#banned from waterdeep

[raintides]

it was supposed to be a grocery run but gale added books to the grocery list

[jeeaark]

What's Greygold's opinion on necromancers? Non evil necromancers just to clarify...

Coincidentally, I have a scrapped comic relating to this! Shall unscrap and share.

Greygold accidentally became a part-time necromancer themself, so. Didn't think anything of necromancers before. Has a good opinion on them now!

[gothmothgoblin]

im tired, im tired of pretending and believing in hair-free karlach & toned/muscly gale. karlach literally has dreads. shes been a prisoner, shes “punk” she would NOT shave her pits. she would not shave her pussy.

HOWEVER!!! gale literally eats magic and has 2 max strength, bro WOULD be chubby. he WOULD have bald pussy. dont fight the truth, lets all be adults here.

[t4tav]

When I worked at Wendys I made a baldurs gate au where they all worked in fast food because I'm fun and normal and this was my go at translating the netherese orb since stressing Gale out aggrevates it :)

[thespacelizard]

I got Jarlaxle on the tumblr radar my work here is done

[brabblesblog]

Whither is thy beloved gone? Edited / Expanded Edition is complete!

He would have to be the Ascendant again when the dawn breaks, and the Ascendant refused to be that spawn - refused to be anything that man was. The spawn could only ever be allowed to surface in the dark of night, between silken sheets and whispered words; a secret the Ascendant could not allow her to see.

Series Masterlist (AO3)

Art commissioned from @morebird

Whither was originally written in December 2023, in about a span of a month. It was written at a time when my skills as a writer were not as developed, and written at a rather breakneck pace. There were scenes that, as time passed, I realized did not fit my vision of the story. Certain factors in my life at that time prevented me from writing the version of the story that I wanted. Coming back to work on it again and to refine it has been a wonderful, exciting journey.

I would like to thank every single person who has read this work, who will read this work, and especially those who will be rereading it again. Thank you for each and every comment, kudos, like, and reblog. Thank you for walking down this path with Ban and Astarion, and for investing in them. Thank you to every single person who has given input, ideas, and help throughout these long months of writing. 

I would like to dedicate a small paragraph here to @editing-by-night for reaching out to me when I needed it most, and for allowing me the chance to reshape Whither into what I had always dreamed it would be. For holding my hand throughout, and managing me and my writerly tantrums at every turn. 

Thank you for loving my work. I hope you all will love the new and improved version of it.

For more information on the specific changes, my editor has prepared the following for you:

@editing-by-night’s Whither Patch Notes:

Now in simple-past tense

Grammar & punctuation improvements

Sentence structure improvements

Formatting improvements and cohesion

Phrasing & vocabulary improvements for more elegant and evocative imagery, and in some cases for accuracy based on writer’s original intent

Improved context throughout, but most particularly in Chapter 3’s climax (no pun intended)

Minor modifications to Chapter 5 for more appropriate consent

Continuity-kevlar (aka repairs & improvements), with the most significant modifications made to Chapters 6, 8, 12-15, and 19-20

Significant pacing improvements to Chapter 12

Improvements to flow for Chapters 12-15

Minor improvements to Gale’s dialogue in Chapters 13-15, because the wizard of Waterdeep ain’t no bitch.

Performed a vibe check on Chapter 18 and improved it all-around

Additional content added to Chapter 19, to allow for informed consent

In addition to the change above, minor changes to Chapter 20, for improved vibe

Thank you for reading with us!

[littlejuicebox]

Midnight Chimes

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader/Tav Summary/Setting: Pre-BG3. You are an apothecary on holiday, visiting your family in Baldur's Gate. You happen upon a certain silver-haired rake, and think perhaps he isn't what he seems. Rating/Warnings: PG / Very mild if any game spoilers but nothing related to major content or scenes Word Count: 2.3K Notes: Playing around with a little something different. Tried to keep this GN but please lmk if you caught something! :)

-----

The bell sounded its subtle chime above the tavern door; your buzzed gaze drifts from the ink-splotched pages of the book in front of you as you assess the newcomer. A cold gust of winter air sneaks in behind the elf now entering the tavern, and you shiver before pulling your fur coat more snugly around your frame. As you do, you realize you’ve seen that particular elf around here before. It had been several years, not since you were a lowly apprentice at the apothecary shop down the street… but you’d recognize that head of perfectly coiffed silver hair anywhere.

Had it really been almost ten years since your father threw that very same stranger out of the family tavern and forbade him from coming back? Admittedly, the elf looked like he’d hardly aged a day in all that time, but you supposed that was far from unusual for his race.

Pristine silvery hair, annoyingly attractive and all too aware of that fact, holding himself with a palpable air of haughty confidence… yes, he was exactly as you remembered from those many moons ago. You were just a youngling then, not but twenty, and back then your eyes had tracked the rake and his behavior with suspicious curiosity, just as they did now.

You’d been a server all those years ago, working nights at your parents’ tavern for tips and studying at Valindra’s Vials during the day. He’d been somewhat of a regular, always leaving with some being or another wrapped in his charismatic spell, and always waltzing in a few days later entirely unattached, as if that being never existed. A rake through and through.

And then one day, father had thrown the rake out for pickpocketing, forbidding him from ever returning. Years flew by, you completed your apprenticeship and moved to Waterdeep, only to return on holidays to visit your family and endure constant badgering about settling down and finding a spouse… and you’d all but forgotten the silver-haired elf.

Yet here he was, as if nothing had changed, and as rakish as ever. Father no longer tended the bar on weekends, so no one was around to recognize the man and throw him out on a decade-long ban… besides you. And honestly? It didn’t seem worth disturbing the last few hours of your holiday on such melodramatics. In your mind, a paying patron was a welcome patron as long as they kept their sticky fingers to themselves.

The silver-haired elf enters the warmth of tavern and meanders about, glossing his scarlet eyes over the crowd before ordering something from your cousin behind the bar.

You turn your attention back to the book and the notes you’d been penning in the margins, a nearly empty glass of wine and barely eaten sweet roll your only company. You pick off another piece of the pastry and pop it into your mouth before flipping the page of your tome. Hopefully mama and papa would be in bed by the time your cousin closed the bar… and you could sneak into your room without any further harassment from those two.

Family was everything to you, and you loved your parents dearly, but during every holiday visit you were quickly reminded why you’d originally left for Waterdeep. Things became stifling after about a week in that tiny apartment, and you were more-often down in the tavern than up in the living arrangements above it toward the end of your stay. Distance truly did make the heart grow fonder in your case; you were itching to get back to the solitude of home and away from the relentless line of questioning from mama and papa. Thankfully, you’d be back on the road to Waterdeep come morning and done enduring the inquisition until the next holiday.

You see the rake slide into the seat next to you out of your peripherals, and he opens his mouth, no doubt to shoot you his best line, but you cut him off with a quick and firm, “Nope. Not interested.”

He’s stunned. Baffled. It’s written on his face as you turn to address him head on, your narrowed eyes meeting his red ones squarely and unabashedly. The elf’s mouth is hanging open; he shuts it and squints in your direction for a mere moment. Then, he takes a sip out of whatever is in his goblet and narrows his vermillion eyes at the contents inside instead... not a fan of the drink, it seems.

The stranger decides to throw away whatever poor line he was going to use on you. Instead, his gaze flickers down to the book in your hands and takes note of the new conversational material. He is clearly not going to be dissuaded by your first rejection.

“What are you reading, darling?” The silver-haired elf asks, his voice resembling something of a purr. He leans just a bit closer, faking interest in the pages as you feel his hand slip nearer to your thigh.

“A book, darling. Ever seen one before?” You responded flatly, truly in no mood for whatever game this was and pointedly pushing his hand out of your personal bubble. You snap the book shut and stare at the silver-haired elf incredulously, placing the tome in the space between your bodies as a barrier.

Something about your response caused the rake to laugh in absolute delight, as if being outright rejected had never happened to him before. He was seeming to enjoy this little exchange. You, on the other hand, were not.

“Look — what’s your name?”

“Astarion.”

“Look, Astarion, I can promise you I am not interested. I’m not playing hard to get, I’m not playing coy. You may not remember me, but I remember you… my family owns this tavern and I worked here years ago, before my father threw you out… or did you forget that technically you’re banned? I know your game; in fact, I’ve seen you play it more than once. There are plenty of fine people in this establishment that cannot take their eyes off you. So if you’re looking for a lay, take your pick of the low hanging fruit and bugger off.”

Astarion is silent, but his eyes twinkle in entertained delight around the edges, a small smirk dancing on the corner of his mouth as he appraises you. He hums softly and takes another sip of his drink before glancing around the room. Sure enough, there are more than a few patrons with their sights quite obviously set on the rake and whatever talents he may possess, but he rolls his eyes at the gawkers and turns his attention back to you. Finally, Astarion breaks the silence with a low murmur, quite intent on continuing whatever interaction this is.

Meanwhile, you’re wondering why the hell every word that comes out of his mouth sounds like the most salacious thing you’ve ever heard.

“And what if I’m not looking for a lay, hm? What if… I’m looking for a riveting intellectual discussion? Is that more up your alley, darling?” Astarion asks, that cocky eyebrow lifting in something of a challenge.

You sigh. Admittedly, "riveting intellectual discussion" wasn’t something you often came across while visiting your family; it was certainly more up your alley than whatever half-assed lines he thought he might throw like bones to a dog. And... it would be nice to have someone to share a decent conversation with for once, if the rake could actually stand up to the challenge.

“Fine.” You mutter before downing the rest of your wine and gesturing to your cousin, who was now watching you from the bar with vague curiosity, for a refill. Astarion smiles before tapping the cover of your book with long, lithe fingers.

“Notable Poisons and Toxins of the Sword Coast?” He asks, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Looking to murder someone, perhaps?"

“I’m an apothecary.” You explain with a dismissive wave of your hand.

This intrigues the elf even further and he leans closer to you, this time genuinely, which makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. He rests his head on his hand as he watches you, bidding you with a small gesture to continue on. You aren’t interested in a rake you tell yourself, even though he’s somehow even more attractive up close.

“I sell mostly perfumes, soaps, and basic medicinals for ailments in Waterdeep nowadays. Poisons and antidotes aren’t a particularly big seller... but I still prefer to remain up to date on the latest information.”

“Do you know of any poisons that can kill the undead?”

Your brow furrows. What an exceptionally odd and particular question. But then again, this man did promise intellectual conversation, and discussing bread and butter poisons would’ve been far from riveting to you. Perhaps he was truly interested… or at least actually attempting to pursue an intellectual conversation, though most people you interacted with showed much less interest in your craft. At any rate, you were happy for an opportunity to showcase your knowledge.

“A positoxin would do the trick. Difficult to make and difficult to come by, though… and ridiculously expensive, to boot.” You murmur, taking a sip from your newly filled goblet.

Astarion nods and hums, the gears behind his eyes turning and processing thoughts you cannot read. He cocks his head slightly, raising that ridiculous eyebrow in that simultaneously captivating and arrogant way of his. His voice comes out low, tone carrying notes of teasing playfulness. “And what about you, darling? Do you think you’re… skilled enough to make this positoxin?”

“Yes.” You murmur confidently, and yet you blush. You know your skill set to be strong, sure, but it was unusual to be placed in a position where you actually had to display that confidence. Especially to a strange rake you just met that very night.

Astarion laughs again and shakes his head. “Cheeky little thing, aren’t you? Then, tell me how you would go about it.”

You continue on for several minutes, you don’t really know why, apart from the fact that Astarion is absolutely engrossed in everything you’re saying and it’s the first time anyone has actually listened to you prattle on about potions. You inform the elf that the art of positoxins is notoriously difficult and would take several weeks and a handful of hard to come by ingredients to brew just one vial. Astarion bids you to go on as he finishes his goblet, asking all the right questions to keep you talking and soaking up every ounce of information as you continue.

The conversation does not lull; you feel the passion and excitement in your voice grow as you become less guarded. The rake proves to be a wonderful audience, able to follow along with your level of intellect and interject his own knowledge in only the way an educated person could. Yet he was content to let you take the lead and just listen. It was surprisingly refreshing to have someone really hear and understand you… and actually take interest in something you were fascinated by instead of outright dismissing it or just nodding along.

Soon enough the clock tower chimes midnight and your cousin is yelling last call to everyone in the bar, much to the disappointment of the poor drunkards. Astarion’s eyes, previously lulled into a soft and cat-like gaze by your ramblings, snapped into a wide-eyed, forlorn expression. “Gods, is that really the time? I-I have to go.”

He practically jolts out of the seat, his tone hurried and gestures fidgety. “I-it was nice meeting you, uh…”

“I’m Tav.” You respond softly, your eyebrows furrowing as you study the man and his sudden change in demeanor.

“Tav. Yes, lovely to meet you. Perhaps I’ll see you around here tomorrow and you can tell me more about positoxins or perhaps some alchemical cure for vampirism… seems you have a plethora of knowledge to share and I’m all pointy ears.”

Your face falls, and for the first time you realize how much you wish that were a true possibility. “I return to Waterdeep tomorrow, I’m afraid. I can’t leave the shop in the hands of my apprentice for too long.”

Astarion’s expression matches yours and you sigh in disappointment as you drop your hand into your bag and start rustling around inside. Perhaps you’d misjudged the elf and he hadn’t been exactly what he seemed; you’d quite enjoyed his company, in the end. You pull out a small card with your shop address on it; there is a sample vial attached to the card by a jute cord.

“Here. This is my address in Waterdeep. Feel free to write. I come back at least once a year to visit my family… but sometimes more, if there’s something worth coming back for.” Your hint is subtle, but you hope he catches your meaning. Your fingers brush his as he takes the card, and you swear you feel the tingle of connection. Or perhaps that’s the two glasses of wine talking.

The silver-haired elf takes the offering, looking down at the inscription and running his fingers over the embossed words before he tucks everything into his pocket. “And what’s in the vial?”

“A sample. Like I told you, I primarily sell perfumes and soaps nowadays. That mixture is one of my favorites… a delightful combination of bergamot and rosemary... and a secret ingredient I won't name. Try it out and tell me what you think in your letter."

Astarion shakes his head just slightly, almost imperceptibly, a faraway look in his eyes. The clock tower bells chime again, their second call for the midnight hour, and he snaps back into the present. The elf turns to look at you one last time, eyes boring into yours with such shocking intensity. “I really must be going. It was… truly a lovely surprise to meet you, Tav.”

He grabs your hand in his shockingly cold grip, gives it a squeeze, and swiftly exits. You hear the tinkling of the doorbell and watch as the rake runs down the alley before dodging into the shadows and altogether disappearing from view.

You grab the goblet he left behind, along with your own dishes, and walk behind the oak bar to help your cousin close up as the final patrons make their drunken exits in a cacophony of grunts, arguments, and off-tune singing.

“Who was that?” Your cousin asks, nodding his head toward the seats you and Astarion just occupied moments ago as he wipes down the bar and all manner of filth left by the patrons that night. “A potential suitor, perhaps? Your parents will be thrilled.”

“Oh… I think probably not. A rake of a man, to be sure. He was quite cute, though. In another life… I think we could’ve been friends.” You respond as you begin with the dishes, the warmth of the water washing away the coolness imbued in your fingertips from the elf’s touch.

Tomorrow you’ll head home to Waterdeep and the solitude of your apothecary shop. Part of you will wait for a letter that doesn't show, and you'll shove your disappointment deep into the back of your mind, never once admitting it to yourself. But fate spins along as it should, and a few years from now you'll be standing on an unfamiliar beach after a horrible crash, the familiar scent of rosemary and bergamot drifting in the air.

——-

A/N: This was originally meant to be a one shot, but I loved the premise of the piece so much that I wanted to try and turn it into a series. Read the first chapter here.

[katyakurae]

My, my, what a charming place is this Hazbin Tavern of yours! A DnD AU

Random headcanons under the cut!

Race: Winter Eladrin

Class: Mage, school of Divination.

Alignement: True neutral

Rosie has her tower and lives in Waterdeep, but she travels to the Underdark from time to time to visit Alastor. (He may be banned from Waterdeep)

They're besties.

Finds Hazbin Tavern idea fun, but doesn't want to get involved. Charlie's wild magic unsettle her.

She is really sweet to Charlie, tho, and has offered her guidance.

Knows Alastor has some kind of secret agenda, but she doesn't asks questions. She just wants to chill and mess with her magic in her tower.

A while ago, she found a Bhaalist cult and joined them for fun and to study their magic. Then she met Alastor, who was doing more or less the same. When they got bored after a few rituals, they left... by murdering the whole cult. Bhaal was not entirely unpleased.

Rosie and Alastor wear similar silver jewerly. This is because, after the Bhaalist fiasco, they went shopping (they looted the ones they just murdered AND ate)

So yeah, she is still a cannibal. Kinda... Does it count when you're not the same race as your dinner?

She is quiet about it, tho, since she has an image to keep in the wizard community.

Since she is a Divination mage, Rosie has seen some worrisome prophecies regarding a Wild Magic Sorceress, an Aasimar and a (ex?) Selûnite, but she is keeping that to herself for now at least.

Previous character: Niffty!

Next character: Adam

[incoherentmuses]

ok so i need to know now - sound off in the notes if Jarlaxle has been banned from your Waterdeep tavern

[silent-words]

Gale & cemeteries... does he like them? Is there magic there? Follow up question, is there anywhere in Waterdeep the orb is drawn to and does that change in Baldur's Gate?

Thank you for your ask from the City game! I think I'll try to answer through a ficlet. I hope you'll forgive me the inclusion of my Tav (although small). Enjoy 💜

Gale x Tav, SFW, post-canon

The City of the Dead was full of people on this bright summer day. Children played hide-and-seek among the tombstones, adults sat chatting on picnic blankets and drank wine. Waterdhavians enjoyed warm weather and the calm of the place.

Gale had chosen a bench in the quiet corner. He was looking nowhere in particular lost in thought. Just a year ago all he had dreamed of had been a cenotaph here, all alone, probably later accompanied by his mother's tombstone. He had looked at the City of the Dead from his tower, torn between a longing for life and a desire to end it all. He couldn't even come here, to look at the final resting place of many Waterdhavians.

Now he looked forward to several centuries of a long wizard life alongside his elf wife. Moreover, the status of the Hero of Baldur's Gate gave Gale unlimited access to this cemetery. He chuckled at the memory of his youth. Several very talented and smart mages from Blackstaff had sneaked in tge City of the Dead after dusk, and started experimenting with necromancy. They had nearly opened a portal to the Fugue plane and had raised a lot of very angry undead. Gale and his friend Gora had got away with a warning and a permanent ban to visit the graveyard, while three others had been expelled. Of course from his current position as a professor Gale understood why it had been dangerous and foolish. But it had been so much fun! He still had to tell Laerie all the stories from his youth. Maybe she even use them as an inspiration for her songs.

Gale felt the sliver of the Weave like a gentle breeze. He turned his head and found a woman in a black and silver robe with the city coat of arms on it. A necromancer specially hired to look after the dead and the undead, to maintain order among so many humanoid remains. Although as they told Gale, they mostly drove off vampire spawns who went there at night for debauchery and orgies unbeknowst to their masters. Gale remembered their vampire friend and how wise it was not to tell him about these night activities in the City of the Dead.

At least now Gale was not afraid of going to the places infused with the Weave. There was no more Weave-consuming bombs in his chest, and now he could go wherever he wanted, talk to whomever he wanted, touched any person with or without the Weave.

Although now he only wanted to touch one person. As if on a cue he heard the sounds of a lyre and a familiar voice. Gale grinned happily and stood up. He was ready for life in the place of death.

Hope that answered the questions!

[inglorionamy-ammy]

Of Home and Haven (Ch2/6)

Chapter snippet: //You were indeed familiar with danger-inspired desire. The celebration parties after battles often ended with either you or your conquest unable to walk the next day. In fact, you were rather taken aback when he only wanted to practice magic with you at the tieflings’ party. It was equally puzzling and endearing, that he had wanted to share his educated art with you, a half-orc barbarian of all people.

He was right, your muscles did glisten. You couldn’t wait to make his too.//

Summary: A tender tale between an outlander barbarian and a scholarly wizard, navigating life, love, and belonging (aka. What "being together" means for them) in Waterdeep and beyond.

Pairing: Half-orc Barbarian F!Tav X Gale Mature

Word count: 3.3k

Thank you again @senualothbrok for being my beta and first reader!

AO3 link: Here

Chapter One: Here

Since the night that got you banned for life from the cultist-infiltrated tavern—not that you are particularly interested in visiting again—a month has passed. There have been three major changes in your life and Gale’s.

Firstly, by some miracle, you got the job at the Aurora's Realms Shop. The lady with the clipboard was the one who Sent the message — Jina, a longtime saleswoman at the place. She is to be your shift partner and mentor, and you are to be both the counter clerk and the security guard. Turns out the manager has decided to cut one of the positions, and a literate half-orc is her perfect solution. You would appreciate it more if the salary were also doubled, but right now you take what you can get. At least Jina proves to be much better company than first impressions suggested.

This has led to the much less desirable second change, which is that the time you get to spend with your fiancé diminishes significantly. Aurora's is open from dusk till dawn, which means your schedule is precisely the opposite of Gale’s, and really, most people’s. While he works a fixed seven days of a tenday, your moving shifts scatter across both his workdays and holidays. There are times when you have to rush out in the evening just as he gets back from school, and days when he is off work resting at home, and you are sleeping back your working nights.

At first, it saddens you to imagine him lying alone in your shared four-poster bed as you idly scan the empty storefront. Earlier that evening, when you bid him goodnight before you leave, he had been unsuccessful in hiding his dejected face, the force of his hug stronger than usual. It is not until later, when you overhear him and Tara arguing, that you realize at times, he has not been sleeping at all. You know he is scheming over something, but as you glance at the graphs, drawings and cursive scattered on his working desk, it seems realms beyond you. Some research, perhaps. You just hope it ends soon enough that you don’t have to knock him out by force.

Finally, there is the matter of your approaching wedding ceremony. Ever since your first meeting three months ago, Gale’s mother, Morena Dekarios, has taken it upon herself to direct the whole operation. Gale has the tendency to fuss over every single detail of the event, from the weather to the music, even fretting over whether the food is owlbear-safe. But with Morena’s firm leadership, even he has had to admit that he truly has nothing to worry about.

You, however, are relieved for another reason. You are a warrior, a fighter, but you will forever remember the day you first met Morena as the most nerve-wracking experience in your life.

----------

It was the third day after you and Gale arrived at Waterdeep. You two had spent the first two days in bed, not for your preferred reason, but to sleep away the post-adventure fatigue. Sometimes, Gale would shift and turn in his sleep, face twisted in phantom pain as he held his chest. The orb had been removed by Mystra, but its memory lingered to haunt him. You held him in your arms, slowly rocking back and forth, hoping to ease him back into sweet slumber. Other times, you would jostle abruptly awake, fangs almost bumping into Gale, to find out that he had been trying to wake you from your nightmares. You never remembered them, only the dread of losing something precious.

The third day, however, was a whirlwind.

“STOP.” You jumped up, fist ready, catching a startled tressym next to Gale’s face.

“Oh. Tara. Good morning.” You nodded, retracting your grip. She settled down and returned the nod. Between hunters, you two have always shared a sense of mutual respect since your unexpected meeting in Baldur’s Gate.

“I would say the same, Ms. Riversong. It’s time to rise, don’t you think? Mrs. Dekarios is going to arrive in an hour.”

“WHAT!?” It was Gale’s turn to jump up now, “Totally unannounced?”

“Not true at all.” Tara licked her palm with grace. “I delivered your letter about your return to her dutifully, and she replied, two days ago.”

The three of you stared at the pile of unopened letters underneath the door.

“Well, Mr. Dekarios,” you swore you could hear amusement in her tone, “I would suggest you start shaving your—”

“Thank you, Tara, for preparing us for such an important occasion. Now would you please excuse us, we need to change.” Gale declared, “Alone”.

“…As you wish, Mr. Dekarios.” She left through the window, presumably to escort the matriarch.

“…Well, what a way to start a day, wouldn’t you say?” Gale turned back to you, “…my love?”

Your brain had shut down.

----------

There was nothingin your life that could have prepared you for meeting your romantic partner’s parents.

It wasn’t like you’d never had lovers. While half-orcs are generally not seen as the type for marriage, they are rather popular venturing partners, bedtime stories to brag about. People who came to you usually looked for specific things they thought you could offer — rough, messy copulation with wild abandon — and they were indeed right. You had your fair share of sex as a mercenary, although you could never see those conquests as anything beyond tumbles in the grass. No point in getting attached when they could just leave, or die, the next day.

So that was what you assumed Gale wanted, when he told you that he ‘once read a book’ in the depths of the Shadow-cursed lands.

You were indeed familiar with danger-inspired desire. The celebration parties after battles often ended with either you or your conquest unable to walk the next day. In fact, you were rather taken aback when he only wanted to practice magic with you at the tieflings’ party. It was equally puzzling and endearing, that he had wanted to share his educated art with you, a half-orc barbarian of all people.

He was right, your muscles did glisten. You couldn’t wait to make his too.

The moment your crew arrived at Last Light Inn, you gestured for him to follow you. He trailed quietly behind as you led him to an empty bedroom. As he stepped in, you swiftly closed the door, locked it with an audible ‘click’, and ran your gaze hungrily over his physique.

He shifted, suddenly self-conscious. “…Hm,” he cleared his throat, “I suppose you are a step ahead of me! I was, uh, planning something more substantial for a romantic night. Something more magical, that is.”

You chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. He shuddered.

Over the course of time, you had learnt that he needed verbal cues more than you did. So instead of immediately devouring him, you asked, “Do wizards not fuck with their bodies?”

He flustered. You felt power rushing inside you, intoxicating.

You teased, “Are you a virgin?”

“Heavens, no!” he protested. “I-I was…well, it has just been a while. You know, after my…folly.”

His gaze turned sorrowful. That wouldn’t do. You felt for him, his year-long isolation. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to remedy that.

“Then I will take the lead,” you assured him. “Do you prefer to fuck or be fucked?”

He looked like he was going to explode.

A moment later, he finally mustered up the courage to open his mouth again. This time, he held your gaze with new-found determination and gave you a speech.

“…Ta’V, my fearless barbarian warrior. What a fool I was when I told you of my unique reading material. Of course you would have first-hand experiences, possibly beyond my imagination.” He chuckled ruefully. “But with my poor choice of words I must have misled you. What I wanted was not mindless intercourse, pleasurable as that might be.” He paused. “I wish to make love with you, naïve perhaps, but I need to tell you this. I will never forgive myself if our first time was not based on this premise.” He took a deep breath. “I love you, Ta’V. You are very special to me.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. He was visibly shaking now but refused to back down.

So, you replayed his words in your mind again and again to digest them. What did that mean, in action? What did he want? You considered for a while until you knew what you should do.

“I see,” you said, and he seemed to be holding his breath. “Take off your clothes and lay down.”

Of all the answers he imagined he would get, this was apparently not one of them. Gale’s eyes widened in shock, but after a moment of consideration, he obeyed. You restrained yourself from ripping off his robe as he slowly started to undress, and once naked, eventually eased himself down onto the simple mattress.

You followed him into the bed, hovering above him. He was tense. You positioned your left palm on his head, stroking his hair to one side and tilting him slightly so that his neck was exposed.

“Do you trust me?” you asked, serious.

“Yes.” An instant answer.

So you buried your nose into the crook of his neck and took a deep breath, letting his musk fill your lungs. You had always wanted to do that, finding his smell captivating. You wondered why.

That was apparently sensitive skin. He wiggled, but you gently stilled him with your hold. It elicited a whimper and you smiled to yourself. As a reward, you licked a long stripe following the mark on the side of his neck, tasting his sweat. He properly moaned now.

��Please,” he begged. “Ta’V, I can’t— Please tell me what you are thinking right now.”

At that you frowned. What a strange request. Yet in his eyes you could see the last thread of restraint, as he desperately waited for your answer, refusing to lose control yet. The man was nothing but insistent, so you tried.

You traced his right nipple with your leathery fingers. “I see your nipple,” you observed. “Hardening. I want to suck it.” And you did just that as he watched. He threw back his head and groaned, loud and deep as if in pain, body buckling to meet your mouth. You continued.

“I see your chest hair,” you teased him with your nails, lazily tracing down to his navel. “They are curly,” you tugged them gently, “Adorable.” And he closed his eyes, frowning in concentrated ecstasy.

“I see your orb, bright.”

Suddenly his eyes snapped open. A hand flew up to halt your lingering fingers on his mark.

“Don’t,” he quietly pleaded, and you tilted your head.

“Why?”

He looked away. “I want this night to be perfect, not tainted by my impending doom.”

You considered that. “A warrior would wear their scars with pride. I see no difference.”

“But this is no scar, just a lasting reminder of my failures, consuming me.”

“Have you stopped fighting?” Your voice strained. “If not, then it’s no failure. At least not yet.” You turned up your palm and captured his hand. “Fight, Gale. With me. Live to tell this tale. Our tale.”

A gasp. You knew he finally understood your intention as his gaze returned to you, tears spilling as he moved your joined hands away and revealed his scar, a circle, perfect in every way. You immediately descended upon it, licking, sucking, groping. As his deafening heartbeat quickened it shone brighter and brighter and brighter, so bright that it blinded you, consumed your every sense, your very being. You were holding his hand the whole time.

On that night, you learned the power of spoken words.

----------

Morena Dekarios was a petite, round human woman in her early sixties. Her fingertips were not toughened in the way that Gale’s were by years of spellcasting, so you assumed she was not an avid magic user. But as you looked closer, you saw that the skin was discolored in certain parts—perhaps she worked with the elements? Possibly an alchemist then.

“My love?” Gale called.

You snapped out of your head. Morena had extended her hand out for you to shake, not to stare.

“Sorry.” You tried to flash a courteous smile, but then you became self-conscious about your protruding fangs. “I was nervous,” you admitted.

Morena threw her head back and laughed. “So was I! When I received the letter from my son a tenday ago, announcing that he had found the love of his life and wanted my blessings for the union, I didn’t know what to expect! Certainly not a half-orc like you.”

“Mother!” Gale protested.

“Apologies,” Morena said. “I didn’t mean it the bad way.” She sat herself down on an armchair and you two followed. “If anything, I’m more intrigued by how different the pair of you are! Please, if you would indulge me, what makes you find my son attractive?”

“Mom, this is not an interview,” Gale remarked, but there was curiosity in his voice too.

With Morena you felt you must answer coherently, so you fell silent for a moment. Gale shifted in his seat as his mother stared at you, smiling but insistent. A moment later, he decided to place his hand on your lower back, an encouragement.

“My mother is a human too,” you began. You had the room’s attention, even Tara opened her eyes from her comfy nest.

“She was living in human society but ran off with my Da—father, a half-orc barbarian. They lived in the woods, and I was born.”

Gale knew this part of the story, but you continued further.

“I was close with him. Much closer than with Ma. I looked a lot like him and not one bit like her. He trained me, fighting, wrestling, hunting, and at sixteen, I was sent away to wander in the wild.” You saw Morena frowning, so you added, “As half-orcs are destined to.”

You took a deep breath. “But on some days, when I see people, families, warm and beautiful, I think of Ma. She was beautiful too. She used to teach me please and thank you, to read, to write. I didn’t appreciate it back then. But I met Gale, and I do now.”

You recited the only poem you remembered, sung to you on a hot summer night. Under a sky full of stars, the breeze-like voice crooned,

White sheep, white sheep,

On a blue hill,

When the wind stops,

You all stand still.

When the wind blows,

You walk away slow.

White sheep, white sheep,Where do you go? [source]

----------

“You two should deliver this one by hand, together,” Morena says, holding the last wedding invitation.

Today is one of the rare days that you and Gale are both at home, away from work, refining the final details for the union ceremony happening in three tendays.

Gale has prepared all the teleportation scrolls for the guests as Morena penned invitations by his side. You and Gale came up with a list of the comrades you met during your tadpoled adventures who will receive an invitation. Before your companions went their separate ways, all of them had promised to come together again for you and Gale’s wedding. Even Lae'zel has promised to attend via astral projection. The only part left is your side, the people you want to invite — which means, only your parents.

Parents that you haven’t seen in ten years, since you left home at sixteen.

Morena is right. It is fitting that you deliver your parents’ invitation in person. Gale has repeatedly lamented that he wasn’t able to ask your parents for permission to marry you like a good-mannered suitor, and there is technically nothing stopping you from visiting them. The woods they live in are in fact just a tenday’s trek away from Waterdeep, and with Gale you can always teleport back and forth at a moment’s notice. You don't know why you are so restless.

Gale places his hand on yours. “My love, I will be right by your side.”

----------

You tell Jina that you are getting married and ask for a two-tendays-long holiday to visit your parents. She almost shrieks in excitement when she hears that.

Nine shifts ago she had told you that she is a single mother of two, and has never left Waterdeep in her whole life.

“Go!” Jina’s eyes are shinning with joy. “I will find someone to cover the shifts.”

“Do you think the manager will be fine with that?”

Over the past month, you had taken as many shifts as possible, to leave a good enough impression with your manager to cover this absence.

“Well, I will do what I can, sister.” She lowers her voice, having started calling you ‘sister’ three shifts ago. “But between you and me, I never understood why you wanted this boring job so much. You are clearly capable of much more exciting things. I wouldn’t even dare to venture out of the city alone!”.

You shrug.

“The stories I tell my sons are always about adventurers. You should see their excited faces! They’d be over the moon to finally meet a half-orc.” She sighs. “Perhaps it is our nature to want what we don’t have. The grass is always greener on the other side.”

You decide to invite Jina and her sons to your wedding.

----------

Thus, one fine summer night, you and Gale finally arrive at the edge of Trollbark Forest. To be precise, you two teleportedto skip nine days’ worth of journeying but opted to walk the last day to save more time for the reunion. You weren’t sure about that — in truth you have missed sleeping in a tent with him.

Gale makes use of the light breeze to clear his mind and prepares for the occasion, gifts ready at hand. While your parents don’t live inside the chaotic swarm-ridden area but in a clearer wood nearby, you still geared up thoroughly, happy to carry the Nyrulna again.

“Are you sure I am not dressed too casually? Am I presentable by your esteemed family’s standards?” He fusses over his not-so-dusty traveling robe. It’s purple, with golden embroidery showcasing Waterdhavian craftsmanship. Simple, elegant, proud.

For three days he has been consulting you on all topics about your family and half-orcs in general. You can’t really give a generalization on the latter — you have never come across a big enough group of your race to call it a culture; only what your father had taught you. Gale questioned the best gifts for half-orcs (to which you suggested that anything alcoholic never fails), languages he should speak (when you told him he must never speak Orc in front of Da, he couldn’t hide his disappointment; he had been practicing), and now, how he should look.

“If anything, I should warn you not to be too formal.”

He clears his throat. “Right. Any other details I should take note of?”

A shadow darts towards his face.

In a split-second you tackle him down, body shielding him as he gasps. The boulder smashes into the ground hard, dust rising around you.

You quickly leap forth and ROAR, a threat, a challenge. Those who dare to harm your treasure will pay. Behind you, Gale prepares a spell, quarterstaff in hand.

At the periphery of the misty wood a roar echoes yours.

“Big rocks are against the rules,” you call. The mist slowly clears up.

You squint your eyes to decipher the silhouette. A seven-foot-tall barbarian, great axe as tall as himself shining under the moonlight. Tense, ready to parry. He wants to play.

Laugher rips through the night like a thundercrack.

“RULES ARE FOR CHILDREN. AND YOU, MY GIRL, ARE NO LONGER ONE.”

Chapter 3

Gale and his disco orb XD

Comments and feedbacks are very appreciated! Thank YOU for reading my story. Chapter three is on the way, featuring Gale meeting the parents, and mud-wrestling :D

Other things that I do

[jynxeddraca]

Thoughts on Where Astarion is From

Going to be a long post. Because there are definitely spoilers for the game in general and probably for Astarion's quest, I'm putting this under a read more.

I've seen in several places now that Astarion is commonly headcanon'd to not be from Baldur's Gate originally. Personally, I really think this makes sense since he's an elf, his parents in theory would still be alive, and - if you stick to the idea he originally was noble/patriar born - he would be recognizable to a lot of people even after being turned. Not only in the city in general but I imagine he helped 'entertain' at Cazador's palace since Cazador did host parties.

An aside, I think this holds true for all of Cazador's 'house' spawn. I know Dalyria formerly was the Physician General to the Parliament of Baldur's Gate but I have a feeling she - like Astarion - probably wasn't in that position terribly long before getting turned so may not have been around long enough for people to really recall her face.

But back to my actual thought: The common thing I see when people headcanon about Astarion's origins before he lived in Baldur's Gate is that he is from Waterdeep, or the surrounding area, because the area used to be home to most of the elves in Faerûn. Just as a note for anyone unfamiliar with where cities are: Waterdeep is 750 miles North of Baldur's Gate, Elturel is officially 200 miles East of Baldur's Gate.

I have an alternate theory: Astarion is from somewhere East of Baldur's Gate. Possibly along the Chionthar.

Why?

Because sometime before the story, at least 100 years ago - and honestly, I think it'd be before he was turned so 200+ years ago - he was in Reithwin Town (the town in Act 2) - and got banned from The Waning Moon.

And this isn't just me making an assumption or coming up with a headcanon. Now, I was too lazy to go find the in-game screenshot that I took and it's on my gaming computer, so this is from the BG3 Wiki - Here's the text when you read the BAN LIST at The Waning Moon:

The text (bold emphasis mine) reads as:

BARRED FROM ENTRY The following EX-customers are UNWELCOME. Do not let them in, even should they beg. ESPECIALLY should they beg. Martin Doughty - human? - chug-and-run Adam Smythe - lascivious behaviour, also known as 'The Pickle Incident' Gerringothe Thorm - SHE KNOWS WHAT SHE DID Kavin Ort - tall dwarf - exceedingly boring Syrah Bee - short half-elf - vomited on the waiter (purposefully) Unknown elf - pale skin, snide mouth - referring to master distiller as 'the porcine publican' Rochelle Kwark - halfling - groin-punching Yon Von Don (suspected alias) - grotesquely tall human - underpants on head

End screenshot text.

And a second screenshot where the wiki states that the pale elf is Astarion with a link to the source of Kevin VanOrd's twitter. Granted, I do not have an account on twitter so I can't see any posts on twitter and can't confirm the tweet, but I'll post the plain text (no hyperlink) links down below because Tumblr is picky about stuff.

Screenshot Text:

The names on BAN LIST are the writers of Baldur's Gate 3 poking fun at themselves, as confirmed by writer Kevin VanOrd[1]:

'Martin Doughty' (Martin Docherty)

'Adam Smythe' (Adam Smith)

'Kavin Ort' (Kevin VanOrd)

'Syrah Bee' (Sarah Baylus)

'Unknown elf' - Astarion[2]

'Rochelle Kwark' (Rachel Quirke)

'Yon Von Don' (Jan Van Dosselaer)

[1] VanOrd, Kevin. 2023. "As the book's writer I can confirm it was a juicy act indeed. All the names (aside from Gerringothe's, of course) are based on Larian writers. I can literally tag myself as Kavin Ort, the boring dwarf!" [@fiddlecub, Twitter]. 14 Oct 2023. Available from: https://web.archive.org/web/20240329212133/https://twitter.com/fiddlecub/status/1713103283026383083

[2] VanOrd, Kevin. 2023. "And yes the unknown elf is who you think it is." [@fiddlecub, Twitter]. 14 Oct 2023. Available from: https://web.archive.org/web/20231017062203/https://twitter.com/fiddlecub/status/1713103448516812817

End of screenshot text.

Supporting screenshots out of the way, here are my assumptions so far:

He probably did not have lots of time to dedicate for traveling pre-vampirism days just because law school then actually being a magistrate (yes, I am assuming that law school is a thing in Faerûn).

If he was a noble pre-magistrate days, Reithwin wouldn't be a normal destination choice since nothing in the game makes me think it really was anything more than a normal town that just happened to have fallen to horrific events.

Related to first two bullets: my personal thought is that he was probably sub-30 when this ban at The Waning Moon happened.

Cazador didn't/doesn't travel much himself (Astarion calls him 'reclusive' at some point).

I really doubt Cazador lets any of his spawn travel on their own.

What makes most sense to me personally is that he was traveling from home - wherever that is - to Baldur's Gate. Unfortunately the 5e map of Faerûn only list 4 cities along the Chionthar: Baldur's Gate, Fort Morninglord, Elturel, and Scornubel. It shows none of the towns/settlements shown in Act 1 or Act 2 in BG3. Just for reference:

Which probably is just so there is some vagueness for D&D players to add in their own towns since D&D is a giant sandbox. So that's kind of what I'm doing here. Somewhere between Reithwin and The Reaching Woods is a town that Astarion once called home.

[harlequinchaos]

I'm so mad but also kinda laughing at a series of unfortunate events that got me banned from sending and receiving messages on tiktok.

I recently received 2 strikes:

this was a comment on a Gale of Waterdeep Baldur's Gate 3 thirst video so like, that's not even fucking fair. HE'S NOT REAL LMAO.

And to provide context for the second one, on Trixie and Katya's podcast (The Bald and the Beautiful), there was a bit where Trixie was discussing how annoying it is when people comment "FIRST" on a social media post, and Katya responds "First: Get a life bitch!" (as the response to someone saying 'first'). The tiktok in question was THIS bit of the podcast clipped, and someone commented 'FIRST', so I naturally commented "get a life bitch" and lo and behold:

AND THEN FINALLY, THE ICING ON THE CAKE; my friend sent me a gross tiktok, I don't even remember the content, but this was the discussion following:

SUDDENLY IM PREVENTED FROM DM'ING PEOPLE FOR ALMOST A WHOLE FUCKING MONTH.

I can almost guarantee that I wasn't reported by any actual person, and that it was all fucking automated, because understanding an OUNCE of context involved would lead to the logical conclusion that nothing inappropriate happened. ALSO YOUTH EXPLOITATION AND ABUSE? FUCKING WHERE? And of fucking course you can appeal (as i did in the images) but can't communicate with an actual person about it. 🙄

[shotimus]

Oh my god I should not be laughing as hard as I am at this.

So I started playing Baldur's Gate 3 playing my character from the Dragon Heist campaign I played in. I missed my half-elf cleric Julian Rolim Flavius Glynmenor that I had to bring him back for another round, especially knowing that Volo was in this game.

A little backstory from the Dragon Heist campaign. Julian hated Volo that entire campaign and actually tried to get him banned in Waterdeep. Why?

Because Volo promised the party money, but Volo didn't actually have the money so instead they got the deed to Trollskull Manor. Julian has been angry about this the entire campaign because he was in need of money (tldr his money was stolen before the campaign started) and had since declared Volo to be a scammer. By the end of the campaign when he became wealthy again, Volo dared to ask Julian for funding for his next book to which Julian swiftly stated, "Fuck no."

So here we are in Baldur's Gate 3, and Volo gets captured by the goblin army. Through a series of coincidences I ended up saving Volo, and I screamed laughing when I was given this dialogue option for Julian.

Julian wants his money, Volo, including backpay. You'd better pay up!

[brabblesblog]

𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Chapter 18: When the gods choose to punish us, they merely answer our prayers.

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

Look where we will, the inevitable law of revelation is one of the laws of nature: the lasting preservation of a secret is a miracle which the world has never yet seen.

Professionally edited and collaborated on by my dearest friend <3 @editing-by-night

Masterlist

Read on AO3.

Art by Shiroishi

“Sweetheart,” she called out placatingly. He scoffed and bit down on a tart, his jacket draped over his other shoulder. He’d decided he would start early today; there was little doubt going through the lower city would take some time. Ban was lounging on her throne, legs crossed and documents in hand. In his absence she would have to manage three meetings - not too horrible, especially since one of them was to finalize the turnover of the Sharran cloister to the city.

“I was just teasing!”

He rolled his eyes, turning back to scowl at her one last time, the faux-anger shifting into mirth. He shot her a wink. “I’ll try to be home relatively early. If not, well…” he waved the last of his tart, “it’ll be a lonely dinner for you yet again. Maybe you’ll miss me this time.”

The sound of her laughter was the last thing he heard before the door closed behind him.

He and Ban hadn’t been back to the lower city often since the end of their adventure. They’d visited occasionally, but there had been no reason to of late.

Over the past week, he had sent his staff to begin searching.. So far all of the upper city had been scoured and to no one’s surprise it had yielded no results. He had also covered a fair amount of the lower city. That had likewise borne no fruit.

He had also considered… other possibilities. A Sending spell had allowed him to contact the twins in Waterdeep and inquire as to whether Vel or any of his associates had been active in Baldur’s Gate at that time. They had answered in the negative.

The morning proceeded in relative boredom. He went from house to house, knocking on each door and holding up Adrien’s portrait. A lot of them seemed surprised to see him - an elf in ostentatious clothes - tramping about lower city in all his finery going door to door about some man, but he found that he didn’t mind, as he agreed with their assessment.

He ended up at a house at the far end of a street and knocked on the door. It looked relatively well-kept, if a little old. The door creaked open, and a younger elf peered at him. Astarion cleared his throat, and began his spiel.

“Hello. My name is Astarion Ancunín.” He had avoided tacking on his title for this errand. “Have you by any chance seen or met this man?” He held up the open locket. His name is-”

The elf scratched his head. “Adrien, yeah.”

Astarion’s mouth fell open. He closed the locket, pocketing it. “Adrien Glasscraft, yes. You know of him?”

“He was my friend.” He opened the door wider. “You should probably come inside, Mister Ancunín.”

The house was quaint, even cozy, and Astarion made himself comfortable on the couch. Sprawled in his usual way, he caught the disapproving glance from the other elf as he sat on the chair opposite him. Astarion pointedly ignored it.

“My name is Lulen.” When Astarion made no response, merely tapping his knee, Lulen continued. “Adrien is someone I knew for several years, before he stopped coming by. If I may ask,” and he leaned forward. “What is your interest in him?”

Astarion’s lip curled. “He is important to someone important.” That, he felt, was as detailed an explanation as he was willing to give. Lulen fell silent, eyes fixed on a spot behind him, and Astarion waited.

Lulen scanned Astarion’s clothes. “It does make sense. He comes from a rich family, as far as I know. Some offshoot of a patriar family. He griped about it a lot.”

“Tell me what you know of Adrien, then,” Astarion prompted, “and perhaps you might be able to help me find your friend. Where and when did you see him last?”

“It was an evening, several years ago. He arrived here, angry, which was not an uncommon occurrence with him. We talked for some time, then he said he would head out and get some food, clear his head, and…”

“And?” Astarion prompted, leaning forward, hands on his knees. “Did he tell you where he went?”

Lulen shook his head. “No, but he mentioned heading to Wyrm’s Crossing.”

Astarion stood outside Fragyo’s, his scowl deepening. The sun was high in the sky, the midafternoon light harsh. There were several places to get food in Wyrm’s Crossing, and he had left this one for last, hoping he wouldn’t have to go in. The idea of stepping back into that cesspit was unpleasant; he did not relish the idea of having to relive all of his previous activities in that establishment, but it couldn’t be avoided. He’d been hoping to have his meal somewhere better, but he had lost track of time, so he supposed he’d grab something here while he investigated. Perhaps Adrien had slept over in the flophouse before he left Baldur’s Gate.

He made his way in. It wasn’t too busy at this time of day, and he headed up to the counter. The halfling custodian peered at him, seemingly recalling his face.

“You’re- you were with…”

Astarion raised his eyebrows, waiting with his arms crossed.

“With the group - the ones who saved the city!”

Ah. He was relieved to be remembered for that and not for his other, older exploits in the flophouse.

“Apologies,” the halfling - Dashkent, he remembered now, bowed. “I am not very good with faces, and so it took me a moment to remember where I knew you from.”

He scoffed, but waved his hand dismissively. Resolving to question the halfling after he’d eaten, he ordered his lunch, and then slipped into a seat at an empty table, scanning the room. He had been here countless times before, of course. They’d always kept a low profile when they’d hunted here, hunkering in corners and darkened alcoves at night, whispering those sickly sweet words, laying their traps.

He ate with disinterest - the fare here was still bland, despite having his sense of taste back - and flicked open the locket, studying Adrien’s features for what felt like the millionth time. The black hair, that jawline, those eyes…

They always stood out, those eyes. They could hardly have done anything else. They were Ban’s eyes, after all, an exact match down to the shape and shade of brown-

No… not just that. He’d seen them somewhere else.

It was a cold night, and it had begun to rain. He pulled his cowl over his head. Ahead of him Dalyria and Petras had already opened the door, heading inside. Neither left the door open for him; he slipped inside without a word.

The three split up, as was their wont. Astarion took his usual corner, mug in hand, scanning the room. Searching for potential marks was a skill he’d fine-tuned. Anyone who seemed alone, a little lost, would be perfect. Attractive, if he could manage it, but when pickings were slim it didn’t matter. Tonight, however, was a good night for hunting - the flophouse was teeming with people, the rain likely helping force them indoors. He took his time; there was no need to rush with so many options.

Dalyria slipped into the seat beside him. He rolled his eyes.

“What?”

“I told you it would be a good idea to come tonight, didn’t I?” Her eyes also roamed over the patrons. “Good pickings. I’m sure even Petras will find someone. Why aren’t you mingling yet?”

He scoffed, and took a sip of whatever he had ordered - he didn’t exactly remember. “Petras needs them blind drunk before they’ll even look his way. I’m giving him a head start.”

Dalyria laughed. “Of course you are. Astarion, the prettiest of us lot, barely even needs to try, eh?” She tried to playfully touch his cheek; he growled and shifted away.

She stood up. “Do find yourself… something. Two more nights of coming up empty-handed and you’ll be…” she bit back a laugh as he snarled at her.

The thought was unpleasant, but he did not let it show. “Worried about me? How sweet of you.” He rolled his eyes at her. “Godey has nothing new under his metaphorical sleeves, dear sister. It’ll be uneventful.”

“Judging by the way you screamed last time, I doubt that’s true.”

She drifted away and Astarion seethed, stewing over her flippant remarks.

Two weeks. Two weeks of coming up empty-handed and he’d come face to face with Godey. The door would latch closed behind him and not open again until the master was thoroughly satisfied. A date with Godey’s toys, a night of manacles and instruments and of blood, of screaming himself hoarse and it still not being enough to sate their lust. Two weeks - sometimes less, if Cazador’s whims dictated it so - until he was reminded of exactly how painful drawing his master’s ire was - not that he ever forgot. The man took what felt like boundless joy in breaking him, after all - far more than the rest. He rubbed a hand over his face, resentment bubbling to the top. Even in their shared suffering, he endured more. Far more.

Astarion swirled the contents of his mug, staring down at it absently. It wouldn’t do to fail tonight. He slipped into his thoughts, however - something he found himself doing more often lately, his mind sinking into nothingness. When someone jostled against his table and snapped him out of it, he had no idea how long it had been. He scanned the room. A fair bit of time must have passed, he realized, as Dalyria was now in the arms of a burly man.

A man caught his eye. He was seated at a table, alone, nursing a goblet of what looked like wine. Handsome. Black hair, square jaw, and alluringly dark brown eyes. Astarion sauntered over.

To his surprise the man looked up before he managed to say a word. “This chair’s free.” He tapped the seat beside him. Astarion slid in.

“You look awfully lonely, darling. Is it the weather, or something else?” Astarion sipped from his mug.

The man shot him a nervous smile. His eyes brightened as he took stock of Astarion’s face - a look he knew all too well. Tonight, that meant success.

“Something else.” The man returned his gaze to his drink. “The rain doesn’t help, I suppose. I headed out before it started. And you? What brings you here?”

Astarion noticed, belatedly, that the man had no cloak or anything to cover himself with, other than a jacket that was already soaked. He clicked his tongue. “Well, then. I’m all ears, if that’s what you need.” He would have added a coy ‘and perhaps more, if you want’, but something told him he’d have to take this particular mark slowly. He didn’t bother answering the man’s questions; more often than not people just wanted to talk about their own problems.

“It’s nothing more than common family drama,” the man said, pushing his sopping hair off his eyes. “The usual, really. I really don’t want to talk your ear off,” he chuckled, “and I’d rather hear about something else.”

Astarion found himself pleasantly surprised, but he was ready. “I am a magistrate. I’m here to meet someone, but…” he pretended to look around the room, “it seems that they have misplaced their clock.” He huffed. “Not my loss, considering that I now get to talk to you.”

“Adrien.” The man held out his hand.

He shook it, allowing his fingertips to subtly drag as he pulled away from Adrien’s grasp. “Astarion.”

Adrien nodded. “A wonderful name.” Again the man took a moment to look at his face; Astarion smiled, angling himself slightly so the light would catch his cheekbones. “Do you come here often?”

“Mm, once in a while.” Astarion took another sip of his drink. “And you? I haven’t seen you before, I feel. I’m certain I would have remembered a face like yours.”

“It’s my first time here, yes. I don’t come to this area often.” A blush crept across Adrien’s cheeks. Perfect.

“There must be a good reason then. With all the rain, and the frankly horrid state of this place… I will be very concerned if you tell me you’re here for leisure.”

Adrien laughed. “You… you got me. I was walking by to just… get my bearings, and have some dinner, but it started raining. I might have to stay the night here, and as correct as your assessment of this place is… I’d still rather be here than at home.”

“You and me both,” Astarion mused. It wasn’t exactly a lie, he supposed. Clapping his hands together to snap himself out of his melancholy, he sat up. “So. You’ve made me tell you my frankly boring reason for being here. Your turn, dear.”

“I suppose so. It’s a long tale, but I can give you the sum of it.” He wrapped his hands around his goblet and took a small breath. “My parents are shit, and I’m here-”

“To get some reprieve from them, yes.” Astarion slid closer. “While I would agree that that’s common… it doesn’t mean that it’s not important.” He waved a hand. “Like I said. I wouldn’t mind lending you an ear. Or my… company. Whichever you prefer. I’m not picky.”

A small risk, that.

The man turned to him, surprised. His lips pursed. “I would love your company, really. But I’ve already promised the rest of my evening to another. However, the first part of your offer I would heartily accept.”

Astarion groaned inwardly. He wanted to make a quick exit, but there was nothing for it. The night was likely to be wasted, anyway; the patrons were slowly clearing out as the rain began to ease off. “Of course. Please, do regale me.”

“My father wants me to be his heir. Wants to marry me off. If only she hadn’t left…” Adrien murmured angrily, and Astarion opened his mouth to ask some followup question he didn’t even give a thought to when the words died in his throat.

Petras stood in front of them, drink in hand, glaring at Astarion.

“Petras!” Adrien smiled. “Please, sit. I was merely talking to… uh…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Astarion stood up. “As much as I’ve enjoyed this conversation, darling, I must be off. After all, my associate may yet still arrive. Wouldn’t do well to be otherwise occupied, as pleasurable as that would have been for both of us…” He couldn’t help that last statement, smirking as Petras resisted the urge to hiss - and failed.

“Nice to have met you, Adrien.”

He sauntered off, a little miffed that Petras, of all people, had stolen a mark off him. Not stolen, exactly, he corrected himself, but still. Petras? Over him? That Adrien must’ve had bad vision. Astarion slinked back into his corner, nursing his drink and pointedly not looking at where the other two were in deep conversation.

To his dread, the night ended fruitlessly for him. He headed home some hours later, slipping into the palace and down to the dormitory. Petras had left first, followed by Dalyria, who had also managed to bring home a victim.

Astarion opened the door to find Petras on his bunk, legs crossed and smirking. He sighed. “Of course you’re filthying my bed, Petras. Won’t you ever be anything but predictable?”

“You have to admit I was anything but tonight. Didn’t expect that, did you?” Petras shifted, and Astarion bit back a snarl as he realized his sibling was lying on his blanket.

“Expect what? A man to be kind enough to uphold an earlier arrangement, even to one as… well, to someone who looks like you do?” Astarion laughed. “A surprise, to be sure, but angels do exist. As do charity workers.”

Petras glowered, and then he flicked something at Astarion. He caught it instinctively, opening his hand to see what it was. A cufflink. “Here. A consolation gift. Gods know you’d gripe about losing to me for days. Maybe this’ll get you to shut up.”

It looked expensive, jewel-encrusted, and he held it to the light.

Astarion frantically reached into his pocket, pulling out the cufflink the Glasscrafts had given him. There was no doubt - this was its counterpart. Fuck.

How would he tell her? Darling, we killed your brother. He was there, that day, perhaps only a couple of rooms away. We stupidly did the rite, not thinking someone we cared about might be in one of those damned kennels. We-

He snapped the locket shut, unable to look that portrait in the eye. Her eyes. He should head home, that was for certain. There was nothing to be done. There was nothing to search for. Nothing.

Astarion’s mind whirled with the possibilities. He could not tell her, that was always an option. He could already imagine the words he’d say.

Darling, I have some bad news. I’ve scoured all of Baldur’s Gate, and there was nothing of your brother to be found. Perhaps he’s made his life somewhere else, and we’re better off leaving him to his peace?

Darling, your brother told me he wanted nothing to do with you. He shooed me away, threatened to stake me- gods, you didn’t tell me he was vehemently against vampires!

Darling-

…He couldn’t do that to her.

Oh, but it would be easy. He could simply say the words, run his hands down her body, cup her ass, slip a finger between her legs. Purr and say the right words with just the right tone, and she’d believe him, because she trusted him. Trusted him to no longer use his skills to deceive her, trusted him to be honest.

And he would. As frightened as he was of her response, he would.

The long carriage ride felt like mere seconds. He was willing it to drag out, to delay seeing her face, asking him, ‘Love, how was your day?’ How would he respond?

He wondered if she'd leave him. Likely not, he figured - hoped, but she would be beside herself and rightfully so. He had no idea how much affection there was between Ban and Adrien, but he had no doubt it was more fond than he and his own siblings had been. Would she blame him? Not unreasonable, if so - that price was paid for him, after all.

What would she have done if they’d walked past those kennels and seen Adrien? Would she have stopped the ritual, told him to find a spare to swap her brother out? Would that have been the push to make her entirely say no to the idea? What if he’d argued back? And he was sure he would have - he could still recall the ice-cold fear that had gripped him then, the smell of blood and rot so strong it had suffused his senses and clouded out all other thoughts.

They would have fought. No, she would have talked him down. No. He would have stormed off. No. They would have-

He shook his head, trying to clear it. There was little use in what ifs, especially at this point.

He felt a sudden surge of loathing and he placed his trembling palm over his racing heart as he watched the mansion come into view. The price that had been paid for it, for all this - it had never really mattered, not for him, and barely for her, but now…

He was sure some god was out there, laughing at their fate. He would have seen the humor in it himself, if it hadn’t befallen them.

Soon he was spilling out of the carriage into the courtyard, breaths coming too short, praying she wouldn’t yet be out of her last meeting for the day. Please.

He stepped into the foyer and called the chamberlain over.

“My lord?”

“Rainier, where is the lady of the house?”

The chamberlain frowned. “She is still occupied in the gardens, making arrangements with Shadowheart and the city representative. The cloisters-” he cut off as Astarion waved a hand at him.

Good. He had some time to try and at least present a solution together with the problem. That would at least ease the blow.

“A Sending spell. To Gale. Ask him to come as soon as possible. Tell him it is an emergency. Bring him to the study the moment he arrives.”

Astarion’s head whipped up a little while later as Gale stepped into the room. He was still dressed in what looked like his teaching robes. The man looked slightly harried, the robes ink-stained on the sleeves.

“Astarion.” Gale sat in the armchair opposite his. “What brings me here, in such a hurry? Did something happen? Where’s Ban? Are you both alright?” His eyes followed Astarion as he quickly shut the door, locking it.

“Ban is fine. She’s outside, in negotiations with Shadowheart and the city planner.”

“Then what is-”

“It’s about her brother.” He sat in his own armchair, then leaned forwards, rubbing his face. “We were making attempts to look for him. He disappeared several years ago, and she wanted to seek him out.”

“A brilliant idea, which I assume did not yield the results you wished for. What can I do to help?”

Astarion glanced at him, grateful for the offer. “We - or rather, I - found him.” He looked away. “Or what became of him, at least.” There was a waver in his voice, he knew, but there was no hiding it.

“What became-” Gale trailed off at the look on his face. “Astarion. What exactly befell the man?” Gale’s concern was obvious. Astarion felt some relief there; at least someone could share in this burden that felt like a stone in his heart. “If he’s dead, a scroll of true resurrection would work, provided either his body or in the absence of it, his soul…”

He shook his head, and Gale’s sentence trailed off. How would he say this? Gale had been there as well. In some ways they all had doomed Ban’s sibling.

“He was one of the seven thousand, Gale.” Astarion kept his eyes fixed to the wall. “We killed him, and damned his soul as well.”

Gale swore. “Then why would you ask for me to come, if you knew this? True resurrection would definitely not work.”

“Wish.”

“Oh, no. No.” Gale shook his head, raising a finger. “The risks involved in casting that spell… no. It cannot be done.”

As Astarion opened his mouth to protest, Gale pushed on.

“Wish is a difficult spell to cast, for one. I’m not even certain I’d be able to cast it. Then there is the issue of intent - what is your stated goal? To return Ban’s brother, yes. But by what means? Are you able to specify, down to the minutest detail? If you do not, the spell will have unintended consequences, consequences that are certain to only bring more trouble.”

“If I specify-”

“What do you specify then? Undoing the rite itself? What about everything else that came with it? What about Ban? What about the arrangement with the hells? Would they not come after you if seven thousand souls they owned suddenly disappeared? What if it undid time itself, reverted everything back to before it happened, including our memories?” Gale stared at him, and Astarion had no choice but to meet his gaze head on. “Wish is a spell that alters reality, but it does so in completely unpredictable ways. It is manageable for smaller requests, smaller wishes that wouldn’t unravel so much of the fabric of reality. But you’re dealing with something that’s on a massive scale, involving thousands of souls, Astarion. I would not risk it.”

Astarion found that he could not disagree. “If I only ask for one soul back, what then?”

“You could, but what would happen with the rite? It required each and every one of them as payment. What would the hells do, were you to renege on your arrangement and pluck one right out of their grasp? And what condition would her brother be in? Would he be a tormented soul? A spirit? He might even come back in the form of a coin, for all we know.”

“A coin?”

Gale exhaled. “When souls are sent to the hells, to demons or devils - it matters not - the soul may be used in some other manner, but they are usually turned into soul coins.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. “The coins we found when we were wandering about? The same coins Karlach used?”

“One and the same,” Gale nodded, voice grim. “Now, a lesser devil might have used some of the souls for something else, made them into servants or something of that nature, but the fact that Mephistopheles was the one who received them, and received seven thousand of them in one go… it’s likely her brother’s soul is now, in fact, in a coin.”

Astarion swallowed. “And am I not able to simply wish him to come back as a whole, living being? That would circumvent his arrival as… as that, wouldn’t it?”

“It would, but yet again we do not know the consequences of it. Usually turning into a coin is a one-way process. And there’s a chance the spell would consider that as a second wish: one, that her brother return unharmed, and that two: he returns as not a coin. So you see-”

“I know!” Astarion got up, pacing. Wish would not work; that much was obvious. “Do you have any other ideas, then?”

Gale stared at him, askance. “Simply accepting what happened and mourning her brother aside, I would suggest reading up on the circumstances regarding the rite.”

Astarion froze. “And what good would that do?”

Potentially a lot of good, he knew. He still didn’t want to do it.

“Because you’d want to know the specifics of the contract. It might help with understanding or finding a means by which to retrieve Ban’s brother, if any such method exists. You could also consult a diabolist,” Gale added. “Or, Karlach and Wyll might be able to wrangle some fiends for you.”

They were all good suggestions, but right now it merely felt like meaningless words swimming in Astarion’s head. There were too many options, none of which seemed to lead to better chances of success. Then there was the bigger concern in his mind - telling Ban about it in the first place.

“Thank you,” he managed to say. “I’d invite you to stay over for dinner, but I doubt tonight will be anything but deeply unpleasant.”

Gale stood. “I understand. I will, of course, begin researching on my end as well. Let me know if you need anything more, and I will be in contact if I find anything of use. Good luck, my friend.” He clasped Astarion’s shoulder, and slipped away, leaving him to his thoughts.

He found her seeing Shadowheart and the city planner off. She was standing by the front door, waving goodbye. Shadowheart shot him a smile from afar, no doubt thinking about her wedding present, but he could barely muster a response, merely raising his hand in farewell.

As they departed, Astarion wrapped his arms around Ban from behind, pressing his nose against the top of her head. Taking a deep breath, he held her close, hoping she would let the moment stand. He did not know what to say, or how to even begin; but he needed to seek comfort. Gods knew this might be the last peaceful moment they would have for a while. Possibly ever.

Her hands settled on top of his arm, rubbing gently. Her muscles were tense, he noted, but that thought was brushed aside. “Good evening, love.”

Ban arched her neck, and he pecked the proffered cheek. “Did your day go well?”

“Well enough. I-” He stopped himself. Not yet. She didn’t turn to face him, or ask him about what he had just tried to say. Evidently something else was on her mind. “I trust the business with the cloister has now been fully resolved?”

She pulled away from his grasp, heading back inside the palace. “It has. They’ve agreed on a lump sum. Only the paperwork needs to be signed.”

He followed her in, a step behind her. “That’s… wonderful news.”

They headed towards the dining room. If she was avoiding his gaze as much as he was hers, he couldn’t muster enough courage to ask.

Dinner was a quiet affair. The only sounds were of clinking glasses and the utensils as they ate. Neither reached out to the other’s mind - an uncommon thing during mealtimes - but neither commented on it. He was thankful for it - it gave him some time to think and consider exactly how he wanted to broach the topic.

She finally cleared her throat after dessert, the first sound she’d made in a while, and he looked up.

“Astarion,” she said, her face tight. He tensed. Did she already know? How?

“My love?” He forced a lightness he did not feel at all into his voice.

“I think it’s time you tell me how much contact you’ve actually been having with my parents.” Before he could say anything she passed an envelope to him, and he looked down at it.

A letter addressed to him, from Roderich. Ban hadn’t opened it. He fought down a flood of relief, then waved it at her. “If you were so concerned about our correspondence, love, you could have opened it. I would not have minded.”

“I’d rather hear it from your own mouth.”

Cold. Angry. He sighed, thoughts of Adrien temporarily pushed from his mind. He ripped the envelope open, scanning the text as quickly as he could. As expected, it was nothing of import.

“Here.” He passed the letter to her. “They are merely asking for updates, the impatient wretches.”

Ban read the letter, and then reread it. “I see. But why would they ask for updates in the first place?”

“I made an agreement with them,” he confessed. “I was to inform them if… if we found Adrien, and in return they promised to leave you both alone.”

Her eyes softened. “That… well.” She reached out and grasped his hand. “Sorry. It’s just that… when it comes to them, I… I find it hard to be reasonable.”

“I don’t blame you.” His old methods slipped back in without his conscious choice. Sidetrack the conversation, spin it into something else. Do anything, everything - just to avoid what needed to be said. “There’s little need to apologize. Shall we head to our room, then? I've yet to finish that book.”

Ban stared at him for a long moment, far longer than she usually did. He felt her eyes move from his face to his body, her index and middle finger shifting to feel his pulse.

Controlling his body language was something he could do without much trouble, seeing as he'd had to do it for centuries. Calming his pulse however, was another; he hadn’t had much practice with that. As her fingertips touched his wrist he pulled it away.

She frowned. “What's wrong?”

No. Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck.

I’m not ready!

He spoke anyway.

“Adrien left your parents.”

She broke into a laugh. “Well, that's ironic. And also good! If he ran away, I'm sure we'll stumble onto him eventually, but there's no rush. He'll handle himself well - at least I hope.”

He made a small, strangled sound, fighting to get the words out.

“He… left, to cool off.”

“Oh.” She sat up straighter. “And then decided to run away? Impulsive as always.”

“That was my initial conclusion.” Astarion gripped the table, knuckles white.

“But there's more to it.” The smile on her face died. “What happened, Astarion?”

“He-”

A deep breath, and then another. His hand sought hers, gripped it tight. Ban bit her lip.

“He's dead, isn't he?”

Astarion didn't know whether to shake his head or nod. He felt frozen, eyes locked onto hers. “He…”

“He is.” Her voice cracked, and he hated it. Ban was never one to cry, after all. He could count on one hand the number of times she'd allowed it to happen in his presence. “Y-you don't have to say anything, I… thank you, for finding him.”

“He isn't just deceased, Ban.” He locked eyes with her, steeling himself. His jaw tightened.

“Then what? Please. I know it's bad. The way you've been acting all night, the way you haven't spoken - please.”

“By all definitions he's dead,” he managed to say. “The circumstances of his demise are, however, a matter in and of itself.”

He stared at her for a long, hard moment.

“We killed him, love. We killed him in the rite.”

[bharv]

General 3, 7, Story Specific 6, 11, and Romance 1, 5, 10 for Glim! (these are a lot, but I promise I sent fewer than I wanted to lmao)

eee thank you so much!

Does your character have any comments or advice when you recruit other companions?

Yes! she is particularly complimentary of Wyll when you meet him, telling a story of his prowess that he responds to with a shy blush. She also tells the player that to be a wizard of renown in Waterdeep is no mean feat, and that this idiot in the rock might be of some great value down the line.

Do they have their own personal quest that spans the course of the game? Can it take different branching paths depending on the choices the Player Character makes?

Glim's personal quest is already in the game - the whole of Save the Gnomes ties so closely with her ideals. In the end, you're deciding whether she is going to end up leading the Ironhand Gnomes with Wulbren, or whether to challenge her need to do her perceived duty and instead do what is right for her. If you don't save Barcus, she will recognise Thulla in the Underdark to keep the quest going.

Are there any moments in the game that trigger unique dialogue for the character?

A few!

Alfira is the first. She will offer advice on how to proceed, much like Gale does with the Lanceboard moments

When you first go into the Underdark, she will give a brief speech of the dangers lurking in the dark.

When you find the bodies of the Deep Gnomes at the Grymforge, she will break down in tears and, if in the party, there will be a non-avoidable battle with the two Duergar there

She will recognise the callouses on Art's hands in the Shadowcursed Lands

She will have some lines with the Deep Gnomes both in the Shadowcursed lands and outside Rivington that are in a mix of undercommon and gnomish.

Gortash has to give her special dispensation to be in the city, since Deep Gnomes are banned from the streets

Is Glim a romanceable character? Are there any specific requirements to romancing them?

Absolutely is (and it was a travesty that we didn't get a short romance!) She is easier to romance if Tav is also a short character, but it's no prerequisite.

Does the romance have different branching paths?

Only at the very end - there is a choice to be made as to whether she will stay with the Ironhand Gnomes, become the Queen to Wulbren's King, in which case they have the opportunity to stay romantically involved while acknowledging that she will be busy with office, or she can give it up and travel indefinitely with Tav.

Will they join in with the PC and the Drow Twins?

It's a pass. Glim has a lot of trauma from her time in the Underdark and sets her boundary - she would not be able to relax, no matter how gentle and professional they might be as individuals. She completely accepts this is her issue, and can be persuaded with a roll, but the narration notes that she is uncharacteristically reserved and stiff throughout and never quite manages to relax.