#bg3 vellioth

[coyote-ralyn]

My Vellioth cosplay

In this world, vampires drink energy drinks instead of blood. 😂

[an-excellent-choice]

A Cool Skull - Vellioth's Skull

His skull is so cool and I enjoyed making this but this motherfucker doesn't deserve to be colored for what he started

[dirtybg3confessions]

Thank to the few but very dedicated Vellioth/Cazador fanartists on Twitter, I can't stop thinking of Cazador taking every horrible, disgusting, degrading torture he was ever put through, and subjecting Astarion to it x 100000000 on the fucked up sadistic pain scale. And using fledgling enthrallment to force Astarion to come from it all again, and again, and again, not allowing him to pass out no matter how severely mutilated he ends up.

[jesternlove]

My WIP for my Vellicaz fanfic, Vellioth and (oc) Luciareja Szarr...

Archiveofourown: by Jesternlove : " The Unethical Machine " ( 98, 000 ish wrds so far)

[ariaachillesaphrodisia]

A huge thank you to @bg3zine for allowing me to be a part of the amazing Deadly Alliance, a Baldur's Gate 3 Zine! I am extremely honored to be able to take part in this!

Please enjoy this snippet of my piece for the Zine, titled: "Allow None to be Your Equal".

[butterdoggo13]

Messy sketches of Cazador szarr and his life with Vellioth and his blood drained friend (whom i based off of an Oni because of Kozakura)

[meatcrimes]

Time to self promote, cause i’m really happy with this chapter. This particular chapter doesn’t have much in the way of content to warn for (coping with isolation, mild peer bullying, non-detailed description of masturbation), but if you’re reading this from the beginning definitely heed the tags and chapter specific TWs because this chapter was an anomaly. He’s had a lot of hurt so far in this fic, and is gonna get a lot more, so he can have a little comfort as a treat.

reply or send an ask to be on the DM list for updates ♡

[theycallmeratt]

Three of a Four Course Meal

Cazador and Vellioth enjoy dinner and conversation with a devil. "Enjoy." "Dinner." "Conversation."

Dark comedy, teen rating but with potentially triggering content, so mind the tags.

Excerpt under the cut!

~~~

The denizens of Baldur's Gate were used to late nights, but at this point even the moons were heading to their beds over the horizon. Only true creatures of darkness had the energy to practice their sinful rituals. The hour of devils, vampires…

…and dinner parties. On top of the hill loomed a mansion, and in that mansion an abscess of a ballroom, festering with the unrefined garishness of a newly rich noble. Dozens of tables were crammed with guests, each dressed as resplendently as they could afford. Not as resplendent as the decor, although what most guests lacked in fine material they made up with basic taste. Each guest wore a mask of a horror, the theme an undead ball.

Tucked above it all, in a private balcony, sat a compact table, placed for seeing rather than being seen.

Seated between the hors d'oeuvres and where appetizers would be set was one Cazador Szarr. Newly promoted and shiny with confidence, a shine too easily scratched. Uncomfortable, too. His hair was twisted back so tightly he could barely move his eyebrows, stabbed through with several ornate, ebony hair sticks, as was the current fashion. His silk shirt flashed a pale gray chest and unfortunate nipples, and he wore eyeliner but no mascara. The entirety of it made him seem half-finished.

Between the settings for appetizers and dinner sat Baalphegor, kicking her feet under the table. The only alive-looking one, between her tan and her heartbeat. She wore a simple shirt and pants. Closer examination would reveal the lounge wear was woven from Lloth silk and hemmed with strips of the Weave itself. An understated chain of adamantine looped around her neck, hung with charms of infernal steel and soul coins and glowing purple-white where it touched the Weave.

Rounding out the course, placed between dinner's empty spot and the hors d'oeuvres, perched Vellioth, dead and having the time of his life.

Read more:

[wellen-katze]

Gold, Blood and Darkness

[dmbakura]

these aint my sins, i broke my chains

[coyote-ralyn]

BROKEN DOLLS

[mlarty]

Family portrait 🦇

[meanbossart]

Well. @/barbatusart commissioned this.

[sevenwoods]

"Madness, no matter how he concealed, slowly erodes his once flawless beauty. "

– C. S

[jesternlove]

My Vellicaz fic, The Unethical Machine, archive of our own: now at about 115,000 wrds!

[ariaachillesaphrodisia]

Running From the Daylight - A BG3 Fanfiction

Prologue

Any traveler of the Forgotten Realms would know that they are no stranger to tales, stories, and rumors. Gossip is traded as freely as any coins or resources, and legends are whispered in sacred places and worn-down taverns alike. Enter any bar in any city within the Realms, and within the hour of your arrival, you are certain to be flooded with more stories than you can count. Told more tales than you would ever have time to remember.

Many of these legends speak of the mysteries of the Realms. Of the supposed history of the great cities and towns. Great battles are sung about and wept over by those whose ancestors have passed along the stories to them. Political scandals are gossiped about in abundance, despite how many of those involved in such scandals have long since passed on. Townsfolk will speak of the influential figures of their town as though they have broken bread with them only yesterday, though those prominent individuals too have been long since deceased. Yet these stories make their way from one generation to another. From one mind to another.

And sometimes old tales cease to be told in favor of newer, more thrilling ones. And sometimes those older ones faded from the memories of the mortals within the Realms, but they still exist. Somewhere, within the fabric of the Realms, or within the minds and hearts of the immortal residents of the Realms, they remain.

They are considered the ‘lost legends’. Those tales which are no longer spoken by ancestors to their young; whispered within taverns; sung by bards in town squares; or otherwise commonly; but still are remembered by those whose lifespans extend through several mortal lifetimes. Those who have heard their fair share of legends, and many of whom have become the source of or focal point of some of the newer fables themselves. These individuals are the sole keepers of the lost legends, and often the only ones who know whether there is any truth to them… or whether they were simply a fiction crafted to entertain, frighten, or ensnare.

There is one such lost legend that is known by many of the immortal beings who have lived across more than a few centuries. It is a legend which tells of a magic that runs deep within the very fabric of the Forgotten Realms themselves, spreading throughout every city, structure, and being. It is not a magic that can be harnessed for use by any wielder of the arcane. However, it can be felt or experienced by anyone regardless of whether they have never once cast a spell, or whether they are the most trained and skilled magician in the Realms.

This legend speaks of a presence that can be found within various buildings in the Realms. But not just any buildings. Not even just old buildings who have experienced their fair share of history. No, these are the buildings that, according to the legend, contain sorrows that run so deep that the very foundations of said structures seem to cry out; weeping out with agony from the unbearable weight that comes with the knowledge of all that has transpired within those walls.

There are many such places around the Forgotten Realms that are the center of this lost legend, or which are spoken about in connection with the tale. Taverns in which a high number of patrons have fallen to bar fights or interpersonal conflicts which just so happen to come to their conclusions within the establishment. Manors whose families and staff were carried to whatever lies after life by plagues delivered to them by pests – but not before those unfortune enough to contract such diseases lived months of suffering as a result of them. Every city in the Realms has a building or two that has brought about the telling of the lost legend by those who still remember it. Even some of the larger towns may have some.

But the city most heavily tied to this legend is none other than Baldur’s Gate: one of the grandest and most fabled cities in all of the Forgotten Realms.

One may think this is due to the number of old buildings that still remain standing in the great city. Or perhaps one might blame it upon the fact that Baldur’s Gate is such a large and old place, therefore making it only natural that it would be referenced in all tales – ancient and mostly forgotten or not. Mayhaps one might guess that the reason for this is nothing more than the simple fact that stories of Baldur’s Gate are found in practically every corner of the Realms, and that shelves in nearly every library are littered with books on the city. And these would all be fair guesses, assumptions, or justifications; however, none of them would be correct. The reason for Baldur’s Gate being the most discussed city when one speaks of the dark presence the lurks within haunted buildings all has to do with a single structure:

The Szarr Palace.

For no building in the entirety of the Realms carries as much sorrow and utter, relentless anguish as the Szarr Palace.

No walls have ever had to contain the magnitude of horrors that those walls have. 

No structure has ever had to watch a history of atrocities repeat itself to the extent that that one has.

No place’s grounds are as soaked by endless bloodshed and a ceaseless river of tears as the tainted floorboards; tiles; carpets; and earth of that damned palace.

It is unknown whether there is a single living soul left who could definitively answer the question of when the evil began in that household. It is, in fact, unknown whether such a person ever existed. Perhaps it began with something noticeable, such as the vampiric curse that has plagued so many of the Szarr family, and those within their close circles and vicinities. Perhaps it was that initial bite from whatever creature turned the first vampiric member of the bloodline that began the cycle of agony that would go on to corrupt so many in that place.

Or perhaps there was some manner of unseeable rot that infested the hearts of those who resided in the Szarr Palace. Perhaps the scars of one began to run so deep that they etched their way onto the flesh of their descendants. Forming, slowly over time, an inescapable web of trauma, grief, torment, and anger.

Although many who have followed closely the happenings of that dreaded palace would argue for the latter, it is difficult to say for certain.

However, this is not a tale of the Szarr Palace. It is not a story which seeks to answer the question of the origins of the evils of that place. Yes, it may be a central part of this story, but it is not, in truth, what this narrative is about.

For this story is about three whose lives were forever changed within the walls of the Szarr Palace. Three figures – all from different pasts; times; families; homes; and even family lines – who saw the courses of their futures altered by the rooted malevolence found within that place. And by the hands of those who resided or ruled within it.

This tale shall explore not only the individual lives of the three, but also the ways in which they are intertwined. How the pains and traumas one inflicts to another can ripple down. How the actions of one can impact the lives of others, even those whom they have never met, or those who came long after they have died.

Vellioth the Martinet.

Cazador Szarr.

Astarion Ancunin.

These are the three whom this story shall center around. Those whose tales shall be told within the pages of this script.

There is much to discuss regarding the aforementioned parties, but before the story truly begins, there is a warning to heed:  

Just as the lives of the three were not pleasant, neither too shall this story be. It shall shed light upon the events that led them to the Szarr Palace, and those which took place within it. The horrors each of the three witnessed, was subject to, or committed. The heartbreaks. The losses – both of lives and of innocence. The unnameable sorrows that each in their own way had to face. No atrocity committed within those walls shall be spared mention.

And this is not a tale with happy endings.  

For two of them, the events that took place in that household would shape them into the monsters that they became later in life. It burned away any compassion or empathy that they once held, brandishing them into weapons that struck down all who stood in their way – and even those who were merely perceived as potential threats. They ensnared those who they wished to exert control over, continue the cycle of abuse, despair, sorrow, and pain that both had been victims to in their own ways.

For the third, the events that took place in that household shaped him as well. Robbed him of the future he had planned. That he had envisioned so many times prior to that faithful day when what his new fate was secured. It robbed him of his family; home; hopes; dreams; and freedom. Those things overtime being replaced by terror, hopelessness, anger, and grief. All hidden behind a carefully crafted mask of flirtatiousness, seduction, playfulness, arrogance, and, at times, indifference. But when one has lived under that mask for over a century… the line between where the mask starts and ends, and where the person underneath starts and ends, blurs. Until eventually… not even he knew. His wants, boundaries, and limits – ignored, forgotten or forced to bend to another’s will. Time and time again until eventually he lost sight of himself in the swirling sea of other’s expectations, lusts, and desires.

Unable to return to who he once was. Unable to choose for himself who he now is. Struggling to ascertain who he wishes to be. Longing for freedom and an escape from the Hell he has found himself trapped in. Though, for him, his fate is not yet set within stone, and so he may yet find the peace he is seeking.

Yes, this narrative is not one where a happy ending can be promised. The most which can be promised is the potential of a happier ending for one, but for the other two… the past cannot be unwritten. Their paths have been set, the roles carved out and the places taken, and there is no turning back for them. There is not even enough left to save, should one have sought the difficult – impossible – task of attempting to do so. Perhaps once, long ago, there was, but no longer. Not for those two.

The key players in the story have been set and introduced, and the warning has been made.

And so now here, with no further delay, shall our tale begin.