimes she wishes she could breathe, and didn't have fangs that constantly hurt her lips and gums.

But not in a moment like this. 

She easily leaves the angry ogres behind. The woods welcome her as if she were a real elf, not an undead. Her darkvision helps her see better and soon the crass voices fade away.

Alethaine stops and opens the book.

The unknown symbols dance on the page but she can’t grasp the meaning of the words.

The heavy presence of magic returns.

Strong, potent. And wild.

Alethaine freezes trying to identify its source.

Someone grabs the book from her pale hands.

“I think this belongs to us,” a red-haired half-elven woman appears out of the shadows. She wears leather trousers and a shirt and her only weapon is a dagger. “Oh, Fuckface says I should thank you for doing the dirty job. She is in a surprisingly good mood today!” --

Quenya and Neo-Sindarin vocabulary

Pen-channas! (Sindarin) -  Idiot! (Literal Translation: intelligence-less)

Samit olme ulundova (Quenya) - You smell like a monster

Caretya lusta ná (Quenya) - Your head is empty Rhaich! (Sindarin) - Curses! -- Tag list

@tugoslovenka  

@herstxrgirl 

@herdarkestnightelegance  

@vixstarria 

@not-so-lost-after-all  

@marcynomercy  

@theearthsfinalconfession 

@starlight-ipomoea    

@micropoe10 

@astarion-imagine-archive  

@veillsar

@elora-the-slutty-songstress  

@fayeriess  

@lumienyx  

@tallymonster    

@caitlincat-95  

@tragedybunny  

@valeprati  

@lynnlovesthestars   

@marina-and-the-memes  

@waking-eyes   

@ayselluna  

@connorsui  

@asterordinary  

@darkarchangel96  

@locallegume  

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@coffeeanddonutscafe  

@my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen 

@queenofthespacesquids  

@ednaaa-04  

@dajeong

@wilteddreamsofbaldursgate

@nyx-knox

@jessaryss

@sillybillylia

[cow-wizard]

A Promise of Things to Come

disclaimer: I am still technically in Act 2 of Baldur's Gate 3, because I am playing on xbox and am one of the unfortunate people to have experienced a total wipe of my saves. I've been careful about using cross-save and that has worked for the most part but it had a hiccup the other day so I am currently just waiting for a fix and not risking my 50+ hours into Mia's file. Anywho, here's Mia talking to the devil after saving the Grove because I'm a dumb bitch with terrible taste, I will never change, I will never improve, that is a promise

The sounds of the party gradually faded into the nightsong of crickets and wind through the trees as Mia made her way closer to the forest; the gentle rush of the nearby river grew more prominent, but it melded into the chirps and rustling of leaves, creating a soothing rhythm that urged her feet ever-forward.

It had been days since Mia had felt any sense of peace, and she knew she couldn’t stray too far from camp, lest she lose the protection of the prism — but the night wouldn’t last forever. She intended to find at least a bit of solitude before it was over.

The tieflings were fine people, but she’d felt more than a bit ill at their profuse thanks for ‘rescuing’ them. Mia hadn’t set out to do anything so selfless. She’d needed Halsin for a potential cure, and he’d wanted the goblin leaders dead, so she’d killed them. It was simple math, but the idea of explaining it to anyone left a pit in her stomach, so she’d swallowed the feeling and plastered on a sweet smile as everyone thanked her for being so courageous.

She shivered, pulling the shawl around her shoulders closer. Initially, she’d cursed the mind flayers for abducting her in such a state — in her short summer nightgown and heavy shawl, no robes to speak of — but to have even a small comfort in such dire times seemed a blessing now.

Suddenly, there was a shimmer in the air, and the faint smell of sulfur. Mia tensed, waiting for the hot flash of light that preceded the appearance of a devil, but as he materialized before her, she let out a small sigh of relief. Raphael. Not a concern, especially not if he was just showing up before her, rather than the group.

“Cold?” he asked, arching an eyebrow as he glanced down at her nightwear. “Not surprising, given your ensemble.”

Mia barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “No, actually. Not now that you’ve shown up.”

Raphael started to smirk, very slowly, and Mia let out a huff.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant because,” she paused, waving her free hand in a vague circular motion, “you carry the fires of Avernus, or…something like that.”

He hummed, clearly not convinced, and once more looked Mia up and down. The hem of her nightgown only reached halfway down her thighs, revealing more than a few small patches of warped and discolored skin — burn scars, he was certain. Not as extensive as the one that nearly covered the entire left side of her face, but similar enough in color. “You know, you really shouldn’t wander into the woods alone like this. All manner of beasts prowl the night.”

“Like devils?” Mia asked in a deadpan tone, her face just as impassive. Her blind left eye made the expression more severe, somehow, though there was something bright burning behind her right eye as well, the brown prominent against white.

“I was thinking more along the lines of wolves, gnolls, owlbears, that sort of thing,” Raphael said with a flourish of his hand, and then gave her another smirk. “After all, you do look sweet enough to eat.”

Mia looked up at him, dumbfounded. She felt her jaw dropping slowly, but she couldn’t summon the willpower to stop it.

Raphael’s grin relaxed, though it looked no less dangerous for it, and he stepped closer. “It would be a shame to see you ravaged.”

Mia could almost hear something creak in her head as the gears of her mind finally started grinding together — the devil was…flirting with her.

She stood there silent for too long; she could feel the weight of it bearing down on her, drawing the blood to her cheeks and ears, heartbeat thrumming in her fingertips. Finally, she managed to swallow the lump in her throat, and asked, “Did you want something?”

Raphael cocked his eyebrow again. “An interesting moment to ask me that. Alas, a devil’s appetite is never truly sated, but I get the sense you’re still not ready to make a deal.”

Mia made a face. “So what, you came here to try and ‘whittle’ me down?”

Raphael’s grin grew amused. “You were paying attention. Good girl. But no,” he said with a sigh, “as enjoyable as it would be to watch you squirm, I merely thought you could use the company.”

Mia’s expression warped even further, implying that she didn’t believe his words for a second. “I’m sorry, you thought— you saw me leave a party held in my honor, with at least a dozen people clamoring for my attention, and your conclusion was that I was…lonely?”

“Aren’t you?” Raphael asked, and as Mia hesitated to answer, he continued, “Perhaps your tadpole-infected companions might have something in common with you, but the good people of the grove?” He paused, tilting his head slightly as his smirk grew condescending. “Now that I very much doubt.”

“You don’t know me.”

“And neither do they. But at least I want to know the real you.”

Mia’s frown pulled to one side. “Yes, so you can exploit my every fear and coerce me into signing over my soul. Do I look stupid to you?”

With the excuse to consider her appearance again, Raphael lifted a hand to his chin, crossing one leg behind the other. His eyes found the scars on her legs again, and he hummed. “You look as though you’ve poor aim with your spells.”

Mia flushed, and hurried to tug at the hem of her nightgown; her shawl slipped off her left shoulder, revealing a lightning-patterned scar running up her left arm. Raphael’s eyes narrowed while she wasn’t looking, but his features smoothed out again as he once more stepped closer, reaching for the edge of her shawl and tugging it back up.

He lingered there in her space, a thumb still hooked beneath the heavy wool, wondering how much wolf lay hidden beneath her sheep. The thought of her engaging in savagery was a brilliant one, shining like a star, and he inhaled sharply at the bloodsoaked idea. The smell of gin hit him, and he almost passed it off as the forest, but he'd not noticed many pines. It was coming from Mia, he realized, as he looked down and saw her staring straight ahead, at his chest. The blackened fingers of her right hand clutched her shawl closed, and he wondered what type of ice she'd fumbled, to have denied any type of healing. How many times had she hurt herself without leaving scars?

How many times had she hurt others?

She was almost shivering again, so he retracted his hand, only to lean closer.

“I could take it, you know,” he said, his voice dropping to a mere rumble from his chest, one Mia could almost feel with him so close. “The magic.”

She looked up in alarm, but soon her brow lifted, and her wide eyes searched his face for the truth. “You could?”

The desperation in her gaze nearly tore a groan from him; she looked so hopeful, almost trusting. It stoked a fire in his loins and a hunger in his gut, the sensations so heady and overwhelming that he decided right there, even if she somehow figured out a cure for the tadpole, he had to have her.

Mia was his; it had been terribly easy to shift her mind from suspicion to curiosity. It was truly just a matter of time — and how much he wanted to play with his food.

He resisted the impulse to lick his lips, and gave her an almost genuine smile. “Of course. But you’ll need it yet on your journey.”

“Oh. Right,” Mia said, and dropped her gaze, pulling her shawl tight around herself once more. Raphael mourned the loss of her pretty desperation, but smiled privately to himself, envisioning all the chances he would get to pull that look from her. His gaze shifted as he got lost in thought, slipping away from Mia and towards the forest floor.

“Not as sweet as you thought?” she asked, pulling him back to the present. Her mouth was twisted, not quite a frown, but her gaze was still lowered, and she held her shawl close with both hands. “You haven’t even seen the best scars.”

He pondered how to respond for a moment, letting her statement hang in the air, and in the absence of words between them, the chorus of the night grew almost deafening. The summer air seemed thick as velvet as it hung around them, heating the space between them as though there were no space at all.

Finally, he tilted his head, his expression almost serious. “Are you offering to show me?”

“No,” Mia answered too quickly and too loudly, and a rabbit or some other small animal must have gotten spooked by her voice, darting between bushes that rustled and shook with the movement.

An owl hooted, a few frogs joined in with the chirping of the crickets, and the wind picked up, blowing away whatever heat had been building between them.

“In that case,” Raphael finally said, “I’d best be on my way. Do enjoy the rest of your evening.”

He disappeared in a flash, leaving Mia standing alone trying to catch the breath she hadn’t realized was running from her, and wondering why in the world she had a sudden craving for cherries.

[third-rail-vip]

fic writer interview

Tagged by @adventuresofmeghatron

I’m late so you’ve probably already done this but tagging:  @laurelsofhighever  @tanaleth  @asaara-writes  @allisondraste  @pchberrytea  @red-hot-chili-tiefling

Thank you for tagging me!  Sorry it’s taken me forever, my imposter syndrome has been laughing loudly in my face at the idea of being considered a ‘writer’.  Please, come in, sit down and have a look see at my complete lack of process or general idea of what’s going on :) 

Name:  Ginger

Fandoms:  Fallout 4 currently.  Dragon Age a while back.

Where you post:  I put all my full fics on AO3 and if it’s a shorter one then I post the whole thing here on tumblr too.  If it’s giant then I post a snippet here with a link to AO3.

Most Popular One-shot:  Based on kudos The Wanderers - yeah i’m surprised too.  It was my first venture back into writing after taking time out and it was a whole new fandom and a game I was new to.  It was a fun silly little exercise in me learning my new otp and working out their fairly early days dynamic.

By comments, it’s Complicated.  I’d had that one in mind for a while before writing it (probably why it took 4 rewrites before it felt how I wanted it to).  It’s a good bit of post-feral encounter wound tending and hurt/comfort with some feels starting up (or becoming harder to deny).

Most Popular Multichap:  I don’t have any multichapter fics any more.  Once upon a time I had a Dragon Age Origins one.  I’m not good at the commitment of multichapter.  I made it 14 chapters into that one and it took me so long to drag myself out of Lothering I took it out back and shot it.

My Fallout one shots are part of an ongoing series - Then I Met You - which is a series of snapshots of Ivy and MacCready relationship (it’s still in pre-relationship stages right now).  It’s mostly character driven rather than main plot driven, but it does fit within the fallout 4 canon with some backstory and timeline canon divergence.

Favourite story you’ve written so far:  You know what, it’s my least popular Fallout one, but I have a soft spot for Blood & Rain.  It’s the second one I wrote and it’s Ivy’s pov with a hint at her pre-war life (she’s a non-canon origin sole survivor).  I got to indulge myself in writing descriptions and some action - my old faves from when I used to write (pew pew is way harder to write than stab stab).  It’s also got a really important bonding moment between Ivy and MacCready.

Fic you were nervous to post:  Every damn one.  Sharing anything you’ve made really is putting a little piece of your heart out on a platter for everyone to see and waiting to see what will happen to it.   I guess The Wanderers was extra nerve wracking because it was the first thing I wrote after telling myself I’d never go back to writing, it was kind of a make or break experiment.  Blood & Rain because of the potentially triggering material, hoping I’d touched personal subjects with enough sensitivity but also still telling the story I needed to.  

How do you choose your titles:  hahahaha WELL, I finish faffing with the main story in AO3 and then am outraged that I’m expected to have a name ready before I can post it.  Honestly though, I’ve no formula.  They all have working titles in google docs which tend to be either a vague description of what’s happening, or a song title/lyric that’s running through my head while I write.  Like, the current fic I’m working on is ‘mass pike pt 2’ which is a useless title since the part 1 was actually called Gunners & Grudges.  And I won’t know until posting day what I’m going to call it.  

I did put some serious thought into a title for my series - Then I Met You.  I was cycling through song lyrics or things that might be a general vibe for them but settled back on one line from MacCready’s final affinity chat, “then I met you”. And it just fit so well.  Meeting each other is a turning point for both of them; whether you just look at it as making a friend in the wasteland, or finding some direction after drifting for too long, or there finally being a glimmer of hope after a long time in the dark (this all counts for both of them), something changed when they met.  

Do you outline:  Sort of.  I have a massive ‘fallout notes’ document where i just jot down whenever i have an idea of something i want to write, or just random bits of dialogue that spring into my mind (that may never see the light of day again).  From there, if I want to expand them I tend to bullet point with plot ideas, more dialogue, key backstory or important things I want to cover.  I tend to have multiple fics I’m doing this with at once and I bounce between them depending on where my mind has drifted off to that day.  By the time I actually come to write something, I tend to have a lot of notes to work from, in fact quite often I have to cut back on all the ideas I wanted to cram in and some things get slotted back into the giant fallout doc for future reference.

Complete:  I only have one shots, so technically they’re all complete and can be read, for the most part, individually without you needing to have read the others.  They will make sense, there might just be some context from previous one shots in there.

In progress:  Then I Met You is an ongoing series for my Mac x Ivy one shots.

Prompts?:  I do put prompt list out there for Mac x Ivy when my brain isn’t cooperating and I feel like a need a little extra inspiration.  For the current series I’m hoarding them and working them into the context one shots I have planned.  Pretty much all my Dragon Age Origins one shots over on AO3 were prompt fills.

Upcoming work you’re most excited about:  Ugh guys we’re getting close to them getting together territory and boy do I wish my brain was being cooperative so I could get these couple of stories in between down on the page and could start working in earnest on those ones.  There’s a lazy morning in bed after a big party fic I’m really looking forward to writing (I’m looking forward to both tbh) - any excuse to explore stories behind scars and tattoos and I’m there for it.  I’m even getting a commission from the amazing @tarberrymentats  for it *discord wiggle*, so yeah, I’m excited about getting to that one!

Anyway thank you for reading my ramblings x

[ask-the-crimson-king]

Tales from D&D: The Campfire Song Song

[It is I, your friendly neighborhood Hermit back with another tale from D&D. And this one is... Certainly a saga. LONG POST AHOY.

IT IS ONCE AGAIN FROM MY CURSE OF STRAHD CAMPAIGN! The characters, in brief, are:

AETERNUS -- Goliath wild soul barbarian, played more like a golem than a goliath. Stoic, remembers almost nothing of his past. ARAZEL -- Blood angel (aasimar x tiefling hybrid) bard, has a patron because he used to be a Warlock and the player wanted to keep the patron. Very much a Bard. Has tamed a fucking dire wolf who is now named Boris. He is a good boy. LEON -- Human time domain cleric, worships a god of time called Tempus. Old retired soldier sent out into the world because his god has plans for him. CALEB -- Vampire desperado gunslinger, a vampire hunter who wants revenge against the creatures who turned him and killed his family. 

In the last session, the players had made it to the Old Bonegrinder and met the three hags living there. Thanks to a Fifth Nat 1, the hags became hostile because Arazel mentioned how he had a pet dire wolf and the hags thought he was sent by Strahd. 

I told them at the beginning of this one,  “If you can talk your way out of this encounter, I’ll let you level up right now instead of waiting for Friday.”

What the fuck happens right after I say that?

Arazel fucking crits on persuasion and the party is now LEVEL FOUR! HURRAY!

Caleb is dealing with the two sisters upstairs, his gun is mentioned, and then Arazel’s player says, and I quote,

Arazel had also purchased a pastry, and Aeternus ends up charging upstairs and Arazel turns to him and says, "Hey Pebbles, eat this okay?" Aeternus made the con save, so instead of having weird dream visions, he instead felt this weird sense of nostalgia that he cant place his finger on. Seeing the cakes were safe, the rest of the party all pay for a cake themselves and they all. fail. the save.

So they get to fall into a pleasant, dreamlike state, for 1d4+4 hours... and OF COURSE I roll a 4. So eight hours of them being in this trance. Arazel, Leon, and Caleb, all conked the hell out. Which meant Aeternus was alone with this Night Hag who was now cackling. 

And so he asked the witch what was in the cakes, and she simply said “some very rare and exotic ingredients. it is an acquired taste.” aeternus then took many hints, scooped everyone up, and left with Ismark (Kolyana and Ireena were waiting outside in a cart, not trusting that place one bit, but Ismark went in to help guard the party and keep an eye on Caleb.) 

They run back to the cart and Kolyana is asking what happened. Aeternus explains the situation with the cakes, and Kolyana then facepalms. He says,

"You didn't eat any, did you?" "I did, why?" "Those are dream cakes. they're popular in Vallaki -- you'll see why." "I do not dream." "Everyone dreams, my boy. daydreams, plans for the future, or-" "I have nothing to dream about."  The cart goes quiet before Ismark speaks up. "What do you mean?" Aeternus then says, "I remember nothing but war from my past." "A miserable existence, then." "Heh, makes you sound like a barovian," Kolyana says with a snicker. "We're all miserable bastards." 

More silence. 

"You really don't remember anything?" Ismark then asks. "Nothing but war." Aeternus shakes his head. "How old are you?" "... I do not know. I have been wandering for some time, but I know I am quite old." "I don’t remember any wars in our recent history. You don’t seem to be old enough for any of those." "Definitely not," Kolyana agrees. The cart is silent, and Aeternus goes quiet.

Hours pass, and the cart is pulled off to the side of the road. Ireena and Valerie, a Vistana woman they had met, (who owned the cart), go off to build a fire, while the rest stay back in order to wait for the others to come out of their trances. 

When they do awaken, the world is darker. More grim, more miserable. The mists seem to cling to them, and they long to be back in their dreams.

Arazel awakes with a start, drawing out his magic string and wrapping it around Leon's neck while a thin knife hovers at Caleb's throat. Kolyana, Ismark, and Aeternus all stand to try and apprehend him as he asks, "What the HELL happened to me?" "You were dreaming," Aeternus tells him. "We didn’t do anything to you." "Put the weapons away, you're around friends here," Ismark says, his sword half out of its sheath. Slowly, Arazel backs down, checking his wings to see if any feathers are out of place. Boris looks up at him expectantly, and Arazel takes him to the fire as the rest of the party files out of the cart.

They all go and head down to the fireplace, and enjoy a nice thick stew. Some of the vegetables are freshly picked from the lands around them, although they are thick mountain-dwelling plants. They are a bit higher up in elevation, though more surrounded by foothills instead of mountains. 

They enjoy their dinner and Kolyana asks them what they saw in their visions. Leon goes first, recalling his home. recalling the people he loved, the community fostered, everything. It felt warm. It felt safe. But that wasn't here anymore. Kolyana gave him a small reassuring pat on the shoulder before Arazel spoke up.

"I saw my mother." "Your mother?" Aeternus asks. "Okay, well, here's the thing. My mother was this holy angel, and my father was a damned and hated tiefling. And my father kinda dipped on me when i was younger. My mother served a very holy god who didn't want to be sullied with such a sinful abomination," he then gestures to himself, "and so my mum had to leave me." "Wait, wait, your mom left you because her god said so?" Caleb asks. "Well yeah but I mean I get it. if she didn't then she would've lost her powers, and-" "That’s pretty selfish of her." Caleb shrugs. "sorry, man." "Not really. I’m sure any parent would do that." "I can tell you, as a father myself, I would never do that to my children. No matter who the god was. I'm sorry you had to go through that," Kolyana tells him, giving Arazel a meaningful look.

“And what about you, vampire?” the old man asks. “What did you see?”

"I saw my home. I saw the old homestead. I saw my parents, and my siblings. It was nice." Before Kolyana responds, a conspiracy of ravens descends from the sky. one lands on each of Aeternus' shoulders, cawing.  The three Barovians all gasp. 

"What fantastic luck," Kolyana mutters. Arazel is tempted to have Boris pounce on them, but Kolyana quickly says "DO NOT ATTACK THEM! That would bring nothing but doom and misfortune. Ravens are symbols of good luck, not evil. At least not here." 

Arazel shrugs, and tosses a piece of his stew at them. They caw and hop off the giant's shoulders, peck at the food, then flutter off into the night. The party all decides to settle in for the night, and this comes my FAVORITE fucking part of the session;

Dream Chats with Strahd!

(Yes I’m bending the lore a bit but it’s for the rule of cool okay)

I bring each of the players into the Special Corner (Discord call, we have a D&D voice chat and then Special Corner for 1-on-1 with the DM) one by one.

First in was Arazel.

Arazel feels the presence of his patron. He feels a warm, golden glow about him, even if he cannot visualize Sanguinius himself. He soon finds himself within a hall. It seems to be that of a cathedral. Polished stone, nearly gleaming, is under his feet. But everything feels... a bit fuzzed out. Just barely out of focus. He sees a lectern at the end of this great hall, with, what 40k fans would recognize, as the BA symbol, inscribed into it.

And then he hears a very familiar voice, and sees a very familiar figure walk out from behind a pillar.

Familiar dark clothing, familiar face, familiar dark eyes. 

It is Strahd von Zarovich, and he has come for a chat. 

And he doesnt greet arazel with hostility. He says that he is impressed with this place of worship, and that he knows very little about Arazel’s patron. But he would love to learn more about him, and about Arazel himself. Arazel asks “why are you here?”

Strahd takes a sip from his glass before he says, “You and your compatriots all fascinate me. So I want to learn just a little more about you. How you think, what your morality is." He shrugs, and then explains that he does not have too much time to speak. An invitation will be given -- soon, though he does not know when -- and tells him it is within Arazel’s best interests to accept it. He wants to be able to have an open, honest chat with him and his friends.

He also asks that he does not discuss this meeting with anyone. A measure of trust. Arazel agrees, and Strahd disappears.

Next up, Caleb.

Caleb is dreaming of his homestead. He feels grass beneath his feet, but none of his family is here. Everything around him feels fuzzy, blurry. The only crisp image is of the homestead itself. Strahd appears to him as well, coming out of the homestead, and says similar things to what he told Arazel, namely the reason for his arrival and his interest in him and his friends. However, he also remarks on how similar the two of them are, referring to their shared vampiric nature. Caleb says,

"Actually we're probably very different. I think we became who we are through very different ways." 

Strahd agrees, but he offers a solution to Caleb's little bloodthirst-issue, (which luckily has been able to be curbed thanks to Leon being generous), and potentially knowledge about his abilities. Caleb recently gained the ability to be able to shift into bat form, and he thinks he may have other skills locked away.

An invitation is mentioned, along with the same condition. He cannot tell anyone of this meeting.

Caleb, begrudgingly, agrees. Strahd vanishes once more. Interestingly, Strahd does not mention how one of Caleb’s current goals is to go into van Richten’s tower to find the old hunter in order to find a way to kill Strahd. 

But we’ll get to that.

Then we go to Leon.

Leon appears within an old library. The books around him are nothing more than vague shapes, and there is a musty smell from the bookshelves. Ahead of him is a strange device, a piece of machinery made of many different concentric rings, which he realizes must represent the different planes of reality. It slowly moves, casting around shadows as an unknown light source dances around the room. This is a representation of how Tempus views reality and its many potential timelines, he realizes. Just a very, very simple model, but it resembles the one from his own church. 

Enter Strahd, a warm smile on his face.

“I’ve been waiting to speak with you for some time. You and I have much to discuss.”

Leon asks why he is here, and Strahd explains what he had told Caleb and Arazel -- though he also adds he wants to learn a little more about him, here and now. He wants to also extend the offer for Leon to learn more about Strahd himself in a sort of private talk, and expresses interest in learning more about Tempus and Leon's nature and relationship. He asks Leon to tell him a few things, and Leon agrees to tell him a bit about his past -- his life as a soldier, the village he had settled within, how he found Tempus, that sort of stuff. 

Then Leon cuts right to the point, saying, "Why are you really asking me this? I don’t like to associate with bad people."

"Well I wouldn’t call myself bad. I have made my mistakes, and I am no saint, but I’m not a horrible person." Strahd shrugs. "I ask because I’m fascinated by you. By all of you, honestly. You're quite the interesting little crew."

He mentions the invitation, but also gives a different message.

"I know Caleb is going to be going to van Richten's tower. I want you to stay behind in Vallaki when he does. I will send my invitation then. Our conversation will be a little more... private, for lack of a better term, then the one I shall have with all of you."

He gives the same terms -- that Leon cannot tell anyone of this meeting -- which Leon agrees to, and Strahd disappears once more.

Last but not least...

Aeternus.

Aeternus doesn't dream, but his mind does come to a daydreaming-state. He comes to one of the few scenes he remembers. A field, with the rubble of a broken house nearby. Nothing else is clear, or even blurred. It feels like he’s standing on the edge of a vast void.

Strahd appears once more, commenting on how grim this place was. Aeternus is on edge at the appearance of the vampire, but simply replies, "this is all I can remember."

"Oh, I know. All you remember is warfare. But even then, of no clear battle. Just fragments of death and misery. A shame, really." Strahd sighs. "I know of a way for you to begin remembering all you had lost. My libraries may hold some of the answers you seek, as do I."

Aeternus is quiet. Before he speaks, strahd smiles. 

"Petting that wolf made you remember something, didn't it? And the cake you ate? You remember something about a raven, too."

Aeternus is caught way off guard. Strahd has, somehow (rule of cool and plot reasons) gotten into his head. He goes on guard, but Strahd puts his hands up. 

"I can offer answers. I will be sending an invitation, soon. I do not know when. But I need to be able to trust you. Tell no one of this encounter." 

"How can i be able to trust you?" Aeternus responds with a grunt. One hand is on his axe. Strahd chuckles. "Caleb wants to go to van Richten's tower. Go with him. There is something waiting for you there." 

And then he disappears, and that is where the session ended.

[qhostqizmo]

If you had a chance to change your fate, would you?

“I need you all to remember two things: one is to be courteous, the other is to be kind. Their mind is not what it used to be; and they may say some things that could alarm you. Rest assured, they mean you no ill will or harm, and it is wiser not to dwell on their… misspoken words.”

As the man uncomfortably finished their speech, they tugged at the hem of their jacket to straighten the fabric. “Now, are there any questions?”

Penimra raised his hand. “When you say their mind is not what it used to be… Exactly how helpful are they supposed to be to us if they’re a little, ya know…” He circled his finger against the side of his head, indicating the ‘coo-coo’ gesture.

The gentleman’s face contorted into fury. “How dare you-”

“Pen,” Essätha hissed, offended by the high-elf’s deplorable behavior. Leave it to him to get them thrown out before they’d even been allowed in the building. She could slap that idiot with a Mage Hand real quick, maybe that would shut him up.

“Ignore our compatriot,” Adela rushed in quickly, offering a sweet smile. Her tail lashed out, striking the warlock on the side with a growl as she continued, “He has rocks for brains. Thank you so much for your assistance, we’ll be sure to be on our best behavior.”

Squinting, the young man looked them all over. His violet gaze did not seem convinced. Essie passed a glance to her nobleman, who uncurled his lip from Penimra’s direction long enough to pass her a reassuring smile. She pulled her regard shyly away to look pleadingly upon their Tiefling aid.

“Please sir, lead the way,” she encouraged, trying not to appear desperate. Her nobleman’s hand found hers, linking their fingers intimately. It gave her posture a chance to relax.

The Tiefling man sighed, and shook his head. He muttered something to himself, and turned to open the door to the small hut behind him as he pushed his silvery hair aside.

It was about what you’d expect to see inside: small, quaint, with a high ceiling and only the essentials. There was a single door on the far right; the only other space than the one they’d walked into. The party stepped directly into a sitting room which had a sole sofa, a coffee table, and a footstool. Behind it was a little kitchenette with pots and pans hanging from racks, and a wide variety of spices. The entire house had that ‘elderly folk’ smell. It made the Yuan-Ti wrinkle her nose a bit.

An older Tiefling sat with a hunched back in a rocking chair off to the left of the threshold. A trivial work table sat crookedly near them, filled to the top with knicknacks, tarot cards, bundles of herbs, and a dusty looking crystal ball. Their age was as undefinable as their gender; they simply appeared weathered, with heavily wrinkled purple skin and glassy pale yellow eyes. They raised their head, and the crown of four horns nestled in their skull caused their neck to creek and crane painfully. Each horn shimmered, and began to shrink and rearrange themselves with their movements to better accord themselves to their elderly body. A charm upon their neck flickered; the source of magic controlling their horns to better adaptability to their ancient form.

The old figure adjusted the thin wirey glasses on their face, and sat down the book in their lap upon their overflowing table. “Rolmxes,” they coughed, teetering their seat forward. “Have you come again today to visit, my pupil?”

Bowing, the young man carried himself towards the rocker; floating more than walking, he had a sense of grace that was inspiring. He took to a knee before the senior, and graced the back of one of their hands with a kiss.

The aged Tiefling chuckled merrily at the gesture. Their gaze snapped up as the shadows of the party shifted deeper into the dwellings of the house.

“Oh! You’ve brought friends,” they muttered, readjusting their spectacles.

Mindful of the small space, Sulhadur placed a hand to their chest and bowed. “An honor to meet you-”

“Yes, I see that you are doing quite well Sir Sulhadur,” they beamed in answer. “You appear quite comfortable around Caesar too, which is admirable.”

The group stiffened uncomfortably.

“Cimarron,” the young Tiefling man stressed, clearing their throat. They indicated to each group member in turn with an open palm: “This is-”

“The Hand of Jubaeta, yes yes, She has told me much about them!”

Pri’cha’s wide eyes sparkled with glee. “So it’s true! This one can speak with Her?”

Confusion passed over the old one’s face as they ignored the question, looking among them. “Oh dear. Is Sir Abernathy Harding not among you? No no, I see, you have gained Face already, then. I do not see the Tabaxi though…”

“We’re supposed to have a cat-person?” Rava inquired, glancing around the room. “Or are you supposed to have a cat-person?”

“Rava, don’t be rude,” Adela reminded her gently, nudging an elbow in the young Elf’s side.

Clawing their fingers into the arms of their chair, Cimarron rose up with popping joints and a gentle smile. They took hold of the Rolmex’s arm as they hurried to give aid, and shuffled their way over with a magic glimmer upon their horns.

“Now, let me get a look at you,” croaked Jubaeta’s follower, grabbing for the nearest body blindly. Their stiff-jointed hand grasped for the first person they could, and they happened to land on Amon’s forearm. The light in their eyes seemed to flash as they looked into his face. Their mind almost visibly jumped from one thread of fate to another in the blink of an eye.

“Oh! Lord Amon! I see you’ve brought your wife with you. Congratulations on your wedding, I’m so sorry I could not attend.” They let go their assistant student to reach for Essie’s arm as well. “You must be so proud dear! Many blessings unto you; I’m sure your sister-in-law is going to be so excited to hear you’re expecting.”

The sorceress jaw hung wide open. Expecting what?

“… Wow. Now that there’s some future-vision,” Face chuckled in a strained and uncomfortable manner.

Wheezing, the nobleman offered his arm out further to help steady the grizzled sage of Jubaeta. “It is… so very nice to meet you, Cimarron. I understand you already know of us…”

“Know you?” the Tiefling echoed, releasing Essie. They reached up to pinch the nobleman’s cheek, studying him with a critical gaze. “I’ve never met you a day before in my life.”

Essätha turned to look over at Rolmxes. They looked just as troubled, which did little to convince her.

“They must be having a… more difficult day than usual,” the apprentice lad offered. “I’m sorry.”

“You look so uncomfortable,” rambled the seer, still peering up at Amon uncomfortably. They gasped, releasing him to flutter their hand in the air. “Oh. Was I wrong? There are so few timelines you two don’t end up together, I was so certain. How could I be so off…” They hobbled slowly away, their unfocused yellow eyes blank.

Amon’s palm was sweaty as Essie squirmed her fingers against his. They pulled their hands free mutually. She looked to one wall, and he looked to another uncomfortably. She didn’t dare look to see if his face had as much color as hers had developed.

“Cimarron, these people are here to ask you for your help in contacting Her Radiance, Jubaeta-”

“Who wants my help?”

“The Hand of Jubaeta,” Rolmxes reminded her tensely as he stepped over to extend his arm once more.

The older Tiefling accepted. “The Hand?” they echoed, “What an interesting name. What were they wanting help with?”

“Perhaps we should come back later?” Sulhadur spoke up quietly, uncomfortably clenching his claws into fists.

Cimarron looked back at them. Their eyes lit up once more. “Oh! Hello! The Hand of Jubaeta, I’ve been expecting you! Face, I see that your arm has healed nicely. Or are you still having difficulty loading your crossbow?”

“This is so bizarre,” Penimra uttered, stepping back.

Adela gave him a warning glance. He snapped his horror of a maw shut.

“No, you’re all right,” Rolmxes murmured quietly, “we should try reconvening later. I’m terribly sorry for any misunderstandings, they aren’t always… aware and in the right place and time-”

“I don’t think they’re in the right parallel universe,” the high-elf snorted, receiving another elbow in the ribs from the pink Tiefling at his side.

“Where should we meet up?” Rava inquired. “Unless you just want us to wait outside for a bit instead?

“Oh, you’ll all meet up outside my house this evening, close to five,” the old one informed them pleasantly.

“That’ll… do…” Face slowly agreed, eyeing Cimarron like they had just sprouted a second head.

“Then we will see you both again this evening,” the cleric chirped, their antenna wiggling. They appeared the least unsettled by the odd and frankly, cryptic style of the elder individual’s speech.

Rolmxes gave a frantic nod of their head, guiding the senior citizen back to their rocker. “Alright-”

“Do tell that warlock that ‘it’s coming’,” the soothsayer panted, frantically grabbing at her protege. “He should know!”

“What’s coming-”

“You need to leave, now!” Rolmxes shouted, his eyes glowing. He raised a hand, the lights in the room flashing with the magic of Thaumaturgy.

“Yes sir!” Face agreed with a strangely chipper voice. They grabbed the closest person to them; being Penimra, and began to drag him backwards as he made for the door. “You heard ‘em, we aren’t welcome in the spooky house, no more tips on our fortunes and fates ya heard ‘em-”

“That was only a little freaky,” agreed Ravamora, also backing out the door with her hands raised in submission.

Head down, Essie followed just behind the young elf. Freaky was only the tip of the iceberg. They saw her married, to…

She glanced over her shoulder at Amon as he shuffled out in front of Sul, his complexion pale.

Her teeth dragged against her lower lip.

That didn’t sound so bad, but what if he…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Essie stared at her untouched wrap. She poked it, rolling it over from one side to another. Some of the stuffing on the inside had already fallen out on one end; bits of chicken and lettuce and a sauce, and now it was doing the same on the other end as it flopped over.

“You’re supposed to eat your food, not play with it.”

She looked up, gazing bashfully into Amon’s eyes.

The nobleman gestured at the open seat next to her. “May I?”

She nodded mutely. He took a seat.

“… Some wild predictions, huh.”

So he did want to talk about them. She’d been avoiding him entirely since they’d left the little hut, hoping they could brush what they’d heard under the rug for now. Instead she had a mess of her lunch piled up in front of her, and a sweaty-looking nobleman at her side.

“Yeah, crazy,” she agreed, pushing aside the cloth her food sat on.

Silence clung to them. Amon rubbed his arm tensely.

“I guess any future plans you have to propose to me are now dashed,” she teased awkwardly, slumping over in her seat. “You know. Since I know now.”

More silence followed. Her nobleman’s hand went for hers, caressing a patchwork of scales. She peered up at him beneath her lashes. He didn’t look quite so pale as he had earlier, and his hand was gentle against her hand.

Swallowing, Amon tugged at his collar and offered a sloppy, toothy smile. “They didn’t say the when, or where, or how,” he corrected in a rasp.

She returned the smile.

“… I didn’t even know you… liked me like that.”

“We just learned some forbidden knowledge Essie. Maybe we should… process it. Slowly.”

“Yeah.” Her teeth worried on her lower lip, staring at their hands. She curled her fingers, seeking the spaces between his. A quiet hitch in his breathing stirred her pulse as he accepted her invitation, his fingers caressing against hers until he found his spot.

“Are you alright?”

“I wonder if I’ve… lost you already,” she admitted hoarsely, unable to meet his penetrating gaze. “Just by knowing. I wonder if that has changed anything for us.”

He squeezed her hand tightly, and waited patiently. She finally found the guts to meet his lingering stare.

Another squeeze, and a lopsided grin just for her. “You’ll never lose me, Essie.”

A pink tint warmed her cheeks. The sorceress smiled nervously, rubbing her fingers along the back of his hand.

“Lets take this slow,” she conceded gratefully. Her head leaned towards him, tentatively finding a place to rest against his shoulder.

Amon let go of her hand to hug his arm around her instead, pulling her closer.

“I’m okay with that. We’ve got plenty time to find our own path.”

The sorceress nodded. “A steady pace.”

“Very steady,” he vowed.

“You promise you’re not… freaking out?” She whispered, “you’re not going to… run now, are you-”

“Never,” he retorted. “Never. I’ve got all the time in the world for you. I wish I would have gotten to say some things first, before I had a prophet tell us our future apparently, but…”

“Oh yeah?” she mumbled, placing a hand to his chest. She peered up at him, her chin nestled on the fur mantle of his cloak. “What would you have told me?”

“I thought we were taking things slow,” he jested.

“Humor me.”

“… Well I… That I love you, Essie.” He swallowed thickly.

Essätha hummed, offering a modest smile. “Jubaeta’s follower didn’t tell me you loved me.”

“She said we’d be wed,” Amon reminded her a bit uncomfortably.

“You do not have to love someone to marry them,” she countered, still grinning with a twinkle in her gaze. “I was wrong. You’ve still got plenty of surprises to reveal before you propose to me.”

His jaw dropped, and she laughed.

“I thought we agreed to go slow-”

“Oh we will,” she confirmed, resting her cheek to his shoulder once more. “I just had to pull your leg a little bit. I…” She inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly. “I love you too, Amon. I don’t want to rush anything, but you told me how you felt, I think it’s only fair that you… know I feel the same.”

The corners of his mouth tugged higher. “I do enjoy hearing you say it.”

Her eyebrows dragged down. “You didn’t think I loved you?”

“I didn’t feel like I deserved your love, is more of the problem. I still don’t.”

She grazed her fingers through his hair. “It looks like I’ve got plenty of time to convince you otherwise.”

Amon tilted his head to rest his cheek against the top of her head. He shuddered, snuggling closer as her fingers continued brushing through his locks. His head nuzzled against hers, and she closed her eyes; at peace.

“Take your time, Ess. I’m willing to wait, however long it takes.”

[timeforelfnonsense]

Mistress Wit

Wyll x Criella

Rating: T 

Ao3

With Patch 3 out now, I decided to make another bg3 oc to romance Wyll! Dafni will still be the main character so to speak of my bg3 writing with Criella serving as a secondary protag & member of the party in Sunshine and Starlight. She and Wyll will also be getting their own little collection with Dafni & Astarion serving a similar role! However, as my writing is pretty ship centered you wouldn't really need to read one to enjoy the other!

                                                     Prologue

Criella brought her hands above her head, fists pounding against the transparent shield that kept her snuggly trapped in the mind flayer pod. If she could just find a weak spot…

Ah-ha!

It was faint but, Criella spotted a hairline fracture in the upper right portion of the glass. Perfect. Her tail dipped into the worn leather bag strapped to her thigh seeking her tinker’s tools. If she could just find her mallet she’d be able to shatter the glass and free herself from her confines. She reached for the top of her head, pulling her goggles over her eyes. With one precise strike, the mallet made contact with the pod’s lid. What had started as a single small fracture now spread across the whole surface in a spiderweb of spits and breaks. Carefully, her fingertips traced the somatic symbol needed to cast a gust cantrip.

“Ventus!” With the command spoken a small tempest broke free of her palms sending shards of glass flying across the clearing.

Her boots hit the ground with a soft thunk, the collateral of her escape crunching beneath her feet. She scanned her surroundings nose wrinkling with repugnance. This was definitely not Waterdeep. She’d crashlanded in some sort of hinterlands located god knows where. She brought her fingertips to her temples rubbing away the tension with little circles. She needed to locate civilization and quickly. It was only a matter of time before the dangerous effects of the tadpole squirming behind her eye would manifest.

She dug around her bag until her hand found its target. A spyglass forged of brass, runes of her creation glowing across the tarnished cylinder. Pushing her googles back up, she pressed the scope to her eye looking out into the forest. Her mind tingled, the Spyglass of Clairvoyance reveling a small settlement nestled in a nearby grove. It was no city of splendor but it was a lead. The only one she had anyway. Perhaps, whoever called the grove home would be able to point her towards the nearest healer if they didn’t have one of their own. Her body ached from the top of her horns to the tip of her tail. Even if they couldn’t see to the parasite they could ease the discomfort of being crammed into a pod had caused.

----------

Criella sat atop a traveler’s chest, her tail flicking idle from side to side. The groves healer had just set out alongside a mercenary band just recently. Meaning her only choice was to doodled among the druids until their Master Halsin returned. She let out a huff of air, blowing away a stray strand of straight, lilac hair from her eyes. If someone were asked to rattle off a list of locations they might find Criella Wit of Waterdeep, a druid’s grove would certainly not have been among them. She’d never been one for nature’s charms. Given the choice between a bustling market or a quiet glen, Criella would have picked the crowded walkways and noisy rabble of the city to the glen every time. At least she was among kin. All around her other Tieflings mulled about weary faced as they set to packing up what little they had. Criella’s gloved fingertips tapped out an anxious rhythm on the side of the chest. Criella knew better than most that right and wrong could be terms with objective definitions. But turning out helpless refugees and children? That was wrong by every definition. She had sat in Zevlor’s quarters discussing the events that lead his people to take refuge among The Oak Father’s servants. They had come from Eturel originally- Collateral damage in the wake of post-Decent xenophobia. People who had once been treasured friends and neighbors became easy scapegoats for the suffering Elturel’s people experienced in the hells. Her grip on the chest tightened. Were it not for the black leather gloves her pointed fingernails would certainly have left a mark on its suede surface. Well, if the druids weren’t going to help she would. She pulled out a well-weathered note pad and nub of charcoal. She could adapt her design for the Protector canon with relative ease. She’d have to find a way to streamline and simplify it given her the groves appalling lack of anything metal. What she wouldn’t do for steel and iron! Perhaps their smith would have some to spare though she doubted it by the state of his forge. “What are you drawing?” a tiny sing-song voice asked. Criella glanced up from her work. A little tiefling girl of no more than 10, was staring owlishly over the edge of her notebook. Criella’s lips quirked, tuning the book so the girl could get a better look at her scribblings. “It’s a diagram of an Eldritch Canon. I’ve made hundreds of the things but today I’m working on one just for you and your friends. To keep you safe.” She explained, tapping the tip of her finger to the sketch, “It’s sort of a… a mechanical cleric! If anyone gets hurt on the road it might be able to help.” “You can make that?” The child whisperer reverently. “I can make anything.” Criella winked, “Just give time and the right tools.” “Could you teach me?” She asked, her lower lip quivering ever so slightly, “I want to be able to make anything! I want to help! I’m not good at fighting or sneaking like the others maybe I’m good at making things!” Criella let out a chime of warm laughter. The little girl’s eyes were full of wonder and optimism despite all she and her kin had endured recently. She’d too had been more interested in tomes and tinkering as a girl. While her peers were swinging sticks and imagining themselves as knights and guardsmen, little Ella would climb the tallest tree in the yard and name it Blackstaff Tower. “Well I can’t teach you how to make everything in just one day but, I can show you a few things.” Criella brought her hand to her lips, sharp teeth tugging the grove from her left hand. With a heartfelt smile she extended her hand to her would-be apprentice, “They call me Misstress Wit of Waterdeep but since we are friends, you can call me Criella.”

Wyll walked the length of the makeshift training ground. Adjusting postures and offering up every word of tender engorgement he knew. The tiefling children had been ecstatic to meet a ‘real-life hero’, bombarding him with sweet, curious questions the moment he stepped through the gate. After such a warm welcome teaching a few sparing lessons while he waited for Halsin to return, was the least he could do. These children had already witnessed more than many noble old men would in their whole lives. They should have been chasing frogs, enjoying their childhoods without fear. Not training for battles they couldn’t win. Despite the cheerless nature of his thoughts, Wyll put on his warmest, bordering on a fatherly grin. “Not bad! Not bad! Now, remember not to keep yourself so open.” He instructed demonstrating his instruction for a little boy with rusty hair, “Like this.” “Keep it up little one. You’ll be a fine warrior one day!” A lovely voice called. The gentle, golden timbre belonged to a statuesque tiefling woman. Wyll’s heart sputtered a bit when her soft silver eyes fell across his face. A dazzling smile on her rose-petal pink lips. Walking beside her was a child- Nalia, the little girl with a missing horn. He’d invited her to spar but she’d only blushed and ran off. “Wyll! I look at what I made!” Nalia shouted dragging the pretty-pink woman along behind her. When she reached the ring she pulled free a small metal gadget no bigger than her palm. The steal contraption glowed with a soft purple light. It’s slivery surface marked with an inscription: Be Brave, scrawled in infernal. “Aren’t you clever!” He said crouching down to admire her handiwork, “What is it?” “It’s an eldritch canon!” She rolled her eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world The woman stifled a giggle, covering her grin with the back of her gloved hand. “Is that safe?” He asked cocking an eyebrow at the smirking beauty. “Yes! think of it as a mechanical cleric, Wyll!” Nalia said winking at her companion, “I’m going to be an artificer just like Mistress Wit!” “That’s right!” Wit nodded, “I think you’ve done enough work for today apprentice. Go on, take the rest of the day off...” As Wit trailed off a strange feeling began to unwind in Wyll's mind. The sights and smells of an unfamiliar harbor city danced across his senses. He could almost feel the sea breeze on his face. He saw a workshop so organized and meticulous it reminded him of his time with The Fist. He felt the uneven surface of cobbles stone under his feet as he tore after a thief, tears stinging at his eyes as the hooded figure mad off with the last project he and a half-drow woman had planned before she left. Lastly the memory of being confined to a pod and dragged to the hells. Wit blinked back at him dazed. Her slender nose wrinkled, her lips turned down in a worried grimace. “We should talk.”

Criella sat across from the Wyll at a shabby picnic table, poking at her gruel with a wooden spoon. The old woman had called it vegetable soup but remind her too much of the oil she used for in some of her machines to be palpable. “Not much for stew eh?” He teased taking a long sip of his bowl, “You haven’t spent much time in the wilds, have you?” “I am I that obvious?” she giggled, “I’m from Waterdeep- I’ve lived there all my life. Not much work out here in the woods for someone in my line of work.” Wyll tilted his head, bringing his chin to rest along the top of his knuckles, “Oh? And what is your line of work Wit?” He hadn’t heard of her? How strange. She was something of an arcane darling back home. If you asked someone where to inspired spellwork or magical mending. If they had any sense they would give you one answer: Wit and Wander. Well- Just Wit since Zoria had left for Neverwinter with her new wife…. “I’m many things; wizard, artificer, genius. Take your pick.” Wyll chuckled raising his tankard in approval of her assuredness, “Impressive.” “And what about you Wyll?” She said playfully, “Let me guess? You are a soldier. Mercenary? No, you are too upstanding to be a sellsword.” “They call me the Blade of the Frontiers.” He stated with a proud nod before continuing “Monster hunter. Hero. Protector of the common folk.” “The Blade of Frontiers? Now that’s a name!” She whistled, “And I thought Misstess Wit was a clever epithet! Now tell me Blade- How did you find yourself aboard the nautiloid?” Before he could respond the sound of a war horn rang out across the grove. Zevlor sprinting past them as shouting about a goblin siege at the front gate. Both adventures sprung to their feet as panic spread among the refugees. “Alright Blade.” Criella purred pulling her storm canon from the holster at her hip, “Let see if you live up to the legend.”

[drhu0806]

8 – “Give me that, before anything happens.”

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 (fanfiction) Characters: Astarion, Tav/custom player character Rating: G Warnings: none

“What have you done?”

Astarion is disgusted, scandalized, truly horrified. The mantle that hangs from Kainé’s shoulders is in tatters, shredded and mangled, a far cry from the elegant article it once was. He thumbs the end of it in his hand in disbelief.

“Did you end up in a fight with a murderous onion chopper? You look as though a wyvern tried to chew you up and just spit you back out.”

Kainé grimaces, sheepish. “There was… some trouble…”

“Clearly.”

Taking a step back, he takes the rest of her in, eyeing her critically. “And while we’re on the subject of clothes, my dear, can we talk for a moment about everything else you have going on?”

“Uh, what do you mean?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, darling, you’re gorgeous. But sometimes it helps to look the part a bit more, hm? It seems like every time I look at you, your shirt is some level of ill-fitting or torn, and for some reason you always have holes in your trousers. I know we’re in almost constant peril, but it really wouldn’t hurt to keep up appearances.”

She laughs, but it’s weak and forced, and Astarion senses that he’s misstepped somehow. “I suppose you’re right, I do look like a mess, don’t I?”

“Wait, Kainé, I’m not saying you’re a slob by any means—”

“Oh, I know, and you know I really would love to have clothes that I don’t ruin constantly, it’s just… I don’t really have that option.”

“What do you mean?”

She picks at a small tear in her shirt, one of many across a number of her casual clothes. Kainé doesn’t have many; while there’s been no shortage of abandoned, unused clothing in their travels, for some reason she gives away most of what they find to the rest of the party. Astarion himself is in possession of more clothes than he’s had in quite some time.

Kainé gives him a smile, forlorn and small. “I’m a tiefling, Astarion. It’s not exactly easy to find clothing that works for us.” She points to her horns. “You would not believe how hard it is to find a shirt that slips over my head easily.”

He suddenly remembers when Wyll was first turned into his devilish form, the hours of consulting with the tieflings in the party, the numerous times they’ve had to untangle his horns from his shirt. At the time he’d found it hilarious but...

“There’s also the matter of this lovely little thing…”

Turning to her side, her tail whips into prominence. “Tough to find pants that are comfortable enough to fit around these bad boys. Not a lot of tiefling tailors out there so… Growing up I never had a lot of clothes that fit me in general, and I never learned how to sew, so it would usually be really baggy shirts or trousers with holes just punched into them. Dresses were actually pretty nice, just not practical to wear often.” Kainé shrugs. “It was fine for a while; no point in having nice clothes I’ll just end up ruining from all the work I was doing.”

It isn’t the first time Astarion’s said something he shouldn’t, but it is the first time in a long while that he’s genuinely regretted it. No matter how hard she tries to shrug it off, he can hear the years of childhood shame behind her words. Little, seemingly inconsequential things he’s noticed during their time together come to mind: the slow, meticulous manner in which she puts her shirt on in the mornings, the times where she shifts uncomfortably in place, pulling at her trousers when she thinks no one can see.

He’s never denied that he’s been one to preen and pick at his own appearance; even his plainest clothes were carefully tailored to his tastes. But he’s always at least had good options to start with; what must have it been like, to not have that choice at all?

“Give me that, before anything happens,” he mutters, gesturing at her torn cloak. “And the rest of your free clothes as well. Gods forbid something rips in an unfortunate place at the worst time.”

“Wait, all of them? Why? It’s just my cloak—”

“Less questions, more clothes please! I don’t have all day!”

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

Later, when Kainé returns to her tent, she finds her clothes returned, laid out individually. She’s about to curse Astarion out for leaving her a mess until she picks up the first shirt. She runs her fingers over it, feeling out curves that weren’t there before, outlining the trails of crisp, cleanly stitched embroidery. Without a second thought, she switches out her attire, and she’s immediately struck at how much easier it is to slip her head through the collar, the way the shirt actually conforms to her rather than sagging loosely at her sides.

She kicks off her pants and shimmies into a returned set, practically giddy that for once her tail doesn’t catch as she pulls up the waist. Not caring whether anyone sees, she hums to herself as she dances a little in place.

One last item remains: the mended cloak. The repaired article looks almost as good as new; Kainé marvels at how neat the needlework is, how the threads seamlessly blend into the existing pattern. Yet when she reaches the collar, she pauses as a new addition catches her eye.

A small white flower is sewn underneath the collar. She recognizes the shape all too well: a white moonflower, her favorite. Kainé wraps herself in the cloak as if it were a blanket, burying her face into the embroidered design.

“Oh, good, you’ve already tried them on.”

Astarion appears at the mouth of her tent. “I was hoping I could catch you to make sure everything fit, though I’m sure my skill is perfectly good enough to—Why are you looking at me like that?”

Without saying a word, she rises and embraces him. He’s caught off guard, his arms held out as he scrambles to figure out what’s going on. Eventually he comes back to himself, returning her embrace and holding her close.

“Well, I guess that means everything fits just fine.”

[ladyatthecrossroads]

prompt list 40.“You’re sweeter than cake.” with Caduceus if its not too much trouble?

Sorry this took so long to complete, anon. It’s a bit longer than I expected it to be. I hope you enjoy!Title: Sweeter Than CakePairing: Caduceus x readerWord Count: 2435

It feels good to be back in Zadash. Your adventuring party had dragged you all across the continent of Wildemount and beyond, to the shores of the Menagerie Coast and the waves of the Lucidian Ocean. Finally back in the Empire, you were more than happy to put the relatively lawless ways of the ocean and pirating aside. You had missed this, just walking along the cobbled streets, passing the various vendors out and about with their wares in the Pentamarket. The city was a hectic place, bustling with activity, but it definitely was preferable to struggling to survive on a boat in the middle of the ocean. This was downright relaxing, comparatively.

“Man, I can’t believe Caduceus has never had a birthday party,” comes the trilling voice of Jester as the two of you stroll along the boulevard. The easily excitable tiefling skips along beside you, occasionally linking arms with you for the briefest of moments before rushing off towards whatever stall or tent catches her eye. You, however, have a goal in mind, a very specific goal.

Leaving the rest of your party back at the Leaky Tap, you recall the conversation that brought you here, snooping about the Pentamarket in search of the best variety of baked goods you could find. The subject of birthdays had arisen, and Jester had been very eager to share the details of the various past parties her mama had thrown for her as a little girl. This had led to each of you throwing in your two copper on the matter and your own personal experiences.

Of course, you hadn’t missed the far off look on the firbolg cleric’s face that spoke of fond memories. He had lazily scrubbed at his brilliant pink beard with that thoughtful expression he always wore, commenting plainly on how many seasons it had been since he last celebrated a birthday with his family. And when you had questioned him further on the subject, he appeared to grow sheepish and told you about how his family never really threw “parties,” per se. Birthdays seemed more a day to ponder your personal growth and reflect inwardly on how best to serve the Wildmother. Seeing that this answer didn’t exactly satisfy you, he then made mention that his parents would always cook his favorite food, at least.

You can understand; Caduceus is an incredibly humble individual, after all, and humble celebrations seem enough to please him. Still, you can’t quite shake the odd lingering disquiet you feel. You care for all of your comrades, but the firbolg cleric is very dear to you.

From the first time you had laid eyes on him, he had exuded such a calming aura and had been a paramount force in overcoming your grief and coming to terms with the losses you all had sustained on the road thus far. He always made time to listen when you came to him with a problem, offering helpful advice. He was so insightful, even if he was a bit naïve to the outside world. You’d both promised to lean on each other for support whenever the need arose. It was for your mutual benefit, and ultimately the good of the group, you’d told yourself.

It seemed to just come naturally that you had then fallen for him.

You want to do this for him. He deserves it after everything Caduceus has done for you. For all of you. He deserves to know that he is irrevocably and undeniably a beloved member of the Mighty Nein.

“Oh, what about this one?” Jester’s attention is caught by a baker placing hot fruit pies out to cool in a store window. The aroma seeping out the front door smells nice; the sweetness of candied fruits and the savory scent of freshly baked breads combine and you find yourself leaning forward in that direction to catch more of the delicious fragrance. Your feet move almost of their own accord, drawn in by the promise of tasty treats within. The tiefling cleric is very eager to bound to your side, linking arms with you once again as the two of you enter the shop.

The tinkling of bells announce your arrival, even though the front door is already wide open. Magic almost seems to permeate the air; there’s a palpable buzz of arcane energy, intertwined in the heady scents of the pastries. A young woman wipes her hands on her apron and looks at you, and you can see she is of some sort of Elvish descent; half-elf, you wager. Her blue eyes twinkle at you and though she is fair of face, you can see shining silver strands among her ashen brown hair. It seems impossible to determine her age, as you know that half-elves generally live longer than a human yet not as long as a full-blooded elf.

She regards you with friendly curiosity and a warm smile. “Welcome,” she says, a lilt to her voice that reminds you of a certain lavender-skinned tiefling, and you smile in fond remembrance, “Can I help you find anything today?”

A brief, but detailed conversation ensues, occasionally interrupted by one of many of Jester’s seemingly endless lines of random questions. The clerk seems to have infinite patience. You describe the occasion and general idea of what you’re looking to buy, and she is very helpful in selecting a treat of appropriate taste and size. You leave with a cake box of a medium size and a sense of accomplishment and anticipation. You hope Caduceus will like it.

When you reach the Leaky Tap, your eyes search for your ragtag group. You find them quite easily; even in the dim lighting, Caduceus’s tall frame and pink hair are not difficult to spot. The firbolg’s back is to you as he converses with Fjord and Beau, but Caleb is the one to meet your gaze. A quick assessment of you and the package you hold and he gives you a knowing look when you silently plea for him not to spoil the surprise. He puts his head back down to the book he’s reading but you catch a small glimpse of a smile he tries to hide.

You glance at Jester and the tiefling is practically vibrating in excitement beside you. Her hands go to press upon your shoulders and urge you closer. You can feel your heart beating faster. Together, the two of you cross the room as inconspicuous as you can. Fjord and Beau glance up and over Caduceus’s shoulder, eyes widening and eyebrows cocking, and that gives him the clue to turn around; and that’s when the two of you begin to sing.

It’s entirely worth it. You inhale deeply as Jester and you belt out a somewhat harmonious rendition of Happy Birthday. Your arms present the wrapped confection, held out before you as you circle the table to set it down. Caduceus’s expression is filled with mild surprise and wonderment, his light pink eyes travelling over the expanse of your face before trailing down to the cake box you hold and then back up to meet your eyes. His smile is warm and gentle and you think you can see a faint warming of color bloom across his cheeks. It might just be a trick of the light; you aren’t certain.

“Well,” he says, in that low, rolling rumble of his, “This was unexpected. How nice.” He retracts his hands from where they were folded together on the table before him, and you set down the box. He sits there, eyes glued to you and your face, still smiling, lazy and content.

You puff your chest up in pride and gesture to the box before him. “Well, go on. Open it.” And, watching as those large hands of his move to the simply-tied string holding the container closed, your own fumble together, twisting and wringing as you bite your lip in earnest. “I hope you like it.”

What he reveals is the modestly decorated cake you had picked out. Instead of icing, you had asked for powdered confectioners sugar to be sprinkled liberally about the sponge. The cake itself was actually a dome of a lovely muted shade of green tinted with brown from the baking process. It is a simple design, nothing too fancy, as you had chosen it for flavor rather than looks.

Despite the outward humbleness of the cake’s appearance, Caduceus looks pleased. “Oh, wow. Look at that. That looks…” He closes his eyes and inhales the sweet scent, and you can practically see his eyes roll back in his head beneath his fluttering lids. His smile grows. “I know this smell. It’s wonderful.”

“I thought you would. It’s a tea cake… or, rather, it’s a cake made with tea. Green tea,” you correct yourself.

His head turns and a hand goes to wrap gently around your shoulder and pull you down to him into a hug. “You got me a green tea cake. That’s so nice. You didn’t have to get me a cake.” There’s a light note of bashfulness to his voice and you smile, returning the hug.

“I know I didn’t have to, but I wanted to do something nice for you,” you admit, heat rising to your face and you silently thank the gods that there is very low light in the tavern. “You’re always doing things for us, healing us, you know.”

“Yeah, Caduceus,” the other cleric chimes in, that teasing note in her voice as she pops up over on the other side of him, “And you know we wouldn’t do this for just anybody, you know? We really like you. And, I mean, some of us really, really like you. Like, a lot. Like, just so much, you know, so—“

Dear gods, she really did have to just ham it up, didn’t she. You shoot her a glare from behind Caduceus’s back before Fjord pipes up.

“I think the man gets it, Jester,” he says, clearing his throat and trying to inconspicuously glance between the two of you with a look. The air has gotten noticeably warmer, or maybe that’s just you. Either way, you’re grateful for the interference.

The tiefling has the audacity to shoot you an innocent look, despite the mischievous smile clear behind her eyes. When Caduceus turns to look up at you, she makes a rather inappropriate gesture in your line of sight. You want to smack her, but Caduceus grabs your hand and your attention.

“Thank you so much. This is more than anyone’s ever done for me in a long time. Really, thank you.” His eyes are squinted with delight as he looks up at you and his long ears do a happy little flick, and it is the most adorable thing you think you’ve ever seen; a seven-foot-tall, pink-haired firbolg being absolutely giddy at being able to celebrate his birthday so far from his home. He tugs gently on your hand. “Come sit. Let’s eat.”

From his pack, Caduceus produces a set of cutlery to start cutting the cake and you take them gently from his grasp to divvy up the slices yourself. You reserve him the first and biggest piece after sizing up just how much to give to everyone else, after which you all eagerly dig in.

The flavoring is subtle and not overly sweet and you can tell from the expressions of your compatriots that it had been a good while since they had indulged in something to satisfy their sweet tooth. Beau, Jester, Fjord and Nott all seem to devour their shares within mere seconds, whilst Yasha, Caleb and Caduceus each take their time and savor the experience.

You’re focusing so intently on Caduceus’s reaction, taking in every minute shift in expression with each bite he takes, how he seems to chew so methodically and ensure he gets everything out of it; the taste, the texture, every little nuance and flavor he can possibly experience. It’s downright mesmerizing how one man can be so thorough and savor each little bite.

Jester’s foot connects lightly with your shin under the table, snapping you out of your reverie. Maybe you’d been staring for a bit too long. You snap to attention, bashfully returning you your slice and finishing it off. It was delicious and so worth the cost.

A quick prestidigitation spell cleans off the plates and utensils and you help Caduceus gather and sort them all and put them away while the rest of your crew begin to go about their own independent business. Caleb sticks his nose back into his spell books; Nott has slipped into the crowd and disappeared; Fjord and Jester have gotten into some conversation about what plans to make for the coming day; Yasha is brooding in a corner; and you think you see Beau wandering over to the bar, practically itching to start a tavern brawl.

You, meanwhile, are pointedly not looking at Caduceus, fixating yourself on cleaning up the remnants of dessert and simply enjoying the relative silence before things get too rowdy. After a moment, you steel your nerve, asking, hopefully, “Did you like it?”

You don’t know how he does it, how he’s always so content all the time, how easily he grins like the cat that ate the canary, slowly, languorously. Somehow the world just melts away and it’s only you and him. “I did, thank you.”

“And it wasn’t too sweet?”

“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head, pink eyes warming over your face, “The cake was sweet, but…” He lifts one large hand, fingers outstretched, and you are powerless to move away as he gently swipes them down your cheek. As he pulls them away, you see a small smudge of powdered sugar that he brushes his thumb over. You lift your hands to your face, semi-self-conscious now of having any more sugar there, feeling the blush rapidly rise to the surface; you pray the light is low enough that the firbolg doesn’t notice.

But then he looks earnestly into your eyes and you catch your breath. His face is so close now that his breath fans across your lips. His thumb catches your chin and he leans in to peck gently at your lips, and you’re melting all over again.

Caduceus pulls away from you, and you see his tongue flicker out to pan over his bottom lip just briefly. Honestly, you feel a little woozy. Did Caduceus just… kiss you? Did that really just happen? You could die happy. He smiles.

“Just as I thought,” he rumbles, “You’re sweeter than cake.”

[carrion-carry-on]

Whumptober 2020 (Running Out of Time) - Collapsed Building

Time for a D&D fic! I’ve been working with my friends (aka writing buddies) to help develop things, so now I feel a ton more confident in writing my characters. Hopefully it shows some.

Main characters (focus for the fic) are Valyk Shender, a fallen aasimar rogue, and Cub, a baby androsphinx the group was tasked with returning to his mother.

@whumptober2020

Warnings: Vague depiction of injuries

When the day started out, Valyk had hoped for another uneventful period of traveling. She’d have to remind herself to never again curse herself that way. The first hours of morning were fine, she and her companions had spent the time trekking through the forest which separated them from the next town. Around noon is when things had gone sideways.

The man was a pain in a rear - and another ghost from Wicker’s past, it seemed. The tiefling’s dark eyes widened slightly in some recognition, but, as always, he had remained quiet. Thinking back on the encounter, though, Valyk recalled an added ferocity in the warlock’s spell-speech. That would be something to ask him about; assuming she didn’t die here and now.

Their scuffling had left the group few choices. They’d hoped to gain an advantage by forcing the stranger to fight in close combat. Thus, they had taken the fight indoors - if the crumbling, nature-claimed castle could really be called “indoors.” With the help of the vines which grew around the vicinity, an advantage of having a druid amongst them, the man was forced to withdraw. They had had little time to recover.

The damned walls had started to crumble inwards before they could catch a breath. All tumbling rocks and shattered after-battle silence, individuals separated to find exits. Before finding herself buried, as present, Valyk had seen Wicker disappear in a cloud of smoke and Grant, the druid, lift himself clear of the wreck. She was unsure whether Jarod had escaped. Perhaps he, too, was trapped underneath the castle’s remains. Although she hated to admit it, that prospect soured her stomach. Despite the elf’s sarcastic quips and jaded outlook, she had grown used to his company. Now, though, she has her own problems to worry about.

Not just my problems, Valyk reminds herself as she feels beneath her cloak.

In the darkness, she can feel, and better, glimpse, little bright eyes peering out at her from underneath the cradle of her arms. Their charge, an Androsphinx cub, whom they’d befittingly dubbed “Cub,” had been closest to Valyk when hell had torn open. Thus, she now finds herself buried under heaven knows how much rubble with the very object of the group’s journey.

Casting her spell of light, Valyk thought, I can’t think of anything else that might help. At least this will give us something to see by.

In his wrappings of leather cloak and adventurer, Cub blinks in the sudden, blinding brightness. He growls and grumbles about it and Valyk allows herself some semblance of a smile behind the mask she wears.

“You find time to grouse about light whilst trapped beneath a building?” she asks humorously. She can’t let him know how it hurts, and how the pricking of blood frightens her.

Valyk begins her self-assessment over again, having been interrupted by the spell. But, in the back of her mind, she continues to focus on the ethereal glow. The last thing she’d like is for complete darkness to swallow them both up once again. This would make it easier for the other to discover them.

I still cannot feel my legs, Valyk realized, and, knowing luck, they’re likely broken… Damn. I hope Grant can fix them. Still odd, though, to have someone who can mend bones so easily - focus! Her head shakes vigorously, as though the motion would clear her mind.

There’s stone digging into my ribs and back both, though it doesn’t feel like either have been punctured. Then what about the blood?

Valyk’s thoughts trail to a halt when she spots a part of one leg. It’s definitely hers - she can barely see the top half of the scarred leather boot. She still cannot feel anything in it, but, looking at it now, that was for the better. There’s blood flowing from gashes, it’s near cut to the bone in places. Valyk clenches her teeth as fear and panic lace their way down her whole body. By the rate blood is draining, she might not have long enough. She cannot even hear traces of digging.

Cub, perhaps sensing her growing distress, whines and pushes his lightly-whiskered face against her wooden mask. Valyk recognizes the gesture as an attempt at comfort, though it could mean something different to a sphinx. Just another one of the group’s many shortcomings; few of them knew what to do with an infant, even less an immortal, magical beast-infant.

One of her gloved hands strokes along Cub’s back, ruffling between his flightless wings and rests there. With the other, Valyk tries to pull herself into a different position, hopefully one with better access to her leg. No success. She’s discovered that she is trapped, stuck on her left side and staring at the bloody limb. The movement has also aggravated the stuff digging into her ribs. She doesn’t dare to move another inch.

Damn everything, her mind hisses.

Cub, for his part, crawls forward on his belly to wrap his forepaws around Valyk’s pendant. She pays him little mind until he begins to gnaw and chew on the black gem. It’s a habit they’ve been trying for two weeks to break; not only that, the item is magical, and she’s not so sure they want to find out what’d happen if it were swallowed. After pulling the gem away from Cub, ignoring his disappointed whine and pleading expression, Valyk tries to think of how to go about ameliorating her position.

It’s not like I can just lift an entire building off my shoulders, even if I had full use of my legs.

There’s the sound of rock against rock, and rock against metal somewhere around Valyk, bringing a smirk unbidden to her lips. It’s taken them long enough. But her body is cold, and her eyesight is growing weary. The light, tied to her mind and magic both, dims, flickers, and fades. She doesn’t know how long she’s been down here, trapped beneath the ruins, but this dawning fatigue does not bode well.

I can’t… I can’t fall asleep.

Then Cub is pawing at her clasped hand, the one holding her pendant, and he’s whining more.

Aw, what the hell. If it’ll give him something to do, Valyk thinks, surrendering the gem, magical or not. It’s not like he’ll have to worry about stomach problems if he’s not- the thought shudders to a grinding stop.

She can’t allow herself to think this way. The others are searching, they will find her, and they will find Cub. Both of them have got to live. She needs to get back her glory, and he needs to be with his mother.

“I refuse to die disgraced,” Valyk growls, ignoring the growing pain in her ribs. There’ll definitely be a bruise forming.

Valyk felt Cub tugging on the chain of her pendant, bringing her attention back to the sphinx. He has it in his mouth again, but this time, he’s not quite chewing it as maneuvering it. Seemingly with all the force his tiny body can muster, Cub strikes the black gem against a rock. Clack. He raises up as far as he can and hits the rock again. Clack.

The motive finally dawns on Valyk as he goes down for another blow.

Clack!

“Good, good idea, Cub,” Valyk acknowledges, “but, maybe, you oughtn’t use that.” She takes the stone from him again. This earns a frustrated growl, yet Cub’s complaints are quickly satisfied when it is replaced by a different rock. Better still, the rock is much bigger.

Taking the old stone between his paws, Cub continues to make noise. This time, the clack of stones is succeeded by a yowl they have all learned means “Help!” Above them, there’s a quick silence, then the frantic scratching and scrambling resumes much closer.

When light, real sunlight, broke through the gloom, Cub began growling again. He is ecstatic to see everyone again. Valyk tilts her head backwards a bit, enough to just barely see them through the slits of her mask, then lowers her head to the floor. The other three are all there, everyone was searching for her and Cub. In that briefest of looks, Valyk had had time to note the general dishevelment of the remaining party members. Were she in the mood and able to laugh, she might have. Now, though, with massive stones still weighing down on her, she chose not to. There would come time for that later. After all, she’s alive.