#cazador szarr’s house elf

[digitkame]

Save him🥺

[inquisitornocturn]

⊱─ 𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕤 & 𝕡𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕠𝕞𝕤 - 𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝟚 ─⊰

➺ 𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘: Cazador Szarr/f!reader the dhampir/spawn!Astarion

➺ 𝕥𝕒𝕘𝕤: no y/n is used, rating - E, dead dove do not eat, incest (father/daughter), POV second person, grooming, smut, canon-typical violence, humiliation (but like hot humiliation), Woe is involved like a grinding toy, exhibitionism, facefucking, non-consensual watching (does this count as cucking?), praise kink, anal fingering, anal, vampiric bites, blood drinking.

➺ 𝕡𝕝𝕠𝕥 𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: You think you have everything you want, a loving father, one of his spawn to entertain you and protection of a vampire coven, but a master and his spawn have you caught in a middle, their jealousy, desire for control and possessiveness influencing their actions. Yet you don't want to be a doll pulled by strings, you want to be the Lady of the House, Lady Szarr, respected just like your father, Cazador, is. But that might not be what Cazador himself has planned for you, and maybe not what Astarion has in mind either. Can you stand against them - only time will tell.

➺ 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 7,389

𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕣 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: Astarion has his own plans to make his situation more cushy, alas the daughter is probably not the diplomat he should've chosen to make Cazador relent in regards to him. A strict lesson ensues. enjoy♡~

➺ 𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥: [link] | [on AO3] |

Something is on his mind, you know this much because of how Astarion seems to be lost in thought doesn’t escape your attention. With a candelabra and some wine, you are spending your early night at the top of the palace, sharing a table with the vampire spawn who insisted on keeping you company despite not saying a word since then. You are reading, or rather were reading, until Astarion’s unusual stillness finally draws your attention to him. He has a glass of wine too, you graciously poured him one, but the elf hasn’t touched it.

You watch Astarion for a moment longer, seeing his crimson gaze looking into empty space, past the battlements into the nothingness far away. One leg is draped over the other, one hand resting on his knee while his right is used to prop his chin with. Candlelight flickers in his silver curls and you find him beautiful, in a different way than your father, but beautiful nonetheless, and for a moment you forget yourself too, watching the spawn not moving besides blinking from time to time, his chest moving evenly with his calm breaths. Today he’s wearing just his pants and a shirt, the doublet most likely left back at the Kennels to which you’ve been once, when your father showed you some of the forbidden parts of the palace when he deemed you old enough and mature enough to understand why Cazador is running things in a way that he does.

Astarion finally notices your look that’s affixed on his face and turns his head.

“Seeing something interesting?” He asks and you snap out of your thoughts, downcasting your eyes immediately to the book in your hand.

“You’re unusually quiet.”

“You’re reading, I don’t want to interrupt.”

With a slight frown you look at Astarion, he never had issues interrupting you before, or taking you carnally whenever he wishes and is capable to. Something is amiss about him tonight and you’re not sure if you can guess correctly without him providing you the right answer.

You close the book after committing the page number on which you stopped to your memory and set it aside on the table, picking up your wine and taking a sip, not looking at him for a moment while the spawn still keeps his eyes on you, waiting for you to speak. He knows you will.

“I have been thinking.” As Astarion predicted you begin after another moment of silence and rise your eyes to his, meeting his and being unable to read anything in them. “About that night in the garden.” Your throat swallows on its own when the memory of him fucking your face comes back with a heat in your stomach.

“What about it?” Astarion asks and then sneers. “Are you going to complain, little dhampir? Was I too harsh?” Spawn’s words are mocking and they invoke a mix of embarrassment and shame that makes your cheeks begin to flush.

“No, that’s not-“ You pause, then exhale, trying to gather your thoughts. No, he wasn’t harsh, he was maybe rough, but you enjoyed it, more than you’d be willing to admit, especially right now. “You said something that night.”

“Did I? I may have. Was it before or after you served me?” Astarion keeps his mocking tone and you blush harder. You don’t know why him not taking you seriously, ridiculing you even, is getting to you in a way that you wish it didn’t. It’s making you want to please him, to gain his favor, to be praised in that purring tone of voice you heard before. You swallow again, nervous, trying to tell yourself to focus on what you want to say.

“You spoke of me seeing you as nothing but a slave.” You finally find your words despite the heat in your stomach moving lower, to your loins and you take another quick sip of your wine. Astarion’s eyes narrow as he watches you and finally he picks up his own glass, but does not taste the wine just yet.

“Are you about to tell me that I’m wrong? That you don’t see me as a mere slave to Cazador?”

You don’t respond right away, not sure how exactly you should reply, because you learned that Astarion’s temper can be as volatile as your father’s and you need to thread carefully.

“I think… I think I agree.” You begin slowly and when spawn’s eyes narrow even more, you rush to elaborate. “I’ve only known you as my father’s spawn. But I don’t see you as a slave, not really, not with you… with us…” Finding it hard to pick the right words you let your sentence trail off and Astarion’s expression smoothens out, he sighs.

“I see.” Is all he says for a while, then finally drinks from his glass, leaving it half empty when he sets it down. “Tell me, my little dhampir, is that how you wish to see me for the rest of your life?”

The words hang heavy in the air and you think of them before you give a slight shrug.

“I don’t wish to see you in any other way that you are, Astarion.”

Your reply makes the spawn laugh with bitterness and he rises an eyebrow at you while with his hand he reaches over the table and takes yours from where it rests in your lap.

“But darling.” Astarion’s voice becomes a seductive drawl and you glance at his hand covering yours. “I know you love your father, you love the power he wields. Over you, over me, over his other spawn.” He pauses until you rise your eyes to his which bore into yours with an alluring promise. Of what, you are not sure. “But don’t you think it would be better for us if he didn’t treat me like the others?”

You scrunch your nose, unsure what he means and your confused look makes the vampire spawn smirk, his fangs somehow looking longer in the candlelight at this moment.

“Think about it, little dhampir. Entire palace knows that your father graciously agreed to let you have some fun with me.” When your eyes widen with shock he chuckles. “Of course everyone knows, darling, it’s a palace, a confined place in which people talk to each other, naturally the word spread.” Astarion stops himself before he makes a sexual remark. He needs you to listen, he needs you to agree with him. “So just think, love, what are they saying if Master’s own daughter lets herself getting fucked by one of his wretched spawn?”

Realization comes to you and first your eyes widen a little more, then you deeply frown, beginning to chew on your bottom lip. You’re a Szarr, pride of your father, his bride eternal. How does it look like that you’re involved with a spawn, his most hated spawn, if the whispers you heard are correct? You know that Cazador punishes Astarion, but you only heard rumors of how severely. Reasons behind such treatment are a mystery to you still.

“What do you suggest?” Words slowly come past your lips and it’s as Astarion was waiting for exactly this response. His grin becomes wolfish, like a snarl of the beasts your father keeps in better conditions than his own spawn.

“I thought you would never ask.” He pulls your hand over the table and places his other on top, encasing your fingers with his palms. “I think Master giving me some privileges would be a start.”

“Privileges?” You echo, still with a frown creasing your brow and the spawn chuckles.

“Yes. Oh you know, like my own room at least. Master doesn’t allow you to your bed when you’re with me, having my own would simplify things, we wouldn’t need to sneak around, which is unbefitting for a lady like yourself.”

He’s right, you realize immediately. You’re the lady of the palace, what are you doing, getting fucked by Astarion in hallways and a garden like a common whore. Pride of your legacy that your father raised you with, stirs deeply in your chest and your shoulders straighten as if on their own. Astarion notices the change and knows that he has gotten through to you, easily too. Oh how easy you are. Secretly he gives bitter thanks to his Master for training you so well.

You ponder upon his words, glancing down at your hand in his and nod slowly.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

As you stand and pull your fingers from Astarion’s grip, you see a flash of surprise before you turn your back to him.

“Where are you going?” The vampire spawn jumps to his feet too and you pause, giving him a look over your shoulder.

“I’m going to talk to father, what else.”

“Now?”

“Why not?” Not waiting for Astarion to reply you head for the door leading inside the palace, but he says nothing, just watches your back and how your dress moves with your steps. He knows better than you do that this might very well end in a disaster and he just wishes, no, hopes beyond hope, that you will handle your father as only a wife could, even if you’re not one in title just yet.

You, on the other hand, are not concerned. While you move through the dimly lit corridors and pass servants who nod to you with respect, you think over Astarion’s words again. What he said to you sounded reasonable, still does. It does not look good for someone of your status to sleep around with a mere spawn, you see it now, how did you not see it before? You don’t linger on this, you just know that you have to fix it and you are absolutely sure that your father will see reason. Why wouldn’t he, how you are seen reflects on his as well after all.

When you knock on Cazador’s study door you hear nothing from the inside so you peer in and find it empty. With a sigh you return to the ballroom, wondering where your father could’ve went and you decide to check the bedroom before you start chasing him around the palace. It doesn’t take you long to arrive there, corridors familiar so much that you could find your way with your eyes closed, and when you enter you finally find Cazador, clearly post bath, dressed only in a silky robe, who’s twin belonging to you is draped over a chair nearby.

He stops when you appear in the room and inquisitively rises an eyebrow.

“You come in a rush, daughter.” Vampire Lord comments and you approach him, feeling determined and he definitely can see it on your face too.

“Father, can we speak? About Astarion.”

Cazador’s face immediately loses his calm expression as he frowns and crosses arms on his chest.

“What about the boy?”

You started so bravely and now you falter, your fingers clench in your skirts as you try to think of a way to present what you and Astarion discussed. Cazador waits for a little longer for you to speak, but his patience clearly run out and the vampire walks to the dresser where fresh set of clothing is waiting for him. When your gaze follows your father, you notice Woe leaning against the wall nearby the cabinet.

With Cazador’s back turned to you, at last you find your voice and clear your throat.

“Father, I think you should give Astarion some leniency.”

“About what exactly?”

Gods, why it’s so hard to get your words out? You know you are right about this, you are sure of it.

“I think you should give him a room at least.”

Cazador was reaching for his clothes when his hand stops so that he can turn to you, Lord Szarr’s eyes narrow and you notice the dangerous way his jaw clenches.

“The boy deserves no such thing.”

“But father-“

Cazador practically swoops towards you, in two, maybe three, long strides he’s towering over you, casting a shadow like terror of some forgotten deep and you shrink in your skin. He sees your scared, pleading for mercy face, but does not care for it.

“Will you dare argue with me about the boy again, daughter?!” Cazador demands and you begin trembling in your dress, flashes of tortures reminding you of your place and what happens when you test your father’s patience. The knives, jagged glass, the hooks…

“Father, if you just hear me out-“

You only let out a short whine when his hand shoots up and grabs fistful of your hair, yanking your head back so harshly that your knees almost buckle beneath you. Cazador’s lips curl into a snarl and his eyes shine with fury.

“You fail to understand one thing, daughter.” The Vampire Lord begins slowly, his teeth clench with a pause to make sure you’re listening and your wide, teary eyes confirm to him that you do. “I and only I decide how each spawn is to be treated.” A hard tug on your hair and you cry out, your hands rising and fingers trying to pry father’s grip away to no avail. “Do you understand?!”

“Yes!”

“Was it the boy who put this idea in your head?” Another harsh tug and you nearly fall to your knees from pain, tears now spilling down your face that is contorted from agony, but you keep your eyes on his, you know you have to look, maybe the punishment will stop here if you do.

“Yes!” A choked out sob is your answer and Cazador’s teeth clench again. There’s real bloodthirst in the crimson sea of his eyes and he releases your hair with a pull backwards that makes you stumble with his motion, nearly falling.

“So the impudent, insolent child is trying to put ideas in your head, is that so?” Cazador eyes you with pure disdain, but you know him well enough to understand that the very notion of someone else influencing you fills him with rage. You’re his to control and to dominate over. “Has he so easily forgotten who you truly belong to, hm?” Suddenly there’s a dangerous smirk pulling at vampire’s lips and you tremble with fear of uncertainty. “I suppose I have to remind him then. And you, my dear daughter, that I am still the Master to you both.”

Your throat feels constricted as you try to swallow, your eyes wide with fear and he circles you, walking behind you, then heavy silence follows for a moment or two before you feel laces of your corset being pulled at harshly. So harshly that your body is tugged with each pull and you have to put effort in staying in your spot. You don’t dare to move, not even to wipe your tears now drying on your face and you just lower your eyes to the floor, worried about what might to come.

Piece by piece your dress comes apart at Cazador’s angry actions, you hear seams ripping and fabric straining when he tugs on your clothing as if it personally offended the Vampire Lord and it lasts until with one savage yank your skirts and everything underneath them ends up on the floor around your feet.

“Your shoes.” Cazador demands after standing straight again and when you rush to unlace your shoes and put them aside, in your peripheral you witness your father walk to the dresser, but not to pick up his clothes, no, his long fingers wrap around the curved shaft of Woe.

Naked, exposed and terrified you look at Cazador with your arms at your sides. Everything within you screams for you to try and protect your soft body that is no match for the staff it comes raining blows upon you, but you know better than to do that, you learned this lesson the bitter way.

When Lord Szarr turns to you, he’s still grinning and you meet his eyes, silently begging to be spared, but you know better. Cazador has an idea, a goal, and until he achieves that goal you are not going to be released.

“Sit.” A simple command, easy to follow and you drop first to your knees, then sit back on your heels and wait for another order until the knock on the door comes and your face drains of color. “Ah, wonderful, all the players are here. Come in!”

The moment door opens you realize what your father has in mind as you watch Astarion’s blank face betray his surprise at the scene before him. Spawn enters carefully, like a rat unsure if there’s a cat nearby, and closes the door behind him, the click of a latch sounding like a prison sentence in the silence of the room.

“Watch now, boy, and witness what a true power is.” Cazador uses the bottom of Woe to press it against the middle of your chest and shove you backwards. In the moment of falling you move your hands behind you before you drop fully on your back and look up at your father.

“Master, I don’t understand-“

“You put filth in my daughter’s head!” Words snap like a whip, they make you and Astarion both flinch in unison as Szarr patriarch walks behind you, but his eyes are firmly fixed on the spawn. “You think you can influence her just because I let her toy with you? No, boy, that’s quite stupid of you to presume that. And I ought to teach you a lesson through example. To show you who her true Master is and always will be, lest you get some grand ideas again.” Without even looking at you, Cazador orders again. “Spread your legs.”

Your face flushes with red but you do as told, meekly parting your legs and Woe’s bottom comes into view between them, swung at your right thigh.

“Wider.” You again obey and look downwards, unable to rise your eyes either to Cazador or Astarion, feeling humiliated, feeling stupid for thinking that you could reason with your father. “Witness how easily she obeys me, witness the true extent of my power over her. I could make her do this in front of a full ballroom.” Vampire grins as he speaks, clearly pleased that you show no signs of protest at his little performance.

“Master, I understand, it’s not necessary.” Astarion’s voice is so low it’s almost a whisper and you glance at him, seeing slight blush on his cheeks and tips of his pointy ears, while he clearly tries to avoid looking at you in this position. That submissiveness when confronted with your father’s authority evident in every fiber of spawn’s being.

“No, it is very much necessary, boy. You made me do this and you will watch. So look at her.”

You sense sheer power when Cazador commands and Astarion’s eyes are forced to focus between your trembling legs just in time for him to witness Woe beginning to get rubbed against your cunt. You glance down, seeing your folds gently enwrap the sides of the cold staff, the ridges of it, and how they rub between your tender flesh making you whimper. Your body responds to stimulation, your clit swelling even under rough grinding of the staff pole and you watch yourself becoming aroused, first signs of moistness appearing at your entrance and on the staff while it keeps being slid against you.

“Wider, my daughter, let him see what belongs to me. Show him how dripping wet you get for your father’s touch.” Cazador flaunts with clear smugness in every word and you do as he wishes, parting your legs even more, almost impossibly so while your body shivers in front of Astarion. Before you turn your eyes away in shame, you watch spawn’s Adam’s apple bobble as he swallows at the sight.

Woe moves for a little while longer, side of it that’s pressed to your increasingly moist cunt becomes smeared and Cazador lifts it to your face. With an embarrassed glance you realize that he wants you to clean it and you obey, because you always do. Pressing your tongue flat against the staff, you lick at it not unlike it’s a cock and your eyes wander to Astarion again who’s standing so still that not even a muscle twitches, except for hardness in his pants that you are sure your father sees as well. A satisfied chuckle fills the silence as Szarr patriarch appreciates the sight of you submitting so easily, or of his spawn, who clearly is scared but aroused. Maybe both at the same time, you don’t know, you don’t care to wonder. What matters right now that this little lesson the Vampire Lord wants to teach you both doesn’t become painful and you will do anything to avoid it.

“See how obedient she is? Such a good girl. Perhaps you should learn from her, child. Your disobedience is truly your most disappointing trait.” Cazador moves Woe away and you instinctively follow it with your tongue before you stop yourself and look at father who waves the magical tool towards the bed. “On the bed, on your back, head off the edge.”

Grateful not to sit spread on the floor anymore, you scramble to your feet and quickly walk towards the big bed, climbing into it and avoiding to look at Astarion. Cazador has fucked you in front of the spawn before, several times, but those times were more because he wanted to be watched, this time, however, it’s a lecture, and you’re the specimen that he is using to nail the point down – you are his.

After situating yourself just as the Vampire Lord instructed, your world turns upside down. You weren’t sure which way he wanted you to lie so you picked to hang your head off the right side of the bed, wanting to void facing Astarion again if possible.

“You – watch.” Cazador commands to Astarion and then you hear footsteps as your father approaches the bedside, sharp grin on his face not terrifying you anymore now that you realize that the lesson, however embarrassingly it may have started, might not end up in blood and pain.

“Father.” You breathe out more than say the word and Cazador pauses then slips his hand between the folds of his robe and parts them so that his hard length juts out like a guiding beacon of your life, maybe in a lot of ways it truly is, and you swallow despite difficulty to do so with your head hanging as it is.

“Open your mouth.” The vampire commands but this time it’s softer; not a request, not really, but an instruction issued almost lovingly. “Show the insolent brat just how obedient you can be for me, my dear daughter. Show him how you worship me.” His grin becomes slightly wider, malicious, and with a grip on the base of his cock, Cazador guides the tip to your lips.

At first he teases, running the velvety skin against the entire circle of your mouth, then begins to push it in, slowly, savoring the look in your eyes as your throat contracts the moment his cock begins sliding past the bend. You gag and your fingers clutch the sheets but you don’t pull back in any way. Lord Szarr buries himself deeply in the hot wetness of your mouth and you can’t see anything anymore, just the hems of his robe and his balls, hanging heavy above your face, swinging tantalizingly.

“The lesson here is, boy-” Cazador begins at the same time his hips begin thrusting. It’s slow at first, he’s not cruel enough tonight not to let you adjust, and you’re grateful for that because your throat relaxes more with each deep slide after the vampire mercifully withdraws to let you inhale. “-that my dearest daughter is mine and mine alone.” He casts a glance in Astarion’s direction, seeing his spawn aroused, swallowing feverishly at the sight of your complete and utter obedience. It makes Cazador feel victorious once again. “Watch her closely, observe how perfectly she performs her duty to me.”

Despite Cazador’s utter authority over two people in the room you feel his cock twitch as he begins to move faster. For a second you hear vampire’s nails scrape against the staff’s pole when you press your tongue to the underside of his length, making the tip of his cock press against the roof of your mouth. You don’t see much right now, but you don’t need to, you know your father better than anyone and in this moment you are confident that this lesson that he so cruelly wants to teach his spawn is slowly becoming equally about his pleasure.

A sharp inhale above you and he suddenly pulls out, thick saliva following the path of Cazador’s swaying erection the moment it leaves your mouth and you exhale with relief, the thrust before he retreated was a deep and long one, leaving you near out of breath. Your father smirks down upon you with clear satisfaction and steps aside, breaking the watery fluid still connecting him to you, then sets Woe aside, leaning it against the nearest wall.

“Get there.” Szarr waves a hand towards the middle of the bed and you sit up, spending a moment to adjust when the world spins for a second after you change position, then crawl where you have been directed and glance at your father again, waiting for more instructions. “On your stomach, girl.” As he speaks, Cazador climbs into bed too and while you lie down you can feel Astarion’s burning look wash over your body like flames of fire. You can’t really be sure if those flames are of passion or anger, you would need to look at him to confirm and you still refuse to do that, even if that would give you an answer you crave to know.

You don’t want Astarion to be angry, of this you are sure, but how your father is handling the situation… You can’t blame the spawn at all if he is angry.

While you try to find a comfortable position, the Szarr patriarch thoughtfully snatches the pillow from where it rests against the headboard and gives it to you. You give him a small smile of gratitude and affection mixed together, but whether it’s reciprocated you don’t see as the vampire turns to Astarion.

“See, child, my daughter is grateful for everything I give her, even if it’s just a pillow.” Cazador speaks while you remain quiet, just put the pillow under your head and hug it.

Yes, he’s right, you are grateful, but you’re more grateful that he’s not in a mood to hurt you tonight. Maybe too late, but you do realize what mistake it has been to try and tell your father how to treat his spawn, there’s limits to his tolerance and just like tonight, sometimes you have to learn them anew.

“Master, I am grateful too.” Astarion’s voice is barely above a whisper and you can identify notes of something akin to shame, but yet again you refuse to look at him, to really see what the spawn is feeling in this moment, because you’re just too afraid to provoke Cazador’s wrath that always comes so unpredictably and suddenly.

“Are you, boy? Clearly not as grateful as she is.” With these words you feel your father’s hands caress the mounds of your rear after he sits by your side, the mattress dipping under his weight with comforting familiarity.

“Master, please.” Again you hear something else besides submission and obedience in Astarion’s words, but you can’t identify it this time. What he is pleading for, to be able to leave or join, you are also not sure of.

“Please what?” Cazador mocks and you bite your bottom lip when he spreads the mounds, massaging them, pawing at them with sense of ownership. No answer comes and the Vampire Lord chuckles, then leans over your back, the elbow by your arm sinking into the bed underneath. “Keep them spread for me, my dear.” He whispers and you feel your face flushing again, but release the pillow and do as he says, gripping the flesh that he was holding just a moment and ago and pulling it to sides, exposing yourself for his desires. “Such a good girl, such obedient daughter.” Szarr croons with poisonous triumph, his cold breath felt on the back of your neck and you bite down harder.

Cazador’s fingertips press between your shoulder-blades then trail down your spine slowly, like an icy rivulet of water gliding over each subtle rise until it slips to your dutiful offering, circling the hole with one digit almost lazily until you let out a sound of whimper.

“How receptive she is.” Cazador muses out loud and you can imagine the look in his eyes, that cruel enjoyment of your utter belonging to him, where his word is akin to that of the Gods. “You will never have her this way, boy. You know why?” As he speaks he keeps circling, but lets out a soft gasp when the vampire starts pushing two fingers in, slowly and carefully, making sure you’re not in any discomfort.

“Why, Master?” You hear Astarion’s weak question, like he’s too unsure of what is going on to even rise his voice and Cazador chuckles, watching first joints of his fingers pass the rim, then second, until they are buried inside you to the knuckles. You grip your flesh tighter and let out another whimper when he starts moving them.

“Because I created her to be mine, child. She has been mine from the moment of conception and she will remain so until she perishes.” Father’s fingers begin moving faster and your body reacts: your hips buck upwards to meet his invading digits, you shudder slightly not from the effort to keep yourself spread for Cazador, but from pleasure you’re beginning to feel as your hole lubricates itself to ease the passage of the intruding insertion. “Hm. So receptive indeed.” This time Cazador’s words are for you and you flush harder, closing your eyes.

A moment of silence and you forget that you’re being watched, succumbing to the delight of father’s gentle succor, feeling more and more needy as desire steadily consumes your thoughts. Yet when Astarion speaks again, your eyes snap open, because for a blissful moment you completely forgot he’s there.

“Master, can I please go now?”

“I told you it’s a lesson, and you will remain to observe said lesson.” Cazador snaps sharply back at Astarion and his fingers curl inside of you, making you softly cry out, but this draws his attention back to you. “You will watch as I claim my daughter so that you have no stupid ideas about thinking you have any control over her from this point on, boy.”

“Yes, Master.”

Cazador leans over you again, his breath fawning this time against the back of your head and he chuckles ever so slightly as he scissors his fingers, stretching you wider.

“Spread them wider, my daughter, let him see how well you’re opening for me.” Your blush becomes fiercely obvious the moment words leave the vampire’s lips but you do as he says, of course you do, and pull at your mounds even wider. “Come closer.” Cazador instructs Astarion and you hear a handful of tentative steps towards the bed. You swallow, feeling almost overwhelmed with a whirlwind of emotions. “Observe.”

“Yes, Master.”

Your hole being is played with for a moment longer, and you are feeling almost physical sensation of their gazes on you, finding it difficult to inhale from desire and embarrassment mixed together, but then the fingers retreat, leaving you with a whimper at the back of your throat and a yearning.

“Such a good daughter to me. Now, keep yourself like that, let me show my wretched, incompetent spawn that he will never have what belongs to me.” Cazador moves and his robe gently brushes against your skin at the same time his arms entrap you between them when he leans over you. “You’re going to show just how exactly one obeys me, will you, daughter of mine?”

“Yes, father.” You huff from anticipation, your body shivering with desire and you nearly moan already when you feel his cock nudge at the hole he so carefully prepared for himself.

Cazador slips in deep, easily even, and this time you do cry out, your voice echoing in the room like a melody of bliss when he buries himself inside of you to the root.

“This is what it means to be mine.” The Vampire Lord says and you know it’s meant for you.

You want to look behind, to see his face, to see that glorious expression of lust in your father’s eyes that you love so deeply, crave for it like air, but instead you still keep yourself spread for him, too willing to disobey him even now, but your hips arch, lifting from the bed with your knees digging into the bed to support you, burying your chin deeper into the pillow. It’s quite uncomfortable but your need to please and be sated is bigger than the small physical discomfort of your position.

Above you an approving grunt escapes Cazador’s throat and he leans back, kneeling between your legs and grabs your hips, lifting them even higher now, then he finally begins to thrust with deep, precise and demanding pumps. Your eyes become heavy lidded and you moan every time he buries himself inside of you completely, quivering when his hips roll against yours with a sound of his skin against yours and your body responds with even more arousal, your cunt, unused but craving nonetheless, leaks your arousal first against your thighs, then onto the bed below.

“Look at her, boy. Truly look at her and tell me what you see.” Cazador demands and you finally watch Astarion come around the corner of the bed, his expression hard to read, especially when your focus is not purely on him, but he glances at his Master getting some sort of a sign, probably a nod, then kneels before the bed, before you, his eyes level with yours as he looks into them.

“She’s your daughter, Master.” Astarion obediently offers and Cazador chuckles, satisfied with the answer.

But now you see it, spawn’s desire, his anger, his frustration at being forced to helplessly watch you being fucked and either wanting to join in or have you all to himself. It’s impossible to tell, but as you two make eye contact, the Vampire Lord delivers a powerful thrust that makes you finally let go of your rear and bring your hands closer, gripping the pillow again. Szarr coldly chuckles as he watches Astarion’s expression before turning his gaze to observe himself taking you, pounding into you with ownership only he has over you.

“Look at him, daughter, he’s so jealous that it’s me taking you so sweetly.”

You hum in agreement amongst your moans, not because you truly see just jealousy, but because you won’t argue with your father, you’re incapable of doing so when he so deliciously pumps his cock inside of you, making your back arch like you want him even deeper than what he’s giving you right now, which is all of himself already.

“Grab her wrists, boy, and hold them down. Tightly.” When Cazador issues another command with his voice hoarse with pleasure, his hips slapping against you faster indicating his growing desire to fill you sooner rather than later, and Astarion obeys, snatching your wrists, prying your hands from the pillow and pinning your hands to the bed in front of you.

You look at him with your flushed face and your lips parted to let sighs of pleasure escape your throat. For some reason you find yourself incapable of breaking the eye contact, watching Astarion’s gaze becoming more and more obviously filled with jealousy, just as your father said, and you wish you could have him too, but you know that suggesting that now would be dangerous. Pleasure or not, this is still a lesson Cazador is teaching him.

“Astarion…” You manage with your own voice laced with strain of satisfaction and the spawn winces ever so slightly at that, his fingers gripping your wrists so tightly it hurts, but it also adds to your gratification, making you cry out louder, convincing Cazador that it’s his show of power alone that is making you respond so well. Yet, he doesn’t like you bringing up spawn’s name and you hear an annoyed tsk as he begins thrusting even harder.

“Daughter, you are going to look at the boy and tell him how much you love your father’s cock inside you.” Cazador’s voice is betraying his own physical strain but it retains that domineering edge it always caries, that brooks no argument, and your eyes move from Astarion for a moment in an instinctual response to look at your father, but then you look back at the spawn and lick your lips, wetting your mouth that has dried slightly from all the sounds you’ve been making so far.

“I… I love my father’s cock inside me.” You say and Cazador delivers a particularly punishing thrust, making you cry out and your fingers clench onto the bedsheets.

“More passion, dear.” He says with twisted satisfaction laced in his tone among his own deep breaths.

“I love when my father fucks me!” You try again and louder, watching Astarion’s eyebrows furrow. It’s almost as if he wants to either hit you or shove Cazador away and claim you for himself. Maybe both.

“Of course you do.” The Vampire Lord chuckles and grips your hips tighter for a moment, then he pauses, leaning over you before his right arm comes into view, skin of Cazador’s forearm pressing against your lips. “See, boy, my daughter is very special because she also is permitted one thing you never will be.”

Father doesn’t need to tell you explicitly what he is allowing you to do. With your eyes still on Astarion you part your lips wider, pressing them against Cazador’s flesh and bite down, waiting for the taste of sweet blood fill your mouth. Once it does, your eyes roll to the back of your head and you forget everything in your bliss.

“My beautiful daughter, so satisfied.” Cazador croons somewhere distant and all you feel is his cock in your ass and his blood in your mouth that your throat works eagerly to push down, to fill your stomach full of it. Only Astarion’s grip on your wrists, so painful when his nails break your skin, bring you back, and your eyelashes flutter when you focus on him once again.

This time you see rage in spawn’s eyes and with your moans muffled against Cazador’s skin you feel almost smug, superior to him. Here he is, Astarion, kneeling, holding your hands down, watching you experience pleasure that he never will. The pleasure of your father’s blood, the only thing that would grant him freedom from slavery he so despises. And you have it, just because you are your father’s daughter.

But then even this thought gets muffled and fades away as your body contracts with first signs of your climax approaching. You become aware of Cazador’s labored breathing somewhere behind your ear as he keeps pumping harder and faster, not knowing that his eyes are focused on his spawn, even in this moment dissecting the smallest changes in his expression, analyzing Astarion’s reaction to what he is witnessing. It matters none as you buck your hips upwards again and the Vampire Lord grins.

“So impatient, but very well, my dear, go ahead and show the boy how good I’m making you feel.”

Cazador grinds against you with unmistakable need of his own, but you don’t stop to ponder or wait for any further permission, his words are already all you need and you close your eyes, gulping down one more mouthful of blood before you pull your fangs away and cry out at the moment of your orgasm.

It shakes you, making your body clench around your father’s cock and with clenched teeth and a gruff moan he unravels too. With his thrusts stuttering as he empties himself deep inside you, he presses his forehead against the back of your head, effectively pushing your face into the pillow, but you don’t even notice, not yet, moans and cries stream out of your mouth as you shiver and gasp for air until every last drop of pleasure is wrung out of you.

Your knees give in and you collapse under Cazador, his body following yours, and you turn your face to the side to breathe, feeling your hair sticking to your forehead and then – a surprisingly soft kiss to your ear, then bellow your eye.

“You did well.” Your father praises and you smile, resting in your exhaustion.

With one more kiss on your cheek, your father rises on his hands and addresses Astarion.

“You can go now. But don’t forget the lesson, boy. You will never have this, you will never truly have her.” Mockery and spite colors Cazador’s words and you feel your wrists being released before sounds of Astarion standing, bowing and walking to the door follow.

Cazador spares a moment to grab a handful of your rear and knead it until the door closes behind the spawn, leaving you and father alone again at last. Only then he pushes back, pulling out of you, careful as ever not to spill even a single drop of his seed that he so meticulously emptied inside you, then the bed dips when he gets out of it.

You turn your head to follow Cazador walking to Woe and picking it up, then while still wordless, he takes the staff where it was first and places it there. Right after he undoes the cord that still holds his robe closed and takes it off, discarding it over the nearest chair backrest. Finally he looks at you with a calm expression.

“Come, you will bathe me after you made me sully myself.” He gestures to his sweaty body and with a sigh you lift yourself, feeling slightly sore and not wanting to move just yet, but you do as he says, getting out of bed, crossing the room and opening the wash room door for father.

He approaches, then stops and caresses the side of your face with a small smile tugging on his lips.

“I still permit you your games with the boy, but never dare suggest that I change anything about my treatment of him, is that understood?” Cazador’s crimson gaze bores deeply into your eyes and you nod, feeling the chill stiffen your spine. “Good.”

The Vampire Lord walks into the room and you follow him in, but despite the lesson that you realize was not only for Astarion, not fully, you start to wonder when, if ever, your father will grant you any power to make decisions. Is your life destined for you to do everything and anything he tells you to until the day you die? He raised you to be a Szarr after all, he raised you to be proud so that he can be proud of you in turn.

You wish he listened to you, you realize while you walk after him and begin preparing the bath while Cazador lights some candles, both of you surrounded by comfortable, familiar silence. Yet you don’t feel satisfied, not anymore, because you understand that you do want for your father to listen to you, to take your words into his consideration.

You just don’t know how to make it happen, especially now that he asserted himself for yet another countless time, how you are fully, utterly his. You desire change which you don’t know how to bring about. But as you glance at Cazador’s back, his naked form still as imposing as ever, you know that you have to find a way to convince your father that it’s time for his bride to rightfully take her place by his side.

You just have to figure out how.

[vera-king-hrfl]

Because I love both Zevlor and my mutuals so darn much I decided to share one of my favorite things I've written this year so far!

Modern AU Paladin Zevlor being stern with his shady wife, and a little taste of what's going on in the story!

This is them, posted because they're both actually wearing clothes in this one. 😅

Zevlor rises from a chair where he’d been watching for the approaching dawn. His wife had insisted that he remain indoors until the sun rose, and while he had been irritated by that, he had seen no good argument against it. None that his wife would accept, anyway. Raphael has people looking, she had said. They can go where you cannot, she had said. Be patient, Nienna had said, and he’d been patient. So patient his jaw was sore from clenching his teeth around all of his patience, but now the sky is flaming into red, and he smooths his hair as he gets to his feet, squares his shoulders, and goes to confront his sneaky little wife.

He finds Nienna in her study, whispering into her communicator with her back to the door. She flinches as he enters and whirls, ending the call as he approaches with a stern expression.

Then Zevlor’s big clawed hand rises, grips his lady’s jaw, not gently, and turns her face up to look at him. Infernal flames of orange and red, brighter than she’d seen in years, reflect from the silver of her own eyes, and his tone permits no further resistance. “You are my wife. These are our people. Now, madam. You will tell me what you know.”

Nienna searches her husband’s face, allowing a little flicker of fear to cross her own. Inwardly, the lady is pleased. As much as she can be in the situation. Her husband is no longer the grey in his hair or the weight of the world on his shoulders. He is a Paladin, glowing with his purpose. He is ready. She drops her eyes. “As you wish, my beloved.” She takes his hand away from her face, but keeps hold of it, drawing him through the house as she relates the tale, describing what she’d gleaned about the inside of the manor, and the powers and vulnerabilities of its occupants. When she reaches the Master of the house himself, Zevlor stops her.

They are outside the door to a store room, and he looks around, a bit exasperated. “What do you mean by daywalker and what are we doing here? I have to go…”

She touches his mouth gently, her expression pleading patience. “I had a feeling something like this would happen and I prepared some things. But what I mean is, Cazador Szarr is an ascendant vampire lord. The first to ever exist. There is not time to explain fully now and others know the tale better than I. All I know is that he is stronger than a normal vampire, sunlight will not kill him, and he murdered seven thousand people to attain it.”

“So…” Zevlor frowns, seeming a bit baffled. “What does he want with tieflings?”

“I don’t know.” Then Nienna pulls a long antique key from the pocket of her dress, and unlocks the heavy wooden door, ushering her husband inside. His fiery eyes brighten further as he sees what his wife had done. A shirt of scale armor that Zevlor hadn’t thought about in years had been repaired, cleaned and polished, leather straps replaced. A long sword had been similarly treated and sits waiting in a sheath with a new, supple leather belt. His eyes prick when he sees the third and last offering. “Where did you find them?”

“I didn’t, it was a friend. That’s not important now.” She hesitates. “Are you certain you must…”

The little woman is cut off by the hands of her much larger husband, lifting her from her feet to kiss her. She curls her arms around his neck and meets the intense embrace, feeling the heat of his body flowing into her. Zevlor is very hot now, hotter than would be comfortable for a normal elf, but his woman can meet and take anything he can give her. He pulls away after a long moment, leaving them both breathless, and sets her back on her feet, steadying her when she sways, knees weak. “Later, my beloved. I will show you I need no drow to inspire me.”

Nienna tingles at the tone, then hops up on the table to help her husband into his armor. “Perhaps I should infuriate you more often.” She grins as she tightens a strap. “It does seem good for the blood flow.” Then she squeaks at a sharp smack to the bottom.

“You did it on purpose.” Nienna smiles, and carefully slides the Hellrider’s Pride, his old gauntlets, onto his broad strong hands.

“Of course.” She slips down to buckle the sword belt around his trim waist, settling the length of the blade along his big muscular thigh. “I would never want you angry with me, dearest. Not unless there is a good reason.”

“Hmph. I think there is an agenda behind everything you do.”

“Not everything.” She hooks her hands into the top of the armor, lifting herself to kiss him sweetly. “And if there is, be assured that the best interests of our family are at the heart of it.”

He grunts as she slips down again and goes to a small locked chest, opening it with a different key. “We will leave that for now, my lady. Now, should I just march through the city in this getup?”

“Of course not; I’ve had a scroll prepared. I already called Cerys and Tilses. They will meet you at the manor in slightly less… obvious attire.”

Her husband stares at her for a moment, then scoffs. “Fine. We’ll talk about that later as well.” He takes the scroll. “How will I get back?”

“I don’t think that will be a problem, but one step at a time.” He nods slowly, then leans to kiss her again. Tender and passionate, Zevlor’s devotion is evident in every brush of his lips, careful touch of gloved fingers. Her eyes glitter a bit with freezing tears when he pulls away. “Come back to me, Paladin.”

“To kneel at your feet, if it is in me, my lady.” Then he unrolls the scroll, mutters the spell, and is gone.

[void-botanist]

Sharran AU: The Party

In Sharran AU, there is no Tav. But all the companions are present, plus a few new ones. (I wanted to draw them all first but I'm impatient lol. They mostly look the same as in canon anyway.) Their exact classes might change as I tinker with the class structure but ultimately everyone has mostly the same abilities that they do in their default subclasses.

Note: elves have a construct called "season" that is similar to but distinct from gender. For elves in Faerûn it means changing their eye and hair colors to reflect an internal state of being that is represented with one of the four seasons, and sometimes also a time of day.

This post contains mild spoilers for later acts of BG3.

Lae'zel of K'liir

Species: githyanki

Age: 30, kind of—time doesn't really pass in the Astral Plane

Hails from: the Astral Plane

Class: psiblade slayer

Deity: Vlaakith

Summary: she always knew she would have to leave the Astral Plane in pursuit of mind flayers, but she never expected to be captured and tadpoled by one. Stuck in on an unfamiliar continent in the Material Plane, her most important goal is to be purified—but her most immediate is to manage to hold down her lunch, because in this plane she has to eat full meals. Once she is purified, she will decimate this mind flayer threat and become a knight of Vlaakith like she's always dreamed. Unfortunately, she's set herself up to succeed a reality check.

Note: githyanki are trained to be singularly focused on eliminating mind flayers, but that includes not allowing them to transform anyone into a new mind flayer. If it also involves temporary allyships, so be it.

Shadowheart Duskchild

Species: human werewolf

Age: 30

Hails from: Baldur's Gate

Class: shadow domain cleric

Deity: Shar

Summary: she has lived in the House of Grief for as long as she can remember, alongside several dozen other Sharrans. The older citizens of Baldur's Gate refer to her order as the New Sharrans, usually with a heavy dose of vitriol and wistfulness for the Old Sharrans. On the orders of Darkcloak DeVir, she was sent to retrieve the mysterious artefact, but her true mission, given to her by the Darkcloak herself in confidence, is to get the attention of the true Shar—not the deity who has been posing as Shar for the last hundred years—by becoming a Dark Justiciar. She has a few things to discover about herself along the way, including that being terrified of wolves doesn't mean she's not a werewolf???

Astarion Ancunín

Species: elf, in winter, and vampire spawn

Age: ~224

Hails from: Baldur's Gate

Class: thief rogue

Deity: none, screw them

Summary: 120 years ago, he was a magistrate in Baldur's Gate. After a particularly contentious ruling, he was beaten nearly to death by a mob of followers of Xymor, the god of justice, and "saved" by Cazador Szarr, who promised him eternal life. What he got instead was a life of servitude and a hunger for blood—literally for sustenance, and metaphorically to get back at Cazador for over a century of abuse. But even he doesn't know the full depth of Cazador's machinations and what they mean for his past and his future.

Note: elves grow body and facial hair slowly compared to humans. Starving vampire spawn don't grow it at all. So Astarion has patchwork body hair except when he's fed, though he shaves his face regardless.

Gale Dekarios

Species: human

Age: 35

Hails from: Waterdeep

Class: evocation wizard

Deity: Mystra, goddess of the Weave

Summary: he's always had a way with the Weave and an unchecked ambition that led him to become the Chosen of Mystra. Despite their closeness, Gale couldn't manage to convince her to show him the deep secrets of the Weave, so he set out to prove he was as worthy of her trust as he knew himself to be. When he found a shard of Netherese magic against her wishes, it overwhelmed him, turning him into essentially a magical time bomb and losing him Mystra's trust and his title of Chosen. Now he has the powers of a normal mortal wizard and no way to get a response from Mystra, thanks to an unwelcome insertion in the ocular region—not that she would talk to him anyway, even though he only had the best of intentions and is currently facing a literal end-of-world threat. But one way or another, he will speak with her, and he will set things straight, and he will prove himself.

Wyll Ravengard

Species: human (does not become a devil)

Age: 25

Hails from: Baldur's Gate

Class: pact of the blade warlock

Deity: Helm, god of protection and guardians, but also to a lesser extent her comrades in the Just Balance, Ilmater and Xymor

Summary: when confronted by his father, Duke Ulder Ravengard, about why he'd pacted with the devil Mizora, he literally could not answer. So his dad banished him from Baldur's Gate, leaving him to find his way on his own. He chose to try and prove that he's the same old responsible, honorable, dutiful Wyll, even though he's sure he'll never escape from this pact and no one can find out about it, lest they hate him too. But he's exhausted trying to take everything on alone, and the situation with Karlach makes him realize he's just a pawn in Mizora's quest to be Zariel's favorite. The moment he lets his facade slip a little, he realizes his traveling companions actually want to help him, and they're not afraid of impossible odds.

Note: Ulder is an interplanar contact expert in this AU and thinks he knows just how unbreakable a devil's pact is. Wyll wants to prove him wrong about that too.

Minthara Baenre

Species: House of Lolth tiefling

Age: 37

Hails from: Menzoberranzan, on the edge of the Demonweb Pits in the Underdark

Class: Oath of the Watchers paladin

Deity: Lolth/the Absolute

Summary: born into one of the religious houses of Menzoberranzan and raised in the worship of the archdevil/goddess Lolth, she would never abandon her faith, which is why she has positioned herself as a ranking acolyte of the Absolute to spy on this new cult. Unfortunately, that also meant she got tadpoled and can no longer hear the voice of Lolth in her head. She's not even sure Lolth can hear her prayers, and it's started to make her wonder what it really means to follow a deity—if it means anything at all when a psionic worm can so easily make her feel unmoored from her beloved goddess.

Note: Lolth sent her on this mission, and she wasn't the only one. Also she has a well-trained spider living between her horns.

Halsin Silverblossom

Species: bugbear

Age: 350

Hails from: the Emerald Grove, most recently; before that, Reithwin

Class: cave wilder

Deity: Juncyppo, god of nature

Summary: has led the Emerald Grove since the previous Grovetender died in the battle with Ketheric Thorm a hundred years ago. Getting thrown in jail by the newly converted Sanctuary bugbears was kind of a surprise, since they'd always been on good terms, but the whole situation gives him an excuse to indulge his wanderlust, make new friends, and help his oldest friend, Thaniel. But the further away he gets from the comforts of the Grove, the more he realizes that he's let a lot of people down over the years, and he's ready to do whatever he can to make it right.

Note: Halsin has been to Menzoberranzan on his travels, with none of the nonconsensual baggage that exists in canon. They even let him feed a spider out of his hand🥺

Karlach Cliffgate

Species: House of Zariel tiefling

Age: 29

Hails from: Baldur's Gate

Class: polearm & unarmed fighter

Deity: on-again off-again follower of Ilmater, god of sufferers, resistance, and relief

Summary: she was Lord Enver Gortash's trusted bodyguard until he sold her to the archdevil Zariel for a pile of cash and infernal cyborg experimentation. After ten years in the Hells, fighting in the Blood War against her will, she escaped on a nautiloid—which was great except for the whole getting captured and tadpoled thing. Her infernal engine's malfunctions slowed her down and let Wyll catch up to her. Once she convinces the party she means no harm, she can get back to having her life dictated by a force outside her control (currently, the tadpole), but now that she has a second chance in Faerûn, she's not going to waste it waiting on fate.

Note: Zariel wanted her dead or alive, just not running free with her one functioning infernal engine heart prototype.

Quil Heliarik

Species: silver dragonborn

Age: 23

Hails from: Tymanther

Class: college of lore love bard

Deity: loosely affiliated with the Darkfire Twins, Eilistraee and Vhaeraun, deities of song and dance

Summary: as a result of mysterious heinous acts, her clan was struck from the register and they were all banished from Tymanther. While this has cut Quil off from the area's music knowledge, she can hardly be sad about adventuring and publishing her compositions in Baldur's Gate. So far, she's mostly been traveling with Volo and getting pulled into trouble, so it's nice to have normal friends who are only just trying to stop an existential threat to the Sword Coast. As long as she makes it to Baldur's Gate in one piece, that should be fine.

Volothamp Geddarm

Species: human

Age: unclear

Hails from: unknown

Class: order of scribes wizard

Deity: Riodda, deity of knowledge and learning

Summary: his business is knowing something about everything, and everything about some things. He couples this with a general lack of tact and frequent wandering away to something new, which tends to get him captured, tied up, maligned, et cetera. But he does know a lot and is always willing to lend an ear about something he doesn't. As a result, he became fast friends with the extremely talkative Quil.

Boo

Species: giant miniature space hamster

Age: unknown

Hails from: Rashemen

Class: cutie pie

Deity: unknown

Summary: he first shows up in the Emerald Grove, where Volo is attempting to talk with him like the other animals in the area. This is not going well. But when the party ventures into the mountain pass, Boo shows up in camp and stays there, hanging out with Withers, Gale, and Wyll most of the time. He accompanies them all the way through the shadow-cursed lands and into Baldur's Gate in search of someone Jaheira calls "an old friend".

Jaheira Elerrathin

Species: elf, in autumn night

Age: 500

Hails from: most recently, Baldur's Gate

Class: wildblade (wilder + fighter)

Deity: Tymora, deity of luck

Summary: nothing ever seems to go right for her. Power-hungry Ketheric Thorm, who she killed a hundred years ago, is back and more powerful than ever, she lost her friend Minsc trying to fight off Thorm's cult, and she has to face the very real possibility that she will not make it back to her children in Baldur's Gate alive. But when a bunch of tadpoled weirdos and a miniature giant space hamster show up on her doorstep, she finds genuine hope that the tides are finally turning. They can stop the world from ending—and maybe even follow Boo's clues to a still-living Minsc. Maybe she can still make up for the time she's lost trying to destroy Ketheric Thorm for good.

Minsc of Rashemen

Species: human

Age: 50-something. plus the 80 years he spent as a statue

Hails from: Rashemen

Class: melee fighter/tracker

Deity: none in particular

Summary: a warrior of such immense strength is a great boon to the Chosen Three—he's dealt a decent blow to the organized crime groups of Baldur's Gate already, spreading discord and disconnection among them. As long as no one but his tadpole and an Ievaalist shapeshifter in the form of Jaheira whisper in his ear, he's a perfect champion. Once freed by the real Jaheira and his dear Boo, he gets caught up on everything that happened since his capture and is ready to go all in against the elder brain—he'll even change his favored enemy to ghaik, just like Lae'zel! More than anything, he wants to be included, because he knows he can help, even when he can't.

Withers

Species: no one's really sure. Bone Man?

Age: unknown

Hails from: that Jergal crypt

Class: unknown

Deity: unknown ;)

Summary: he does not leave camp with the rest of the party, but he participates in some camp activities, such as playing poker (he usually wins) and pranking Gale at lanceboard. He can sometimes be convinced to revive people who aren't members of the party.

Party dynamics in a nutshell

Lae'zel takes charge pretty early on, because she's sure she knows the way to cure them, and honestly no one else has a better idea. She adheres to the githyanki code of A) not helping the mind flayers and B) never owing anybody by taking the rest of the tadpoled party along. Wyll starts out as her right hand man, the guy who's better at convincing other people of decisions mostly made by her, but over the course of early act 1 they become co-leaders of the party, complementing each other's strengths. This is also made possible by Wyll learning to trust the party more to look out for him and not throw him under the bus as "that one devil-pacted guy". Halsin also becomes a leader/advisor in late act 1/act 2 due to his knowledge of the area and Ketheric and his personal tendency toward leadership. Shadowheart has a poor attitude but understands the importance of teamwork and will fall in line with the group's decisions as long as they don't prevent her from reaching her goals. She won't give Lae'zel the artefact though, and this causes arguments, shenanigans, and suspicion. At the outset, Astarion actively acts like everyone is out to get him, even though he is literally starving. Lae'zel is good at putting things into practical terms to get him to mostly behave and not fuck everything up. Despite complaining about most things, Gale usually doesn't challenge the party leadership, though he struggles with having to rely on other people for knowledge, solutions, and magical sustenance. He prefers to be the one giving, which he usually does in the form of making food.

Minthara has her own agenda, but the party is taking her where she needs to go, and she sees the benefit of having allies, so she picks her battles carefully. Jaheira also has her own agenda, but this aligns pretty closely with the party's existing goals, so she organizes herself accordingly. Quil is mostly just happy to be included, but she's worried about the whole tadpole thing and really wants to make sure her new friends don't die, which makes her risk averse. Minsc is the opposite: the best defense is good offense! Volo lives in his own little world and does not really consider himself bound by the party's decisions. He just needs to know where they're going so he can find them again later. And Withers is present.

Sharran AU taglist: @multi-lefaiye @theskeletonprior @writernopal @daisywalletchains

[rubistella]

Dragon Age Verse - Hungry for the Slaughter

Astarion’s existence is equal parts a curse and an anomaly. Once an ambitious and vain elf, he was ensnared in the schemes of Cazador Szarr, a ruthless and cunning Tevinter overlord infamous for his mastery of forbidden blood magic and demonic pacts. Under Cazador’s command, Astarion became the linchpin in a perverse experiment to bind mortals with Hunger demons, twisting their bodies into vessels of relentless appetite in exchange for control over the demon's power and immortality.

When Astarion's death was orchestrated, Cazador robbed him of everything he's ever known to have. Friends, family... his title, even. Astarion's demise also marked the death of his house, who held vast political influence at the time in Orlais. As the demon possessed him, Astarion breathed life anew, only to be met with cruel hands carefully preparing his body, etching his skin with glyphs and arcane wards to bind the Hunger demon within him. When the ritual was complete, Astarion was no longer truly himself.... while his soul remained tethered to his body, it also shared it with a ravenous entity that demanded the blood of the living to keep insanity at bay. That was Cazador’s genius to create a servant who could never disobey: a creature dependent on feeding not only for sustenance but for maintaining its very existence.

Astarion’s new form is ageless, inhumanly strong, and faster than a mortal's usual speed, but it came at a terrible cost; sunlight sears his flesh, a slow, excruciating descent into dust if he came upon its glorious rays. Hunger grants him immortality and power— but only as long as he keeps it fed. Starvation invites madness and the eventual death of those around him as the demon takes over his body to feast on friend or foe. This is what Astarion calls "going rogue", and for the sake of those he considers his allies, he should not reach that point of starvation ever again.

[ under construction! ]

[papastarion]

“A Vampire’s Guide to First Impressions (Vol. 1)”

Part 1 of “From the Personal Collection of Two Spawn”

Summary: Astarion was born wielding the most important tools of his future trade. A pretty face, handsome features, enviable hair, and a quick tongue and mind to match it all. But tools are useless without the tricks needed to wield them effectively. If his years in service of his vampiric master had taught him anything, it was that first impressions were often matters of fate-changing importance.

One such introduction, seemingly just like hundreds of others that had come before it, would prove Cazador Szarr’s words truer than any words had ever been spoken, for better and for worse.

Rating: Teen.

Word Count: 4,101.

Warnings/Tags: Canon typical nonsense, bit of a character study if you squint, canon and OSHA non-compliant.

Characters/Pairings: Astarion, Dalyria, Cazador Szarr, Female half-elf Dark Urge.

Tag List: @kalmiaphlox (shoot me a dm if you’d like to be added!)

[Read on AO3]

“Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through.” — Sylvia Plath.

Jannath Estate, Baldur’s Gate.

1472 DR.

Everything must be perfect.

It always had to be wherever the master was involved.

Anything less would only serve as inspiration for the vampire lord’s already twisted imagination. Gods above and below alike knew that odious man didn’t need to be given any more reason to torment his spawn. And Astarion did not want to know what other knots such an imagination could be tied into after nearly 200 years caught in its tangles and bindings.

Don’t go near any mirrors, lest they note your lack of reflection. Don’t smile with your teeth, for a close-lipped offering is far more tantalizing. Always do as you’re told, just as you are told to do it.

And then there was his favorite, one of the vampire lord’s most precious rules, one so bound to his will that none of his spawn could begin to dream of breaking it:

Thou shall not drink from thinking creatures.

“Straighten your posture.” Dalyria’s impossibly gentle touch smoothed down a crease in Astarion’s doublet—the fine ensemble he was only allowed to wear when their master brought them along to these fêtes was threaded with fine gold sewn on purple silk.

Astarion adjusted his posture just so, hands locked in front of himself, unmoving and as ramrod straight as any of the marble statues that dotted the cityscape outside the stately home. He was as cold as one to the touch, too.

Perfect.

“There you go.”

Certain their master would find no more fault in them than usual, his sister snaked her arm around his, lifting the hem of her dress just so with her other hand, and the pair made to join the party within the doors before them.

Once upon a time, Astarion would have reveled in wearing such clothes every single day.

It didn’t so much as make him smile anymore.

A flop house or a fine estate, it was all the same to him now. The near-to-rags, moth-ridden despite his careful mending by candlelight, that he wore at home or the borrowed outfits reserved only for more public endeavors. All the same. Shackles were shackles, no matter how pretty. A cage was a cage, no matter the purity of the gold bent and shaped to make the bars.

He was still a prisoner, no matter the metal of the bars that caged him or the fineness of wardrobe he donned.

The Jannath estate was a fine house, indeed. It took little time for Astarion to do the math in his head. He had been dead nearly 80 years before the family was ennobled, let alone before this estate was built. His own family had held their station for practically an age in comparison.

He pushed the thought from his mind.

It didn’t matter.

None of it did.

Their merciless master was already mingling, his true nature protected as he exchanged pleasantries with nobles and other patrairs who were better served by hiding his secrets so that he could, in turn, hide theirs. Such was the way of the great and the good of the Gate. Such was the way of nobility.

One sin ignored could cover up a multitude of others.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” Astarion inquired at last, and anyone who knew their true nature would know the question was not so innocent as it sounded when heard from his lips.

“There’s a visiting noblewoman from Neverwinter, here on business with her husband.” Dalyria informed him. “Blonde hair. Tan skin. She’ll be wearing a signet ring with the Neverember’s sigil. The master didn’t give me a name. I assume she’s from an outer branch of the family. Or maybe they just don’t like her.”

“But he gave no name?” Astarion noted, a questioning eyebrow poised at her. “Sounds like someone has something to hide, more like.”

“I believe that’s the polite way of saying it.” Dalyria shrugged as they moved through the crowd together. “Be grateful he gave you a dish, rather than leaving you to the buffet again.” She said as she curtsied to an older man who took a particular interest in her. “Better to be the hunter than the hunted.”

“Only until the roles are reversed, dear sister.” He reminded her, lingering in place as she obliged her would-be suitor, taking his hand and leaving Astarion behind so the well-dressed and witless fool could lead her to the dance floor in the heart of the gaudy and packed ballroom.

The poor man would be dead before dawn, invited back to the Szarr estate for a “more exclusive” party. Given the look he was giving the former physician, it was no less than he deserved. Astarion didn’t give the man’s fate another thought as he moved onward, assuming the role of the hunter.

First impressions often began with the eyes.

This party being a masquerade made that all the easier.

His senses were heightened beyond what anyone in this room could comprehend. In truth, taking the whole of the partygoers wouldn’t be any more difficult than fish in a barrel for three vampires, even if the two spawn that made up the sum were barely functional beasts of burden, rather than proper hunters like their lord and master.

Living heartbeats created a melody in Astarion’s ears, the blood in their veins rushing to keep the tempo.

It made his stomach churn.

He accepted a crystal piece of stemware from a passing caterer. The woman bowed politely before passing him by, expressionless. The wine would taste bitter on his tongue, no matter how fine the vintage. It had taken years of practice and even more bouts of punishment for Astarion to master the ability to drink it without spitting it right back out into the glass.

“Aren’t you a fine looking thing?”

Astarion shied away from the man’s touch. Any other night, he would have withered away inside while keeping his exterior composure inviting and alluring until the man took him to bed. But there was only one mark he needed to hit tonight.

No additional numbers, just her. Whoever she was.

“Don’t be like that, pet.”

There was a thick whiff of alcohol on his breath.

The man practically reeked of new money. Astarion couldn’t decide what was more unfortunate: the pungency of the proverbial stench, or that its false gilding was still more palatable than the gutterfare he was more familiar with. He did his best to hide a sneer, thankful for the peacock-themed mask his master had chosen for him to wear tonight.

No doubt it was intended as a slight, but Astarion wore it with as much pride as possible.

“Gods, I think I could cut myself on that nose.” His index finger grazed the bridge of Astarion’s nose just so, before Astarion stepped back.

“Charming.” He sighed, putting everything into his disinterested performance.

No eye contact. Rigid shoulders. Creating distance. Everything he was taught not to do when securing a meal for his master.

“Gavin, where are you?”

With the voice’s beckoning amongst the masked parade, the half-balding man swore, cursing his bad luck before removing himself with a last lascivious look toward the vampire spawn. Astarion took the lucky break and ran with it, retreating to the nearest wall to better survey the room. He perched himself next to a carved column, repeating Dalyria’s brief description to himself as he tried to put the near-miss from his mind.

No doubt that man would have said it was a retreat to lick wounds.

But Astarion knew better.

He shook his head, refocusing.

There were plenty of blonde halos about the room. Some he could identify as Baldurian patrairs he had encountered at other events. Others he could not give name or rank to. Gold masks of jackals. Black half-moon masks. Phantoms. Fools. The cast was expansive as it was elusive.

All the better for him and Dalyria to blend in amongst their numbers.

His gaze lingered on one particular woman. She was trapped in a passionless dance with a man well over two-heads taller than her, on the opposite end of the room from Astarion. She looked one more waltz away from taking the pearls hanging around her neck and strangling herself with them.

Tan skin that glowed, adorned by a royal blue gown of draping fabrics that was as simple as it was stunning.

Could she be the one he was looking for?

If it were her, she was one of the more beautiful marks his eyes had been set upon. The mask she wore to obscure the top half of her face did nothing to diminish her looks. Though her mask was mousy—perhaps meant to be a civet or a ferret of some sort—such a word would do nothing to describe her.

She was striking, especially with those dark-bright eyes. Her hair was the same color as spun gold, interlaced with the faintest threads in hues that danced somewhere between the faintest pink and orange all done up in intricate braids that spoke to her northern heritage.

An air of naivety and sadness hung above her like swords ready to put her out of her misery at any moment. Everything about her spoke to a sense of doom that she carried for far longer than his master had even known of her existence.

Perhaps her ending tonight would be one of mercy. A mercy killing at the fangs of a vampire. The irony was almost as bitter as the unwelcome wine tasted on his tongue.

When their eyes met from their opposing ends of the room, he poured everything into the geniality of his look. He made sure she felt like she was the only other person in the room, in the city, in his eyes. He held her gaze until she was spun about by her partner, until they could meet again.

Throughout the night, he made sure their eyes would meet again and again by being in the right place at the right time. She would flinch away first each time, blushing. And Astarion would be there again the next time she looked for him.

As the ballroom spun in its rhythm, Astarion made their every interaction match the rest of the room’s dance. When the tall man who was with her—her husband, Astarion didn’t doubt—finally left her side to mingle amongst the rest of the festivities, she began to withdraw more and more from the throngs of the gala altogether.

By the stroke of midnight, Astarion knew he had to act.

Instead of a wallflower, she was quickly proving herself to be a shrinking violet. He lost sight of her when the tempo of the night shifted, instead falling into his master’s sightlines.

No words were exchanged. The orders were always the same. And failure was not tolerated.

His master’s gaze shifted effortlessly back to the conversation he carried with an easy smile.

Astarion had grown familiar with his intended’s scent among the cacophony of smells in the room. Dried herbs of different providence mixed with a perfumed lavender smell. When his eyes could not find her, he turned to his nose.

Her trail led him to one of the hallways outside the main ballroom. Given the fact that the night’s event was being hosted within, no one occupied these halls, and so the only light was the moonlight pouring in through the windows that kept their vigil at different intervals running the length of the hall. Her perfumed trail…was confused, lingering in strange places and in trails only a vampire could scent out.

Astarion decided to hazard a detour out onto one of the house’s vacant, rose-adorned balconies. His quarry could wait. The older half of the night still lay ahead of them.

Another night in a sea of endless nights.

He surveyed the garden below for a moment before closing his eyes. Behind the safety of his eyelids, he could pretend that he was back in the home he could no longer remember. He wondered: had his own home sported a garden like this?

He thought he could almost remember one. Meticulously cared for, much more practical than simply aesthetic like this one.

The beginnings of the memory dissipated into the mire of his mind with the feeling of a blade of a dagger pressing into his throat, accompanied by the strong air of lavender perfume.

Her.

“Well, well. I didn’t expect such a gentlewoman to be wielding such a ferocious weapon.” Astarion mused, unfazed by the admittedly expensive looking weapon currently addressing his neck. “If you let me go, I’ll show you mine. After all, you did show me yours.”

If anything, Astarion was impressed. He hadn’t expected her to be able to give him the slip. She was practically showing off, getting the jump on him like this. He hadn’t even noticed her approach.

He couldn’t help an all too genuine a smirk, comfortable with the gestures in knowing that she would not see it.

His eyes caught the Neverember signet ring Dalyria had mentioned poised on one of the fingers wrapped around the hilt of her dagger.

He had made no mistake.

This was her.

Not that he doubted himself, but it was nice to have practical confirmation beyond his instincts. And yet she was even more of an enigma now than she had been before. What sort of woman of gentle birth knew how to handle a weapon so effectively, or how to sneak up on a bespoke monster, for that matter?

“You know, typical convention would be to give me your name.” The woman’s voice bore a northern accent, further confirming her identity.

It sent a thrill up his spine.

Astarion chuckled coolly. “But where’s the fun in that?” He teased before conceding. “I suppose it is only proper, you’re right. You can call me Astarion.”

The woman pressed her dagger further against his skin. “Astarion. Tell me why you’ve been watching me or it’ll find a new home in your…very prominent…jugular.”

Astarion all but purred. “Cheeky thing, aren’t you?” He held his hands up innocently. “I assure you, I didn’t mean to cause alarm. You’ll find it rather silly when I tell you, I fear.”

His would-be assailant said nothing.

“It’s just that…I’ve attended hundreds of these things in my life, worn more of these ridiculous masks than I care to count. But I’ve never seen someone so stunningly singular in my life.”

He played the part of the aware and weary patriar perfectly, in his own humble estimation. It seemed to work well enough on her, judging by the fact that his neck still remained in tact.

“Funny. For being so singular, it sounds like you’ve said those words before.” She shot back.

At that, Astarion’s smile widened, now genuinely delighted. “Very good.” He lauded. “I’d dare say this isn’t your first soiree, either. Or your first time wielding that gorgeous blade.”

Slowly, the woman in the murine mask backed away from him, wary but allowing him a chance to earn her trust with the lowering of her dagger.

“I’m a magistrate on the High Council, so I’m afraid I’m rather too well-versed at using honey-speech.” He supplied, turning to face her with a polite bow. “Of course, I should have known it wouldn’t work on you. That was my mistake. I apologize.”

“What do you want?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” He said, presenting it as a plain and simple conclusion. “You seemed rather relieved when that man left you earlier.”

“My husband?” Her heavy sigh confirmed more of his suppositions about her and her situation. “No doubt sampling the other delights on offer. After all, we’re only in the city for one night, and it would be a shame to waste it.”

“And you?”

Her eyes lit up, some life restored in them as she studied him—surely trying to gauge his sincerity, or lack thereof. “Me?” She hid her incredulity behind a practiced, sauve tone.

“Surely he doesn’t expect you not to do the same?” Astarion raised an eyebrow. “With your looks, I’m sure you could have your pick of the litter. And I’m sure it’s no less than you deserve. Or him, for that matter.”

Those priceless eyes of hers widened, red-stained lips parting in the faintest betrayal of her surprise. Her cheeks, left exposed by her half-mask, revealed her reddened cheeks. She looked away quickly, clearing her throat, unable to meet her gaze.

“It would be more trouble than it’s worth.” She said at last.

Astarion would have laughed had her meaning not struck a chord in his motionless heart. “For him or you?”

Her lips pulled together, terse.

Ah.

He thought for a moment. He felt trapped, suddenly, stuck somewhere between the duty he knew he couldn’t avoid without certainty of retribution and the twinge of kinship he felt within the look on her face. He couldn’t pity her, because that would mean he pitied himself, that he was pitiable.

Decisively, he restored the cadence of their conversation. “It’s his loss.” Astarion told her. “I hope you realize that.”

She couldn’t help but look back to him again.

With a trained hand, Astarion brought his thumb to her chin, closing the distance between them. “Perhaps it’s for the best. Anyone you deigned to lavish attention upon tonight would still come second to you.” He lowered his voice, and he could tell by the glint in her eye that its song was almost hypnotic to her.

They were both starving animals, weren’t they? Their appetites may vary one to the other, but they were both nothing but beasts consumed by ravenously empty bellies.

“He has no idea how lucky he is.” Astarion said softly as he lowered his gaze down to her lips.

Her breath quivered when he teased them with his own, teasing him with its warmth.

His physicality was all mechanical. He knew just how to touch someone to electrify them, just as he knew how to look across a room and make someone feel superfluously special. This was where his worth lied, as his master so loved to remind him.

Constantly.

Oft accompanied with a lash or rod.

Before he could seal their kiss, and her fate, Astarion caught the sound of approaching footsteps. Before he could see their intruder, he pulled away from her, careful to preserve this woman’s honor, even if her life would remain in danger so long as she remained in his sights.

Astarion’s expression soured as his earlier assailant walked right back into his life.

“There you are, my beauty.” He crooned. “So sorry about the interruption earlier.” The man clapped his white-glows hands together, laughing shakily. “Where were we?”

“Nowhere.” Astarion bristled.

Astarion was used to grabby hands, but that didn’t mean he had grown to like their touch. Especially on the rare nights when they weren’t attached to a body he had to take back to his master. Those rarer nights brought him as close as he could get to fighting back.

And tonight, the only body required was the one next to his.

“I think he’d prefer it if you left.” The Neverwintian woman stood beside Astarion, resolute, even daring to step in front of him.

The man’s words slurred as he took advantage of her newly made distance to put himself between her and Astarion, waving her off before grabbing onto Astarion’s lapels. “Mind your business, pet. You’ll have your turn if you behave yourself.”

The next thing Astarion knew after turning about and trying to get the man off of him, his prey was becoming a predator once more.

The woman pushed her weight into the man, using his own miscalculation against him and sending him toppling from the balcony without hesitation. He fell to the garden below, bones snapping as the full weight of his frame hit the ground.

He didn’t have the chance to cry out before his faculties sent the message to his brain that he was, in fact, dead on impact.

Astarion couldn’t hide his shock before it spread across his face like paint splattered on a canvas, only recovering once he managed to gauge her own reaction. Like another layer of skin, hidden underneath the gilded peacock mask he wore, his trained façade slipped back into place.

“Oh, gods.” She covered her mouth with a glove hand, her complexion draining nearly to match his pallor.

“You killed him…” Astarion whispered, head snapping back in her direction once he confirmed the man’s state.

For me.

The words died on Astarion’s lips before his voice could give them life.

“I…I…” She shook her head.

She couldn’t say she didn’t mean to. She absolutely had. Gone was the confidence with which she had handled him. Now she wasn’t just some starving animal, she was also a frightened one.

“It’s alright. This will be our little secret.” He assured her, squeezing the hand she had been holding to her lips, trying to refocus her. “In fact, I’d say I owe you. One good turn deserves another, after all.”

The decision was made before he realized it. One made in a snap, on an instinct. But one he followed through on all the same as one planned out for months.

She wouldn’t be the first mark he had let get away. However, unlike the rest of them, she wasn’t from the city. She could get away, so long as she and her husband didn’t dally. His master couldn’t follow where she went, not without raising too much suspicion.

“Now, let’s go, shall we? Unsolved murders in Baldur’s Gate are a copper a dozen, but we won't remain free of suspicion if we linger here.”

Not to mention the fact that Petras would be coming to collect the body in no time, surely. He needed her seeing that and discovering his condition as much as he needed to take a walk in the light of day. Which was to say that neither one entailed anything good for him, though the latter was tempting when the shadows grew too dark and choking.

“It’s not often someone so inclines me to say it, but, thank you.” Astarion bade, still holding her hand as they approached the ballroom doors. “And if you’re ever back in the Gate, perhaps we could meet up for a bite?” He winked slyly.

His jest’s double meaning was lost on her, but it certainly made him smile. No matter how many times he used it.

If she was ever back in the city, no doubt she would quickly be on Cazador’s list again.

“I just killed someone.” She all but whispered, clearly still in the throes of shock.

“You just saved me from that man and his clearly unwanted intentions.” He pressed a kiss to her hand. “Let’s not dwell on the negatives, hm? Besides, he was clearly drunk. I’m sure the Fists will assume he was a victim of his own inebriation before they ever even think of foul play.”

“I…”

He quieted her. “Chin up. I suggest you find that husband of yours and tell him you’re not feeling well. Get out of here as soon as possible, yes?”

She just kept staring back down the hall.

Astarion tempered his bubbling annoyance. “Nod.” He coached.

Finally, she complied, slight as her nod was.

“That’s a girl. I’ll slip in once I know you’ve made your exit.” He let go of her hand at last. “I do so hope we’ll meet again, my lady.”

It was a pretty lie, once he allowed himself a moment to indulge in. He believed he would remember her beyond this night. It would be hard to forget her after such a stellar first impression, his noble murderess.

The woman studied him for a moment longer before pulling her fur wrap tighter around her shoulders, as if bundling up to brave the ballroom beyond the doors.

Later, when he made his own return, he knew his master’s displeasure immediately. Red eyes filled with cold hate the instant they set themselves upon his spawn. Astarion knew what awaited him upon their return to the Szarr ancestral home.

Somewhere, amidst the bloody haze of the beating that followed her exit from that night and his life, he realized he never got her name.

But at least the memory of her, lacking as it was in name, would linger on far after his master left him in another broken, beaten, and bloody mess of himself.

[pandorastrove]

Whispers in the Night - Hear the whispers in the dark Rating: Explicit Key Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Trans Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Doctorate Student Gale Dekarios, Minor Past Gale/Mystra, Sex Toys, Masturbation, Light BDSM, Switch Astarion, Switch Gale, Bondage, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-Sexusal BDSM Scene, Briefly Pretending To Be Drunk, Introspective Sex, Past Astarion/Araj Oblodra Mentioned, Cunnilingus, Collars & Leashes, Hand Jobs, Grinding, Astarion's Past Abuse (Baldur's Gate), Pegging, Semi-Public Sex, Public Sex, Biting, Blood Drinking, Storm Sorcerer Gale, Necromancer Astarion, Mentioned Cazador Szarr, Past Astarion/Cazador Szarr Summary:

After breaking up with Mystra, Gale decides to branch out and explore what he actually enjoys through the helpful means of a local sex shop. When the somewhat snarky elf employed there catches his attention, he can't help but to return again and again until something more begins to blossom… ----------------- A careful hand on his arm and a gentle tug had him moving. When had the car stopped? When had they arrived at his house? The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of blue and purple. It reminded him of a bruise. Of blackened eyes and finger prints painted along hips. It was beautiful in a distressing way. He could hear a voice, Gale’s voice, but he couldn’t make it out. It felt as though he was trying to listen underwater. Which was fitting for how he felt as though he was drowning. A choking sensation crawling through his lungs and winding around his throat.

[rinwellisathing]

Paint The Lines, Cut The Flesh: Part 23

The next morning, three parties met at the edge of camp. Sentry with Astarion, Jaheira, and Halsin, Wyll with Jaina, Shadowheart, Gale, and Karlach, and finally Lae'zel with Kroger, Octavia, and the newly recovered Minthara. “Well, time to go vampire hunting. Wish us luck!” Sentry grinned. He had several flasks of holy water on a bandoleer across his chest. “I'm sure you'll win the day, after all, many a tale of wicked vampire lords ends with a noble paladin storming their fortress.” Wyll smiled, clapping Sentry on the shoulder. “Meanwhile, we're going to see about this book of Gale's and pay a small social call to this cad Lorroakan.” He explained. “We intend to seek out an entrance to this 'House of Hope' Raphael resides in. We will return with information or a means to infiltrate it and then regroup and form a plan to steal this 'Orphic Hammer'. Our prince will be free.” Lae'zel added. “I am well aware you have little love for me and no reason to trust me, but after my enslavement to the Absolute and because you killed Orin, it's in my best interest to aid you. I've suggested the githyanki seek out a diabolist and I plan to assist them in finding one.” Minthara frowned, her expression made it seem that this was quite the chore for her.

The groups parted ways into the city, although Sentry and Wyll's groups didn't stray far from one another, finding that surprisingly, Cazador's manor was not far from Sorcerous Sundries. “Punch him extra for me, okay Jaina?” Sentry grinned, grabbing the sorceress' shoulder and squeezing it reassuringly. “Oh. And if Aylin does anything cool, please describe it in excruciating detail over dinner. I hate missing seeing her in action, but Astarion needs me.” “Oh don't worry, I haven't written poetry since I was little, but I think this little encounter might prove inspiring. I'm thinking the next big sea shanty sung aboard vessels across the pirate islands.” Jaina grinned. “Maybe Alfira can give me a hand with it.” “Well, I saw Lakrissa waiting tables at The Elf Song when I was hunting Dolor, maybe she can help you find her. Anyway, good luck.” Sentry grinned. “I won't need it, Lorroakan's a ponce.” Jaina smirked. “I'd wish you good luck yourself, but like Wyll said, paladins always slay the evil vampire lord, it's a sure thing.” And with that, the two parties parted ways, the vampire hunters entering an unassuming watch tower on the street corner, the mage slayers (and assorted disguntled superior mages) made their way to the gleaming facade of Sorcerous Sundries. ----

Szarr manor was a strange old fashioned sort of opulence, but in a dreary and foreboding way. Sentry was accustomed to luxury in some respects. Tomi's rooms had always been designed like a fine parlor in black and purple damask and silk with gold accents, strange feline creatures decorating much of the furniture and beautiful birdlike creatures as well. Then there had been Enver's first home Sentry had visited, a simple Baldurian affair in crimson velvets and gold accents with good sturdy mahogany polished to a shine and not dissimilar from the Jannath Estate or any of the other larger lower city homes. The upper city homes he'd attended soirees at with Enver had been more gleaming white, but with similar gold accenting the marble. There was something older and more sinister, however, about Cazador's home. Something ancient. The portraits, Sentry noticed, were rather vapid. The sort of thing you would see in the average parlor of someone who knew nothing of fine art. Soulless classics and dull landscapes, the usual wide eyed vacant portraits of gods and long forgotten nobles. It occurred to Sentry that even if he didn't know what Astarion had been through, even if he didn't love the elf and feel honor bound to avenge all the harm he'd been through, there was an urge to slaughter the manor's master on principle for the crime of poor taste in art. Exploring further, Sentry pressed his hand to a just barely hidden door in the wall and opened it, peering inside and grinning. “Ah! Now there we go! This is art.” He grinned, spreading his arms wide as he gazed upon the body of a massive werewolf, her fur and skin burned around the lips and mouth and a hole bored through her stomach, the innards melted. “A perfect piece, no notes.”

“You know, something tells me this is not an intentional piece of artwork, Sentry.” Jaheira raised a brow, looking from the wretched beast to Sentry.

“Acid from the look of it.” Halsin remarked, “Although the vial is in her hand...She did this to herself.”

Sentry noticed a note beside the creature and knelt carefully to pick it up, scanning the words. 'My Darling Dufay, despite all your promises that when we went to the afterlife we'd go together, you went without me. Or did you? I found your body and the empty bottle - I know you took a potion, but was it poison or something else? Here are two more identical bottles - I'm going to drink one of them and then I'll join you, one way or another. I love you for eternity.' The letter brought to mind a conversation he had had a long time ago, a memory of a promise to die together from his own past.

He remembered the bed in a dark, quiet room, surrounded by creaking metal and the sound of the sea on all sides. He remembered soft, hairy flesh and the gentle scratch of metal claws against his body and the distinctive scent of sex filling the air “When I was little, you know, the only escape I had from my 'training' was when my guardians would forget to lock my breeding pen.....” He could picture the story in his mind as he remembered telling it, “They had books, lots of them, but all dusty like they never even read them. Most were on Bhaalist history or religion, but there was this one from Calimshan, an old fairy tale or legend or something about these impossibly beautiful beings. I think it's what inspired me to paint, honestly. Just the stunning colors of their feathered wings, how sharp their talons were, but from the knees to the head they were human with human flesh...” The colorful images of the book danced in his mind, the rich brown skin of the human bodies of the birds dressed in shimmering silks of red, purple, and gold, the shimmering jewels that decorated them, and their impossibly massive wings, one like a rainbow of tropical bird feathers, the other a rainbow of a different sort, the natural hues of hawks, owls, eagles. “But what captivated me most, and the piece I will one day paint from the story, was the last two alive fell in love and when one became pregnant, they retreated somewhere quiet...its mate sang this beautiful, mournful song for months on end, until its throat bled...and then, nearing the end of the gestation, the singing stopped...When the gods could see the two again, they realized the one carrying their child had eaten its mate alive to sustain their progeny....and that is what I intend to do to you...and that will be our masterpiece, my muse...I will see our plan through, we will bring your plan to life along with our child, and then I will devour you little by little.” His lips pressed to Enver Gortash's lips, both of them had known in that moment, that Sentry was very likely already pregnant.... He shook his head rapidly, he didn't have time to think about that now, he didn't want to acknowledge the implication of the memory, the questions that remained for him if he let them consume him.

“The more time we stand about gawking, the more chance there is for Cazador to get the jump on us. What could possibly be that interesting?” Astarion snapped, snatching the paper from Sentry's hand and tossing it aside. “Right, yeah, sorry...just...it reminded me of a play I once saw with Enver....with Lord Gortash...That's all....Just a silly memory.” Sentry shook himself off him a dog, rolling his wrists and shoulders to work out the tension rising in his body. “You're right. We should keep moving.”

---- “So....the sniveling wizard hiding from the world in his tower....” Dame Aylin paced the floor in front of Lorroakan like a tiger that had cornered its prey deep in the Chultan jungles. “Ah! Lorroakan, I see you've me The Nightsong.” Jaina grinned, standing just a bit behind Aylin. “I told her about your offer but you know? She didn't seem interested! Imagine that.” She folded her arms across her chest. Lorroakan glared at Jaina and the rest of the party, eyes locking on Jaina and Gale in particular and both mages felt a message enter their minds. 'I hardly care for the judgment of a lower city school marm and Mystra's disgraced bed warmer.' He quickly forced an oily smile and opened his arms to Aylin. “My dear Nightsong, daughter of Selune....I merely wish to share your great gifts with the world! Think of all the people you could help with your dear mother's power if you were to just share a bit of it...” Rolan had till now been cleaning up several books strewn across the floor, trying to keep quiet and out of sight, but her made his way to where Jaina and the others stood, looking to her in confusion. “The Nightsong was a person, this entire time?”

“Yes, one Lorroakan planned to enslave.” Jaina nodded. “Your master is nothing more than a petty coward playing at being an archmage...But I think you already knew that, Rolan. You were already more talented than him.” “I know your plan, wizard. You intend to use my power for your own gain, to chain me up as a conduit. Another has tried before you and you will meet the same fate as he did.” Aylin boomed, drawing her sword. “Enough of this! Boy! Come help me chain the aasimaar!” Lorroakan snapped his fingers at Rolan. “No! If I had known she was a person I would never have agreed to help you.” Rolan stood firm, his golden eyes burning with anger at his former master. “I have seen leadership and heroism,” He smiled gently towards Jaina and Wyll, then turned back to his master with a look of disgust. “But never from you.” “I will see to it that no wizard anywhere will take you on as an apprentice, you ungrateful brat!” The red haired human spat with fury. “If they're all like you, I think that sounds like an excellent bargain.” Rolan replied bitterly, firmly standing his ground with the others. “Then we do this the hard way. Myrmidons! To me!” Lorroakan summoned forth a small army of elementals. The being of fire roared into existence, earth rumbled to its master's side, but as water and wind began to form, the single pearl on its gold chord at Jaina's throat glowed brightly and a wicked, musical laugh filled the room, the storm and the sea fizzled out to nothing. “The tides and squalls won't stand against a chosen of their mistress.” Jaina smirked, wind kicking up around her as she drew her cutlass.

“You will fall at our feet like so many other villains, wizard!” Aylin crowed, her magnificent wings spreading as she kicked off from the ground and flew towards him.

------ The room the party found themselves peering into now turned Sentry's stomach. The oppressive, windowless stone room brought back memories of the breeding cage, the scent of fear and blood was heavy here, same as it had been there. True the room was a bit larger and there were cruel instruments laid about on tables or hanging from the walls, there hadn't been in his room, but otherwise it came very close. He forced down the discomfort, it was clear this room held similar pain for Astarion. “The kennels, where we were 're-educated' after every failure or sometimes simply because Cazador was bored.” Astarion spat, his body tensing. A clattering and clanking of bone on rusted metal snapped the party's attention to a corner of the room as a skeletal figure in ancient armor approached them. “So, so....you've come home, little one...and come to visit Godey in your old kennel.” Astarion's fists clenched as he regarded the creature. Sentry and Halsin stood close by his side, allowing him to react first, but ready to defend if they were needed. Astarion sneered, putting on a good show of disdain over the anxiety and fear his companions could sense in him. “It's taking everything I have not to grind your rotten carcass to dust.” He replied. The skeleton seemed unphased. “Don't be mad at Godey, child. I only did my job, only kept you in line.”

“You tortured us for days on end.” Astarion's red eyes narrowed hatefully at the creature. Sentry knew what should come next, everything inside him wanted to tell Astarion to smash this pathetic creature to pieces, to break every bone that made up the being. “Oh yes, and you sang so sweetly for me. You were my favorite.” The creature gave a dry, wracking laugh, like the door of a crypt swinging open. “None of the others screamed like you did.” Sentry's hand itched to go for his halberd, to shut this thing's taunting mouth forever. “But now you've returned, and you've brought me a new friend to play with.” The creature eyed Sentry with a wicked grin. “Go on then, give me one more reason, you sad excuse for a corpse.” Sentry scoffed. “So rude! Not nice at all!” The skeleton took a step back from Sentry and quickly recovered himself. “Well, why are you here then, if not to visit old Godey?” “Isn't it obvious? We're going to kill Cazador.” Astarion grinned wildly, eyes bright with anticipation. “You ungrateful brat! You won't dare lay a finger on the master!” The creature drew its weapon, but Sentry was already drawing his halberd and he was quicker, within less than a breath, the skull went clattering to the floor, rolling to stop just in front of Astarion's foot. The vampire spawn gazed down at it in disgust, a look of disbelief on his face as though he had never considered it would be so simple to just turn against his tormentor. With a grunt, he raised his boot and brought it down hard, shattering the skull to pieces.

“This could be useful, yes?” Jaheira's voice broke Astarion from his daze as she held up an ornate ring set with a red stone she had plucked from the body. “Yeah, looks like it'd fit the impression on that big door upstairs.” Sentry nodded. “One step closer to the end of all this, right, Astarion?” He gave a small, reassuring smile. But Astarion didn't seem to notice, he simply shook his head and turned towards the door. “Let's get out of here...I'm sure there will be more unpleasant surprises to deal with up ahead before we finally face Cazador.” He murmured, leaving the room quickly, giving the others no choice but to hurry after him. Sentry and Halsin exchanged worried looks as they went. ----- When the dust settled, Lorroakan lay broken and bleeding, trying to get up as Aylin made her way slowly towards him, every footstep was measured, purposeful. An air of danger surrounded the aasimaar as her eyes glowed bright blue. She bent down and lifted the wizard's body over her head with a look of triumph. “Lorroakan, you who would see me caged, you who would enslave me for your own wicked gain.” She spoke slowly, her tone like the warning sound of a rattle snake with every word. “Let every wicked magus, every vile slaver and misery merchant see: Dame Aylin is watching!” She shouted, the angelic fury of her voice practically shaking the tower's foundation. The party watched in awe as she spoke. “She is indomitable! And when her face lights the shadows of your wrong doings, you are broken by its beauty!” She brought Lorroakan's spine down across her knee with a sickening snap. Rolan watched wide eyed and turned towards Jaina and the others. “I....I suppose that's it.” He inhaled. “Lorroakan is dead....He was a cruel master and, I think, not a particularly worthy one.” “Certainly not for a wizard of your caliber, young man.” Gale nodded his agreement, placing a hand gently on Rolan's shoulder.

“At first I thought it was just a test....every night he would volley questions at me and beat me for every wrong answer, I thought if I just endured....” Rolan sighed and shook his head. “What's confusing to me, Rolan, is why you thought you needed an apprenticeship to begin with. You're a prodigy in your own right, and that's coming from a former prodigy myself.” Gale explained. “You have all the makings of an archmage all on your own.” “Well, I suppose that's good to hear. It's high praise coming from you lot.” The tiefling nodded. “I suppose that just leaves the matter of this tower...” Jaina thought a moment and grinned. “It seems to me as the tower's master's apprentice, you're the highest ranking member of the crew remaining, by maritime law that makes you captain of this fine vessel now.” She clapped him on the back. “Congratulations.” Rolan beamed. “Cal and Lia will be glad, I can move them in immediately...If there's anything I can do for you...” “Well, we do have quite a battle coming up.” Wyll replied. “We could use all the support we can get.” “Than you'll have me. And all the power Ramazith's tower has to offer. I'll tear this place apart to find every secret and already I can think of a few upgrades for its defenses....Again, thank you...” Rolan smiled gratefully at the party. “And....if you see Sentry, tell him I'm sorry about what I said to him back in Reithwin.” “He has a lot on his mind lately, I'm sure he's already forgiven and forgotten.” Karlach assured him. A few feet away, Shadowheart approached Dame Aylin and gently rested a hand on her arm. “You looked troubled.” She said gently, looking up at the aasimaar, studying her expression with concern. “Tis nothing.” Aylin replied gently, waving off the half-elf's worries. “Merely the rush of battle and the sudden calm after.” Her smile was unconvincing, however. “Dame Aylin, I know what it's like to feel like a simple cog in someone else's plans, to feel that you've been passed about like an object, a means to an end.” Shadowheart replied. “All the things I was expected to do, all that was placed on my shoulders...I'm just saying, in a way...I think I understand.”

Aylin's smile grew a touch more genuine and she patted Shadowheart's hand. “Thank you, little former Sharran. There will always be a place for you wherever Isobel and I may go.” Shadowheart smiled back softly and nodded her head. “Thank you. Though I do draw the line at any place without good wine available.” ---- “You know, maybe we should talk to Wyll about becoming monster hunters when all this is over? That was actually a lot of fun!” Sentry mused as he slowly stood up from the werewolf corpse he'd taken down just a moment ago. “Besides, people like Cazador and Sarevok are still out there, I could use this bloodlust for good.” “Yes, wonderful. I'm glad you're finding yourself now that you're free of your father's control, but we still have a vampire lord to kill.” Astarion gave Sentry a withering look. “You promised you'd help me.” Sentry frowned and bit his lip. ���Of course, I know, and I meant it. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have let myself get distracted. You're right.” He nodded his head gently. “His scent leads this way.” Halsin nodded towards a door by the far wall of the room. “Is there a lower level in that direction?” “I....I'm not sure.” Astarion admitted. “There were plenty of places we weren't allowed...his office was one of them, that's what's behind that door.” “Well, he can't stop you from going in now.” Jaheira shrugged. “Do you mind taking care of the lock? I mean, if we are in such a great hurry after all.” “Yes, fine...I'm getting to it.” Astarion approached the door and began to carefully pick the lock. “I could have just broken it down, you know.” Sentry looked at Jaheira, quirking a brow. “I think he needs to clear his mind for a moment and cool down, this should allow him ample time for that.” The druid explained quietly, watching with her arms folded across her chest.

The door creaked open and the party found themselves in a large room, the small office barely taking up half, while most of it was home to a strange sort of elevator platform. Even in its simplicity there was something imposing about it, but the group stepped forward onto the platform. Halsin noticed the mechanism to control it and looked to Astarion for his approval. The vampire spawn nodded and the elevator began to descend. The party was slowly lowered deep into the earth, far below the ground. The air was cold and there was a twinge of dark magic to it. The scent of blood and urine hung heavy in the air, a general scent of caged animals and of fear. Countless chains and hooks hung from the ceilings and deep crevasses lined the areas where walls had been knocked out or were simply crumbling. The doors ahead all seemed similar to the one upstairs, likely opened with the same ring and the same phrase. “You know, one would think city planning would be better than this.” Jaheira snorted. “Building a city atop what? A Bhaalist murder temple and a vampire den? It is a wonder the foundations don't simply crumble, if not from the unchecked dark magic, then surely from the amount of holes and caverns undeneath.” “The city's as stubborn as its people, I believe it stands on sheer force of will.” Sentry replied with a shrug as he approached the door at the end of the hall and pressed the ring into the lock. The door opened and the scent of fear and of caged animals became overwhelming. Cells lined the walls stuffed to bursting with hungry, despondent looking people of all races and walks of life. Men, women, even children. “By the Oak Father...” Halsin murmured, eyes wide in horror. “Who are all these people?” Sentry asked softly, approaching one of the cages, Astarion followed. “Wait, I recognize you.” A voice called out, a pale, sickly man with fair hair and haunted red eyes pointed to Astarion. “You're the reason I'm in here!” He lashed out. Sentry pulled Astarion back from the man's reach and looked at him for an explanation. “Astarion, is that true? Are these all your victims?” Astarion gazed out over the many faces staring from behind the bars. His mind swam with a thousand memories of a thousand lovers. None of them had meant a thing, hells, he'd assumed Cazador had drained them, killed them when he'd brought them back not...not this. He thought a moment, trying to place the man before him, finally it came to him. “Sebastien... You would have been one of my first... You were shy, quiet, you'd never even been kissed...” “My name sounded like music when you said it...You gave me my first kiss....” The man replied. “How long have I been here?” Astarion inhaled sharply. “almost two hundred years.” He admitted, looking away. “Then all my friends...my family....” Sebastien cried out in anguish and lashed out again, and again, Sentry pulled Astarion back.

“Astarion....is this what happened to all of your lovers?” Sentry asked, a rare, serious expression crossing his face. “Would this have been me if we'd met under different circumstances?” He pressed, as Astarion looked away, was that shame on his face? “Oh? And what about you, 'Dread Executioner'? Would I have been another pretty corpse for your sculpture garden?” Astarion shot back. “We've all done things we regret...I....I didn't know this is where they would end up.” “We have to help them.” Sentry insisted. “They're innocent in all this.” “They can't BE helped, look at them! He's kept them starved worse than my siblings and I, if they are freed, they'll reek havoc!” Astarion insisted, gesturing to the wild eyed prisoners. “We can argue about this later, it is as Astarion said earlier, we have a vampire lord to kill.” Jaheira grabbed the two men by the shoulders and turned them to face the final door at the end of the corridor.

Before Sentry opened the door, he turned towards Halsin and lowered his head in a nod of approval. The druid gently placed a hand to Sentry's chest, his armor glowing with sunlight as Halsin murmured a few words in sylvan. Next, the light spread to his deadly halberd. Jaheira set about engulfing her blades with sunlight as Halsin moved on to light Astarion's daggers and bow. Meanwhile, Jaheira lit Halsin's staff. Sentry busied himself coating his blade and Astarion's in holy water as well, dipping a few arrows for good measure. Finally, as prepared as the party felt they could be, Sentry opened the door and allowed Astarion to lead. He could see the tension and fear, but more than that determination. Astarion was ready to confront Cazador, ready for this all to be over. Sentry could only hope he would find peace in whatever came next. “Who approaches!?” Cazador intoned from a platform of runes and stones in the center of the massive room they entered. “The prodigal son returns at last?” He sneered as the party approached him. The vampire lord was tall, but rather thin. His long black hair was rich, elegant, although could not hold a candle to Tomi's perfect silken hair. Bright red eyes glinted dangerously, though with a wariness that Sentry couldn't help but think reminded him of a look he'd seen in Astarion's eyes before. Under all that power, all that pomp, there was still fear. Even this close to ascension, Sentry could sense that Cazador was afraid. Those fine clothes and his imposing posture did little to hide it from an artist's eyes.

Those red eyes snapped to Astarion, who had tensed and recoiled just a bit. “Do not slouch before me, boy!” He barked. “Have you no respect for yourself?” Sentry watched as Cazador berated Astarion. His hands twitched to go to his halberd, his instinct to protect his lover was strong, but he knew Astarion had to confront this himself, he knew to interfere would only do more damage, so he deferred, merely standing his ground defensively, ready to leap into action should Astarion ask it of him. “You've come crawling back to the family you abandoned, boy. You should be begging forgiveness!” Cazador continued as Astarion's expression darkened, his fists clenching at his sides. “Forgiveness?” Astarion laughed hollowly. “You never forgave anything! You punished us for every mistake, every slip up!” He snapped, bristling. “I strove for perfection in all things,” Cazador sniffed. “Even things as imperfect as you. A shame you amounted to so little despite my best efforts” “No, fuck you! Fuck you and everything you ever put me through!” Astarion shot back, his posture ready to pounce, ready to attack at any moment. “Now it's your turn to suffer, Cazador. Everything you ever did to Astarion, you're going to regret.” Sentry finally spoke up. “Do not presume to address me! I will not speak to cattle.” Cazador scoffed, waving off Sentry's words. “You son of a bitch...” Astarion rushed forward, aiming a punch at Cazador's face, his expression one of fury, pain, all culminating in the adrenaline rush that led up to this moment. But as Cazador tapped his staff against the ground, crimson spell runes formed around Astarion's wrist and his face twisted into a look of horror as he found himself once again trapped, his body stripped and thrown into the circle with the other spawn, eyes and infernal writing glowing red as his eyes darted desperately. “No...No....get me out of here!” He cried out, before he went still as if in a trance.

Sentry's eyes widened in fear and he rushed forward. “No! Fuck no! Astarion!” He cried out, drawing his halberd quickly. “I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you!” He screamed as he charged at Cazador, even as the werewolves and ghouls by the vampire lord's side rushed to his aid. Suddenly, the horde was held back by a twisting wall of thorns rising from the ground. Jaheira smirked from behind them. “Pardon an old woman, but please, let me cut in.” The druid smirked as her blades flashed, carving up two of the ghouls and locking eyes with one of the werewolves. Neither Cazador nor his servants noticed the raven flitting over the wall of thorns and landing by Astarion's side, its claws scratching at the sigils and runes on the floor, doing what it could to disrupt them. ---- When the dust settled, Jaheira stood panting over the bodies of several werewolves and undead creatures, wiping her blades on the hem of her shirt. Halsin was steadying Astarion as he helped him up from where the sigil that had chained him once stood, and Sentry was still locked in combat with Cazador. The tiefling's armor was singed and blood was blossoming beneath his clothes, but he refused to give an inch. Still, Cazador was distracted by the paladin, and Astarion took the opportunity to grab a crossbow from Halsin's belt, load a glowing bolt, and fire at Cazador. The vampire lord choked, coughing a torrent of blood as is eyes widened in shock. Quickly, he dissipated into mist, making for his coffin, but Sentry advanced on him, the glowing sunlight of his armor forcing Cazador back into corporeal form. Astarion grabbed Cazador roughly by the throat and squeezed, his red eyes turned towards Sentry. “I can take the ritual from him, Sentry...I can ascend....I just need your eyes... I need to use the tadpole to copy the writing on my back.” Astarion spoke coldly and hollowly. “That isn't what you want, Astarion...it isn't what you want and you know it.” Sentry replied, folding his arms across his chest. “Sentry, if I ascend, I can protect us both. No one will ever touch you again, no one you don't want. And I will be free....We'll both be free and safe.” Astarion insisted.

“No we won't.” Sentry shook his head. “It's like you said, vampire lords are a paranoid lot. You'd always be looking over your shoulder for the next spawn rising through the ranks to overthrow you, just like he was....The cycle doesn't end unless someone decides to end it.” The tiefling explained. He thought of Orin again, it always came back to her, to father, to the family. Sarevok had groomed Helena and then when Helena failed, he had moved straight on to Orin. Sentry had no doubt that if he had lost, Orin's pain and confusion, her rage and feelings of inadequacy, would have been pushed onto the next child Sarevok or father was able to force on her and if he had taken his role as father's chosen, the same with him and any children he would bear. This was no different. “Please, I know how this ends....If you let it stop here, we can REALLY be safe and free, we can protect eachother....just like we've been doing.” He held out his hand. Astarion frowned, biting his lip and tensing. His red eyes met those earnest, mismatched eyes and that sincere, pleading look. With a groan of frustration, he tossed Cazador to the ground. “Yes....yes, you're right...I can be better than him” He admitted grudgingly. His expression darkened and he pulled an ornate dagger from Cazador's belt. “But I am not above enjoying this.” The knife sank into Cazador's chest over and over again as the vampire lord cried out in pain, the cries turning to gurgles and gasps as his throat and chest were ruined, blood splattering over Astarion's face and body, running onto the ground beneath them in crimson rivulets. Astarion's expression was manic, his voice crying out a raw, primal scream with every thrust, every stab, the scream dissolving into heavy sobs, tears streaming down his face, leaving streaks of white beneath the dark red blood. Sentry longed to go to him, but he knew better, he knew how it felt to end a life that had ruined yours, knew the pain, the relief, the disbelief that it really could finally be over, and like he had, Astarion needed to feel all of that. Sentry simply stood by with Halsin and Jaheira, ready and waiting when Astarion needed him. Finally, after kneeling there for some time, his body wracked with sobs, trembling and shaking, Astarion rose to his feet and turned to see his siblings standing before him. “He's dead? Truly dead?” Dalyria breathed, staring in disbelief at the corpse. “So...what happens now?” “We move on....we live our lives...free of him.” Astarion murmured. “There's still the matter of the seven thousand souls you all gathered...They don't deserve to suffer.” Halsin frowned.

“Seven thousand vampire spawn...” Astarion pondered. “To unleash them on the city, that would be chaos....” “Not to mention a headache for me...So please, don't do that.” Jaheira snorted. “What about The Underdark? Omeluum and Blurg said their society existed to better the lives of the creatures there, that could include vampire spawn. If Omeluum can make it so mindflayers can live peacefully, maybe he could find a way for them too.” Sentry suggested. “But he hasn't yet. His research isn't completed.” Astarion frowned. “But....” He mused. “Dal, you were a physician...and your journal suggested you were trying to find a way to deal with our condition...” “Yes, that's right...” Dalyria replied cautiously. “Alright....yes...that's a good plan.” Astarion breathed deeply. “You'll all lead the spawn in The Underdark, the Society of Brilliance has an enclave somewhere down there and in it, there is a mindflayer called Omeluum. You and he should exchange notes. Work together.” “I'll try.” The woman nodded. “Good luck, Astarion.” And with that, she turned and led her siblings towards the cages as Astarion picked up Cazador's staff with trembling hands, tapping it into the ground and willing its power to release the prisoners caged in the dungeon. “And hey, if Omeluum and Dalyria take some time, or worst case scenario, they fail, at least it's just Menzoberranzan that's in trouble. I mean, I don't think Myconids have blood per se, and I bet most Underdark creatures taste terrible.” Sentry grinned, folding his arms. “But...hey....in all seriousness...” He looked at Astarion kindly. “I'm proud of you....I know that wasn't an easy choice, and I just wanted to thank you for trusting me...” Astarion gave a small, tired smile as he looked into Sentry's eyes. “You gave me good reason to...No one else ever did.”

[tugoslovenka]

Warding Bond - Chapter 7

Of Blood and Time

A/N:

Surprise chapter because I really wanted a bit of a fight and tussle! Also happy belated holidays for my American readers. I hope that turkey stuffing was good! This is a bit shorter but hey, I was feeling like posting.

Also posting on AO3!

“Sing for me, Varra.”

The hair sticking to her sweaty forehead blocked most of what she could see underneath her. Her palms were burning from the heat of Raphael’s bare chest. Even after years of the same, rehearsed, vile display of affection she executed perfectly, she never accustomed her human body to the torridity of the Hells. The devil, true to form, clawed her hips, forcefully thrusting her down on his member.

She hadn’t noticed—not that she could have. Instead, Varra’s mouth opened as cries of pleasure escaped, echoing the name Raphael as she screamed into the winds that grazed her skin, spilling in through the open doors of the boudoir.

Haarlep too, mewed. His incubus form was busying himself where his master’s cock met her entrance, lapping away as he was told to.

“Little lamb…” Raphael cooed, removing one hand from her side to affectionately twirl the hardened nipple, which now bore a new accessory, a piercing in the shape of a horn. She had become something of a favorite, though Varra knew others in the House of Hope received similar visits—rewards. He had gifted it to her as a present, to mark the 134th anniversary of her freedom from the clutches of lord Cazador Szarr. 

The name held no significance to her anymore. Another face in the swarm that plagued her dreams, alongside the pale elf that seemed to permanently occupy her mind.

Astarion.

“You are remarkable, Raphael...” Haarlep’s muffled voice sounded. “Such power.” The smacking, wet noises of his own ministrations would haveelicited a groan of disgust, were it not for the performance she had to excel in. The devil often conquered Varra while forcing his incubus to watch, allowing him the occasional touch, lick—bite—to satiate his own lust. There was no end to the fiend’s stamina. After all, it was what they were born to do. 

“Say it, Varra,” Raphael moaned.

“You are cunning, master.” She raised the pitch of her voice to match the version he requested most often. “The most powerful cambion in all the Hells—”

“—Realms,” he corrected.

“And beyond!” she squealed, wincing as his nails scratched down the soft skin of her nipple, almost drawing blood.

This ritual of perverted love she had to accept.

It was methodical. It was expected. It was required.

Mephistopheles’s visit had unearthed a sentience she had long forgotten existed. It was difficult, explaining the absence of a thing suddenly finding purpose in directionlessness. Every day since the archdevil’s proposal, she uncovered new memories of old, revealed within the tiniest slivers of peace the House of Hope afforded.

One morning, she awoke feeling strange. Her hands touched the wetness underneath her eyes, trying to discern its purpose. The other servants couldn’t explain, but Haarlep’s excitement at the prospect of her return was evident. The incubus had no memory of what transpired when the Lord of the Eighth visited. Haarlep simply continued the act with the same forced benevolence that made Varra’s skin crawl.

She didn’t probe. She didn’t want to, really.

Knowing carried a strange unfamiliarity to her. The state of being that made her aware of her surroundings—of herself—was not an ability she possessed. And yet she found herself requiring, craving, demanding as if she had the will for it. It was smaller things—the smallest things—noticingHaarlep’s hand when they intertwined hers, disliking when Raphael mocked her, detecting the latest guest in the House of Hope.

Varra D’allrnir of Cloakwood, child of Gur, used to aspire. To think. To feel. To be. 

What was it like, staring into a reflection and seeing someone she used to know?

Althea slowly rose to her feet, keeping a hand outstretched towards the spawn. His frenzy had turned into anger, which turned into hostility, which turned into indifference. Astarion’s shoulders were slumped in defeat and yet, his eyes were fixated on her.

Detecting his thoughts would have proven useful. Even if he was not a vampire lord capable of instructing legions of spawn to do his bidding, he held an authority over the servants most devils craved. A collective delusion of servitude with no real merits. Althea recognized the fangs. Red eyes. Pale skin. The vampire did not have the magical capabilities to change their compositions at will. Even if he did, the ploy could not have withstood one hundred years.

“How did you survive it?” he finally asked. 

“How did you survive it?”

“I didn’t think I did,” he confessed. “It was the most excruciating pain of my life. It probably lasted a few moments, but it felt like days to me. And then it was better. I was better.”

“Better?”

“Stronger. The power—I can still feel it surging through me in all its potency.” He tried swirling his hand to demonstrate, but Althea’s magic kept it at bay.

“And yet he lived.” She pointed to Cazador’s corpse, not dead nor undead. 

“I do wish you’d stop saying that,” he sighed, annoyance evident in his tone. “He’s crossing the border to eternal rest, endlessly experiencing his own killing at the hands of, well, me. He can’t fully depart in this state. Someone was missed during the rite.”

Slumber. Rest. Eternity.

The perimeter between the living and the souls they came to be. Some priests called it the bridge to peace, though those who crossed it never came to know. The many Gods across the Planes each demanded a different ritual from those who worshiped them, their reward manifesting in eternal slumber at the end of the line. It was a brief moment, giving a final remembrance to the souls who would return to the pool of circulation. It was said that those who died in killing had the misfortune of experiencing their final breaths one more time.

If those tales rang true, then Cazador Szarr would have been experiencing the hundred cuts Astarion inflicted upon him for over a century; every waking—every dying—second.

“What of the others?” She furrowed her eyebrows.

“What of them?” he chuckled, humorlessly. “Gone to the weave, the Gods, the void—wherever we go when we die.”

While Althea was no cleric to understand the complexities of what the former vampire lord was undergoing in his undead dying, she wasexperienced enough in infernal contracts to know the terms could not be completed without the subjects preordained in writing. This meant the souls tied to the Rite of Profane Ascension could not be consumed by Mephistopheles as promised. The laws of the Hells simply would not allow this sort of breach. It also meant that their new subject could not gain the rights promised in blood and sacrifice.

“In you.” She realized, looking over his body as if she could see the poor sods in there.

Another chuckle, though this one reeked of irony.

“What a clever detective you are, my dear. Maybe offer your services to the Fists.” 

Partially ascended. Partially reaping the benefits of the contract while still cursed with the drawbacks of spawnhood. Althea’s head began pounding from the risks associated with this predicament, especially the ones that directly impacted her deal with Mephistopheles. Much like any other subject of a devil—archdevil’s treaty, she was not allowed insight into the fine print. All she knew was that killing Astarion would save her from Raphael.

It was unfortunate, then, that she lost concentration during her conundrum, feeling the weave dissipate from her fingers far earlier than she had wanted to.

A window of opportunity Astarion did not miss.

She didn’t even register the dagger striking the side of her leg, not until searing pain shot up her body, and her vision clouded. When her eyes opened to search for the vampire, he had already disappeared. Like one of the Shadows plaguing the cursed-lands near Moonrise Towers, he blended into the walls of the estate. Or teleported somewhere she could not follow.

The answer came with another sharp pain, this time from behind. The invisible force that struck her left another knife lodged inside her lungs.

“On second thought, maybe don’t join the Fists. I wouldn't want any upstanding citizen dying on account of your lack of skill.” She heard his taunts, but she could not see him.

Spinning around, she frantically scanned the room. If he had turned invisible, her abilities would allow her to locate him. This was not a spell, not one that required focus at least. Her mind searched for solutions to the danger at hand, ignoring the throb in her body that quickened her breathing. Reaching down, she yanked the blade out of her shin, hissing before turning heel for the door of the altar room.

She would not risk the one in her backside. Blood loss was a dangerous condition for any fighter, but blood loss for a vampire spawn meant loss of control. The ringing in her ears also grew stronger. The smell of iron emanating from the droplets of blood on the floor reawakened the desire to feed.

Her muscles seized, constricting fully when the compulsion began taking over. Althea forced her mind—screamed at it—to move, to keep running. Closed corridors and tight spaces were not where she preferred fighting anyone.

And yet, her knees began shaking, hands trembling, mouth drooling with need.

“Poor little vampling...” She heard him chaff, somewhere behind her—yet everywhere all at once. “You need to feed, darling.”

Feed. Food. Blood.

The clouding had begun taking hold. Any tactical maneuvers she had in mind were lost to the insatiable craving to sink her teeth into soft flesh and extract its vigor. Luckily, she still held a small semblance of direction, even if it was bordering on instincts.

A mist had formed from the very wood she was standing on. It rose, filling the space until it created a perfect shadow replica of Astarion. It looked at her, tutting in disapproval and—disappointment.

Althea opened her mouth to scream.

Any words that came to mind failed her.

“How sad.” It spoke in his voice, though muddled with a choir of many others who spoke in unison.

Shoulders. Core. Foot. Heel. Toe. Think.

She repeated the desperate cries coming from the woman that pleaded for her life once Althe—Varra lost control beneath the infamous glacier of T’chemox. The same mind toxin now coated itself in her spine, instructing her movements towards the poisoned well that was inevitability. 

Forcing her muscles to yield, she slowly rounded one shoulder, twisting her body painstakingly slowly while screaming, willing her tissue into obedience. One foot slid forward, which prompted her shoulder to hit the mists of Astarion.

It was corporeal.

The mists of vampirism.

A spawn, Astarion Ancunín was not. A full vampire, Astarion Ancunín was not.

“Impressive.” The figure moved, gently nudging her shoulder with his own. “Even still, incomplete.”

The pale elf appeared from the shadowed fog, studying her with a rather unimpressed expression. The clothes he wore were different—a black vest replaced the charred burgundy leather that she burned during their dine. A cape now cloaked his shoulders, ruby in color to match his eyes.

Althea let out a shriek as, without warning, the blood-soaked blade retracted from her back. The vampire raised his palm, beckoning it into its grasp. In an instant, her mouth began to water. Her saliva foamed at the crimson essence spilling from her flesh.

“I wonder…” he pondered, pointer finger slowly caressing the edge of the blade until she heard the slice of skin. The curse allowed her taste buds to pick up the most subtle tang of injury even when a booming fuzziness overwhelmed her. Slowly, he moved his hand towards her, watching with interest as Althea began snarling.

Shoulders. Core. Foot—Food. Feed. Blood.

A smile. He knew.

Any semblance of restraint dissipated as soon as his finger made contact with her upper lip. Any concentration she may have held onto was whisked away at the drop of blood that painted her skin. Her canines became fangs. Her brown eyes turned bloodshot and reddened. Her skin began paling to snow. Astarion’s finger had already pushed past her lips, and she now began suckling at the pooling blood like a newborn calf would her mother’s milk.

The sweetness from it was unlike anything she had ever tasted before. It was rich, complex, as if concocted with the intention to keep her addicted.

She drew with a moan, hands involuntarily finding themselves holding onto his wrist, nails digging into the firm leathers of his coat. Having sustained on nothing but animal blood for over a year, she felt the nerves in her body splitting and reforming at unnatural speeds. Pleasure turned into pain once her fangs ached at the intensity of his flavor. Her stomach began to growl and sore from the fullness.

A loud smack at the back of her head interrupted her feast, propelling her knees to connect with the hard planks below her. The side of her face planted against the wood, and she crained her neck, panic overwhelming her body when she couldn't sustain her bloodlust.

Astarion was now standing over her, bearing the same bored expression as he suckled on the self-inflicted wound to nurture it.

“I imagine you taste delicious, my dear. Let’s see, why don’t we?”

The sole of his boot, hovering exactly above her cheek.

And then, darkness.

[rielzero]

[Part 1] writing exercise. It's been six months since the elder brain was destroyed, Baldur's gate upper city district remained mostly damaged, and so efforts were focused on repairing essential structures. Walls, bridges, the removal of rubble, recovery of property and the continuous recording of newly discovered victims who had perished during the mind flayer invasion.

Not even the freshly obtained estate and manor had stayed spotless, a tower sliced in two, and bits and pieces from a nautiloid ship had crashed in the area. Removing the alien materials should be considered priority, if it wasn't for other pressing problems. Acquiring a title of lordship and changing the wallpaper was the first two tasks Astarion had focused on. Gathering information, lists, contacts, making plans wasn't easy even with the resources left behind by his former master. At the very least Ravengard's support proved useful in this time, so Astarion could reinstate documents for himself as a living citizen. Given he decided to go straight back into politics once everything was properly established.

Even after tearing off the old, filthy wallpaper from the walls which his very own blood had stained for many years, the stench and echo of Cazador Szarr ringed through his head. Whatever room he had for stress management, he put fully into destroying the marks Cazador left on this little plot of land. From using old family portraits for games of darts with daggers, burning old diaries as fireplace fuel, to demolishing old rooms and spaces and completely refurbishing them. Godey's room no longer existed, the dormitories were turned into a storage space while other rooms were combined and reshaped for different functions. Even the ball room had changed, now almost every room he used to be familiar with contained a window with sunray blocking mosaic glass. The project of changing the manor was definitely his favorite. And helped distract him... Even with all the room for ambition, he needed to make space for 200 years of suffering he had yet to process. Distractions were great, but things needed to be done too.

He had learned of the long ago untimely passing of his parents through Loki's teacher, ''The Undertaker'' Jerma, which allowed him to remember more things from his upbringing. The best places to buy furniture, for example. Which noble houses he had to watch out for.. And the typical word plays and word games he used to participate in. There were little things, little fragments, making their way back into his head after years of not being able to think of them. Yet again, sometimes, that only would make him remember the horrors more.

Astarion wasn't alone in this, he had his consort, Loki- Looking out for him. The once so rugged-looking half elf had a soft face nowadays. His features looked more lively after becoming a vampire. A picture he'd like to have painted himself, if only he recalled how to. The arts, the debauchery- The taverns.. Luxury, hearty meals, the echoes of parties and long halls. The joy. It was all waiting out there, no matter how much Astarion wished to rush back into the normalcy for it- He wasn't ready. That much he had accepted for the time being. 6 months is nothing to a vampire, let alone an elf. But it was a still a lot to Loki.

When Loki was turned, it was out of self-preservation, the reveal of his terminal state was a shock to everyone during the adventure. He sacrificed so much of his health to get everyone were they needed to be, caring little for the outcome of his own fate. Then, the ascension- The rush of power. Overwhelming, distracting. Had Astarion noticed too late, Loki would've died not soon after vanquishing the Gur. Not even withers could've brought him back if it were so. The memory had a lot of guilt attached to it, to the point the underground prison was left entirely untouched. Astarion had yet to return to the sights of gore, fallen foes and sacrifices alike. With the freshly hired servants, and additional spawn, this place was slowly becoming filled with life. He had no need for torture devices stored in the attic. Not yet. Everyone in his inner circle was loyal, and had their reasons to stay loyal. There was Vara, A tall, large dhamphir barbarian- Very lively and very loud. Her half brother Tamir- An half elf vampire spawn rogue who was turned by her father. Tamir was older than her, but turned when he was 19 against his will. Because of their differently sized silhouettes and height, Vara calls him little brother out of habit. The duo served as bodyguards mostly. While Tamir specialized in gathering information quietly, Vara was really good at beating things out of people. And of course- at obliterating threats effortlessly. Neither of these two were connected to the Szarr family, but visited on their own accord in search for permanent employment of sorts. Vara disliked being amongst mortals, mostly because of her background. But she also disliked most other vampires, which was easy to understand. A large majority of the vampire aristocracy was filled with self-indulgent and self-absorbed vampire lords who threw hissy fits at each other. ''It's like standing in a room with a bunch of angry cats.'' Is how she worded it. Other new notable servants included a tailor, head maid, book keeper, and cook. All of which were turned by Astarion. Loki had suggested to turn people similar in his position; People who wanted a second chance at life and weren't remotely interested in betrayal. People who preferred the comforts of a castle over the buzzling streets of Baldur's gate. Or people who had no chance of surviving their mortal lifespans. The tailor was a tiefling with a debilitating disease, slowly eating at his finer motor skills. He was dropped from his position as an apprentice when he stopped being able to hold a needle. One bite and two nights later, he was sewing together new garments with the energy and passion radiating off his hands. The head maid used to work in a tavern, a previous human who was very private of her old life. She used to be an alcoholic, but turned her live around up until her liver started giving up. Without easy access to a transplant and funds for surgery, she did not take long to accept Astarion's offer. The book keeper was a simple man, a dwarf who enjoyed archiving things, obsessed with reading and keeping track of numbers. He did his job well, very introverted, and took little effort to convince the offer of eternity. The cook was a half wood elf, a young man who'd come to baldur's gate to pursue a career. He lost all his money trying to invest in his start up business, with no luck and was scammed out of his belongings. He contemplated ending it all there, until Astarion turned him around. Now he happily invests all his time in what he loves most, the funds have only opened up more possibilities for the cook. Not formally employed, was an elven woman with long red hair who visited Astarion a month after he claimed his position. Her name was Mera, she was a vampire spawn created by Cazador unwittingly. The night of her death, Cazador apparently drunkingly drained her days after becoming lord. (to be continued)

[sungiftedbard]

BASICS.

NAME: Synnøve Willowlight

CHILD NAME: Tav

NAME MEANING: Synnove = Sun Gift in Scandinavian (sin-oh-vuh)

NICKNAMES/TITLES: Tav, Lady Willowlight, the Sun's Gift

AGE + DOB: 100+ / 1392 DR

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Female - She/Her

ORIENTATION: Bisexual Demiromantic

SPECIES: High Elf

CLASS/SUBCLASS: Bard/College of Lore

BACKGROUND: Noble

APPEARANCE.

FACECLAIM: Evangeline Lily (Real Life FC)

HAIR COLOR: Auburn/Red

EYE COLOR: Golden

BACKGROUND.

BIRTHPLACE: Baldur's Gate, Faerûn 

CURRENT HOME: Verse Dependent

NATIONALITY: Baldurian

LANGUAGES: Elvish, Common

PARENTS: Faelyn Willowlight (Mother), Thalien Willowlight (Father)

SIBLINGS: None

LOVE INTEREST: Dependent (Astarion in game)

CHILDREN: N/A

PSYCHOLOGY/MIND.

MYERS-BRIGGS: ENFP - The Campaigner

ENNEAGRAM TYPE: Type 8 - The Challenger

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Good

CHARACTER TRAITS: Empathetic, Kind, Intelligent, Resilient, Adventurous, Charming, Energetic, Stubborn, Sarcastic, Reckless, Defiant

LIKES: Music, Writing, Tea, Reading, Nature, Animals

DISLIKES: Her Father, Cazador Szarr, Anyone trying to control others

FEARS & PHOBIAS: Of being harmed or controlled by others

WISHES & DREAMS: To protect themselves (to be in control of their own life and destiny)

CHARACTER TROPES: Combat Medic, Jack of All Trades, I Shall Taunt You, Magic Music, The Red Mage, Support Party Member, Be Careful What You Wish For, The Chosen Many, Heroes Love Dogs, The Leader, Voluntary Vampire Victim, Dark and Troubled Past, Absuive Parents, Fiery Redhead, Royals Who Actually Do Something

SKILLS & ABILITIES.

Jack of All Trades

Elven Weapon Training

Darkvision

Spellcasting

Bardic Inspiration

Fey Ancestry

Font of Inspiration 

Improved Bardic Inspiration 

Cutting Words

Combat Medic

Speak with Animals

Ability to bend and summon light, along with heat from the sun. Able to share resistance to damage from sunlight/heat with her blood 

MISC.

PETS: Scratch the Dog & Owlbear Cub

CANON QUEST DECISIONS & WORLD STATE.

THE DRUID GROVE: Kagha exposed and Grove saved. Sided with Tieflings. 

UNDERDARK: Myconids aided. Slaves freed. Slavers killed. Spared Aylin. 

SHADOW CURSE: Helped save Isobel from Marcus. Reunited Thaniel and Oliver. 

BALDUR'S GATE: Accepted Gortash's offer, but doesn't plan to uphold it. Discovers her past through her personal quest. Destroys Cazador, keeping Astarion a spawn. 

PERSONALITY.

Despite growing up in a noble family and one of the patriar families of Baldur's Gate, Synnove has never known what power and privilege truly is. Ever since her mother's death when she was little, Synnove was treated coldly and belittled by her abusive and neglectful father who treated her as a burden and mistake instead of as a daughter or his heir. Because of it, Synnove grew up with bad people pleasing traits and perfectionist traits, trying to do whatever she could to get her father's attention or some affection from him. At first, it was the reason she decided to become a Bard, wanting to learn all she can in every skill, but Synnove quickly realized nothing she ever did would matter to him.

Now with a desire to break free from her chains and find her place in the world, Synnove leaves home and everything she knew behind. And despite finding herself now stuck with a tadpole also threatening to take her agency away, she will do what she can to break free and save the world. 

She likes those who are kind, help others in need (even animals) and look to solve problems in a diplomatic and subtle way, but also appreciates snarkiness, rebellious and mischievous attitude and supporting autonomy. She dislikes those who are downright cruel, try to control others, or belittle them. 

She hides a dark and troubled past behind a smile and her caring nature. Synnove uses songs and her sarcasm as coping mechanisms for when she is stressed out. 

BIOGRAPHY.

Born and raised in the upper city of Baldur’s Gate, she is part of the noble elven family – House of Willowlight. She is the product of an unhappy arranged marriage between her parents.

Her father, Thalien, works as a magistrate. Despite being a Sun Elf, he tends to be cold, strict and harsh with his daughter. Thalien is living up to the reputation of Sun Elves being known as haughty and reclusive and believing themselves to be superior to non-elves and even other elves. Synnove gets her looks from him with her red hair and golden eyes.

Her mother, Faelyn, is a powerful sorceress and a Moon Elf. When Synnove was a young elfling, Faelyn—unhappy with her marriage— ended up sneaking away in the middle of the night, leaving her family behind. She doesn’t make it far outside the walls of Baldur’s Gate, instead ending up found murdered. However, Synnove doesn’t know the truth— that her mother became one of Cazador’s spawn, one of his seven thousand souls for the Rite of Profane Ascension, locked away in a cage for centuries with others. Synnove gets her personality and sense for adventure from her mother, at least that’s what her father tells her. She is only left with memories of her mother telling her stories of legends and calling her “My Sun Gift.”

In the years being raised by her father and grieving the loss of her mother, she does everything she can to get affection or praise from her abusive and neglectful father— something to show she has worth besides just being his heir he wants to marry off and get rid of. So Synnove takes up the deed of learning all she can and becoming a “Jack of All Trades”, whether it be trying her hand at magic, writing, music, or learning how to fight and heal. Along the way, she finds her desire to become a Bard. However, nothing she seems to do will ever please her father or make him regard her with care. After her father has declared he has found some Noble lord for his daughter to marry, Synnove decides to try to follow where her mother didn’t succeed and trying to find her greater purpose in life outside the walls of Baldur’s Gate, running away the day of her arranged marriage and breaking free from the chains of her old life.

Synnove manages to make it outside the wall, visiting taverns and inns and singing her songs in return for room and board, but along the way she ends up getting kidnapped by Mind Flayers and infected with one of their tadpoles. A stroke of fortune lets her escape her captors, but the tadpole in her head will still turn her into a mind flayer… unless she can find a way to remove it. And this is where Synnove’s story of adventure begins, running into other companions also infected with tadpoles, creating a story in the making that will be told in Faerûn for years to come.

STATS.

Strength: 08

Dexterity: 15

Constitution: 13

Intelligence: 12

Wisdom: 10

Charisma: 17

PERSONAL QUEST (optional).

The Sun's Gift --- When returning back to the city of Baldur's Gate in Act 3 with her traveling companions, Synnove discovers the truth about her family, but most especially, about herself in particular. It involves the legend of a ring known by many names--- Sunwalker's Gift, Ring of the Sun-Walker, the Sunlight Ring, and most notably, The Sun's Gift--- that imbues it's wearer with the ability to walk in the sun and not be harmed by fire or sunlight and to manipulate it. It's something that vampire's in particular have been wanting to obtain for themselves. Long ago, it was created by a group of nomadic sun elves.

However, Synnove discovers through her father the truth about the legends of the Sun Gift and her family bloodline. The Sun Gift isn't a piece of jewellery. That is just one of the false stories told to protect it's true origins. 

The Sun Gift is a person and the ability that flows with the blood in their veins. And besides her father, Synnove is the last living member with this ability in her bloodline.

More TBA about this on a post about her personal quest.

[wheretheharekissesthefox]

Lavender & Starflower (Mobster AU) – Chapter 20

The Dekarios Clan reigns over Waterdeep as the city’s protector for centuries. Suddenly, the Clan gets challenged by Cazador, the head of the Szarr Clan that rules over Baldur’s Gate. Of course, such an attack won’t be tolerated and the intruder must be forced back and out of the City of Splendors. While fixing destroyed protection sigils, Gale, wizard prodigy and heir of the Dekarios Clan, meets a charming stranger called Astarion. And Gale makes the biggest mistake of his life; he invites the pale elf into his home.

Trigger warning (18+): graphic description of violence, emotional rollercoaster

I was inspired to start writing this fic when I saw this artwork by @arczism

This is obviously an AU that isn't related to my other work.

Astarion was trembling when they'd reached Cazador's safe house. Gale, who was holding the vampire spawn's hand, felt it – and it stoked his anger towards Cazador further. The Weave started to crackle around them, its electricity thick and heavy in the air, as Gale, in emotional upsurge, conjured it unthinkingly. The clerics and wizards who had joined them at Morena's order, could feel it too – and it made them slightly uneasy. Their only comforting thought was that the powerful heir of the Dekarios Clan was on their side. Gale took a deep breath in hopes of calming himself down and encouragingly squeezed Astarion's cool, clammy hand.

"Ready?"

The addressed snorted a humourless laugh.

"Hardly. I've never been less sure of anything. But if I don't face Cazador now, I never will. I'll spend the rest of my life running, watching the shadows, never feeling safe. No, this has to happen. Here and now."

"I'm with you," said Gale. "I won't leave you alone."

It wasn't just a statement; it was a promise. Astarion looked at his lover and forced a small, nervous smile.

"Thank you, Gale. I appreciate it, I won't forget all the things you do and did for me. I'll never be able to repay you."

A small frown appeared on the wizard's face and he replied: "I don't expect anything in return. I just want you to be happy and safe."

If anyone else would have told this to Astarion, he'd have not believed them. But this was Gale, his Gale, and he just knew his lover was telling the truth. The vampire spawn squeezed the wizard's hand.

"I love you," he whispered, low enough that only Gale was able to hear it. Louder he added: "Let's kill this bastard."

Gale nodded with a grin, let go of Astarion's hand, and gave their group the signal to start their mission. They swarmed the house like cockroaches, skimming through every nook and cranny.

Cazador lounged in the dining room on his cushioned seat.

"You've returned to me, boy? With filth following you that dirties my property? Well... at least, you finally brought me the wizard."

Astarion gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, shaking from fear and rage.

"I didn't return to bring you another mark, but to kill you."

At that, his master barked a laugh.

"You're as bratty as ever, my prodigal son, but I didn't think you were so dense." His eyes narrowed, all amusement wiped from his sharp face. "Do not slouch before me, boy! Have you no respect for yourself? Look at you, crawling back after abandoning your family. You should be begging our forgiveness."

"Forgiveness? You've never forgiven anything!" hissed Astarion enraged. "Every mistake, every slip, was punished!"

Cazador was unfazed and scoffed.

"I strove for perfection in all things – even those as imperfect as you. A pity you amounted so little, despite my efforts."

Astarion went rigid as his mind was suddenly flooded with memories of punishments. Whipped until his skin split. Flayed slowly. Locked into a coffin or a tomb for months. Tied to a bed naked and on all fours for his Master to –

"No! No, fuck you, and fuck everything you've ever done to me!" roared Astarion. "I'll kill you, you monster!"

The addressed tut-tutted unimpressed.

"You truly forgot my power. You truly thought our bond as creator and creation was all that stopped you from killing me. You are weak, my child. You are a small pathetic boy who never amounted to anything."

"This is your last night, Cazador. You won't be able to hurt anyone ever again," spoke Gale calmly. The vampire lord's sharp red eyes bore into him.

"I will not speak to cattle. This is between me and the boy." Cazador glared at the aforementioned spawn. "Kill him. Kill your lover."

Astarion felt how his master's command tried to take a hold of him, but the sussur petals' magic in the collar around his neck countered it. Keeping him safe. A wide, ugly grin split Astarion's face as he purred: "You have no power over me anymore, Master."

And with those words, he pounced. Cazador roared with anger while Aurelia, Leon, and his skeleton servant attacked the attendant clerics and wizards.

The fight was brutal and bloody. The vampires snarled, bit, and slashed with their sharp fingernails while the clerics and wizards yelled spells and hauled fireballs, sunlight and blessing spells at them. Sweat was running down Gale's neck, his robe singed by a miscalculated fireball, and his fingers cramped from the held spellcasting positions. Meanwhile, blood dripped from Astarion's mouth, and hair and skin stuck underneath his nails from the delivered slashes. His fear was long gone, replaced by seething rage. All he could think about was killing Cazador. He wanted his master dead, needed him dead. That monster didn't deserve mercy and with each of his parries, Astarion's anger and frustration grew. The entire time, Cazador was laughing and taunting him, easily dodging the attacks, but finally, he lost his footing when Gale hit him in the back with a well-placed Thunderwave. Astarion pounced immediately, plunging a dagger into his master – and then again, and again. He roared furiously, stabbing the other man over and over again. Cazador had to die, had to finally stop moving. The smell of his powerful blood penetrated the air, clouding Astarion's mind. Made him drunk in a way. Finally, Cazador lay still and silently. Breathing heavily, Astarion drew back, let go of the dagger, fell to his knees with a gut-wrenching scream, and broke down crying hysterically. His master was finally dead, finally, he was free. Astarion stared at the crimson blood pooling beneath his dead master. It held so much power. The power to become a true vampire. The power of true freedom. Astarion swallowed and licked his lips, saliva was flooding his mouth.

I need to drink it, I need to transform, he thought. Only then, I'll be safe.

"Astarion?"

The soft voice made him look up and blink dazed. Dalyria had entered the building, staring at their dead master in disbelief.

"Is... is it over? Is he...?"

"Yes. He's gone. Truly," answered Astarion. "Come here, join me. Let's consume his blood and evolve. Become better and stronger so that no one will ever be able to enslave us ever again. I want to share this gift with you, Daly. We both deserve to be truly free."

The addressed hesitated.

"But... I was so close to finding a cure for vampirism. If we turn, we might will be too far gone and lose the chance to reverse the disease," she replied tentatively.

"This is the only chance we'll ever get to become truly free," Astarion told her sternly. "Let's not waste it for a cure that might not even exist." He extended his bloodied hand towards her. "Join me, little sister. Let's consume our master together."

"Astarion, please don't do this," said Gale as he stepped closer. "You'll become something that's not you. The transformation will change all of you."

"Don't you dare taking this away from me! I deserve freedom and power and safety! Don't you dare to stop me!"

Gale looked at him, pained, and asked: "Do you love me?"

Astarion glared at him with bared teeth, hissing: "Oh, that's a low blow. You know I do, but I won't give up the only chance to become truly free."

"It won't make you happy," retorted the wizard. "No matter how much power you'll gain, you'll never feel safe."

At that the vampire spawn jumped onto his feet – he hated looking up at Gale like a slave – and shouted: "Why do you despise the thought of me being stronger, more powerful, and truly free so much? It's almost as if you want me to stay small and scared so that I need your protection!"

"That's not it, Astarion! If you become a true vampire, you won't be yourself anymore! You will lose your true self again. You won't be capable to feel love anymore, only obsession, hate, anger, and jealousy. If you turn, you won't be able to love me anymore."

"How do you know? Maybe I'm different!"

"As much as I'd like to delude myself, that won't be the case. Astarion..." Gale's voice wavered, thick with concern, fear, and unshed tears. "Please. I beg you. I don't want to lose you. If you truly care about me, don't do it."

The addressed screwed his eyes shut with an angry scream. He was so close to freedom, power, and never feeling fear ever again.

Carefully, Dalyria stepped closer.

"Astarion... brother... No matter how tempting it is, I don't want to do it. I'm scared to become something I'm not. To become a cruel monster like our master."

Astarion gritted his teeth, clenched his fists. He was so close to liberation, Cazador was laying right there and his powerful blood was congealing more and more with every passing second.

Gale's voice brought him out of his blood-hazy mind a bit.

"I know you think this will set you free, but it won't. This power will trap you, just like it trapped Cazador," the wizard told him softly. Astarion looked at him, truly looked at his lover, and the fog cleared from his mind further.

"Shit," he said. "Shit!" With a frustrated noise, he stomped his foot like a petulant child. "You... you're right. I love you more than anything, Gale, even myself. Nothing's worth losing you. And I can be better than him."

Sighing a breath of relief, the wizard rushed towards his lover and hugged him tightly.

"I love you too," said Gale and, despite all the people around them, kissed Astarion passionately. The latter was surprised by the wizard's boldness. When they finally parted, both sighed a breath of relief, still clinging to each other. It was done, Cazador was dead. Smiling softly, Gale unclasped the collar around Astarion's neck and the latter gasped as his magic power rushed back into him, no longer restricted by the sussur blossom.

"How do you feel?" the wizard asked lowly.

"I – I'm not sure," muttered the vampire spawn, averting his gaze. "I feel a little... numb. What I've lost, what I've gained... It's all so much. I need some time, I think. Just to let it all sink in. Let's just go. This place reeks of death and I want to feel alive again."

Gale nodded understandingly. The wizards and clerics had already started to raid the building, making sure all threats were removed.

"Astarion..." Dalyria stood next to them, looking lost and uncomfortable. "What... what shall I do now? I don't want to stay here, go back to the palace or Baldur's Gate, but I have nowhere else to go. I'm all alone. I'm... I'm scared. Please don't leave me by myself."

"I'm sorry, Daly, I'll stay with Gale. I don't have anywhere else to go either."

"How about you stay in one of our guestrooms," the wizard suggested. "My mother already promised you to aid you with finding a way to cure vampirism, so, I'm sure she won't mind having you as a guest."

Dalyria hesitated for a moment, but when she saw Astarion's encouraging nod, she agreed.

"Thank you. I'll gladly take your offer."

"Good." Gale smiled. "Then follow us."

He guided her and his lover outside, trailed by Murk who was looming behind them like a grotesque angel of death. Astarion never felt safer. Gale opened a portal that led directly to the gate of the Dekarios Estate. They made their way towards the door and it was opened for them.

"Ah." Gale paused and turned around to look at Dalyria. "You may enter anytime you please, Dalyria. Be our guest. Come in."

"Thank you," she said, a small smile on her face. She nodded her head in thanks, clearly surprised and grateful for Gale's invitation. Astarion couldn't keep from smiling.

"You must be tired, I assume," the wizard told the elven woman who openly marvelled at the estate's tasteful decor. "Murk will show you the kitchen and then your guestroom. In the first, you'll find a small stock of blood from the butcher. I enchanted the jars to keep the blood as fresh as possible. Drink as much as you like. The guestroom's on the same floor as my suite, so, if you wish to speak to Astarion, or me, you'll find us down the hall."

Dalyria nodded silently, clearly overwhelmed by the received kindness. Astarion's smile widened, he was happy to see his sister being treated right.

"C'mon, lil' lady, I'll show ya the way," said Murk, surprisingly softly, and led the ogling vampire spawn towards the staff kitchen. Now, Gale turned to look at his lover and asked: "What about you? Aren't you hungry?"

"No." Astarion shook his head slightly and wrapped his arms around the wizard's neck. "Not for blood, that is."

He captured Gale's lips in a ravenous kiss, urging them on to go upstairs and get some well-deserved peace and quiet. It took longer than anticipated, they stopped multiple times to kiss each other. Gale fumbled with the door of his suite, they entered in a hurry, throwing jackets and shoes aside, and made their way to the bedroom where they rid themselves from the rest of their clothing. Gale ran his hands across Astarion's chest before kissing his neck. The vampire spawn moaned softly, baring his throat to his human lover. He was safe, there was no threat, and he shuddered as Gale's hot tongue left wet traces on his cool skin.

"Gods, fuck me already, my love," groaned Astarion.

His complaint turned into a moan when Gale got down on his knees to pleasure him with his mouth. The vampire spawn slowly rolled his hips forward, careful to not choke his lover and ran his fingers through the brown mane. Despite the darkness in the room, Astarion could see the few grey strands of hair on the wizard's head. He loved it, it was endearing. His orgasm hit him unexpectedly and surprisingly softly, like a gentle wave rolling over Waterdeep's gravel beach. Gale got up on wobbly legs, wincing when his knee popped loudly, and Astarion pulled him into a hug, threaded his fingers through Gale's hair and kissed him, tasting himself on his lover's tongue.

"When I told you to fuck me, I meant something different," he teased lightly, and Gale snickered, a bit bashfully.

"I know. I just really wanted to do that," the wizard confessed. "Do you still wish to have me in a different way?"

Once more, Astarion was caught off-guard by Gale's constant quirk to ask for consent. It made him pause and smile softly, before giving his answer.

"Of course, my love. Anytime."

Almost giddy with excitement, Astarion pulled Gale towards the bed, lay down on his back and spread his legs invitingly. Gale took the bait, of course, immediately grabbed for the vial of oil on the nightstand, and started fingering his lover open. The vampire spawn mewled, still oversensitive from his first orgasm, but urged the wizard on to hurry the hells up. When Gale finally sunk into him, Astarion's eyes rolled back in his head on a gasp.

"You're a free spawn now, Astarion. You're finally free of Cazador," whispered Gale before kissing him gently. The addressed cried tears of joy and relief while they were making love.

[inquisitornocturn]

𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖒𝖔𝖘𝖆 𝖎𝖓 𝖗𝖚𝖇𝖊𝖔, 𝖘𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖓𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖔

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 3 - 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔬𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔢𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰

⫸ pairing: Cazador Szarr/f!high elf reader

⫸ tags: no y/n used etc, POV second person, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, psychological childhood trauma, fluff.

⫸ story summary: Accompanying your father, the General of Baldur's Gate, has always been a duty that bores you near to death, but for first time you feel completely unnerved as you come to Szarr mansion. The family's patriarch is a strange man and so is his wife and son. Son, who seems unperturbed by anything, until he's left alone with you that is. Then and only then, Cazador shows emotion and what kind of a threat he is. You realize soon - behind those dark eyes there's something dangerous lurking and your future soon becomes inescapably intertwined with his.

work contains illustrations, credit at the end

⫸ word count: 8,631

⫸ author note: yay, happy to give another chapter, do enjoy♡~

⫸ chapter list: [link]

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” ― Kahlil Gibran

1104DR

60 years later

“Are you listening to me?” Your father’s voice makes you snap out of your thoughts and you look at him, the dim light of candles is making his face appear rather ghostly, showing his age more than you’d like. A reminder that he’s not going to be around forever. A man of nearly six hundred years is definitely not at his prime anymore, even with his high-elf lineage, and when you see shaded creases on his face where years ago there were none, your heart aches for a brief moment.

“I am.” You respond simply and sigh, propping your chin on a heel of your palm.

This has been going on for several hours. Your father and his main troop, which of course means you as well, have been on a march for four days now. This time your scouts found a village that has been abandoned not that long ago, so the General decided to camp there for couple nights. But his teachings and lectures do not stop just because you carry the rank of a Captain in your own right. Seems like being your father and your commander at the same time gives him even more reason to lay out lessons for you.

“I’m not sure that you are listening. What is it on your mind, daughter of mine?” He asks and moves from the wall where the map of the land is pinned and walks closer, his leather shoes silent on the cobblestone floor and his hand on your shoulder is firm and warm, the heat of a palm quickly seeping through your shirt.

Rising your eyes to your father and meet his pale, silvery gaze. You gently smile, raising your hand and placing it over his.

“Nothing dad, I’m just tired from the march. All of us are.” You lie, of course you lie, because you cannot tell your father that what actually is on your mind and it’s a man who you can’t wait to sneak away to. You don’t even know which house he chose to reside in, but yours are next to your father’s, which you hope isn’t the best option there is for the rest of the evening.

“Tired? Your horse is maybe tired, but you shouldn’t be.” He teases gently, lifts his hand from your shoulder and caresses your cheek with a smile. “Are you sure it’s just tiredness?” General Sylven frowns ever so slightly, creases in his face deepening as he looks at you with worry but you just nod.

“Yes, I’m just sore. Say what you will, but I refuse to believe that your ass is not sore from sitting in a saddle entire day. And at your age too.” You give him a pointed, teasing look and your father pauses, then laughs loudly.

“You remind me of your mother.” He chuckles and steps away from you, walking up to a bottle of wine and pouring some for himself and another glass for you. His face suddenly becomes solemn and you see it clearly even if what’s visible to you is his profile.

“You miss her, don’t you?” You ask in a quieter voice and stand up from an old, creaky chair, then walk to him and place your hand on his in which he holds the glass meant for you. He always serves you in the same way.

Cradith pauses then looks at you and nods slightly with a sad smile.

“Every single day.” He admits and offers you the glass which you take. When your gaze rises to him again, you see pain etched in his features. His eyes fill with pain and the elder elf sighs as the look of those same silvery eyes becomes downcast in shame. “It’s my fault, what happened to her. I should’ve protected her better. I should’ve protected both of you better.” Cradith whispers and you quickly put the glass aside, stepping closer to your father and trying to catch his eyes with yours.

“Dad…” you pause and quickly cup his face with your palms, making him look at you at last. “It wasn’t your fault. It just happened. Things just happen. You didn’t know what would happen, you didn’t-“

Suddenly, you are pulled into a tight hug and father’s arms wrap around you firmly. He’s not crying, but you hear and feel his breathing against your shoulder against which he presses his forehead. You hug him back, gently and trying to be comforting, your palm strokes white hair cascading down his back.

“It’s alright, dad.” You whisper because you don’t know what else to say. Because you hurt too.

Because you remember too.

You remember that night. When the screams of your mother woke you when you were still barely older than a toddler. When you ran to your mother’s room, thinking that she hurt herself on accident and wanting to help. You remember how heavy your bare feet felt on the carpet as you turned a corner and saw the door open, as you saw the lights come up in the room, illuminating the shadowy figures that you couldn’t make out just yet. And your mother’s words, angry and loud, yelling to let her go. The sound of fabric ripping and her furious scream. More voices, mocking, telling to gag ‘the wretch’ before she starts biting.

You walked closer, the gilded room of white and peach opening up in front of you now like a poisonous flower. You didn’t recognize these people, all men dressed in black and brown. Slowly approached the open bedroom to finally see your mother, her gown, the bigger twin of yours, ripped and bloody, her naked body grasped at by hands of three men and pushing her into the bed while the fourth one stood by the side, brandishing a dagger in her direction. You called out to her then, confused, innocent, naïve. You never had to fear or hide before, nobody was ever a danger before, your mother and your father always stood tall, like two guardian statues, the cornerstones of your life. The image began to crack then as your mother’s panicked eyes finally saw you, her feral screams immediately becoming pathetic pleas. Pleas not to hurt you, not to touch you, and promises that she will do anything, that she won’t fight. The pain in your mother’s voice told you something was amiss and you started crying.

The men didn’t like it. The one with the knife quickly strode to you, but your mother’s scream stopped his dagger before it descended upon you. And so the man stood then behind you, his heavy hand on your shoulder and his blade against your throat, telling you not to close your eyes.

You remember with agonizingly clear detail how the three men raped your mother right in front of your eyes. First with their bodies, then with whatever tools they could find in the room. Laughing and drinking the wine that was there too, the heavy hand never leaving you, the cold metal forever pressing against your skin, and your tears, so hot on your face. It felt like they will never stop.

And then you remember screaming, calling for your mother. You remember her last, sad and battered look cast onto you and her last words. Be strong, my daughter, mother loves you. And knives that plunged first into her eye socket, silencing her forever. Knives that then plunged into her body so many times, like a flurry of brush strokes that you’ve seen painters do.

Blood.

So much of it.

They left then. Laughing, leaving you where you are, frozen and crying, calling for your mother, desperately wanting her to wake up. Long after the heavy footsteps faded you finally moved, getting closer to the bed, seeing that the blood soaked through it and now was spreading underneath it. To reach your mother you had to step in it and it still felt warm, but you didn’t care as you climbed into the bed and cradled your mother’s abused, destroyed body, letting your tears absolve her face from the crimson of brutality that took her away from you. You begged her to come back until your voice became no more than a whispery croak.

That’s how your father found you. You don’t remember the rest. You only remember the mourning rites and the funeral. The casket was closed, half of Baldur’s Gate attended if not more. You remember looking down at the coffin in the ground, your father’s hand on your shoulder and your tears falling onto the dark wood, just like they fell as you held her that night.

You remember.

But you wish you didn’t.

Cradith’s shoulders slump as painful memories stop flashing in your head and you open your eyes, looking ahead of you, at the map pinned to the wall, tracing rivers and roads with your eyes, trying your best not to let memories of that tragedy spin in your head like unwelcome pests.

“I’m sorry.” Your father mutters and you sigh with relief, seems like it was just a moment of weakness and your father is not going to fall apart in your arms.

He raises his head and sadly smiles at you, then presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Your mother would be proud of you.” He whispers and steps back, releasing you from his embrace.

“Dad, I-“

“You can go.” General turns his back to you and you pause, wanting to ask if he’s okay, if maybe you should stay, but you know your father better than anyone. So you sigh again and nod to his back.

“I’ll see you in the morning.” You say softly and turn to leave the room until his voice stops you by the door.

“I love you.” You hear and turn to see your father looking back at you, his eyes gentle and his smile reassuring. “Me and your mother, we both do.”

Your heart is squeezed with emotion and you nod to him again, smiling too, but finally you leave, you have to, you don’t want to think about that night anymore.

When you close the door behind you, you stop, inhaling then exhaling and lifting your eyes to the dark sky peppered with blinking stars. It’s beautiful and warm, the kind of night you would go for a long walk, especially after the old scar of your mother’s death began hurting again so easily.

But no, you can’t, you promised to meet Cazador the moment your father released you from his end-of-the-day lecture.

Except you don’t know where is.

Your gaze shifts from the sky and onto the run-down houses that mostly now have lights in them, majority of soldiers bunking together in groups to stay out of the weather that can turn dark and rainy any moment, and you make a tentative step forward, then glance at the small house on your left, the one you picked to reside in while you’re here.

What was the village called? Rolligan? Something like this. Not that it matters, villagers fled this quiet haven when hordes of goblins started pillaging the surroundings. That’s who you and your father’s army is after. The Duke can’t have his trading routes being disturbed or destroyed, so he sent his army to chase the damn creatures who seem to be growing in force with every field report you get from scouts.

A force to be reckoned with. But so is Baldur’s Gate’s army.

Still, for tonight it’s calm, pleasant even and no battles on the horizon just yet. You begin walking, looking around and trying to discern which house Cazador could’ve picked. Obviously not the big ones, those were claimed by groups of soldiers and knights, he, just like you, most likely settled with something private, being a high-ranking commander just like you.

Your footsteps are quiet as you pass the narrow streets, all of them empty except for a soldier or two, relieving themselves behind decrepit corners of shacks. The village itself is not that big and most of the army is still sleeping in tents, pitched in the surrounding area, but you are sure that a man like Cazador would not sleep in a bedroll with the rest of foot soldiers if he can help it, and his rank does demand that he elevates himself among the rest, just like you and your father. Still, you feel like your search is futile because you start circling the village, glancing at smaller houses with lights in their windows until you finally feel like giving up.

With a sigh you pause, look around once more and decide to head back to the house your bedroll is resting on an old, but sturdy bed, so you head there, listening to the sounds of chatter and crickets filling the air. Someone laughs somewhere, a group of voices join it soon after. Men telling jokes, nothing to pay attention to. A gasp escapes you the moment you feel your wrist being grabbed and your entire body being pulled to the right, through the doorway and into the darkness.

The moment the door closes it becomes pitch black and whoever pulled you in, drives you backwards until your back presses against the wall. You don’t have time to resist, too stunned to be attacked like this in the middle of the camp and then-

A kiss?

A scorching kiss steals the rest of your breath away, strong fingers grip your waist and a firm body presses against yours. You grasp at the sides of this attacker only to recognize it immediately. So many times you felt this same form, naked and warm, under your touch.

You relax and kiss back, feeling a smirk pull at Cazador’s lips when you do, his fingers, ever so nimble, begin to search for a path under your shirt and he stops kissing you to whisper.

“I thought you won’t come by.” He teases and you can barely make out his face in this darkness, because he clearly covered the windows. For privacy, what else.

“I think you would’ve found me if I didn’t find you.” You whisper back and despite feeling glad to be in his embrace, the strands of horrific memories still linger in your mind, pressing down upon you like a warhammer, heavy and unrelenting.

“You would need to do more than just go back to your little shack to escape me.” Cazador’s tone is arrogant, it always is, and you can’t help but love it.

Yet when he kisses you again, expecting you to show same passion he’s feeling, his fingers tracing against your skin under shirt, you cannot find it in you to rouse your desire. You continue for a while, but eventually turn your head away.

“Not tonight.” You whisper, feeling a sting of guilt for saying so, but Cazador’s fingers stop and a strand of long hair slips from behind his ear when he motionlessly looks at your face.

Without a word he pulls a hand from under your shirt and grasps your chin, making you look back at him. Even in the darkness of the room you can see his serious, maybe even concerned look, but you can’t be too sure, it’s so hard to see even though he’s so close.

“What’s wrong?” He asks and you swallow, wondering if you should tell him the truth or just lie. Or maybe even say nothing at all, but before you make up your mind, Cazador releases your chin, his other hand also retreats from under your clothes and he steps back.

Wordlessly he turns his back to you and begins walking around, a small orange flame appears at the palm of his hand, the one wearing his family ring, and you watch as the elf lights candle after candle, illuminating the room at last. Five candles are enough to reveal Cazador’s lodgings. It doesn’t have much, just like other houses: a sturdy table, a banged-up chair, a fireplace, couple windows that are now covered with discolored rags and a bed that looks somehow better preserved than yours. His bedroll is there, so is another and couple extra blankets. He surely prepared to have you here tonight and you smile, finally pushing yourself from the wall and walking to the table, noticing a plate and a metal cup near an empty bottle of wine.

“You set yourself here quite nicely.” You acknowledge and pick up a piece of bread still left in the plate, putting it in your mouth.

For some reason it’s hard for you to look at Cazador. You feel that the moment you do, he will ask what’s on your mind and you’re not sure if you’re ready to tell him that bloody tale. Despite fighting by his side for decades now, despite sharing a bed with him whenever you both can, you still find it hard to tell him some things, and Cazador is definitely keeping things from you too. He almost never speaks about his family, but you are now sure that Donnela is his mother and that she’s Lord Varitan’s sister. This alone makes you understand why Cazador might not be too keen to speak about his family.

The light in his palm gets snuffed out, you notice that by the change of glow behind you and you hear his footsteps as you chew on the tiny piece of bread you picked up, reaching for his wine cup that still has some of crimson in it.

“We do what we must when we forsake comforts of palaces for duty.” Cazador responds, you feel him pick up a strand of your hair and hold it between his fingers while you bring the cup to your lips and have a sip, then another, emptying it.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” You respond, knowing that this conversation is shallow, neither of you ever enjoyed small talk like this, but the tension is there and your heart still aches. Old scars in your soul still throb as if licked by fire.

“What happened with the General?” Cazador now asks straightforwardly and you linger for a moment before putting down the metal cup and allowing yourself to be turned by his hands.

When you look at his face again, unhidden by the shadows, you see the same dark eyes that look so inquisitively at you every time you try to avoid speaking about something. Sometimes he lets you remain silent, sometimes he makes you speak, but as his hand rises and his fingertips trace against your right cheek, you can tell that he’s worried. Or at least you can see as much worry as he is willing to show. You never met a man who could hide his emotions as well as Cazador does.

“Father, he…” you sigh, your eyes drift from his face to his chest, on the embroidered black shirt, letting your gaze trace the patterns there, soothing you. “It’s about my mother. He… He felt the guilt again.” You try to explain the best you can without going into too much detail, because you know he must’ve heard what happened or at least some of it. Murder of your mother was something entire Gate lived through, in a way.

Cazador doesn’t speak, he just pulls his fingers away from your face and suddenly, unexpectedly, embraces you. Your face becomes buried in his chest as his strong arms wrap around you, holding you firmly, almost painfully so, but you find comfort in his strength. You sigh again and close your eyes, putting your arms around him too, pressing your palms against his back, suddenly feeling so small against him. Not because of his height that is usually towering over you, but because your very soul shrinks in this moment, reducing you to that little girl with bloody feet and her mother’s mutilated head in her lap.

“I want you to tell me what happened that night.” Somehow Cazador knows what exactly is bothering you and that it is not your father getting a bout of guilt, but the event itself. You shake your head slightly, not wanting to talk about it, not wanting to put it in words.

You never spoke about it to anyone, not even your father.

In response Cazador’s arm leaves you and grips your chin, making you look at him. His eyes bore into yours and you press your lips into a thin line, really not wanting to talk about it, but his utterly calm expression nearly already disarms you.

“Come on now, dear, you will feel better if you do. Don’t you trust me?” Cazador asks and you hate how he destroys your defenses with the tiniest manipulation trick, because yes, of course you trust him.

You love him.

Decades fighting at each other’s side, decades sometimes fighting even each other, years and years in the army as you both learned and climbed the ranks, becoming two of the most trusted soldiers at your father’s command. If there wasn’t a romantic bond, then a strong platonic one would’ve formed anyway. But that moment in your father’s room, when Cazador pulled you there and made you cry for him, that moment was only the beginning of secret exchanges of glances and smiles, of hidden touches and passed notes, of private trysts. Beginning of a relationship that started with blood and blades then became gentle touches and whispered prayers of each other’s names.

It became something softer but exciting as you two still taunt and tease each other, it became something filled with trust as you stand in the battlefield back to back, it became everything. And with years passing by, the arrogance began to simmer down, gentleness taking priority when it’s just the two of you. At this point you are sure even your father knows, no matter how oblivious he has become to the matters of heart since your mother’s murder. But nobody says anything, nobody addresses it, so you and Cazador continue to do what you two know well how to – keep it private and keep it safe.

You pause, letting your mind run through countless memories, countless kisses, countless caresses and you sigh, your shoulders slumping in defeat.

“I do trust you.”

“Well, that wasn’t so hard, hm?” Cazador hums with a smile and releases your chin, but his eyes quickly snap to the door when you both hear couple passing soldiers, very obviously drunk, as they are discussing their favorite courtesans back home. You’re not phased by the talk, but Cazador frowns ever so slightly and sighs. “Come.”

With a palm on your lower back he guides towards the bed, his expression serious and maybe even slightly somber, making you wonder what’s going on in his head, as you have many times before. Cazador does not share his thoughts easily and you learned to accept that, but that doesn’t curb your curiosity whatsoever. You wonder if there will ever be the time when you two talk to each other freely, without guarding unspeakable secrets, whatever they may be.

“Sit.” Cazador’s tone is a bit stern than what it should be but you don’t mind, you are both too used to commanding soldiers day in and day out, so you just sit down and watch him squat in front of you, ever so careful not even kneel on the dirty floor lest his pants get stained, and he takes one of your legs, beginning to undo leather straps of your boot.

“What are you doing?” You ask, slightly surprised by his behavior, but Cazador doesn’t look up, just continues on with the task as his long hair falls on both sides of his face since he’s bent over.

“You’re staying the night.” He responds calmly and you frown, thinking that he still wants something more intimate, because that was his plan after all, judging from how he kissed you earlier. So you bend down too, trying to swat his fingers away from your boot.

“I’ll go back to my own bedroll. General is unprotected without me nearby.” Your argument is a completely reasonable one and correct too, but Cazador just impatiently slaps your fingers away with one hand, making you scoff in offense when you straighten your back and begin rubbing the skin that immediately begins to throb.

“He’s completely surrounded by his army. He’ll be fine. But you’re staying with me tonight.” Cazador’s tone is firm, strict and you move your jaw with rising anger, watching him finally unclasp the straps and take off the shoe from your left leg, then immediately start working on another.

“Cazador, I don’t know what you think will happen tonight but I’m not in a mood.” Your words are as unyielding as his own, but he doesn’t respond, at least not right away.

He only speaks up when your other boot is put with the first one and he stands up, straightening his back and looking down on you. Elf’s hand reaches and caresses your loose hair gently, then moves alongside your jawline.

“I expect you to tell me what happened that night and after that I don’t want you to sleep alone.” He finally explains and your heart feels like it’s being squeezed with hot fingers. Your expression changes from anger to hardly disguised sadness and you nod.

“Alright, I will.” You exhale heavily and stand up again, now beginning to unbutton Cazador’s shirt while he pulls at the laces of yours.

As you undress him and as he undresses you, you begin telling him the story. The one that left such deep mark on you which is ready to bleed at the first probe. You begin with your voice level, your words calm, but as you continue, as you tell him about coming closer to the room, you start losing your composure. Your voice begins to quiver, your words become choked and you resort to a whisper because you feel the unrelenting strangulation of your emotions around your throat, which is threatening to erupt with sobs and tears.

Cazador lets you speak, he doesn’t hurry you even when you pause while trying to remove his clothes, pieces of yours finding their way onto the nearby chair much faster than his. By the time you’re just in your undershirt you’re still struggling with the clasps of his boots, bent down and sobbing, not seeing your own fingers through the tears. He doesn’t interrupt, just remains standing silent and still as you tell him of the men who raped your mother, how they taunted you as you were forced to watch. He says nothing when you stop speaking, struggling to take off his shoes and with a choked grunt finally managing to get them off. He lets you tell your story at your own pace while undressing him, because he knows it will help you finally tell the truth of what happened. You always preferred to have your hands busy.

By the time you take off his pants with more struggle than it usually is, your chest is heaving and your face is wet from your tears. But the moment you drape Cazador’s pants onto the same chair your clothes went to, you feel his fingers grasp your chin, and only your chin, making you lift your eyes to him. You can see him, the sharp angles of his face and his expression blurred by your tear-filled eyes. Your lips tremble and the moment of throwing dirt over your mother’s coffin was the last thing you finished describing.

Almost with curiosity in his eyes, Cazador steps closer and leans over you, turning your face at an uncomfortable angle so that he can remain looking at your face. Tears spill from the corners of your eyes and your vision clears at last.

Then you see a small smile on his lips, a genuine one.

“You look beautiful, my dear.” Cazador whispers with actual admiration in his voice and at first you feel surprised, but then you laugh.

“You’re a freak.” You push his hand off your chin and try to move an arm towards your face, intending to wipe the tears on a sleeve but the elf pushes it away and cups your face with two warm palms.

“Can you blame me? Usually I see you crying while you’re moaning with my-“

“Cazador!” You raise your voice, half amused and half even offended that he’s talking about sex after you just shared your most traumatic memory, but if you have to be honest with yourself, both of you have seen horrors of war, yours is just one tragedy among many, and he was never the most empathetic man.

Strangely enough, you do feel better, lighter, for telling him the truth and every detail. You didn’t realize until now what kind of burden it was, weighting on your shoulders for so, so long.

“Oh come now, don’t be shy. You’re a strong Captain! A future leader of the Baldur’s Gate army! And you only cry when I make you.” Cazador grins, his smirk is sharp and arrogant but his actions speak of softness as he proceeds to gently wipe your tears away.

“You’re an asshole.” You murmur but let him dry your face with his fingers, making him chuckle.

“Ah, just like-“

“Don’t you dare.” You can’t help but laugh now too and he glances up to your eyes, giving you a sly grin.

“There, you’re laughing now.” He says, releasing your face and you pout ever so slightly. You’re too easy when it comes to him, slipping not unlike silk between his fingers at a whim. “Come, lie down with me, I’m sure you’re tired. And I’m sure the General is fine too.” Cazador briefly wipes his moist hands on the sides of your shirt and finally lifts it, pulling it over your head before you can protest.

Completely naked now, just as he is, you watch a small smile on his lips as he passes you, tossing your shirt with the rest, and gets into bed, the old piece of furniture creaking under a weight it has forgotten for who knows how long, a year or two, maybe more, then he throws one of the blankets open in an invitation for you. His wonderfully black hair is draping over his shoulders and firm, trained chest.

He’s a vision you cannot resist.

Eagerly now you get into the bed, smiling, your heart much lighter, your burden lifted, and you snuggle up to Cazador, letting him cover you both with the blanket that he keeps open until you get comfortable. It takes a moment or two longer before you both settle. You rest your head in the crook of his shoulder, one of elf’s hand around you, the other – resting on top of yours after you lay it on his chest. Underneath your palm you feel warmth on his skin and a distant beating of a heart, its calm and even thrums that begin to soothe you, lull you into a sense of safety.

You don’t want to disturb the moment, the peace and the relief you’re feeling inside. Somehow, you don’t know how, he knows that you don’t want to speak about what you told him. Somehow he knows that all what you needed was to tell the story.

“Thank you.” Despite your desire to remain as you both are, quiet in this tiny, candlelit cabin, you want him to know that he helped.

“Rest now.” Cazador whispers, his fingers gently squeezing your hand and you close your eyes. For once in your life you are sure that meditation tonight will be easy for you.

When you rise from your rest next morning, you find yourself as you lain last night, still in same position, and Cazador is awake too. You lift your head to him, curious.

“Good morning, did you sleep?” You ask with your throat feeling slightly dry. Behind the soiled rags over the windows you notice the dawn coming, beginning to paint the sky in pink and orange. Years of being in the military trained you to always rise on time, before the day breaks.

“I did.” Cazador responds and you wonder what his meditations were about, but that’s something either of you rarely share.

Yours are usually about your childhood, running through the fields of flowers and arms of your mother, and your father, as they hold you, rise you up or soothe you. Only several decades ago some of those meditations have become of him, Cazador, the Szarr heir that conquered your heart and in your surrender gave you his. You wonder if he thinks about you too during his rest.

“I’m parched.” You murmur and slip out of his embrace, walking to the table and pouring wine into the cup. Only one candle remains burning, but with light quickly becoming brighter with every minute, you don’t feel like you need more.

When you turn to come back to bed, you watch Cazador prop his back against a pillow as he sits up and smiles, his eyes sweeping over your naked form.

“You’re the prettiest cupbearer I have ever seen.” He teases with that cocky grin of his and you scoff with a smile, then walk back and climb in, handing him the metal cup. Cazador pauses, eyeing your naked upper body since you tossed the blanket over your legs, and finally takes it, having a sip. “We’re starting some sort of celebration early?”

“I don’t know where you keep water, don’t be coy.” You gently chastise him and snatch the cup from his hand, now taking a sip too.

“One of the worgs from yesterday’s encounter snatched my waterskin off my horse. Haven’t had a chance to find another.” He watches you drink the wine and when you empty the cup you turn around and place it on the floor near the bed, momentarily feeling Cazador’s fingers trace over your back, over your scars there, all of them received in fights.

“I didn’t get a chance to see you fight yesterday.” You turn back to him, propping up the travel pillow and leaning against it with your side, your eyes resting on elf’s face and Cazador suddenly laughs.

“Oh you didn’t, hm? It was a sight, my dear.” He gestures now, as if trying to paint a picture with his hands. “They came at my men, trying to flank us from the left. I’m sure they were coordinated by that band of goblins we’re chasing. I heard the General and you got the second band of them coming from the front. Stupid, disgusting creatures.”

Cazador keeps talking and you listen to him attentively, because you did miss his performance, fighting alongside your father when the attack came, lost among the blood and guts. He gestures, now describing how he commanded his soldiers, showing a particular swing that he found satisfying and you absentmindedly take a strand of his hair, beginning to braid it. You gained this habit only recently, after you saw some of the half-elves in the camp braid each other’s hair before going to ambush thieves on the road ahead. At first Cazador resisted, trying to tell you to stop your stupid girlish things, but you insisted so now he allows you to do it, but only if you undo it before you both have to appear in front of your men.

And this time it’s like he doesn’t even notice that you’re braiding a strand of his long, silky hair. Cazador’s hands are painting you a picture of a short battle that lasted no more than ten minutes. His ring casts a short flash when it catches the light from the candle when he gestures and you smile, nodding to him from time to time, seeing in your mind’s eye how he fought, knowing exactly how each movement looked, you’ve seen them so many times before after all.

“The howls they made!” He laughs, delighted by the creatures suffering under his sword. “What a music to my ears! I listened to them in my meditations last night.” Cazador finishes and looks at you, paying attention at last and his bloodthirsty grin softens, watching your fingers run along the black strands. “You’re doing it again.” He murmurs and you nod to him with a smile on your face. “Sometimes I doubt you pay attention.”

“I do. You bathed in their gore. I saw you after the battle you know.” You give Cazador a pointed look and he sighs, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, I guess you have.” Then he pauses, as if remembering and leans closer to you with a smirk. “I saw you too, gloriously drenched in blood, your eyes wild and ablaze from felling your foes.” A whisper that’s hot on your lips when he leans closer and closer and you smile in return.

“There are many such bloody baths before us.” You reply in a whisper too and stop braiding, knowing he will kiss you.

And he does, his lips on yours in an instant, his tongue demanding access which you grant with no reluctance. You feel his hand ghost over the side of your face and settle on your naked shoulder, pulling you closer to him, leaning you backwards, wanting to move you on your back. Yes, you two have time for this, even if it’s going to be quick.

Then, a knock on the door.

“Commander Szarr! There’s a courier for you! From your family!” A familiar voice announces, one of his soldiers, and Cazador lifts his head glancing up at the door then deeply frowns. He never liked being interrupted and right now it’s no different.

“Fucking courier.” He swears under his breath and you raise your eyebrows at the outburst but say nothing, just watch him push himself up and get out of the bed.

Swiftly he pulls up his pants and walks to the door, elf’s fingers quickly working to undo the braid you left in his hair before he opens up. While he exchanges words with the soldier, you grab his shirt from the chair of clothes and throw it on, just in case the man peeks inside by accident. You’re not too worried to be ‘caught’, not anymore, but you’re not in favor of any random person seeing you naked. That privilege is reserved only to Cazador.

When the door is closed and Cazador turns to you, you notice a scroll in his hands and then get a better view of it, seeing the wax stamp seal as he returns to the bed, stopping by the edge of it but not sitting down. His eyes briefly dart to you, then with a serious expression he snaps the seal in half, unrolling the scroll. You kneel in the bed, getting closer and looking at the contents of the message but you don’t recognize the letters. You guess it must be Kozakuran, language of the land Cazador hails from. You have no knowledge of how to read it.

But you do watch his face: the color leaves his skin, his fingers pale as they begin squeezing the parchment to the point it shakes in his hands, the furrowed brow gives his face such murderous expression it would make even the toughest enemy falter before charging. You’ve seen that look before and you are afraid of it yourself, although it hasn’t been cast in your direction.

Neither it is now, but Cazador’s jaw grinds for a moment longer, his eyes sweeping over the lettering and then he crumples the parchment in his ring hand, squeezing so hard his knuckles turn white.

“What is it?” You ask and you reach up, wanting to touch his face, to tame his anger, you’ve done it in the past, but this time the elf just snaps his eyes at you for a moment before walking to the still lit candle and putting the parchment to it. As it catches the flame, he lets it drop into the plate nearby.

“I’m going home.”

“Home? What do you mean home? What happened? For how long?” The questions begin tumbling from behind your teeth as your need to immediately know what’s going on raises to the highest degree. You scramble out of bed, walking to him, your barefoot feet being the only sound in the small house. “Cazador…” You gently approach him, place a hand on his shoulder as you stand by his side and for a moment you think he will snap at you, you’ve seen his volatile moods before when things didn’t go the way he wanted them to, but this time he just inhales, then exhales, calming himself.

“I’m going home. My father demands I return, permanently. He believes I’ve learned what I can at the army.” Cazador explains without looking at you and you freeze.

Home… Permanently…

“But-“

“We always knew that my assignment here was only temporary.” Cazador cuts you off, his words sharp and his tone angry, but when he looks at you, you see that his anger is not at you. He’s angry because he doesn’t want to leave.

“Why now? We’re literally on a march.” You search his eyes for something, reassurance maybe, a promise that this is not the end that your heart feels breaking over.

Cazador sighs again and turns to you, his palms finding perches on your shoulders and you let your own hand drop from his to your side while you wait for him to speak. It takes him a moment, his eyes sweeping over your face as if he’s trying to memorize every feature of it.

“I’m not sure why now. I have a suspicion, but it’s unfounded for now.” He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment and you can’t hold yourself back, you step to him and embrace him, your arms wrapping around his waist. You feel Cazador’s arms hug you in return, his palms resting on your back and the side of his face presses against your hair. “I can’t decline, you know that right?”

“I know. I know all too well that my father can’t oppose it either. That was the agreement from the very beginning, but… your leave will be a loss to the army.” You whisper, inhaling his scent, and Cazador smiles against your hair then pulls back just enough so that he can look at your face.

“Just the army?” He tries to give you his signature arrogant smirk, the one that always informs people that he sees everyone below him, but this time it fails, resembling more like a forced grimace. Sadness is hiding behind it.

You try to smile too, to keep up the charade but can’t. Your face becomes a mask of sorrow and while you’re not about to cry, your whole chest aches with the thought of being apart.

“You know it’s not.” You quickly move your hands to cup his face with your palms and bring it closer, kissing him with desperation. “Promise me we’ll meet. That every time we’re in Baldur’s Gate at the same time we will meet. Promise me, Cazador.” Words come tumbling out like a plea for mercy before you can stop, whispered in hushed words against his lips while you feel his arms squeeze you tighter. You have your eyes closed, because if you see pain his eyes you won’t able to stop yourself from collapsing under the sudden despair.

“I promise, you know I will.” Cazador whispers back, his kiss is not meant to silence you but to claim last moments of affection he can before he has to prepare to leave.

“You’ll stay in the city, yes?” you ask while elf’s lips kiss your cheek, then your temple and still hold you so tightly against him.

“I should, yes. I’ll try.”

He stops and you open your eyes, seeing him so close and realizing that from this day on you don’t know when you will see him again. Grief stirs in your chest like a beast ready to devour you, but you push it away, not giving into desperation that threatens to consume your mind. Not all is lost, you know that, you repeat that to yourself.

“Cazador-“

“My little soldier.” He suddenly smiles, surprising you with his words. He hasn’t called you that in a very long time. “We shall meet again, I assure you that.” Cazador looks gentle as he speaks and the vice in your chest relents, easing its grip. With your thumbs you rub the sides of his face, drinking in the feeling of his skin under your touch.

“Of course we will.” You hear yourself speak and your voice sounds stronger than you expected it to be. You even smile as you move your hands ever so slightly and cup his ears, giving them a gentle rub, seeing Cazador’s eyes widen for just a moment before he chuckles.

“Ah yes, for a moment I have forgotten what kind of woman you are.” He says and when you keep rubbing you see a gentle blush appear on his face and the tips of his ears. “You’re not going to let me leave with my dignity intact, are you.” Elf teases and you smile wider, because you prefer it this way. You prefer smiles over tears, you prefer hope over despair. Even if things are sometimes difficult, like right now. You shove the sadness deep into the pit of your soul, you won’t let it become you.

“As if you had any to begin with.” You tease, making Cazador laugh and he shakes his head slightly, trying to get rid of your fingers on his ears that are still working to change his mood. With how tightly he has you pressed against him, you begin to feel his length hardening.

“Foul woman, what did I do to deserve to get entangled with you.” He chastises and you finally release your grip on him, letting your palms rest on his shoulders as you smirk.

“The one you said you’ll marry one day?” You whisper and kiss him, feeling him return the kiss, leaning into it so hard, you are forced to bend backwards while his fingers dig into your flesh through his own shirt clad over your naked body.

When he pulls back, Cazador looks at you, his eyes unreadable before he speaks.

“I only said that so that you stop protesting when I want to fuck you.”

You scoff and laugh, for a split second believing him because of how serious his expression is now and you deliver a gentle, but poignant knee blow to his groin, making Cazador hiss with mild pain and straighten his back before releasing you. You raise an eyebrow at him before his hand shoots up and grabs your jaw firmly, his eyes angry for a moment.

“You…” Szarr heir pauses as he looks into your eyes, then the fury dissipates and he just looks utterly bemused. “You’re going to be the most annoying wife in the history of whole godsdamn Faerûn, woman.” He pushes your face away in a dismissive gesture but you just laugh.

“Yes, yes, I heard that before.” You wave your hand at him and receive a glare from under his eyebrows before he steps towards you and yanks his shirt over your head, retrieving it.

“Dress up before your daddy sees what a voluptuous woman his little girl has grown up to be, only to belong to me.” Cazador smirks. Here it is, that sly, arrogant grin you know so well, and you give him a smirk of your own, not impressed by his threat.

“Next you’ll threaten to fuck me in front of him.” You turn your back to Cazador and start picking up your clothes from the pile on the chair, sensing when he comes closer and proceeds to pick up his too, following your suit and dressing up.

“You know that I could, my dear. Don’t tempt me. Little farewell gift to the old General Sylven.” He taunts and you try not to chuckle because that would only encourage him.

“Simmer down, Lord Szarr, you’ll ruin your reputation.” You glance at him as you pull up your pants and he sees the humor in your eyes then smiles a bit softer.

“You’re right, as rare as it happens, you are right this time.” Cazador sighs and you give him a look with a laugh.

“You’re not going to be missed any time soon with this attitude.”

“This attitude made you fall for me on your knees with your mouth ready to worship.” He shoots back and you gasp with a louder laugh now.

“You are a pain in the ass, Szarr.” You pull your shirt over your body and just as your head is about to emerge from the pool of fabric, you feel arms around your waist and your body pulled against Cazador’s.

“I’m suspecting you’re into it since you are not exactly staying away from me.” He teases and you know he’s annoying on you purpose, just like you annoyed him earlier. Leaving with smiles, not tears.

“Maybe I am. Maybe you’ll get to find out next time we meet.” You smile, then it falters and you look at him without joy now, unable to pretend. “Write to me.”

“I will.” Cazador’s eyes sweep over your face one more time before they return to your eyes.

You feel like he’s about to say something you really should pay attention to and you even stop breathing for a moment. You wait, a second passes, then another, your heart beats louder and louder in your ears before Cazador inhales deeply, then slowly exhales.

“You’re mine, little soldier, mine alone. Never forget that.”

With that the elf presses his lips against yours in one last scorching kiss. You don’t know how long it lasts but you wish it would forever. When Cazador pulls back, his expression is collected, serious and then you’re released from his arms because he needs to start packing.

“I’ll see you in a bit.” You tell and he nods in response, not looking at you anymore. You will meet him again before he leaves, in your father’s presence, he has to be informed after all, and you shouldn’t be the one to do, that was understood even without you two discussing it.

So you sigh lightly and leave the tiny house, looking around as you go but noticing no one to witness your not-so-secretive departure. Yet your feet feel heavy as you make way towards the house you were supposed to spend last night at.

You don’t want him to go and you wish you could stop Cazador from going, but you know you can’t. Still, the smirk of Lord Varitan’s lips and the blazing fury of Lady Donnela’s eyes resurface in your memory like you just have seen them. Something about the two of them always deeply unsettled you and you know how much Cazador hates even talking about home, let alone either of his parents. He never said why, but you gathered hints of discipline, punishments and unspeakable cruelty towards him and one another.

With a quick shake of your head you dismiss these thoughts. No, not now. You’ll have plenty of time to think of this seemingly impossible puzzle of a family when Cazador is nowhere near, when his embrace is not there to reassure at the end of every day.

And your heart aches. So much.

You have no choice but to ignore it and hope that next time you see him is not too far in the future.

It can’t be.

It can’t be.

⫸ end note: thank you @sadist69 for a wonderful illustration♡~

[lordliing]

"what's it like? you know... being such a fast-rising merchant and all." the pale elf swirled what was meant to be wine in his goblet, having yet to help himself to a sip of it while entertaining cazador's guest. "i've always admired the quick rise to power." his voice dropped an octave closer to a whisper and astarion leaned in. "is it true that the ladder to success is built upon the misfortune of those who fell behind?"

The human had been nursing the drink 'offered' to him since it was slid into his embellished hand, not yet going for a sip himself-- the Szarr family was said to be one of the most powerful in Baldur's Gate if not one of the strangest, and both were quite obviously based in some truth. From the rather depressing paintings and tacky designs to the collective of pallid and sickly-looking residents, the arms dealer didn't quite feel at ease.

Of course, he never felt at ease, but something about the atmosphere in here made him more on edge than he had felt since stepping into Moonrise for the first time.

Which of course, was why he sat on the edge of his seat, watching one of the house's (staff? family member? slave? He didn't really care for the answer) residents nurse his own drink with a cautious gaze. He considered his words, releasing the goblet's stem to rest his elbow on the table instead. "Incredible," he replied easily, "It takes research, networking, shrewd mind-- and charm, of course. You are selling yourself at the end of the day. The power and success only accelerates the rise."

He instinctively leaned in as well, eyes flicking from the man's face to the table, considering what to say once again-- it wasn't like he was sitting in this room because he was some saint, feeding the poor wretches in the alleyways and sewers, but the question was pointed. It could be turned on him if he was not careful. "The mercantile industry calls for hard decisions to be made-- unfortunately not everyone will make it in such a… cutthroat environment."

"If is an unfortunate and harsh reality, one that could befall anyone-- some are simply doomed to fail. I refused to be one of them."

[ravnloft]

aus that i should make art for or something

theodosia gets sent to entertain magistrate ancunin

the elf formerly known as theodosia gets turned into a szarr spawn (thinking about her being turned before the house authorities can drag her back to ched nasad, so she still has the shadow weave sigil on her back, thinking about cazador seeing that and getting Ideas, thinking about the implications of that, chewing on the furniture, going insane)

vampire lord amma. don't ask how this happens i just think it's hot

not the elf formerly known as theodosia but AMMA gets turned into a szarr spawn (what if she had agreed to go home with that beautiful guy at the tavern last year. she was so close to agreeing. she thought he was going to for sure have so much valuable shit she could steal in the middle of the night. she was so tempted to go home with him. what if she had one more drink with him and said yes. chewing on the furniture again)

tiny lolthite theodosia finds a starving vampire spawn who says he escaped his master and fled to the underdark through some secret tunnels under baldur's gate. gideon nav talking to what she hopes is her mother in the ossuary vibes. opera ghost vibes

[illintent]

BASICS

NAME: Celaena Amakiir

NICKNAMES / ALIASES: "Laena"

AGE: appears to be in mid 20's

DATE OF BIRTH: 1450 DR

GENDER & PRONOUNS: Female, she/her

RACE/ETHNICITY: High-Elf, Vampire Spawn (ascended)

NATIONALITY: Baldurian

LANGUAGES: Common Tongue, Assassins Cant

OCCUPATION: Informant, concubine, body guard, rogue assassin for Astarion ( Asecended )

PHYSICAL

HEIGHT: 5’7"

HAIR: Platinum Blonde + long, wavy

EYES: Crimson (post vampirism), deep violet ( pre-vampirism)

SCARS: various scratches, cuts from fighting

TATTOOS: magically imbued 'tether' spanning entire body in whorls, visible only when magic is activated.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: mole next to corner of lips.

APPEARANCE REFERENCES: Link. / Link. / Link. / Link. / Link. / Link.

FAMILY

PARENTS: - Noble Amakiir family of Baldur's gate

SIBLINGS: - Various other vampire spawn, Amakiir siblings

MASTER: Astarion Ancunín (Ascended)

HOMETOWN: Baldur's Gate

CURRENT RESIDENCE: undisclosed manor.

PERSONALITY

POSITIVE TRAITS:

Loyal

Ambitious

Curious

NEGATIVE TRAITS:

Apathy

Aggression

Jealousy

MBTI: ISTP

TEMPERAMENT: Melancholic

ENNEAGRAM: 9w8

POWERS / ABILITIES: - Resistant to sunlight, Ascendant Bite, Misty Escape, DarkVision, immortality

IMPORTANT PORTRAYAL NOTES (general PSA)

ASTARION rpers are not required to follow the narrative I've written. I am willing to make a verse or adjustments to allow our muses to interact, so long as it doesn't violate the basics of my rules or go against the character entirely. I'm pretty relaxed on this subject and I know we can collaborate together!

For all others, If there's something that doesn't work in-terms of timeline or simply doesn't click. Please let me know and we will work it out.

BIOGRAPHY

PRE-VAMPIRISM

1450 DR, Celaena is the 5th born of the Amakiir family nobility of Baldurs gate. A rather lesser known house typically out shined by most other house names mostly due to the recency of their fortune. For what they lacked in securing a higher political standing, they dominated in smuggling rings and illegal transport, going as far as to tightly control various imports. This sparked intrigue in the Szarr household in which later became a partnership, allowing for better education and a better foothold overall for Celaena to thrive.

Over the years, Celaena is pushed to achieve high in life along with her siblings, competing to prove to her family that she plays a pivotal role. It was in this innate desire to succeed that had driven the young woman to seek out the family's long-standing partnership with Cazador Szarr, where, in which, carefully honeyed words promised her something that would far surpass anything her siblings to ever achieve; Immortality. While the price of this long life was unknown, the offer itself had saturated her every thought. So long as she could swear fealty, ruthlessness and keep his best interest in mind she too could share in this undeath.

Weeks became months and months into years of what had become ruthless assassinations to quell the attempts on his life, playing messenger, and even handling business only exclusive to daylight riddled transactions. Restlessness was only the tip of how their deal acted out in her now addled mind. What was more was that all at once did his messenger bats seemed to cease in their contact with her. Fear and concern in a measure of hurried strides brought her to Cazador's manor, where a new younger tenant seemed to take up residence. Beautiful and alluring this new lord appeared eager to answer the questions he seemed to pull straight from her mind. Pensive yet reassuring came the words that soothed, salved, saved the bitter loss of what would be the sadness of an opportunity gone. Even in this, too had this Wan stranger had a solution, and a new deal was struck.

VERSES

TBD.