#fem!Tav

[pheonixgrave]

Safety

I saw a post the other day about Astarion watching Tav get railed by Halsin and this is what happened, I am so sorry :D

Warnings: Blood drinking, big Halsin, threesome, virgin tav is really into pain, service dom Halsin, sub Astarion, sub Tav, Astarion's poor relationship with sex, aftercare, oral, very large Halsin, set near end of act III

“Are you sure about this?” Tav sat on the edge of a private bed in Sharess’ Caress with Astarion sitting in a rather comfortable looking armchair facing her. He was lounging with a glass of wine in his hand. Just as she was clad only in a periwinkle satin robe that clung to her body.

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t, darling. Are you sure about this?” He could tell she was nervous. They had rented this room for one reason only. Privacy. While they had the rooms at the Elfsong, Astarion didn’t want the rest of their party listening in. 

“I want to, I’m just nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before.” She chuckled, he knew. Of course he knew, why did she have to say it? Her nerves were starting to get the better of her. She tried breathing through it but her heart would not stop racing.

He smiled at her before rising to his feet. He walked over to her and cupped her face in his hands, “Nothing is going to happen if you don’t want it to. And you do have me here, I won’t let anything go further than what you want.”

“I trust you,” she placed a soft kiss against his lips before smiling. “But I can’t promise this will go smoothly.”

“My love, nothing goes smoothly when you’re involved.” He kissed her again, “maybe I could help you relax just a little before he gets here.”

“What do you mean?” His hands started to wander down her arms, slowly reaching the tie that kept her robe together. 

Normally, someone of her station would have something longer, a little more regal. But this was not a regal situation. “Perhaps I can make you just a tad more comfortable.” With deft hands, he untied her robe. Gods, her freckled skin always made him catch his breath. But backlit by the sun setting outside, she looked like a goddess reborn. A perfect halo around her newly scarred body.

She only nodded, still embarrassed by the intimacy of it all. Her words may have been caught in her throat but her body obeyed. She spread her legs for him to fit between them. She leaned back on her elbows as he ever so gently pushed her back. “Astarion?”

“Shh, darling, let me.” He dropped to his knees. Holding her thighs open, he licked a long stripe against her cunt. She gasped but tangled her fingers in his hair. He only wanted to bring her to that edge and maybe prep her just a little. He made lazy circles around her clit while she writhed on the bed. It was his favorite dance with her. 

But before he would get too wrapped up in the taste of her, the doors swung open. To say Halsin was a presence was an understatement. And as soon as Astarion went to pull away to make room, the druid held him there. “Do not stop on my account.”

Tav immediately went to cover herself  and they let her, but Astarion’s tongue continued. This time encouraged by an audience, he buried his face in her cunt. Leaving no inch undiscovered, he couldn’t help but fuck her with his tongue. Tav tried to stay quiet, tried to keep her moans to herself. What she did with Astarion was filthy enough and adding the archdruid seemed so strange to her. She turned her face towards him and watched him slowly start to undress. He was so…large. She would be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about being held by him. It was almost enough to distract her from the Rogue between her legs. Almost. 

She felt her orgasm wash over her as he gave her clit a slight nip. "Astarion!" She cried, giving his hair a harsh tug.

He let her ride out her high for a moment before standing before her, her legs still spread and her chest heaving. The golden rays of the sun surrounded her now. Her golden hair fanned out behind her and the flush of her skin was all Astarion wanted to look at. Dazed by her taste and how angelic Tav looked at that moment, he didn't notice Halsin turning him around to face him. 

Halsin wasn't one to waste time, not when it came to this. He held Astarion's face and smashed his lips against the smaller elf's. Tav could do nothing but watch the druid ravage him. It took her breath away to watch him pick Astarion up and drop him in the chair yet again. The two made eye contact for a moment. He looked positively wrecked. His face was far more flushed than usual and she could see how hard he was through his trousers. It made her cunt clench. 

Then he turned to her. "Astarion was right. You taste as sweet as any wine." If it had been possible, the bard would have even blushed even more. Halsin towered over her. She watched as he slowly unbuckled his breeches, her breath catching in her throat. The initial trepidation had been washed away with Astarion. Or so she had thought.

Halsin was big. Astarion was nothing to scoff at but Halsin was another creature entirely. She swallowed hard, "Is that even going to fit?"

He slowly started stroking himself, "It has before in much smaller."

"Gods," she practically whimpered, tossing her head against the pillows.

"Did you prep her?" His voice was so low and hungry. 

"I didn't have enough time, you barged in before I could really commit." Astarion sounded like a different person. He was far more whiny than before. He was feeling just as needy as she was. 

"Sit behind her." Astarion moved before she realized it, sitting against the pillows and resting her head resting on his chest. It dawned on her that he liked following his commands. She could feel how hard he was pressed against her back. "Good boy."

A shiver ran down the rogue's back as a light whimper escaped him.

"Now hold her just like that," he stood between her legs with Astarion propping her up. It took her by surprise when Halsin's thick fingers spread her cunt open. "Such a pretty girl," he murmured to himself before slowly slipping just one finger inside her. Tav writhed against the vampire spawn, silently begging for more. She tried to gain a little friction by grinding her hips against his hand. "Hold her, Astarion." 

It was a quick command but one he followed without thinking. He wrapped his arms around her middle. She looked up at him with pleading eyes, "Are you alright, love?"

She whimpered but nodded. She simply needed more. "Touch her."

His hands were quick to find her breasts. She arched her back into his touch as Halsin added a second finger and started practically pistoning his fingers in and out of her. "Gods!" 

"Good, just let go for me. You will have to cum around my fingers before I give either of you anything else." Halsin watched the two in front of him. Astarion might have needed this more than he had thought. And so did Tav. It was impossible not to find either of them attractive. It had been even more impossible to ignore that attraction. And now that she was laid bare in front of him with him behind her, it was almost too much. He silently prayed to the Oak Father for control.

Tav's moans got louder. Her hands gripped Astarion's shirt as he played with her breasts. She thought the attention Astarion gave her was overwhelming but it was nothing compared to the attention of the two elfs. “Shit,” she gasped as her cunt clenched around Halsin’s fingers. 

He removed his fingers from her, not hesitating to suck them clean. “If I did not want to take you now, I would spend hours just tasting you.”

She only whined in response, still coming down from another high. She never imagined herself as a plaything before. But she could scarcely think of little else than the two men using her body. The thought alone was nearly enough to push her over the edge again. She didn’t have much time to dwell on the thought. Halsin used his other hand to direct her face towards him. “Is this what you want?”

She nodded.

“I need more than that.”

“Yes! Just-”she whined, “please!” 

Halsin smiled to himself. They had jumped into this with little preparation or conversation and a part of him was worried it might be too much. He was already worried that giving Astarion commands would be too much yet he followed them so sweetly. The two of them were so eager to obey him. He held her thighs apart, taking a moment to watch her cunt twitch in anticipation before dragging himself through her folds. He groaned as he slowly pushed his way inside her. 

She cried out at the stretch. Gods, it hurt. Her face twisted from pleasure to pain. Astartion hushed her, gently stroking her cheek. “I know, darling, you have to relax.” She nodded, focusing on her breathing. 

Halsin stopped, gently stroking her thighs. “Are you alright?”

“Gods, don’t you dare stop now,” she nearly cried. Between a shady priest and Astarion, she had learned that pain was merely a motivator. 

It took patience and care, but eventually he found himself completely buried inside of her. She looked so small like this but so tight and hot. He leaned down to press a kiss against her lips. A kiss she eagerly returned, a hand threading itself through his hair. He broke away panting, leaning towards Astarion next. He could feel his fangs nip at his lips. Not intentionally, just silently begging for more. He braced himself standing at the edge of the bed, holding her thighs apart. “Are you ready?”

Another nod. This time, he didn’t make her talk, just gave a couple shallow thrusts. Those shallow thrusts slowly turned harder and harder until he was practically punching the air from her lungs. Without thinking, he grabbed Astarion’s hand and pulled it towards her clit. Normally, he was slow and teasing with his ministrations. But something about watching someone else fuck her into her own oblivion made him wild. Quick and purposeful circles around her clit combined with Halsin’s rough treatment had her back arching in almost no time at all. 

In a daze, Tav grabbed the back of Astarion’s head and brought him down towards her. She wanted to kiss him, to feel him too. Most of all? She wanted him to bite her. Once she broke the kiss, she bared her neck to him in a silent plea. Astarion looked at Halsin through his eyelashes. She wasn’t the only one who looked absolutely wrecked. 

The druid’s eyes were transfixed on her cunt swallowing him whole. His chest was heaving as he held her trembling thighs open. “Hells,” he whispered underneath his breath. He glanced up at the rogue, who was equally transfixed on his cock bullying her. “Say what you need, Astarion.” He growled, closer to his own end than he would like.

Astarion stroked her neck with the hand that wasn’t still circling her clit. "She's asking for a bite," he all but whined and pouted.

"By all means," he had never seen something like that. He couldn't pretend that he wasn't curious and if she was asking in the throes of another orgasm? Who was he to deny her?

Astarion adjusted so he could be closer to her neck, she didn't seem to notice. She could only moan and cry out nonsense. And then he bit her neck, right where her scars were forming at the juncture of her neck. 

Halsin watched her eyes roll back in her head as she scratched at the vampire’s thighs and created a vice grip on his cock. It was too much even for him, he tried to hold back, to let her ride out this high one more time. But he couldn’t. He pulled out right before he finished, coating her body in his seed as Astarion drank from her. He stood there for a moment, trying to collect his own thoughts. Astarion was running his hands up and down her body, making a mess on her stomach, her neck seemingly forgotten.

He dragged his fingers through Halsin’s seed, using the other hand to pry her mouth open. She sucked in his fingers without question. It was salty and earthy, she gagged at first but tried to lick Astarion’s fingers clean. And she swallowed every drop on his hands. If he wasn’t careful, Halsin would need another chance to bury himself inside her. Now that he’s had her, could he ever truly think of anything else?

Without warning, Astarion left her side, positioning himself at the edge of the bed once more. Only a fool would be able to miss the tent in his trousers. Halsin watched him lick every drop of his seed off her stomach while his hand found her clit once more while Tav looked at Halsin with pleading eyes. 

“Good boy,” Halsin’s hands wrapped around his own cock, watching the vampire clean the bard with his tongue. “Do you wish to fuck her too? I would hate for you to be left wanting.”

For once, Astarion had nothing to say. With clumsy hands, he stripped out of his clothes. Tav was far too gone to notice him shaking. But Halsin watched him bury his cock in her cunt and watched her nearly scream. He watched him fuck her with reckless abandon. It didn’t feel like the Astarion he knew. He walked behind him, running his hands down his arms. “She is not going anywhere, sweetling. You are safe,” he whispered into the vampire’s ears. 

His grip on Tav tightened while Halsin kissed his neck and rubbed gentle circles on his thighs as she reached He let him work out whatever he was feeling on her already abused cunt. Astarion came with a strangled cry. He collapsed on Tav, tangling his limbs with hers. The two laid there, completely spent and out of breath with tears pricking his eyes. Halsin felt his heart swell looking at the two. He smiled to himself before walking towards the washroom. Casting a spell to warm the water already sitting in the room’s tub. 

First, he scooped up Tav in his arms. She nuzzled against his chest and welcomed the warmth of the water. Next he swept Astarion in his arms and sat him next to the bard. It was a quick thing getting the two of them scrubbed down. Eventually, Astarion came back into his right mind and started scrubbing Tav’s hair. Tav, who was still in a dazed state, simply leaned against the much larger elf as the vampire helped scrub her body. For a while after, Halsin simply held the two smaller elfs as they curled against him and simply slept. He hadn’t expected to stay but he was more than happy to.

[anastoza]

I'm very normal about them..

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

Slow Dancing in Circles

Ascended Astarion || Astarion x f!Tav || ao3 || Masterlist

Rating: M , +18 Word Count: +1.4k Warnings: Ascended Astarion, abuse, mentions of sex (dub-con?, no description of sex act), mentions of death, adult themes.

And so it’s just you and him going through the same old motions, following a routine of his design—you always do, these days. Or decades. Centuries? Who knows? Not that it matters, no. You’ve been doing this for a very long time. Agreeing. Smiling. Fighting. Fucking. Dancing. Crying. Blood. So much blood. Even when this ballroom is long dead, the Gate is still bleeding red—for you, he says. Always for you. 

a/n: said I wouldn't do AA content but I talk a lot, apparently. Written in a frenzy. Another not so edited work, because I'm playing around with my writing lately and also try to chill a little. And it's 3am, make of that information what you will.

The Vampire Lord’s hand is clasping yours tightly as you dance around his empty ballroom. There’s no music accompanying you tonight—there was once, but not anymore. You can’t say when it crept in exactly, the heavy silence in this grand room. You only know that the music faded gradually, once upon a time, so slowly that you only noticed its absence when it had long fallen silent. Not that it matters, now.

The Lord of the house and you—his consort, his bride, his little love—are the only guests this room has seen in years, but you still know the steps of this dance by your cold, undead heart. You’ve gone through these same motions thousands of times before, and still, the Vampire Lord insists on guiding you through them. It’s not that he fears you’ll forget your place in time—you can’t, because he seldom wastes an opportunity reminding you.

Follow my lead, little love, he purrs into your ear. It’s not like you could do otherwise.  

And so it’s just you and him dancing through a withering ballroom, old grandeur slowly crumbling under years of silence and moonlit dust. One step forward, two steps back. Left. Right. Left. Left. Spin. Back. Back. Forward, please? Back. Left. No, pet, start again. There’s no end to this dance, unless the Vampire Lord wishes so, and he never does. 

And so it’s just you and him going through the same old motions, following a routine of his design—you always do, these days. Or decades. Centuries? Who knows? Not that it matters, no. You’ve been doing this for a very long time. Agreeing. Smiling. Fighting. Fucking. Dancing. Crying. Blood. So much blood. Even when this ballroom is long dead, the Gate is still bleeding red—for you, he says. Always for you. 

You’re hungry, little love. 

Are you? You must be, because he is. The Vampire Lord is insatiable. And so you must be, too. It’s just another step of this dance. Drinking. Sucking. Waiting. Killing. Damning. Fucking. Blood. So much blood. Love…? Once, maybe. You can’t be sure. Not anymore. Not since your fangs have grown dull. Not since you’re dancing in empty rooms. 

There is no need for you to hunt, let alone starve—not when the Vampire Lord is providing for your every need. Has he ever not done that? No, you haven’t known a night of hunger in his house. How very kind. What would you do without him?

You should be grateful, little love. 

He’s right. There’s no need for you to prowl dark alleys. No drunks, no whores, no rats to taint your pretty mouth with. Only the very best for you, pet. So the Vampire Lord brings you a handsome virgin when you’ve been good, and you always are for him. Gifts you an elf that has seen so many centuries, they’re carved into their beautiful leathery skin. Lies down a girl before you whose belly is so swollen with child that you can’t tell one heartbeat from the other. Their blood is calling to your instincts. You urge to pierce their skin with your fangs, but—  

We ask before we bite, little love.

Yes. May you have some blood, please? Of course, pet, of course! A feast just for you! Who else would it be for? Who else would matter as much as you do?

Come, eat right up, little love!

The moment your food arrives in your chambers it’s pale-faced and stupid with mortal agony. You don’t particularly like that. Their blood has an odd taste to it when the servants had to wash piss and shit off their fear-paralysed bodies right before serving them to you. They’re still alive but stink of death; it’s distasteful. Pitiful. You hate the way they look at you. But you don’t tell the Vampire Lord that. It would be ungrateful, wouldn’t it? 

I said eat, little love.

And doesn’t he feed you so lovingly, even when you reject his generosity at first? You don’t even need to use your own fangs to rip out their throats, he’s angry enough to do it for you. All you need to do is drink. Consume. Live. Please, even if you don’t want to. Listen to skin ripping and bone breaking. Screams fading into music fading into silence in the once-grand ballroom. Life fading to dust. 

The Vampire Lord knows you prefer the ones that are already half-drained of life when they’re brought to you—he knows everything about you. You like them better because they don’t move. They don’t scream. They don’t go through the same motions over and over and over again. All they need to do is die. They’re as good as gone when the Vampire Lord takes the last of their blood in his mouth, pulls you into a heady kiss. They don’t know that their essence drains from his mouth into yours, down your throat, and all you need to see are glassy eyes when the hunger you haven’t even felt has finally been sated. 

Good girl, little love, you’re so very good for me.

You wish you had been more like them, once upon a time, already gone instead of being consumed by fear. Stupid with love. Giving what wasn’t yours to give. Back then—when was it; does it even matter?—when your hands hadn’t yet been drenched in the blood of countless souls. Back then, when all you wanted was to protect the man you…No, it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Even thinking like that is very bad of you. And yet, the Vampire Lord already knows of your wish. He knows it so well that you’ll never find the words to tell him of it yourself. He doesn’t want to hear of your wish, so silence remains. And it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

I need you, little love.

The Vampire Lord fucks you the same way he dances with you—slow, but firmly. Holding you as close as your bodies allow, lest you vanish into one of the many empty rooms in this grand eroding house. That’s when you love him most. This body inside you is the only thing that still feels like him—the man you loved, once upon a time. Always. What was his name again? He had a silly laugh, you remember, and he was so very sad. Scared. He loved you so much.

Nothing feels as good as you do, little love.

The Vampire Lord plunging into you isn’t scared, nor is he very sad. He’s long over such mortal whims. He’s frantic, though, most of the time. He thinks he’s hiding it, but you went through the steps of this dance so many times that you can glimpse past the mask. He loves you still—his consort, his little love, his prisoner. 

Not that it matters, because it’s just him and a shadow of yourself dancing in a crowded ballroom at all times. Seven thousand damned souls are tugging at your skirts, you can feel their grasp as much as you can feel the Vampire Lord clasping your wrist, his nails digging into your skin. They’re one and the same, death and him. 

Follow my lead, little love. Follow my lead.

The Vampire Lord drags you over ash and bones and blood, so much blood that it makes your head spin. He’s a puppet master pulling the strings of all that’s dead and he won’t ever let go of you—you can tell by the smile on his face that doesn’t reach his all-seeing eyes. It never does. 

You want to hurt him. He knows.

What is it, little love?

You hate him. That man who stole your lover, once upon a time. No, you have to admit that’s not quite right. You were there, too, after all. You’d given him the dagger and then held down your lover as the Vampire Lord stripped himself of the man he was before. You two killed him so very thoroughly, except for his body there is nothing left, now.

“I love you,” is all you can say. They’re not your words, not anymore. 

I know, little love, you always will. 

Sunlight is breaking through dusty old curtains. The Vampire Lord spins you dangerously close to the soaring heat reaching for you. Why doesn’t he just let this house go up in flames? It would be no trouble. You always burned so bright, once upon a time. It would take but a moment.

But burning isn’t part of this dance. Left. Death. Back. Hatred. Back. Eternity. Spin. Tears. Right. His name started with an A. Right. Aeterna amantes. Forward, please? Lovers forever. No, pet, start again. There is little love left, but, as you’re slow dancing in circles through this tomb, you know that eternity has only just begun. 

[scvlly]

my tav and shadowheart are getting along pretty well..

[tavs-tressym]

Delicious Denial - Master List

AO3 Link - Ko-Fi

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Tav (You).

Tags: Fluff, eventual smut, domestic fluff, camp life, slow burn romance, sexual tension (A LOT).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Welcome to my first Astarion fan-fiction (WIP). Grab a snack and enjoy, my lovelies xxx

A reimagining of the game's events if Tav had zero magical or fighting ability. But she's still pretty fucked up. 👍

(Lots of comforting camp life content.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter One - Intoxicating | Contains graphic descriptions of violence and gore.

Chapter Two - Six | Contains violence description.

Chapter Three - Allies | Comfy chapter with some body description.

Chapter Four - Delicious | Contains graphic & gory description.

Chapter Five - Syrup | Contains self-harming behaviour (to feed Astarion), knives, masturbation (a bit), voyeurism (a bit).

Chapter Six - Splash | Fluffy chapter, sexual tension, splish splash they are takin' a bath.

Chapter Seven - Yes | Contains sexual content (dry humping, whoo!), self-harming behaviour (to feed Astarion), knives, heavy descriptions of dissociation, references to abuse, gore.

Chapter Eight - Echoes | Contains graphic & gory description of injury, references to abuse.

Chapter Nine - Tantrum | References to abuse, graphic descriptions of injury

[dutifullylazybread]

Hi! Could I ask for hcs of Zevlor being a father figure for fem!Tav?

Absolutely! I do primarily write these lists in the second person, but if any pronouns are mentioned, I'll go ahead and use ‘she/her.’ 

The timing for this request is a bit funny to me, because the headcanon request following this is for Zevlor in a much different context. 🤣

I have a really bad habit of using the plot of BG3 as a framework for my headcanon lists, so kind of like what I did before, I have general headcanons, and then I have a scenario driven list. 

NOTE: she/her pronouns are used for Tav in this list.

Zevlor as a Father Figure for Fem!Tav

General headcanons

Zevlor was a commander who watched over plenty of young recruits. He mourned those who died and celebrated those who climbed the ranks. He acted as a mentor for many of them, but he never would have thought of himself as a father figure.

You are a bit different. 

He easily falls into the habit of asking if you have eaten or if you need something to drink.

He ultimately wants to make sure that you can survive on your own, because then he feels like he has helped you in a meaningful way.

He has a hundred hidden skills, like sewing, and plenty of patience to impart that knowledge to you. 

But he also thinks he is doing you a disservice if he doesn't teach you those skills.

So, yes, he's going to mend the tear in your cloak, but he's also going to make you follow along and mend a smaller tear.

Will grin ear to ear when you perfect a whip stitch.

Zevlor feels the most accomplished when he can teach you something, but he also has to fight the impulse to offer up useful information at every given opportunity. 

Watch him struggle to not point out forageable mushrooms.

He will try in a very roundabout way to teach you what is forageable because he will be damned if his chil—no, this young adventurer—can't feed herself.

So the day you visit him with a perfectly dressed rabbit has him tearing up.

He doesn't expect you to be a warrior like him. He would never impose the difficulties of that life on anyone. But he does want to make sure that you can defend yourself.

If you choose to pursue the life of a warrior, he'll listen to you talk about your victories and your hardships. Should you ask for advice, he will offer it.

He isn't going to be the sort of person to give you unsolicited advice (though he will feel like he is dying if he thinks he can help you work towards a solution and you don't ask).

And, perhaps because you have sought his counsel when it comes to training as a warrior, and because he has taken an interest in not only your growth as a warrior but also the social aspects, you do find it easy to confide in him.

You might initially feel bad for venting about something, but Zevlor assures you he doesn't mind.

He soon becomes your closest confidant.

He will ask if you want advice or if you just want to talk things out. But regardless, he safeguards your secrets with the devotion one can expect of a paladin.

Zevlor isn't the sort of person to outright say “I dislike this idea” or “I dislike so-and-so,” but he does that patented mouth twist/pucker when you mention said idea/person. 

“I get the sense that you don't like ___”

“Hmm. I suppose I'm not too fond of how reckless they can be. You'll have to forgive an old man for worrying.”

Also, he is absolutely, 100% the father who will say “I'm not angry, I'm just disappointed.” And if he doesn't say it, he still conveys it with the parent-patented ‘face.’

He won't lie and pretend he isn't protective of you.

If he feels that you have been wronged deeply and irreparably, it's going to take everything in him to not strike out on your behalf.

Everything.

But he also knows that he has taught you to act with a level head, and if he were to respond in a way that runs counter to what he has tried to instill in you, then what was the point?

Maybe it's because he is a Paladin of Helm, or maybe it's because he found his daughter in the last place he'd thought to look, but he wants to shield you from all harm.

He has to come to terms with the fact that he can't always protect you. And the realization nearly destroys him.

But it's in that realization that you mean so much to him that gives him pause.

And he realizes how proud he is of you, and how he wants to remain a part of your life.

Assuming that you want Zevlor to remain in your life, then he will be there for you at every single important juncture (and all of the points in between).

He's there for every heartbreak.

And he's there for every victory.

In everything but blood, he is a father to you.

He is there when you need to make home repairs, ready to offer a helping hand.

He is there at the first sign of trouble

He's there when you need to cry or be angry

And he wouldn't choose to be anywhere else

And when all is said and done, when the storms have passed and the world is quiet, he looks at you and says, “For what it's worth I'm proud of you.”

Scenario-driven Headcanons: Following Game Events - Zevlor as a Mentor and then a Father-figure

Zevlor never expected to serve as a parental figure in any capacity—least of all for an adventurer who stumbled into his path during one of the most stressful times of his life.

But something about you makes him feel paternal.

Maybe there were aspects of yourself that reminded him of when he was a newly recruited Hellrider—unsure of the world but desperate to prove himself all the same—that made him feel that he could, perhaps, act as a mentor to you.

At first, he acts as more of an advisor and a teacher. If you mention in passing that your traveling party is heading to one location or another, he’ll offer to review maps of the area with you. He has done some scouting around the Grove, so he’ll make suggestions about what to avoid and what routes were safest.

If you run any training drills, Zevlor will watch from a distance. He won’t offer feedback immediately—not unless he notices that you’re getting frustrated or that something in your technique creates a lethal opening for your foes. Otherwise, he will wait for you to ask him his thoughts. 

He’s also more than content to train with you. He’s strict, but he is a patient teacher. Though he is usually reserved and level-handed with his counsel, the one thing he will never hold back on is your form while training. If he lies to you about that, then he fears that he is sentencing you to death or a serious injury.

But as time goes on, he becomes more aware of your tells—he knows when you aren’t eating or sleeping well. And though he usually wouldn’t pester someone whose health didn’t directly impact the overall safety and well being of the other tieflings, he can’t help but worry about you. He knows that you’re stressed about something (you did come to the Grove in search of a healer, after all), but he doesn’t know what that might be.

So, initially, he might broach the topic by asking if there is enough to eat on the road. He might offer to patch up your blankets or your tent if there are any notable tears.

But if those gentle questions/offers don’t get much in the way of results, he will ask you if you are taking care of yourself.

After training with you, he’ll make a point of fetching you a bowl of stew and seeing to it that you eat a few bites.

Though making sure you get rest is trickier, he will start to ask if you are sleeping enough. He feels like he is dangerously close to crossing a line, but he is worried.

He might not fall apart if you return to the Grove injured, but he won’t tolerate you not getting immediate medical attention. 

After you defeat the goblins, Zevlor is practically beaming. He realizes that this is more than just relief over you being alive and the path being cleared for the refugees—he is proud of you.

He won’t claim to have played a role in your growth as a person. More than likely he’ll joke and say that he just made sure that you were holding the right end of a sword.

If you thank him for his guidance, he’ll refocus the discussion to your achievements.

He asks that you be careful on the road to Baldur’s Gate, and he’ll wish you safe travels.

So imagine how he feels when you find him trapped in the Mind Flayer colony.

Not only is he now dealing with the guilt over the Absolute invading his mind and having him urge the other tieflings to surrender, but now he sees you, the young adventurer who put their trust in him.

And that is enough to wreck him.

He wants to beg your forgiveness for not upholding this image of justice and valor, for perhaps going back on the morals that he conveyed to you whilst he mentored you.

If you respond with kindness, he will think he is undeserving. He will try to reject your forgiveness. But he won't deny the sense of pride that burns in his chest. He may have not played a role in your upbringing, but to know that he helped guide a warrior who possessed a moral compass that allowed for forgiveness? Especially for him? It makes him want to try again. 

If you respond from a place of hurt/betrayal, he will accept how you feel. He won't flinch away if you berate him or yell at him. After what happened in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, how can he? He is now an Oath Breaker. He has lost everything. Perhaps he should have seen that he would fail as a mentor too.

But he wants to try again. He wants to redeem himself. It might not be possible, but he wants to strive to fill the image that you created of him in your mind. He might never attain it, but he's going to do his damnedest.

Regardless of how you respond, Zevlor implores you to take care. He doesn't care what happens to him, but the thought of you dying rattles him.

After Ketheric is defeated and everyone gathers in the throne room, Zevlor will observe from the shadows. 

He doesn't make himself known to anyone. He just wanted to make sure that you were alive before he moved on.

And with the knowledge that you and your companions survived, he departs for Baldur's Gate. 

He is proud of you. And he is so, so scared. 

So, within Act 3, as far as I have observed/read, Zevlor doesn't reappear until the final battle (assuming you saved him in the Mind Flayer colony).

But I'm taking some liberties here.

After what happened in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, Zevlor is too ashamed to be around you.

But he is also so, so worried. 

He knows you're a capable warrior. He spent weeks training you. 

But suddenly that training doesn't seem like enough. Why couldn't he have urged you to stay for a few more hours that one day? He might have noticed that your swing was a bit too wide or that you left your right side vulnerable when you feinted that one time. Why the hells didn't he take the time to help you perfect your technique?

Perfection might not save you from all threats, but it gave you a better chance of survival.

Needless to say, he lays awake most nights gripped with anxiety.

Are you actually alright? Have you been injured?

He doesn't have a lot of money to his name, but he spends what he does have reading the newspaper, coveting whatever tidbits of information about you is printed that day.

He quietly celebrates your victories, and he mourns your losses from afar.

He decides one evening to toast one of your wins at the Elfsong.

And he sees you. You're laughing and joking with your friends. Despite everything that has happened. You're bruised and exhausted, but you're smiling in that moment.

He didn't intend on running into you, and he immediately makes himself scarce.

He ducks into an alleyway and lets himself cry. 

That adventurer, so bright and full of potential, is now a hero. 

He's scared, he's proud, and seeing you stealing a moment of joy for yourself before diving back into the fray has him simultaneously laughing and sobbing.

While he had been hesitant to make himself known to you before, he commits to standing with you at the end.

So he focuses on healing his body and honing his strength. He might renew his vows as a paladin.

But regardless, he is there when you enter the High Hall, and regardless of how you two parted in the Mind Flayer colony, he pledges his strength to you.

He might not be at your side in the final battle, but he keeps the enemy off of your back. 

He fights like the Hellrider Commander he has always been. 

And he watches you defeat the Netherbrain.

He isn't the first to congratulate you. No, he doesn't want to interfere in the moment that you share with your companions.

But he is there at the end, brimming with pride. 

Before you leave to join your companions at the Elfsong, the two of you sit down on the edge of the jetty, looking out on the Chionthar. 

The battle is over. You've won.

Zevlor might not hug you. He might not tell you that you are the child he never thought he'd have.

But he tells you how proud he is of you. And, should you be open to it, he'd like to stay in your life. Be that in the smallest of capacities, where you and he occasionally get a drink and you catch him up on your life, or in a larger capacity, where you seek him out for counsel and training, he wants to see where life will take you.

Should you be in agreement, Zevlor is a very consistent presence in your life. 

At first, he is there when you call on him.

But at a certain point, he just gets a sense for when you need him there.

He never wants to barge in, but he'll make excuses to swing by and check on you.

Initially, he thought he would always be a mentor to you. And to a certain degree, he still is.

He never expected to be the shoulder you leaned on while you cried. 

He never expected that you would make a point to celebrate his birthday with him.

He most certainly didn't expect you to consider his input on life-changing decisions. 

But there he is, rubbing circles into your back as you weep over the loss of a companion.

There he is, confused and dewy-eyed as you push a gift into his hands and wish him a happy birthday.

There he is, watching you accomplish the impossible.

He might not have thought he'd ever be a father, let alone a father figure.

But he is more than content to fill that role for you.

[ladyduellist]

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Ao3 Link

Summary:

“I believe we’ve come too far in this pitiful game of ours to stop now—ask it.”

Tav placed her chin on top of her knees, folding her arms underneath her legs. “Have you ever been in love?”

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

A retelling with a lot of flourish! Exploring the moments in between. Told from both Astarion and bard Tav's POV.

* marked chapters have smut

WARNING: I use religious imagery/symbolism for storytelling purposes only and it’s not a reflection on my thoughts or feelings towards them.

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

Tags:

Soulmates, Soul-Identifying Marks, Enemies to Lovers, Falling in Love, Explicit Sexual Content, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Tension, PTSD, CPTSD, Trauma, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Manipulation, Blood & Violence, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Angst, Fluff, Retelling, Healing, Spoilers for all Acts, Vampire Bites, Smut, Tav with a Backstory, He Falls First, Slowest of Scalding Burns

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Chapters:

✤ Chapter 1: Song

✤ Chapter 2: Book

✤ Chapter 3: Thirst

✤ Chapter 4: Outliers

✤ Chapter 5: Devils

✤ Chapter 6: Ribbon*

✤ Chapter 7: Beholden

✤ Chapter 8: Questions & Commands

✤ Chapter 9: Known*

✤ Chapter 10: After

✤ Chapter 11: Prey

✤ Chapter 12: Hunt*

✤ Chapter 13: End

✤ Chapter 14: Tension

✤ Chapter 15: Boundaries

✤ Chapter 16: Dream

✤ Chapter 17: Poison

✤ Chapter 18: Embryonic

✤ Chapter 19: Gods

✤ Chapter 20: WIP

[kitigai]

[miradelletarot]

Because I can, damnit...

I am gonna make you gaze upon the adorkableness that is Sagora and Gale b/c I am writing their wedding chapter and I am VERY in my feels about these two rn. Here's a snippet from what I am writing: Frequent clinking glasses from the crowd encouraged constant public displays of affection from the couple, ranging from a sweet, chaste kiss to a kiss so salacious that if given the chance Gale would have made quick work of Sagora’s dress right there on the dance floor.

[unreadpoppy]

Hi darling. Can I ask for soft Raphael? To help you a little I am giving you few prompts. You can use only one and if you are brave enough all of them :) *pearl necklace *bow - tie *swan

Hi anon, thanks for the request! I ended up only doing one of the prompts kkkk. This fic was very much inspired by @reallyhatethiswebsite fic, ‘Creature Comforts’ (go read it, it’s amazing!) and I took the concept of a Tav who’s a sex worker at Sharess Caress and Raphael’s favorite. Warning for the usage of the word “whore”. Hope you liked it!

…

Pearls - Raphael x Fem!Tav

…

That peacefulness was cut short when Tav felt someone shaking her awake. Still with her eyes closed, she turned around, ignoring whoever it was. Then, the sheets which she covered herself with were ripped off of her, prompting Tav to finally open her eyes, being met with Nym’s gray ones. Sitting on the bed, she asked “What do you want?”

The drow crossed her arms. “There’s a client waiting for you.”

Her eyes widened. “But it’s my day off! Can’t you attend to whoever it is?”

Nym shook her head. “He asked specifically for you. Mamzell tried to change his mind but he paid good coin.”

“Ugh.” Tav rolled her eyes, stretching her arms and putting her feet on the floor. Before getting up, she asked “Do you at least know who’s the bastard that ruined my sleep?”

The drow raised a brow. “Who else but that devil.” She smirked. “He seems quite smitten with you.” She teased as Tav quickly put on a simple, beige dress. “Considering how often he comes here, one might even say it’s love.”

Tav stood in front of the mirror, trying to make her hair look presentable. Her eyes met Nym’s in the mirror, and she raised one brow, skeptically. “He’s a devil. I doubt he even knows what love is.” She turned to look at the drow. “And if he was in love, he’d be a fool.”

“And what about you?” Nym asked, walking closer to Tav. “How do you feel about him?”

She contemplated her answer for a moment, gathering her thoughts. In truth, she quite liked him, as he was one of the few clients who treated her with respect. He would converse with her, long after her services were done, asking her about things beyond her work. He’d gift her with books and then discuss with her about it, complimenting Tav on her mind, saying ‘You are far more than just a body or a pretty face, dear. If none else can see to that, they are not worthy of your presence.’

It also helped that the devil was quite easy on the eye. Tav smiled. Maybe, if he wasn’t who he was and she didn’t have the work she had, there could be a chance to pursue those feelings, let them bloom.

Alas, Tav was still a whore and Raphael was still a devil, and so, she told Nym “He pays me well. That’s all I need to care about.” Grabbing a nearby shawl, she wrapped it around her shoulders, and left the room.

She remembered her mother’s words, uttered once when she was a child but that haunted her since.

There is no such a thing as love for people like us.

With that in mind, she made her way to the Devil’s Den, knocking on it twice before the doors were opened. Raphael stood in the middle of the room, hands behind his back, a smirk forming on his face as she walked in.

“My, my, finally you decide to arrive. Any longer and my feet would become rooted to the ground.”

Tav raised a brow, holding her shawl closer. “Well, it’s what you get for bothering me on my day off.”

“Ah yes, that. Mamzell tried to tell me off, but as you well know -“ He took a step towards her “I always get what I want. One way or another.”

Tav took in a deep breath. Raphael was close enough that she could smell his cologne - cherries with a hint of musk, overwhelming the smell of sulphur that fiends were known for. She looked at him, into his deep brown eyes, trying to take a read on him. He didn’t look like he was there for carnal pleasures, but Tav couldn’t tell his true intentions.

“And what do you want, Raphael? What was so important that you demanded I come see you?”

The devil smiled, taking a step back. “Do not worry, my appearance here is only momentary. In an instant, you shall be free to enjoy the rest of your day off.”

Tav huffed, crossing her arms, as Raphael walked around, giving a little speech.

“I have grown fond of you, you know? In my own way. And I kept thinking, how can I express my gratitude for all the time you have so graciously spent in my presence?”

With a flick of his wrist, a small, wooden, rectangular box appeared in his hand. Tav stepped closer, noticing carved inscriptions along the sides and on the lid, recognizing the language as infernal. She traced the words with her fingers, impressed by the fine work.

“Open it.” Raphael demanded in a soft tone. She did and inside, there was a pearl necklace.

“Raphael, I-“ Tav gasped at the sight, almost scared to touch it. The necklace seemed expensive, probably worth more than what Tav had ever earned.

“Do you like it?”

“I-it- it’s lovely.” ‘But I don’t think I should have it’ she finished the sentence in her mind. Tav had only ever seen the ladies of the Upper City wearing this sort of jewelry, doubting that a whore such as herself, who bedded devils, would be worthy of wearing it. However, she knew better than refuse such a gift. “Thank you.”

Raphael smiled. “I want to see it on you.” He grabbed the necklace, leaving the box on a nearby table. He moved behind Tav, his hands appearing in front of her, holding the adornment against her neck and clasping it on the back.

The pearls were snug against her neck and collarbone, not a tight fit but not too loose. She walked towards the pool, looking at her reflection.

“It’s beautiful.” Tav said, admiring the way the necklace looked on her.

Raphael appeared behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “You’re beautiful.” He whispered, and Tav almost didn’t catch it. She felt his lips on her shoulder blade, and she could feel the blood rushing towards her cheeks.

Inhaling, Tav turned to look at him. “Thank you, again. It is a most precious gift.”

Raphael nodded. “I do not know when will we see each other again, as I have business to attend elsewhere and it might take long.” He sighed. “I hope you’ll see this token of my affection and remember me.”

“I will.” Tav moved forward and pressed a small kiss to his cheek, before walking towards the door.

Raphael smirked. “Tav.”

She turned to look at him. “Yes?”

“I want to see you wearing it when I return.” She smiled, nodded and Raphael snapped his fingers, leaving in a circle of smoke and fire.

Tav left the Devil’s Den, trying to contain a smile from forming on her face.

‘Maybe I’m the fool.’

[gloomstalkertav]

Summary: In which Zevlor and Tav arrive in Baldur's Gate, and spend 10,000 words not confessing how they feel (then 1,000 finally doing so).

Part 7 of 10

Warnings: Implied, non-graphic sexual situations

Word Count: ~11.1k

View story masterpost | Read on Ao3

Lakrissa is not wrong. The more of her peace offering Zevlor puts away, the lighter he finds his mood, and the swifter and easier his answers come. Alfira, too, is a world more cheerful, though she’s consumed little of her own pudding, too busy hastening in her new subject like a long-awaited guest.

“So, how did you get to the city? When did you get to the city? Before or after Tav? I mean, we left as soon as there was sunlight, same as she and the others did, but we made it to the Gate before them somehow. I never understood that.”

“Well, they were slower,” Zevlor explains between forkfuls of pudding. “There were more of them at that point. They had a great deal of equipment to carry. And they stopped to take out any regiments of cultists they met along the way.”

“But you weren’t with them?”

“No. I learned all that later. I left sometime after they did — joined a group of those unfortunates displaced by the cult’s attacks also heading for Baldur’s Gate. By the time I arrived, Tav and her party had already made quite a name for themselves.”

“Did you stay in the refugee camp in Rivington?”

But Alfira’s dubious tone convinces Zevlor she knows the answer.

“No,” he says with only the slightest wince. “I did not imagine a warm welcome waited for me there.”

He swallows the last mouthful of syrupy slice and reaches for his tankard. His hand is steadier now; the ale’s taste similarly improved. The complaints of his body quieted, Zevlor finds it possible to reflect on, rather than relive, that first day in Baldur's Gate: dragging himself, half-starved and wholly exhausted, through its southernmost district's overcrowded and inhospitable streets.

“In spite of everything,” he muses, “I couldn’t stand to sit idle. My only thought at the time was to make myself useful, somehow. But there was little I was fit to do. I had no trade experience, and I was in no state to join the border militia. There was the circus, of course, but” — he nods at Alfira’s notes - “I wasn’t sure who I might run into there. Still, I hadn't ruled it out. Then I spotted Ilmater’s temple.”

It was a poor replacement for the holy houses of Zevlor’s memory. The entire building, complete with single, modest bell tower, would have fit easily within one wing of Elturel’s High Hall. Tall, weedy purple flowers and presumptuous vines had overtaken its stone facade, toppled bricks huddled in piles just past its open entrance, and, once inside, odd pockets of sunlight cut through the reverent dim, courtesy of the roof’s missing slats. Zevlor, who had not felt properly warm since the heat he’d blithely cursed at the Emerald Grove, limped to one of these. The sound of his footsteps caught the attention of two temple attendants, seated at a table crowded with alchemical apparatus. They frowned at the sight of him.

“You’re too early for supper and too late for healing,” snapped one, some variety of elf. “Potions are doled out in the morning and soup’s distributed an hour before dusk until we run dry. First come, first served.”

All in all, an inauspicious introduction to the Crying God’s flock.

“Bill, please.” Wood scraped stone as the other robed attendant, a harassed-sounding dwarf, pushed back his chair and got to his feet, addressing Zevlor more politely: "Welcome to Ilmater's house, my friend. We are limited in our resources, but we’ll help however we can."

He cast a wary gaze up Zevlor, who supposed his own first impression left as much to be desired: hair unkempt, skin unwashed, his neglected armor filthy and rusting and hanging off him where hunger had eaten away any excess flesh. All that could be said for him was, in spite of his obvious infernal traits, he hardly looked a threat; except for the short sword tucked through his belt — Tav's, which Zevlor had refused to part with on the road for any sum of money no matter how hungry he'd become. He dropped his arms to his sides to obscure it, but it was not the weapon the dwarf wrinkled his brow at: it was Zevlor’s hands.

“Why, you're shaking fit to shatter, my friend. What ails you?”

A voice from behind him, high and quavery with age, spared Zevlor the trial of cobbling together an answer he did not have.

“Combat fatigue,” it sighed, and the halfling woman who matched it shuffled around Zevlor’s exhausted legs. She lifted her chin to look up at him and shook her head sadly, new lines erupting over her face’s well-established wrinkles. “All this bloody fighting, if you will excuse my language, spreads it like the plague, it does. Brother Clements, fetch some clean clothes from the spare box. Brother Bill, put the kettle on — a hot drink’s the thing. Do come through, sir, and we’ll see what the Broken God’s grace can do for you.”

“Little, as it turned out,” Zevlor sums up succinctly. “A health potion repaired the minor scrapes, and the drink did at least help me find my tongue enough to explain who I was, or had been. Whatever ailed my hands, however, was beyond the aid of magic or medicine. Sister Yannis could not heal the tremors. But she was kind enough to permit me a bunk in the temple infirmary in exchange for what labour I could provide.”

“You were lucky,” comments Alfira. “When we got here, the temple was refusing anyone any help at all. There had been a—”

“A murder, yes. The Sister explained. Apparently, it had done a number on the temple’s reputation. Even after it had been solved and services re-instated, Ilmater's regular followers were much slower to return than the refugees. The temple was overrun with demands for assistance. I believe that’s the main reason I was allowed to stay.”

Alfira cocks her head, a smile creeping up the side of her face like one of the temple's intrepid vines.

“And did the Sister tell you who solved the murder?”

“Of course.”

“That lovely horned lass,” explained the rector in her tremulous soprano, sliding a second bowl along the kitchen's scrubbed wood table after Zevlor’s hands had toppled the first. “You see her about regular in town, now, only I can’t remember the name. Tail like they’ve all got, though the horns were a bit smaller than most. Eyes were different too; very blue. Load of dark hair looked like it could eat the teeth off a comb. What was her name…”

Zevlor, navigating his spoon with a weak and wobbling fist, asked, “Might it have been Tav?” before gulping down what soup survived the shaky journey to his mouth. It tasted of potato, seasoned only by the name his tongue had not had an excuse to say for days.

A few of the wrinkles adorning Sister Yannis’ world-weary forehead unwound as she smiled.

“Oh, that’s the job! I expect you’ll know her, then?”

“Not all the tieflings in the Gate know each other, Sister, anymore than all the halflings or all the dwarves.” Brother Clements’ gentle admonishment drifted towards them as he sidled through a side door into the temple’s warm, sunlit kitchen. “That name’s appeared in every issue of the Mouth since she got here, and half the mouths in town, too. They say she and her camp are all that stand between us and that cult. They’ve set themselves up just beyond the hill. You’ll have seen her on your way in, I reckon?” the dwarf adds to Zevlor, tipping a bundle of clean, if well worn, robes the same dusty blue as his and the Sister’s onto the bench beside him, and avoiding Zevlor’s tail, which shivered in imitation of his hands as he replied ruefully:

“Something like that.”

“He wasn’t wrong, either. Tav’s local adventures made up most of the table-talk among the refugees who came for the temple’s daily meal. By the end of that first night, I’d heard at least a half-dozen fantastic rumours about what she and her companions had got up to in the tenday since they arrived: foiled a plot to blow up refugee children, discovered a ring of shape shifters, stopped a serial killer, killed a clown at the circus, who might also have been a shapeshifter or a cultist or both — accounts disagreed.”

Zevlor chuckles softly into his tankard, still held aloft — memories of struggling to transport similar pewter mugs and laden bowls to tables and benches inspiring a renewed appreciation for the reliable use of his hands.

“I wouldn’t have believed a word of it of anyone else,” he continued, “but it was Tav.”

But such paltry exploits of Tav’s are old news to Alfira. Her quillpen has ceased its frantic scratching and hovers, impatient, over her parchment.

“Right. So, when did you finally go see her?”

Zevlor raises his brows at the overeager bard.

“I didn’t.”

Not that the idea didn’t tempt him as, at long last, Zevlor eased himself onto his allotted infirmary bunk, horns tucked carefully around a stack of pillows and back giving glory to Ilmater for the blessing that was the lumpy goose-feather mattress beneath it. With such long-absent luxuries, sleep ought to have claimed him at once. But the knowledge Tav’s camp was less than a mile away, that he could reach it in minutes if he chose, fluttered in his chest like some trapped, winged insect he lacked the energy to squash flat.

Was she there now? What was she doing? Bedding down for the night herself, or refusing to rest, using the quiet hours to plan the downfall of cults and killers and false gods, instead? Zevlor closed his eyes, picturing Tav in the cast-off dress he’d seen so often at the grove, dark coils of hair loose and wild around her face as she bent her head to pore over notes by the light of a dying fire. And there, on the cusp of sleep, all the longing and regret the march to the Gate had held at bay welled up through the cracks in Zevlor’s resolve to keep himself, and the burden he'd become, from Tav. He envisioned scenarios, every bit as fantastic as the stories the refugees told: of wandering into her camp on some pretext — an apology for the way he had left? returning her sword, perhaps? — and her leaner face — or was she eating better now? — glancing up at him, the fire’s red embers illuminating her surprise and delight — or would it be disappointment and fury, at last? Had his unceremonious departure sealed the fate of their friendship, and whatever else it might have been, or could she still possibly want—

Only it did not matter what either of them wanted, Zevlor was cogent enough to remember the next day. The facts had not changed. He was no use to Tav, or her quest against the Absolute; nor was he worthy of her friendship, let alone anything else, anymore — truths driven repeatedly home with each successive dish and precious potion bottle his treacherous hands refused to hold.

Sister Yannis bore these almost hourly crashes with saintly understanding, but, by the end of his second day in Ilmater’s service, Zevlor had been relegated to less breakable, more menial tasks: he spent hours in the temple’s pitiful courtyards pulling up weeds and pulling down vines, washed an endless river of laundry, scrubbed tables and benches and swept and mopped floors twice daily soiled by an army of uncleaned hands and feet. And if any of it felt beneath him, Zevlor reminded himself of the bodies buried at Last Light. The humilities of domestic labour seemed a fitting penance, and the proper prison for his pride, and prevented him indulging further fantasies of Tav — at any rate, during the day.

Which meant he was entirely unprepared to enter the kitchen one late afternoon, a burlap sack of vegetables carefully hoisted in his arms, and hear her voice echoing up through the temple’s floor.

“… just hate to leave them there like that.”

“They’re dead! They don’t care!”

“Well, I care!”

Zevlor froze. The sack sagged in his arms. Unless he had gone abruptly mad — a possibility which could not be ruled out — he knew that voice, and the voice she argued with. And the third that interjected:

“We can always come back for them another day when we’ve got more time. Astarion’s right, it takes longer to prepare for an event like this than you might think, especially when you’ve been living rough for so long.”

“Thank you, gentlemen, I know exactly how long it takes to complete one’s toilette.”

The trap door set into the kitchen's floor banged open and Zevlor jumped, the sack tumbling from his slack arms with a series of squashy thuds. Potatoes and onions spilled from its burlap mouth and rolled across flagged stone. He barely noticed. He had eyes only for Tav: her wild, dark hair defying its plaits, pale tail swishing behind her as she hoisted herself from the ground, armor shining in the waning sunlight wafting through the kitchen windows as she clambered slowly to her feet, her face upturned to his, blue eyes impossibly wide…

“A day’s wage plus tips says she threw herself at you the second she saw you,” interrupts Lakrissa in a saccharine sing-song as she rips the privacy curtain aside and begins scooping up the pudding bowls.

Zevlor clicks his tongue in mock reproof.

“I’d take it easy on the wagers, Lakrissa. You’re on an unlucky streak, I’m afraid.”

Hands full of dishes, and calls for ale coming from the table behind her, Lakrissa can do no more than roll her eyes extravagantly and groan in disgust, “Ugh — you and Tav, honestly. Call me back you’ve got over yourselves, and we’re on to some proper action again,” before turning on her heel and flouncing away.

Alfira’s stretches out a colourful boot to kick the privacy curtain more fully closed — her only acknowledgement her partner was ever there — and asks, “You mean she wasn’t glad to see you?” in tones of such rapt attention, Zevlor isn’t sure whether or not to laugh. He sips his ale and waits for Lakrissa’s footsteps to fade back into the Elfsong’s ambient noise before admitting, “Well, not right away.”

“Odd, running into each other like this,” were Tav’s first words: cool and cutting in a way Zevlor had never heard directed at him, “considering how we parted last. You’ll remember that, of course.”

“Yes. Of-of course.”

Zevlor’s tongue tripped thickly over the words, his stomach plummeting as he made the shift from impossible dream to dreaded nightmare: Tav was here, before him, as he’d pictured more times than he liked to admit over the last few days, but her face was flat, her eyes dark and guarded as though curtains had been drawn behind cobalt stained glass. At her side, the pale elf, Astarion, let one hand drift to the hilt of a cruel-looking dagger, while behind them the Blade of Frontiers, arms occupied by a wrapped, bulky something wafting a fetid scent into the room, regarded Zevlor with undisguised consternation.

It hurt to look at them. Zevlor addressed his clumsy apology to the burlap sack at his feet instead.

“I … I am sorry for how we — how I left things. It was unconscionable of me to leave like that. I thought it for the best at the time, but…” He shook his head at the ground. “That’s no excuse. You deserved an explanation and a proper goodbye. You always gave one — but the once.” He chanced a glance at Tav. Her face might have been carved from wisteria marble. Cursing himself for the mess he was making of what should have been a simple admission of guilt, Zevlor fell back on the one feeble restitution he had: “I have your sword. I’ve kept it in … well, relatively good condition. I’ve meant to return it. I - I’ll get it for you.”

But he had not taken more than two cautious steps around the vegetable minefield when a wall of cool, unyielding mail hit his chest with enough force to knock him back against the kitchen table.

“Oh gods, it’s you. It is you. It’s really you,” Tav repeated in a voice as unsteady as Zevlor’s hands — currently trapped at his sides by her arms wrapped around him so tight he could feel every dip and groove of her armor. “I’m sorry, but I had to check. Gods, I was terrified … I thought she’d found you first,” and if her words meant nothing to Zevlor, the way she breathed them against his robe's high collar seemed to indicate she was not unhappy with him, which was all that mattered right now.

He had only seconds, however, to savour the relief of this realisation, and the warmth of Tav’s lips tantalisingly close to the skin of his throat, before she was pulling away, pelting him with rapid-fire questions as she anxiously inspected his face.

“But where did you go? I looked for you on the road and in the camps and couldn’t find anyone who’d seen you, I’ve been so worried. When did you get here?”

“Just a few days ago,” Zevlor managed to insert into her quick inhale before Tav was plunging on.

“And you've already joined the temple of Ilmater?”

“Not joined exactly, no. But the acting rector, Sister Yannis, has been kind enough to allow me to stay and help their order. They’re short-handed at present.”

“I suppose they would be after what happened. Oh, thank every god you weren’t here for all that!” Tav’s eyes darted towards the trapdoor, and a violent shudder rattled her armor. She touched Zevlor’s arm again as if reassuring herself he was still there, then drew a deep breath and continued, “But I’m glad the temple’s helping people again. I didn’t realise they’d been allowed.”

“Yes, well,” — the feel of her nails absently grazing his skin through the thin sleeve of his robe turned Zevlor’s head giddy and light — “I hear you’re to thank for that. Or, as the Sister put it, that lovely horned lass — I assumed you were who she meant.”

Tav laughed: an eruption of mirth far beyond what his weak, delirious flirtation deserved, and with a stale note threaded through it, that made Zevlor think it might have been some time since she'd last attempted the sound. He understood. He felt almost capable of smiling himself. For one sunlit moment, the past and every awful thing in it was a distant fever dream, dissipating in the light of Tav’s merry face beaming up at him and the bright, unbelievable joy of being together in Baldur’s Gate.

Then a door on the other side of the kitchen opened, and reality fell across them like a shadow.

“Ilmater’s patience, what’s happened? What’s all this?”

Alfira groans in abject disappointment and slumps back in her seat.

“It might have been worse,” Zevlor says, purposefully misinterpreting this display. “Nearly all the food was salvageable, and it was Brother Donnick who entered — he was the younger and more kindly of the temple’s two half-elves and, coincidentally, the one most fond of discussing Rivington’s resident heroes. So, he was thrilled to see Tav, and willing to forgive her any small sins such as distracting the temple’s kitchen hands before the supper rush. And, of course, when Tav discovered this , and the queue already lined up outside, and offered to stay and help,” — the over-invested bard makes a noise of approval and wriggles back up in her chair; Zevlor ignores this as well — “he was elated. Perhaps, the only one who was.”

Alfira’s excitement freezes on her face.

“Wait. You mean you weren’t?”

“Absolutely not. Saving peoples’ lives is one thing, but I draw the line at charitable good works.”

“Tav, you know I’d rather stay and help, but we really are pressed for time.”

“Then go,” was Tav’s answer to her companions’ protests, removing her fingerless gloves at them deliberately. “Drop Dribbles off at the circus on your way back to camp, then you can get started on whatever lengthy ablutions gentlemen need to prepare for posh events, and I’ll take my turn when I’m finished here.”

“Yes, that’s all very well for us, but what about you, Miss Nobody-Goes-Anywhere-Alone?”

“I’ll be fine,” Tav assured the petulant elf, throwing a glowing look at Zevlor. “I’m not alone.”

And Zevlor’s stomach roiled in delight and disquiet…

…which unlikely cocktail continued to ferment within him over the next few hours; prompting Brother Donnick to comment more than once on how ill he looked and wouldn’t he rather go have a quiet lie-down. Zevlor ought to have agreed; removed himself entirely from temptation. He did not think his will strong enough at present to resist further persuasions on Tav’s part to join her camp — the reason he assumed she had stayed — but nor could he bear to leave. His heart felt lighter, his hands steadier than they'd been since he arrived, at the familiar sight of her making the rounds through the refugees crowding the refectory, extending smiles and encouragements along with bowls of soup and mugs of mead. Better sense could not rip his eyes from her. Its only hope was time. By the stories told of her, and her companions’ complaints, it was obvious Tav had a world of more important things awaiting her attention. She surely could not put them off for long.

But the sunset peeking through the high, small windows and the gaps in the ceiling faded slowly to black, the soup ran out, and the sated refugees migrated from the temple in clumps and swathes, until only a handful of bodies lingered at tables nursing dregs of mead. And still Tav wandered among them, collecting dishes and carting them to the kitchen in careful stacks. It was on her way back from one of these trips she finally paused to catch Zevlor’s eyes. He dropped his at once to the rag he was running over an empty table, but he could already hear the telltale padding of her boots across the temple’s smooth stone. The table shifted under his hand as she leaned against it.

“You know, I must admit: this is not what I pictured you doing in Baldur’s Gate.”

Tav’s low murmur near his ear — and the thought of her picturing him doing anything at all — sent a frisson of pleasure singing down Zevlor’s spine. His tail strained against his robe, not made for tieflings, and the question was out of his mouth before he could think twice:

“What had you pictured?”

“Oh, I don’t know exactly.” Her nails tapped a thoughtful rhythm into the wood. “Combat training for the Watch, maybe? Knocking some order into the Flaming Fist? Or maybe I’m just not used to seeing you out of your armor.”

Her fingers stilled abruptly on the table, as if this last remark surprised even her. As Zevlor lifted his gaze, Tav swung hers over her shoulder, towards the pool at the temple’s centre. She spent a few seconds in presumed appreciation of its holy aesthetic before turning back, a flush the colour of thunderstorms still on her cheeks.

“Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s worthwhile work. I wish I had more time for things like this — actually helping people, not just killing things. I just wouldn’t have thought you” — she met Zevlor’s eyes — “would enjoy a … quiet, temple life.”

Zevlor let the rag he was passing mindlessly across the tabletop rest. He glanced around. Brother Donnick was still in the kitchen and Brother Bill hovering near the temple’s entrance, clearing his throat pointedly at the last refugee to remain seated. Zevlor lowered his voice, nevertheless.

“To be honest, of the Triad, the Crying God was never the one I gave the most obeisance. There are no paladins of Ilmater. His followers abide by a strictly passive creed: forgiveness and mercy to all, even the worst of criminals, the cruellest of enemies. Never tenents that sat well with me.”

“So, this isn’t what you originally intended to do when you got to the city, then?”

“None of this is what I intended,” Zevlor admitted. Tav’s tail perked up behind her. He grimaced — the pain of disappointing her a twisted knife in his gut — and finished, “But I believe it is the best place for me now.”

Tav opened her mouth to speak, paused, then closed it again. With the room lit only by scattered tallow candles and the moonlight spilling from the holes overhead, Zevlor could not interpret her expression, but her tail drooped sadly. Her eyes wandered to the next table over. A mug, several bowls and a few spoons lay scattered across it. A jerk of her head towards them and a perfunctory twitch of her lips at Zevlor evidenced Tav’s intention; then, she was walking away. As she approached the other table, she passed through a pool of moonlight, and Zevlor was viscerally reminded of their last night in the forest together: the tentative plans he had dreamed up when he had been a more worthy person; when the possibility of a new life, perhaps even better than the one he had lost, had seemed within his grasp.

Melancholy filled Zevlor's veins. He felt like a battered cask of soured wine as he returned to the table and the rag, abruptly aware of the renewed trembling of his fingers, the sting at the base of his tail where stiff cloth rubbed sensitive skin. He bent his aching back to wipe down the chairs, suppressing his grimace when he heard Tav's footsteps padding back.

“You know,” she said, her voice higher-pitched than usual in her effort to sound light and off-hand, “my offer’s still good. You’re always welcome to join our camp. If you prefer to remain a pacifist now, we’ve got plenty of this sort of work that needs doing, too. We’ve collected so many new people, we’re overrun with chores — I don’t know how you always kept your camp so organised. I could certainly use an expert.”

Zevlor did his best to imitate Tav’s teasing tone —“You wouldn't want the help of an old, unreliable traitor,” — but even he could hear the bitterness that leaked through.

“Not especially, no,” she replied, her own sangfroid cracking. “I was thinking more the help of an experienced leader and a paladin.”

“I am neither of those things anymore.”

“Fine, then. A friend.”

The rag slipped between Zevlor’s suddenly quaking fingers. He snatched for it, hit a leg of the table instead, and the stack of dishes Tav had perched there while she talked toppled to the floor. The resultant clatter resonated through the temple like sparring swords on shields. Wincing at the noise, the humiliation, the strain on his aching bones as he got to his knees, Zevlor reached for the mug, and nearly knocked horns with Tav who had also stooped to help clean up. By the time they were both upright and the dishes — blessedly unbroken — spirited safely off to the kitchen by an indignantly muttering Brother Bill, Zevlor’s face was a bonfire of shame and frustration, but his voice was stronger, his resolve more firm than either had been since Tav arrived.

“Even if my will could be trusted, my body could not,” he told her. “I can barely hold a pen anymore, let alone a bow or a sword. You need allies you can rely on, with skills that will further your cause. You deserve—”

But what Tav deserved died on Zevlor's lips as she grabbed one of his trembling hands in hers. She brought it close to her face, examining it like a piece of faulty weaponry; apparently, unable to feel his racing pulse.

“Doesn’t this place have a healer?” she asked.

“Yes,” Zevlor managed after a few false starts, “but it isn’t Ilmater’s will to heal this affliction. Or so says Sister Yannis.” Tav raised an eyebrow at him; it matched the ironic twist of Zevlor’s lips. “She recommends reducing stress and maintaining a restful state of mind.”

Tav snorted biting laughter from her nose like dragonfire.

“Well, good thing the world’s not ending all around us, then.”

She dropped his hand but held his gaze; hers melting from sarcastic to thoughtful as she inspected Zevlor's face. He averted his eyes from her familiar intent, almost reverent stare; he would not let it derail him. At last, he heard her exhale — a slow, resigned sigh — and say more softly, “Zevlor, I’m not a healer, but … this last year … everything you’ve been through … I really do think it would be more concerning if you weren’t showing some signs of strain. You’ve endured enough to drive a lesser person mad. Maybe staying out of the fray for a bit isn’t such a bad idea. Maybe this is the right place for you. For now.”

Zevlor blinked, unseated. He had steeled himself for a verbal spar — more of Tav’s infuriatingly reasonable persuasions or inarguable rhetoric, not a meek concession. And certainly not for what she threw at him next:

"But, you wouldn't happen to know anything useful about fighting vampires?”

“Vampires,” Zevlor repeated, positive he had misheard, but—

“Vampires,” Tav confirmed. “I’m planning a … well, a siege, I suppose, or an invasion, of a vampire lord’s lair. You mentioned Elturel’s history with them in passing once. I know it was before your time, but I thought you might have some ideas for me. Something that could help me plan.”

Zevlor’s brain was slow to adjust to this new, entirely unforeseen track.

“What do vampires have to do with the Cult of the Absolute?” he asked.

Tav’s smile was small, but no less triumphant for it.

“That's a story best told over a drink.”

“Before you ask,” Zevlor interjects into his own reminiscence, “the drink was tea and the talk was purely business, with Brother Donnick as audience and chaperone. So, that’s all it was.”

“Oh for…” Alfira’s exclamation trails into an indignant huff. She grabs her tankard, swigs down ale, and stops just short of slamming it back to the table; then decides: “Lakrissa’s not far wrong about you two. I never imagined it took this long! And, for the record,” she adds with uncharacteristic venom, “I think you were being incredibly stupid. There was absolutely no good reason for you not to go with Tav. It was pure stubbornness.”

Zevlor regards his own dwindling ale supply with a sort of sheepish gloom.

“I won’t argue,” he says. “But I will warn you: that’s going to get worse before it gets any better.”

Alfira’s ochre eyes narrow.

“What is ‘worse’?”

The very question that kept Zevlor from sleep after Tav had finally left, with the ominous promise to him and a delighted Brother Donnick to return and help with the temple’s supper again the next chance she had. And what was worse: to see her, or not to see her? To tease his resolve with more encounters like this, or cut himself off from Tav completely?

Zevlor lifted his neck, snaked a hand behind his horns to unfasten his hair, then let his head fall back against the stacked pillows, and ran his calloused fingers across the fraying edges of the small, embroidered band. Tav’s — which, like her sword, she had given him without hesitation and had never asked him to return. It was her signature, her greatest gift and her fatal flaw, and what he loved most about her, he decided there in the honest dark: the way she gave of herself unreservedly to every lost and pointless cause. He clenched an impotent fist around her band. What wouldn’t he give to have anything to give her... But he was less than useless to Tav now. And which was crueller: to let himself drain even more of her time and resources and affection knowing he had absolutely nothing worthwhile to offer her in return, or end the companionship Tav clearly hoped to rekindle in one quick, if painful, stroke…

The night passed fitful and fruitless, and Zevlor still had no answer by the time he dragged himself from his bunk. But with a bit of luck, he decided as he slogged sleepily through the day’s chores, he would not have to choose anytime soon. Yesterday had surely been a once-off. Tav had the demands of a whole city on her shoulders. Whatever she promised, she couldn’t possibly carve out hours of her time to volunteer at Ilmater’s temple every day.

Had he been less exhausted, Zevlor might have remembered the goddess of luck had rarely been on his side.

The kitchen door swung open. The clatter and chatter of a supper in full swing drifted in from the refectory, then faded as the door was closed, replaced by the clicking of unfamiliar shoes. Zevlor took a moment to finish his painstaking ladling of soup into bowls before looking up — and was very glad he’d done so in that order. The spasm of white-hot shock, excitement, consternation, and pure, primal arousal that rattled from the base of his horns to the tip of his trapped tail would have capsized the entire laden tray.

Tav was almost unrecognisable. Almost. Beneath the upswept knot of sleek, raven hair and the colourful paints shading her lips and cheeks were cobalt eyes Zevlor would know anywhere; and parting the heavy length of embroidered purple velvet clinging to her frame were the bare, wisteria legs he had seen once before and would never forget. She swept past him on silver sandals whose ties crawled up her calves, unfastened a small reticule of matching embroidery from her skirt and deposited it on the kitchen’s scrubbed wood table, then turned and met Zevlor’s eyes. For one second of extraordinary hubris, he wondered if he was the reason for this glamorous transformation. But—

“Bloody Gortash’s coronation,” Tav grumbled as she slid the tray of bowls from under Zevlor’s shaking hands and marched for the door again in a cloud of heady perfume.

The full tale, however, had to wait until supper was finished and Tav settled in the kitchen helping Zevlor take his turn at the washing up. He did his very best to listen as she spoke. But even with the washbasin, then the table piled with dishes to be dried, kept safely between them, the sight of Tav’s bare legs — close enough he could make out the delicate pattern of infernal ridges decorating her knees and the exposed jut of her hips — had unlinked some important chain in Zevlor’s brain. His dilemma of the day was a distant, foreign land; Tav’s words, too, reached his ears as if from far away. By the end of her story, the only bits he had retained were that she and a few of her companions had attended the coronation of Baldur’s Gate’s first Archduke, and that among the man’s many, many hidden crimes was landing Karlach — Tav’s other tiefling friend — in Avernus.

“It took Wyll and I both to hold her back,” Tav concluded. “Literally. We took an arm each and dragged her out. And you’ve seen her — even in sensible shoes, that’s no easy task. I felt bad, but, honestly, there was no chance of us winning a fight. We’d no weapons, there were at least two of those Steel Watch monsters in the room, plus more at the exits. Not to mention the regular guard and a whole crowd of civilians.”

She added another bowl to her clean, dried stack and paused for Zevlor’s verdict.

“That’s good,” he murmured vaguely, eyes still on Tav’s lips — he did not know the name of the deep shade of red they were painted, but had grown to appreciate it over the last hour, nonetheless. Then her silence, and the words proceeding it, caught up to him. He cleared his throat roughly and corrected, “Good of you to keep her from causing an incident.”

“Well, I suppose that’s one upside to all this.” Tav gestured down her dress with the drying rag, drops of water marring the deep, plum velvet. “I don’t know that we could have kept her punching his smug face in if she weren’t ‘trussed up in a posh straitjacket’ as she put it.”

Her chirp of laughter did intriguing things to the bodice of her gown as she scooped up the stack of bowls and carried them across the kitchen to the open cupboard. Zevlor paused in drying a tin spoon to watch her walk away. His eyes wandered instinctively south of her swaying tail before darting back up, a rogue thought occurring.

“You must have had this commissioned,” he said out loud. “The dress.”

“What?” Tav stopped, bowls balanced in her arms, and glanced down, as if to check what she was wearing. “No, it’s ready-to-wear. Astarion picked it all out from a shop in town and did everyone’s alterations. Except the fitting for my tail. I did that myself. I’m getting rather good.” She gave a little proud half-twirl, demonstrating her tail’s range of motion — and introducing Zevlor to the backs of her thighs — then returned to the cupboard. “Mind you,” she said over her shoulder, “it cost nearly as much as bespoke, all told. Cleaned us out of almost half of everything I’ve saved.”

The silver laces of her sandals clung to her calves as Tav stretched to push bowls onto the topmost shelf. Zevlor’s fingers itched with envy. Something gave beneath them, and he looked down to find the tin spoon in his hand slightly bent. He set it aside in bemusement, picked up another and kept his eyes fixed firmly upon it as he remarked wryly, “I had no idea being a hero paid so well.”

“Better than you might think.” There was a hint of a smile in Tav’s voice. “But most of our current good fortune comes courtesy of one Arfur of Rivington. He graciously donated his entire estate, including his not insignificant coffers, to our cause soon after we arrived. I’m actually thinking of setting his house up as a sort of inn for refugees with families, get some of the children out of the tents before the cold comes. If I ever have a few days to work up a proper plan. In the meantime” — Zevlor heard more of the swish of her skirts and the click of her sandals heralding her return than he did of Tav’s words —“I like to think we’ve put his gold to better use, new clothes notwithstanding. Although…”

Her sudden hush ought to have been his first warning, but there was a fog around Zevlor’s mind. The only thing it felt currently worthy of note was that Tav’s body waited somewhere close behind him. It urged his eyes to find her. He fought them. Then the sound of her shoes resumed.

“I don’t know that you can really put a price on clothes that fit properly,” Tav continued, and the strange undercurrent to her casual prattle was Zevlor’s second unheeded sign. “It’s more a necessity than a luxury, especially for tieflings. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course,” he agreed absently, unwittingly sealing his fate.

“Good. Glad that’s settled then.”

Reason told Zevlor there was something strange about this response. But reason had been demoted to his brain’s reserve ranks; its frontline focused solely on following Tav's movements without looking up. She stood beside him now. He could smell the clean scent of her hair underneath the perfume, feel the soft velvet of her dress brush his arm as she reached for something on the table’s far side. Unidentifiable rattles and clinks won his eyes. He glanced at her hands. She was rifling through her embroidered reticule, producing a series of random objects: a miniature pair of scissors, a minute spool of purple thread, a folded patch of leather with what looked like two silver needles stuck through. And even were his mental faculties at full strength, it might still have taken Zevlor, untrained in any tailoring arts, a minute to interpret their purpose. As things stood, he was lost.

“Turn around,” Tav instructed.

Zevlor’s bewildered gaze climbed to her face. Cobalt excitement twinkled in her eyes, and triumph twitched playfully across her deep-red and enticing lips.

“Go on. Turn.” She illustrated the motion with a finger in case he’d forgotten how. “It won’t take long.”

“What won’t take long?” Zevlor croaked even as he shuffled obediently in place — his throat was strangely dry, his heart pounding; his body aware of what was about to happen before his brain could put it into words.

“Just a necessity.”

A split second of breathless anticipation passed. Then Tav’s shoes clicked forward once, her skirts swished as she sank to her knees, and Zevlor understood her intention at the same time he felt her warm hand just above the base of his tail…

“She didn’t!”

“She did.”

“But … she had to know what she was doing? She has a tail! She knows what that feels like!”

“Well, you must remember, Tav hadn’t known many tieflings. Knowledge you and I think of as implicit was still largely foreign to her then. She didn’t realise that can feel so...”

Stimulating. Agonising. An impossible marriage of bliss and torture. Tav’s fingers were quick, purposeful, careful not to linger as she measured out the hole she planned to cut. But Zevlor could not remember the last time such sensitive parts of him had been so gently touched. It was going to break him.

“Tav…” His voice was just shy of an open groan, his eyes on the verge of rolling back. “This is … this isn’t—”

“Zevlor, please.” And his name in Tav’s pleading voice made his already pressing problem impossibly harder. “You can’t keep this up. I could see it yesterday. It’s agony having your tail trapped like this, I know, and certainly not conducive to a restful mental state. And, really, it won’t take long at all, I swear. Like I said, I’m quite good at it now.”

No doubt Tav meant her dulcet babble to distract him from what she read as discomfort. She kept up a steady stream of it over minutes that dragged on like years, but her words might have been a different language for all Zevlor understood of them.

Fire blazed in his blood and pooled in his core; and when she parted the split fabric to let his tail spring through and her bare hand brushed his exposed skin, he was positive it would burn him both alive. How Tav did not feel it was beyond him. She was already stitching fabric back together beneath his tail, neglecting the placement of her hands in her haste, and even through a layer of starched cloth, ripples of molten pleasure coursed through him at every accidental touch. Zevlor gritted his sharp teeth against it. He tasted blood on his tongue. He let the pain ground him. He squeezed his eyes shut and sent up a slew of silent prayers to every god he’d ever known: Torm for strength, Tyr for courage, Ilmater for forbearance…

The rest of the ordeal passed in a blur. Afterwards, Zevlor wasn’t sure how he survived it; or how it had ended exactly, except that it definitely wasn’t how his imagination wanted: on his knees at Tav’s silver-lined feet, lips worshipping the flawless skin of her legs between entreaties for her to touch every other unworthy part of him, to fix everything else in his body that ached. Instead, he had a hazy impression of Tav’s satisfied smile, fading as she peered into his face, asking him if he felt ill. He thought he might have agreed. He hoped he’d said something in the way of thanks or at least farewell before fleeing, but couldn’t be sure. His next clear memory came as he lay, panting and spent, above blankets, his newly altered robes sticky and stained and his horns caught in the posts of his bunk, mortified at his lack of control and hoping against all hope Tav had left the temple before he’d cried her name.

It was another long night of wretched introspection. By the end of it, Zevlor’s body and soul felt as wrecked as if he’d done pitched battle. And looked it, too, if Sister Yannis’ reaction when he reported to the refectory for morning chores was an accurate mirror. Her wrinkled face erupted into worried lines. She had him crouch where she could feel his forehead, declared him fevered, and sent him straight back to the infirmary to rest — which suited Zevlor fine.

Because he knew his mission, now; and knew he was too weak to execute it without resorting to low tactics. But any soldier who thought warfare always honourable had never truly fought for their lives or the lives of those they loved. And Zevlor refused to let Tav waste any more of hers on him, whatever it cost him, whatever it took...

...be it a fever, or a pretense of one, that lasted that day into the next, and a request of Sister Yannis to inform any guests who might ask after him he was not to be disturbed; then, when he could not lie still a day longer, a strategic retreat outdoors, where he spent all waking hours — including the supper ones — at groundskeeping and where he had could watch Rivington's main road, and hide himself away again whenever he spied any dark-haired, blue-eyed tieflings headed the temple's way.

It pained him — a slow, sharp, nauseating throb, like a stab to the gut, and one that did not heal even as the days passed and Zevlor’s sightings of Tav became infrequent, then stopped altogether. Anxiety only built in the absence of these fleeting glimpses, like infection over an untreated wound. It was Brother Dannis, who followed accounts of Tav and her companions almost as religiously as the god he served, who eventually explained: Rivington’s resident heroes had moved house. Though they’d left some behind to maintain their camp, Tav and most of her companions had secured rooms in the lower city where the work was largely based place. And while this knowledge eased some of Zevlor’s worry after Tav’s wellbeing, it brought him no real peace. He wondered bleakly if anything ever would; if time would teach him to accept this tense, joyless, but necessary existence with better grace.

It did not. But it did bring, a tenday later, the 101st issue of the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette.

“I remember that!” gasps Alfira, clapping a hand to her face — the first time her quill has stilled in full minutes. “I couldn’t believe it when I read it! I mean quite literally, I didn’t believe one word, but it was awful all the same. I thought she must have pissed off Estra Stir, or—”

“Enver Gortash,” Zevlor growls. “Retaliation for destroying his Steel Watch.”

“Ohh…” Comprehension blooms in Alfira’s voice. “I never put those two together … but that makes sense! Everyone just - just turned on her. Alan couldn’t even let her in the Elfsong that day, afraid of what it would do for business. She had to leave her friends and go back to their camp in Rivington. All of it sort of died away on its own after that final fight, but it was scary there for a while. I remember I was so upset people would think those things about her after all she'd done!”

Zevlor considers the beginning of that most pivotal day in his head: Brother Donnick, who’d hero-worshipped Tav for so long, quoting the article incessantly at him until he’d lost the run of himself and punched the half-elf in the jaw.

“So was I.”

He was exiled to groundswork again after that. Hardly a punishment — Zevlor was glad for an excuse to vent some of his righteous anger at something, even if it was only the temple’s tenacious vines.

The baseless accusations, the outright lies, the unfair and unexpected turning of an entire populace on those who had saved them… the parallels with Elturel disturbed him. And the thought of Tav out there, somewhere in the city, enduring the same injustices he had suffered shook Zevlor to his core. He tore bare-handed at the brambles climbing the idol of Ilmater guarding the temple’s front, hardly aware of their prickling thorns; hardly aware of anything — the dip of the sun into shadow, the evening breeze rippling the back of his hair, the slurry of footsteps and shouting from the street below him — until he heard a familiar whistle of air.

Zevlor ducked without thinking. Tall weeds and torn brambles hit his face. He disregarded them, his senses strained for signs of further projectiles. But all that came was a sickening splat, followed by a swell of hateful laughter. He pushed to his feet, hackles raised, and searched the buildings opposite, then the street below for evidence of attack…

…and found a nightmare come to life: Tav — slumped in the dirt at the centre of a jeering mob, one hand pressed to the side of her head, a river of bright red running through her fingers.

Panic wiped all thought from Zevlor’s mind. He was a creature of action and instinct. He leapt the temple railing, landed on his feet, and was running flat out down the road in the space of seconds, knocking gawkers and catcallers from his path. A strain in his throat, and the turn of startled heads, told him he was yelling, but whether it was words or a simple roar of rage he did not stop to discover. His unrestrained tail whipped shrieking faces and evaded grabbing hands as he pushed and shoved his way to the centre of the crowd.

Tav was still on the ground. She had struggled to her knees, but froze at the sight of Zevlor. A sign her wound would likely keep until they reached safety, he recognised, even if the red oozing down her cheek and into her gaping mouth made his stomach cramp. He forced it down. There would be time to assess the damage later. The next step was getting Tav away from danger.

He crouched at her side.

“Can you walk?” he asked, and, at her nod, threaded an arm under hers and slid her weight onto his shoulder to hoist her to her feet.

“And there’s another one!” called a harsh voice over the rabble's raucous din. “All these bleedin’ foulbloods, that’s where it all comes from! The Archduke should have ‘em—”

“Enough!” Zevlor’s bark was the sort to call down silence on a trained brigade. It stopped the grey-haired human mid-word, and cast an uneasy hush over his audience’s cheers. Faces flicked from curling horns to fiery pupils engulfed in infernal black sclera, and, for once, Zevlor was glad to watch their eyes all shift nervously away. “You should be ashamed of yourselves!" he snarled at them, letting his tail lash threateningly behind him for good measure. “Every person in this damned city owes this woman their lives. Now, get out of the way!”

He took one, unassailable step forward, and the mob all around broke ranks. His slower trek back up the road towards the temple, half-dragging, half-supporting Tav, went uncontested — by any of the hastily retreating bystanders. Tav herself maintained a litany of murmured protests all the time Zevlor limped her up the stone steps and into the refectory’s sheltered shade. He ignored her: easy enough to do while they walked. On reaching the infirmary and transferring Tav into the nearest wooden chair, however, she twisted in his arms and gripped his face in both hands, demanding his eyes.

“Zevlor.” She said his name like a reveille: loud and distinct. “Zevlor, I’m not hurt. I’m fine. Look,” and released one hand to run a finger through the red stain clotting on her cheek, then popped it into her mouth before announcing: “Tomato.”

In the quiet that echoed after the word, Zevlor realised he was panting. Hard. He inhaled, trying to force his lungs to accept air and his brain this new, important fact. Blood still pumping in his ears, he scanned Tav for other injuries they might both have missed and found only dirty scuffs on the knees of her armor and what was clearly, now he was looking properly, seedy pulp dripping down her neck.

She brushed a blob of this to the threadbare rug and prompted, “You could still fetch me a towel?”

A concrete task. Zevlor’s brain re-engaged, and he set off for a familiar cupboard, returning with two of the infirmary’s least ragged many-purpose cloths. Rather than placing them in Tav’s outstretched hand, however, he dragged another of the fireside chairs closer to her, sat, and, adrenaline still animating his limbs, mopped the mess from her shoulder himself. He caught the subtle widening of her eyes, but kept his own on her sticky armour; then the stained skin of her throat as his cloth climbed.

After a few laden seconds in which he could hear only his heartbeat, Tav ventured cautiously, “Are… are you alright?”

This question had far too many layers for Zevlor to consider them all right now. He opened his mouth, unsure what he was going to say. What came out was a gruff accusation.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be going anywhere alone?”

Tav’s face crinkled, tomato juice diverting into laugh lines, as she chuffed mirthlessly.

“I appreciate your concern, but that danger has mostly passed. Orin’s gone underground since we ended the murder tribunal — there’s been no signs of assassins or shapeshifters for days. And now Gortash’s toy soldiers are broken, the streets are relatively safe.”

“And the angry mobs?”

“Have tomatoes.” When this failed to ease any of Zevlor's pinched grimace, she sighed. “And they're nothing I can't deal with. Actually, I’m an old hand at this part — the name-calling and fruit-flinging and the torches-and-pitchfork brigade. It happens everywhere I go. I’m used to it by now. It really doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!” Zevlor snapped, throwing down the sodden, red-stained rag. It took a supreme effort of will to rein in his simmering anger — but he could hardly take out on Tav fury he felt on her behalf. His nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath, then repeated, “It matters,” with more restraint, “because it's wrong. You've done nothing to deserve this.” He began pulling slimes of tomato peel from Tav’s tangle of gathered hair, flinging them to the floor with disgust. “Not one of those people would be alive if it weren’t for you. For them to treat you like that is beyond shameful. And none of that mindless rabble would have dared face you on their own. Cowards, every one!

“What?” he interrupted himself, his hand stilling against Tav’s ear, as a smile — a genuine smile — glowed across her face.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head — very slightly so as not to dislodge his hand. “It’s just…” She raised one of her own and laid it tentatively on his. “Your hands. They’re quite steady now,” she explained.

It took a moment for Zevlor to understand, then to understand Tav was right. His eyes flicked from her smile to his hand. There was the knot of veins he knew well, the callouses and thorn-pricks to be expected, the long nails that needed cutting, dirt ground underneath. But it was so still and secure in itself, it might have belonged to someone else. And with Tav’s pale, stained fingers resting lightly atop it, Zevlor thought of the man’s it might have been: the one who had not failed his people, had not let them die, but led them here; who had crafted a life in Baldur’s Gate he could have been proud of; who had something to share with the woman holding her breath before him, waiting on him to speak.

Zevlor wet his lips, but no words came. Whatever temporary reprieve adrenaline may have allowed his better sense — and, apparently, his tremors — nothing of substance had changed. He still had nothing to offer Tav. And it would be an injustice worse than one tomato to let either of them forget it.

He slid his hand from under hers, all his righteous rage deflating. And with it, any idea of what to say next. Yet even from this, Tav rescued him. Her chair whispered across the rug as she stood and pushed it back.

“I should … get going,” she said, sounding suddenly terribly weary. “Thank you for your help. It was … I…”

She trailed away, abandoning the thought in favour of a last look at Zevlor, eyes full of some deep cobalt emotion he could not translate. Then, she turned for the infirmary door. But the thought of her traversing Rivington’s hostile streets, alone and distracted by exhaustion, was too much for Zevlor to bear. And it occurred to him in a last, purposeful surge, he did, in fact, have one thing to offer her the rest of Baldur’s Gate currently would not.

“Wait,” he called, rising from his chair and ignoring the chiding of his better sense. “Let me walk you to your camp. You’ll need someone watching your back.”

It was a short, uneventful, uncommunicative journey. Zevlor led Tav out one of the temple’s side-doors, through the iron gates into the adjacent grounds co-opted by the Circus of the Last Days, then along Rivington's fringes and into its low foothills where Tav and her companions had re-appropriated a ruined farm for their base camp. Lights flickered between the boarded windows of the few derelict buildings, and the fence showed signs of recent repair, but Zevlor still recognised the tops of colourful scrap-fabric tents spread across the low-cut grass. He thought of the last time he’d seen them with a wistful pang.

“I’d ask you to stay a bit,” said Tav, speaking for the first time since they’d left the temple. “Eat with us or something, but ... I assume you have things to attend to. You’ve been so busy lately. You never have time to see me when I stop by.”

It was a statement of fact, but she put it to him like a question, a plea to understand. And Zevlor found he, too, was desperate for a cleaner air between them. He turned to face her fully.

“Why do you come to the temple?” he asked.

“To see you,” she admitted, unabashed.

“What are you hoping to see?”

This question seemed to stymy Tav. She cocked her head, regarding Zevlor in confusion for a moment. Then said simply, “You. Just … you. I like seeing you.” And, when this answer furrowed Zevlor's brow, burst with unexpected passion: “Zevlor, I like you! How is that not obvious?! I like talking with you, being with you! Getting to see you is what I look forward to the most about every day!”

Tav’s face contorted, her tail twisting in knots behind her, in earnest entreaty for Zevlor to understand.

“You make me think and make me laugh and - and hope and make me feel better about everything that’s happening, all of this… mess.” She waved her hands frantically at the world around them. “Every single day is harder than the last one right now, and I’m trying very hard to put a brave face on it for everyone else and not complain, but, honestly, sometimes I feel I might drown in all the things, all the people, I’m responsible for. And at the end of the day, just seeing you, even just for a minute … it makes me feel like I can take whatever fate throws at me next.”

Her storm of vehemence abated as abruptly as it had begun. Tav’s arms collapsed, her tail fell limply to her ankles. She took a shaky breath, teeth worrying at the corner of her lip, before saying, more softly, “But the last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable or … or bother you. If you don’t want me to come by the temple anymore, I’ll stop. Only… wasn’t I supposed to look you up when I got here?” she added with self-conscious humour, wrapping her arms around herself, presumably to stave off the cool evening breeze. "Didn't ... didn’t you say I had family at the Gate?”

“That was … before.” Zevlor shook his head, less in any disagreement than in sheer wonder at the confession his brain was still struggling to absorb. “I had planned … mrag, I don’t know what I planned,” he groaned explosively, running both hands over his face. It burned, like his wounded pride. But Tav's raw honesty had unlocked his. He spoke, fast and thoughtless, into his hands. "Before meeting you, I don’t think my plans ever made it as far as Baldur’s Gate. I had hopes for the others, but none for myself. All that mattered was getting them here. And then… you….” He looked up as he said it: even sticky and red-stained and smelling strongly of tomato, Tav was still every bit the picture of divine aid she had been when he’d first seen her, perhaps even more so now. “You appeared. You saved us all. You saved me. And for the first time, I truly believed I might make it here and accomplish something worthwhile. Perhaps even have something to offer you when you arrived. But nothing has gone the way I wanted. I have less than before. I am less now. I’m not just oathbroken and exiled, I’m a traitor” — he spat the word from his mouth like a curse, voice rising — “who led my own people to their deaths! They would revile you for associating with me. I have nothing for you! I—”

“But I don’t need anything from you!" And Tav’s in contrast was little more than a fragile whisper, poured directly from her lips onto Zevlor's as she closed the space between them, her fingers inching delicately up his clenched jaw. “I don't need you to give me anything! The only thing I ever wanted from you was you. I didn’t love you on potential or because of what I thought you might accomplish or become, I fell in love with you exactly as you were when I met you. As you are right now.”

From somewhere around them, distantly familiar voices called, but Zevlor could not guess at directions or names.

“Why?”

The word left him in a weightless murmur. Tav would not have heard it, nor Zevlor her response — “So many reasons,” — were her mouth not already pressed to his. He felt her thumbs stroking the ridges of his cheeks, but nothing else. Which did not concern him unduly. This was surely a dream. Tav’s words, her love, -  gentle, un-demanding kiss, did not belong to the hell that was this world, but some heaven Zevlor no longer deserved. And if it was a dream, there was no harm in enjoying it. He could let his own lips reply. He could revel in the taste of her: clean and refreshing as cool water, with a hint of tomato that did not matter; like it did not matter that it had been so long since he had done this, he’d almost forgotten how; or that there were footsteps perilously close by and a voice he knew calling Tav’s name—

“Tav, is that — oh!”

Then her lips were gone, replaced by cold, empty air. Zevlor blinked, his eyes adjusting to a dark that felt blinding to his bleary eyes.

“Just-just a minute, Wyll. I’ll be there in-in just a minute,” came Tav’s breathless voice, and a succession of noises — murmured voices, a stifled laugh, a thwack of a hand hitting leather, a yelp, footsteps tromping swiftly away through grass — punctured the dream-like bubble cushioning Zevlor’s mind…

…and he was panting, inches from Tav as they stood huddled together at the entrance to her camp, three figures retreating back inside its fence; one, the Blade of Frontiers, threw Zevlor what looked like an apologetic grin before shutting the gate behind him with a click. A quick assessment of the last minutes informed Zevlor he had, in fact, kissed Tav, or let her kiss him, and it had been interrupted by what looked like half her camp. Before fear or reason or better sense or mortification or anything else could take hold of him, however, Tav was there to save him from them all.

“Look,” she murmured, speaking into Zevlor's face again, if not quite as intimately close as before, “this isn’t exactly how I hoped things would be in Baldur’s Gate either, but… they won’t be this way forever, will they? I mean, the world can’t be ending forever. Things will get better. We'll get better. And we don’t have to make any important decisions now. We can take things slow. We have plenty of time.”

Her words vibrated with the same nerve-soothing, spirit-bolstering note Zevlor remembered from so many occasions. As always, it ignited hope. And, abandoning his reason, he clung to it. Reason might lead him astray, he decided, but Tav would not.

“Meanwhile..." Tav's eyes, the only light in the darkness, fluttered to his lips again as she asked, “May I keep coming by the temple? To see you?” and Zevlor's own low voice rang with surprising conviction as he promised her, “Anything you want.”

The return journey — or what little of it Zevlor accomplished — went by in a daze. His body felt buoyant, unburdened. His back and knees barely existed at all, let alone offered any complaint. The pinprick lights of the city in the distance guided his feet to Rivington’s main road, and he had just stepped onto it, amused at the spring in his own step, when a voice drifted towards him from behind; very like Tav’s, only —

“Oh, and Zevlor? One last thing…”

— only there was something indefinably off about it. And about the cobalt eyes that glittered at Zevlor as he swivelled round. And the wisteria face that possessed all of Tav’s exact features, except he had never seen Tav wear that sort of sharp, smug, self-possessed smile…

“So, you knew who it was right away?”

“Well, obviously I didn't. I only knew it wasn't Tav. Who — or what, I suppose — she really was I didn't know until it was too late.”

[pheonixgrave]

Softer Now (18+)

Ahh! You guys seem to be really enjoying these. I realized I was just writing the same Tav so there's that

Warnings: Soft smut, definite voyeurism, a decent amount of blood drinking, Soft!Astarion, pre-Act III, post-Act II

“Aren’t you just a little jealous?” Karlach asked, joining Astarion near the stash of wine they found.

“Why would I be jealous of the walking encyclopedia?” He smirked, watching a certain elf interact with a certain wizard.

“Oh c’mon! He’s flirting with her and you two are a thing, right?”

“I find it rather charming, actually,” he took a swig of the awful wine in his hand.

The Tiefling looked from the vampire spawn to the pair looking over some old tome whose name no one else could pronounce. “Charming?”

“Let me tell you what I see,” he set the bottle down to face the barbarian. “To you and I, Gale is obviously flirting. In a very clumsy manner, but flirting all the same. Our fearless leader, however, has no idea. To her, he is as much of a friend as Wyll or Shadowheart. Yet, he keeps trying because he has no clue that she simply isn’t flirting back.”

“That doesn’t make you angry?”

“Of course not!” He laughed, “I can barely believe he managed to bed a goddess with how he flirts.”

“It does seem pretty out there, as far as stories go,” Karlach crossed her arms and continued to watch the pair. 

“Anyways, I know there’s no competition.”

She smirked, “You do sound a teensy bit jealous.”

“My dear, I do not get jealous.” The more he thought about it, the more pause it gave him. Their resident wizard does try to hold her attention more often than he should. But Tav’s time was her own. He knew he had nothing to worry about. After everything they’ve been through, he couldn’t imagine her changing her mind at the last moment. Right?

Tav, on the other hand, was enjoying pouring over the old tome they had found. It gave some interesting insight into Illithids and their reasonings. Unfortunately, she was unable to read the language it was written in. She was thankful for Gale in that sense. Who knew he spoke Deep Speech? Granted it was written in Espruar but the script itself was odd. The wizard had helped her decipher a few pages about psionic energy and how they have mastered it. It truly was fascinating. 

“This is nice,” Gale spoke from next to her. He was holding the dusty tome in his hands with the bard sitting near him, using her mage hand to scribble any notes she’s taken. 

She looked up at him with wide eyes, “I suppose it is! I’m very happy we found this book.”

“It truly is remarkable,” he swallowed, “It’s also a nice excuse to spend more time together in the midst of all this madness.” 

“Oh! I suppose it is nice to sit with everyone.” She didn’t fail to notice him scoot slightly closer. Just a hair between them now.

Gale closed the book and turned to look at the elf next to him. “I’m afraid I must ask you something.”

Something in Tav’s mind warned her to walk away. But she was still getting used to that voice, so she elected not to listen to it. This was Gale. This was her friend. “What’s on your mind?”

He grabbed her hands in his, “I have noticed you and Astarion getting rather close recently.”

Tav wasn’t sure how to react. She was already flustered by the sudden turn of the conversation. She was more than happy to keep speaking of the Illithid empire. “Where are you going with this, Gale?”

Gale’s eyes never left hers. It was like he was trying far too hard to bear into her soul and she simply…didn’t want him to. “I told myself it was casual, not a matter of the heart but…clearly I was wrong and it looks like I am the last to know. I know how close you two have gotten, I just thought you would show me the respect of telling me first.”

The Elf’s jaw dropped, “Tell you? Tell you what?”

“But you can tell me now. Who is it to be? Me or him?” The look in Gale’s eyes was nearly as serious as when he was told he’d have to become a bomb.

“What exactly am I choosing here?” Tav blinked, glancing down at the wizard’s hands that completely enveloped hers. It took her a moment before her brain caught up. “Oh! Oh, Gale! I had no idea you felt this strongly.”

A glimmer of a smile reached his face, “Well, perhaps I should have done more. Been more charming, more flattering, harder to reach…but I was only myself. Sometimes that just isn’t enough.” His face dropped looking at hers, “Whatever your decision is, I will respect it. But you must choose. You cannot have us both.”

Tav made a choked sound in the back of her throat before clearing it. “I don’t think this is a good idea. I think it’s for the best that we aren’t involved like that. I want to be with Astarion.”

“I see. I suppose he does have a certain charm about him, if you’re into that sort of thing.” He sighed, “I’ll just put my feelings to one side. I think that’s best for everyone. It’s certainly the best thing for me. I won’t leave, unless you want me to. Or until fate forces my hand, your friendship is all we have. And I will be happy to have it, eventually.”

Tav’s heart broke for the man. It must be quite painful to not have those feelings returned. For a moment, she thought about what she would do if Astarion ever stops feeling the things he says he feels for her. And the thought almost brought tears to her eyes. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” she couldn’t hide the crack in her voice. But Gale was never going to be the cause of it. 

“Worry not. I carry my regrets wherever I go and I am used to their weight. One more will not break my back.” He gripped her hands one final time before she pulled away. 

She gave him a sad smile before walking over to where Karlach and Astarion stood. Grabbing the bottle from Astarion’s hands, she drank deep for a moment. They both glanced at each other before turning back towards the Elf. She handed the bottle back to him before smiling at Karlach, “Is there anything you have to admit to me? Any deep romantic feelings or attachment?”

Karlach laughed, “What? No, soldier!” She put her still warm hand on the much smaller elf’s shoulder. “You’re a dear friend. More than that, you’re family.”

Tav’s shoulders dropped, “Oh thank the Gods.” She turned to Astarion who was watching her with raised eyebrows, “Bed?” 

The moment they were inside his tent, she buried her face in his chest with her arms wrapped so tightly around his waist. “Darling, what’s wrong? Did the mean mage say something he shouldn’t have?” 

She didn’t want to pull far enough away to answer him. She didn’t want him to see her start to cry. She just shook her head and held him as close as she could. She wasn’t sure how to process these feelings. The vampire spawn just wrapped his arms around her trembling form. 

“You don’t have to say anything, just nod your head. Did Gale hurt you in any way?” She could hear the growl in his voice. It sounded more dangerous than normal. 

She pulled away with a deep inhale. She looked up at him with tears already streaming down her face. With a sniffle she whispered, “Gale admitted he had feelings for me, yes. But then I thought about how miserable life would be without you in it.”

Astarion froze, his body tensed. “So let me get this straight,” he swallowed, more nervous than he’s ever really been before. “You told Gale you’re not interested just to be with me? I do come with my complications, my love.”

She let out a breathy laugh, “I told Gale I’m not interested because I’m simply not interested.” Her hand reached up to stroke his cheek, “I just don’t ever want to imagine a life without you again. A world where you’re not with me. Because you’ve always been near, even if I didn’t know it.”

He remembers the night he told her about Cazador. The night he told her about the Szarr palace was also the same night she had told her about her tower. And how she could see the palace from her desk. It was true, they really have always been close in one way or another. “And you got that worked up because…?”

“I wouldn’t even know what I was missing,” she smiled at him, eyes still full of emotion. “You’ve been all of my firsts. First kiss, first night together. Hells, the first time I’ve held someone's hand was with you. This is all still very new to me. And the moment I thought about you not being with me I-” she let out a choked sob before gripping his shirt in her fists and burying her face in his chest once again. 

For a moment, the vampire spawn didn’t react. It still takes him a moment to return affection but he managed to wrap his arms around the trembling bard. He swallowed before gently rubbing the small of her back. The thought of someone wanting him this badly was…daunting, to say the least. He knew if they had met before the nautiloid, he’d mark her as a victim. She was pretty and just naive enough to fall for him. Hells, he had even known her parents. Cazador loved having the city’s nobility over, but never her. 

She was always the princess in the tower. Always there but never seen. Even Cazador had thought she was a mere rumor and nothing else.

For a while, he just held her while she cried. He wasn’t sure what else he could do besides hold her. Nothing he could say would comfort her. They weren’t even sure if they would survive this mess. So he pulled her closer. The rest of the night passed as they were wrapped in each other’s embrace. Soft, whispered words of a future sprinkled with hope. For the first time in his unlife, he had more than just hope.

The next couple of days passed uneventfully. They were only traveling, plain and simple. Onwards to Baldur’s Gate. Where all of their dooms or salvations lay. In the gloom of it all, Tav wanted some fun. She had gone to Shadowheart and pilfered some of her extra blankets with promises to replace them once they reached the city. As they set up camp yet again, she made her way towards the lake side. She laid out all of the blankets in a large square before finding the extra food she had squirreled away. And pulled out the best wine she could find. It was an obviously aged bottle still covered in a thick layer of dust, but the label looked fancy.  She truly knew nothing about wine so she prayed to whomever was listening that it wasn’t swill. She then adjusted her bustier in an awkward manner before smiling to herself and searching for the vampire spawn.

He wasn’t hard to find. No one heard what she whispered in his ear. But they certainly noticed the fond smile and raised eyebrows as she dragged him away from the camp. Astarion looked at the little picnic she had put together, his hand in hers before kissing the top of her head. “And what’s the special occasion, darling?”

She smiled up at him, unabashed emotion in her eyes with a grin on her face. She was truly divine in the moonlight. She shrugged, “I just wanted to do something nice for you. We reach Baldur’s Gate in a couple days and we have to hit the ground running soon. I just wanted to take a moment, just for us.” She picked up the bottle of wine she had found, “I hope it’s okay. I know it’s old but I don’t know if it’s good.” 

He smiled and pulled her close. “Aren’t you just the sweetest little thing?”

The tips of her ears flushed as he placed a gentle kiss on her lips. And then they sat and talked and ate and drank. They spoke about the Gauntlet of Shar, about the monastery, about the Moonrise Towers. And the conversation drifted to their party as Tav slowly became more and more tipsy. She talked about Wyll and his obvious daddy issues. Shadowheart and her love for more adult literature. And Astarion was all too happy to sit and listen to her. It’s one of the things that drew him to her, after all. She could read people like they were a book she was all too happy to read. 

As the evening turned into night, the pair ended up against a nearby rock. Tav sitting on his lap as he peppered her neck with kisses. And as Tav’s giggles turned into soft moans as his hands started to travel to her waist. “You should keep quiet, my sweet, we wouldn’t want to wake the entire camp up. Would we?” He whispered before nipping at the base of her neck. 

“I-I think you’d like that far too much,” she managed to gasp out as he helped her rock her hips back and forth against him. 

He chuckled against her neck, leaving trails of almost bites with his fangs. “What ever makes you say that?”

“Astarion!” She moaned, grabbing the back of his head as he finally sank his teeth into her neck. She gripped his curls in one hand and dug her nails into his shoulder with the other. Her hips moved on their own as he slowly drank from her. His arms wrapped around her waist as he held her up. Between the wine and him drinking from her, she felt lightheaded. But that made the friction between them feel all the more intense. 

“You always taste just so perfect, my love.” He slowly released her neck before slamming his lips against hers. He knew he was being needy but he craved her. As his lips melded against hers his nimble fingers went to work on the knots of her bustier. It never took him long to get her out of her clothes and tonight was no exception. 

She grabbed his hands before he could fully remove her bustier, cradling his hands in hers. “Are you sure you want to do this? We really don’t have to. I’m happy to just sit here with you.” Her voice was barely a whisper, something meant just for him. 

He smiled at her before kissing her again, “Darling, if I didn’t wish to have you, I wouldn’t have you half dressed sitting on my lap.”

She smiled and let go of his hands and let him return to practically tearing off her clothing. He wasn’t satisfied until she was sat on his lap in nothing but her underwear. His face buried in her breasts, leaving small little nicks with his teeth as he made his way back up to her lips. Her hands gripped his shoulder as he snaked his hand down her body. He made sure to feel all the softness that was still on her body, never failing to trace her curves. 

Tav was small but years in a tower had made her body gentle. Her hands were rough from her instruments, yes, and she did have a lot of skill with a blade. But she was in no way muscular. And Astarion enjoyed that more than he could say. He enjoyed being able to almost see the tremors in her thighs before he felt it. Gods, he needed her. 

It only took him a moment to find her clit and draw slow, gentle circles around it. Never quite touching it directly. “Darling, you’re already shaking. Did you miss me that much?”

“Yes!” She cried into his ear. “Y-you’re teasing me.” Her head fell against his shoulder as her body trembled against him. 

“Oh, I’d never do such a thing,” He smiled and buried his hand in her hair. “I simply want to take my time enjoying you.” The vampire spawn slowly filled her cunt with his fingers, his palm grinding against her clit. 

She tried hard to keep quiet. Really she did. But when his fingers curled inside of her? She couldn’t help but cry out his name. How was he so patient? All she wanted was to have him inside her. He pumped his fingers in and out of her cunt so painfully slowly. 

Now, Tav may have been too focused on the rogue’s hands to notice anything else. But Astarion wasn’t. He knew Halsin and Gale were keeping watch tonight. He also knew it was far too late for anyone else to be awake. Which is why his hands didn’t stop when he noticed the bushes across from them moved. It was so subtle that he almost missed it.

Almost.

Someone was watching them. And he had an inkling he knew exactly who it was. The thought made him grin against Tav’s bloodsoaked neck. He sped up his fingers, holding her as she writhed against him. “That’s it, love, don’t hold a single thing back.” She came with a cry of his name. She was still trembling as he made a show of licking his own fingers clean. “I do so enjoy how you taste, my love.” He didn’t whisper this time. He wanted the wizard in the bushes to hear.

With shaking hands she went to untie the knots on his trousers. He leaned back against the rock, letting her take his length in her hands. “M-may I?” Her neck was stained just as red as the flush on her cheeks. Her big blue eyes wide in anticipation. 

“May you what?” His hand went to her throat and he felt her breath catch.

“M-may I ride you?” It really was endearing how she asked. Her voice was breathless and her chest was heaving. He had never been overly rough with her. But with a voyeur in the bushes? He was more than tempted to lay claim to the nearly virgin in his lap. 

He pouted at her, “I’m not quite sure what you mean, darling.”

Her eyes went wider than before. “W-what?”

She was so innocent. So pure, he had never even heard her swear before. “What is it exactly that you would like to do?” He purred, his forehead meeting hers. “Don’t play coy with me now.”

She swallowed, the tips of her ears matching the rest of her face. “Astarion,” she whined. 

“If you use your words, love, I’ll be happy to give you anything you want.”

She whined again when the grip around her throat tightened ever so slightly. “I-I want-” another swallow, “I want to ride your cock.”

He smiled, “See? Now was that so hard? You did so well,” he whispered against her lips.  She adjusted herself over him, still holding him in one hand while the other braced herself on his shoulder. His hand still held her throat, not quite squeezing just letting her know he was there. The bard lowered herself onto him. He groaned as she sank down. “Perfect.”

Her other hand flew up to his chest while she gripped his blouse so tightly that her knuckles were whiter than before. Her head spun while the wine loosened her tongue. “Gods, Astarion.” 

“Use your words, darling,” he moaned against her neck, his eyes keeping an eye on the bush yet again. He wanted the wizard to see how good he could make her feel. He wanted him to see that he wasn’t even a thought on her mind. He wanted him to see that she wanted him and not Gale.

She sat for a moment, adjusting to his size before rocking her hips back and forth. Astarion’s hands flew to her hips to help guide her movements. “Feels so good,” she whimpered, still clutching at his blouse. 

“That’s it, pet. You can take it, I know you can.” Her movements were entirely her own. She gradually went from rocking to bouncing. His body told him to throw his head back but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. Maybe now Gale would realize she was his. Maybe he had more of a possessive streak than he thought. 

“Your hand, put it back!” She used his chest as leverage for her movements. He could feel her getting close and who was he to deny her? He instinctively put his hand back around her throat and squeezed. He had never felt her tighten around him harder. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. He let her sit like that for a moment as she started to relax once again.

Whoever was in the bushes was gone now. Either too riled up to stay or too heartbroken to watch. Either way, Astarion found it satisfying. Satisfying enough to toss Tav on her back and put her ankles on his shoulder. It was something about knowing Tav not only trusted him but chose him, drove him wild. Far more than any lover he’s had in the past. Even through her half opened eyes and her mind filled with wine and pleasure, her eyes were still filled with that emotion. That feeling that he wouldn’t dare put words to yet. 

She was his. And he was equally hers. 

Her moans and whimpers filled the air but he felt so far away from her. Too far. She grabbed his hands and pulled him closer, lacing her hands with his. “Beautiful,” was all she could whisper before she clenched around him. This time, he wasn’t far behind her. They laid like that for a while. Him on top of her, her tracing small patterns on his back. The scars were a reminder of what awaited them in Baldur’s Gate. But it could wait for now. For now they had each other. 

“Did you see who was in the bushes?” 

He immediately met her eyes, “You knew?”

“I’m naive, not stupid.” She giggled, rolling over to her side.

“I believe we just gave the magic eater quite the eyeful.”

[anastoza]

Relativly old sketchdump In this house we love and respect Gale since early access

[acozysoulwrites]

His new favorite color | Astarion x Fem!Tav

Description | Tav and Astarion are laying together one night when she tells him what she thinks the color of his eyes were before being turned

Contains | fluff fluff fluff!! Gentle Tav, soft Astarion, Astarion getting the love he deserves :(

Rain taps atop Astarion’s tent and slides down, corrupting other droplets and dragging them down as new ones form. The wind is sharp and cool, the smell of rain lingers in the air and a chill runs through the camp.

She and Astarion lie together, their faces just inches apart. Their lips quivering like magnets fighting to remain apart. Their eyes trail over one another’s face. She had her arm draped over his side, as if it ensured that he were forever hers, that tomorrow wouldn’t come and sweep this moment under the rug like so many before it. Their legs were tangled, the warmth radiating from her body and into his, slowly warming his cool skin.

Astarion had forgotten what warmth felt like before she’d come along. He didn’t have a single memory of his body ever touching someone else’s without there being strings attached.

She brings her hand up to his face, gently her fingers make contact with his cheekbone and she runs them along his jaw, feeling the structure of his bones, studying them, like he were priceless art aching to be admired.

Astarion breathes in at her touch and his heart flutters, but his mind races and he frowns at her.

“What are you doing?” He asks, his voice only a whisper.

Her eyes flick across his face as she takes him in. “I was just thinking” She murmurs, she finally returns his gaze, red meets hazel, and time stills.

Confusion rises in his chest. She was always like this, poetic and mysterious. Rarely ever was a straight answer given to him. He sometimes wondered why she chose him instead of Gale... These damned poets.

“Spit it out then, my love” He quips. He was visibly growing impatient; slightly uncomfortable with all this gawking.

She lowers her hand, resting it back at his side. “I was just recalling a conversation we had just months ago, and I couldn’t help but start to wonder what color your eyes were... you know, before” She says.

Astarion’s lips part, his eyes shifting to a look of offense. “You know I-“

“I know you don’t remember, Star” She calms him, her thumb rubbing gently at his hip. “I was picturing you- well your face, with many colors. I even thought of a few colorful ones” She smiles, chuckling through her nose softly, his hair flutters in her exhale.

Astarion stays silent, his frustrated look now softened slightly. He arches an eyebrow and listens.

“However...” She continues to rub unimportant shapes into him gently. He got so offended sometimes, and every time she stayed calm, every time she didn’t return the attitude like so many before... It healed him just a little.

“I think I’ve figured it out, I bet you they were green”

Astarion’s eyes flick away from hers in thought. He supposes green doesn’t sound so bad.

“Perhaps... but why green?” He asks.

“Because, well...”

Astarion scoffs, “Are you going to get all poetic and sad on me, Darling?”

“You know you love it” She smiles.

A small smile draws onto his face, mimicking hers. It is nearly hidden in the flickering light.

“I think they were green because when I look you, it just makes sense. It doesn’t

matter how you looked before. Green eyes would still fit you now, like they always had so long ago. You are now, who you were then. Before Cazador, before being bitten... Deep down, my sweet, sweet Astarion, your soul still remains”.

Astarion’s face had fallen from curious to blank at some point while she spoke those words to him. In the corner of his eyes, lay tears that threatened to pour down his pale cheeks.

“Well then... that tops your most poetic moment yet” He grins, his weak attempt at hiding the quiver in his voice fails.

“Oh- Star... I’m sorry” She brings her hand up to cup his face, her thumb wiping at the corner of his eyes. Astarion reaches up and holds her hand against his face, lean- ing in, a small smile forms. He closes his eyes, and a single tear manages to squeeze out.

“Dammed you poets” He croaks.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry” She frowns, her heart breaking at the sight. She’d never seen him cry, and she truly thought she might never live to see the day.

Astarion pulls her hand from his face and kisses it, one of his fangs poke her gently. “You need not be sorry... If I’m being honest, that was the nicest thing anyone has... ever said to me” He says, his words as genuine as they’d ever been.

“I meant it”

Astarion nods, “I know” There’s sincerity in his tone and it makes her feel safe. “Hells, c’mere my sweet” He sniffs, reaching around her waist he tugs her close until their chests are flush against each other.

Shortly, they had fallen into a deep rest. Their breathing became slow and synced.

They stayed together, awaiting a new morning, slightly less scared of what tomorrow held. And soon, Astarion would find that green was his new favorite color.

[memoire-du-ciel]

⌈ ᴄʀᴀᴅʟᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ⌋ ᴡᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ᴀ ɢᴀᴍʙʟᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜɪs ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ sᴀɪʟɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴏʀᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀᴠᴇs ʀᴜsʜɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴜs ᴡᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʙᴀᴛᴛʟɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴀɪɴsᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴍʏ ʙᴇᴀᴄᴏɴ ᴏғ sᴀʟᴠᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪ ᴡᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴛᴀʀʟɪɢʜᴛ sᴏ ᴅᴏɴ·ᴛ ᴄʀʏ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴄʀʏ ᴛᴇᴀʀs ᴏғ ᴊᴏʏ ·ᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ·ʀᴇ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ ᴄʀᴀᴅʟᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴅᴏɴ·ᴛ ᴄʀʏ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴄʀʏ ᴛᴇᴀʀs ᴏғ ᴊᴏʏ ·ᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ·ʀᴇ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ ᴄʀᴀᴅʟᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ... [Poets Of The Fall - Cradled In Love] ・ ゜ ゜ ・ ✧ ・ﾟ . ・ ゜ ゜ ・ ✧ ・ﾟ Yeah hello, hello 2024! Long time no see hah! Well...I try to get more active...and here I go! This little picture happened because I am...since the offical release of BG3...absolutely obsessed with Astarion. And I couldn't get that out of my head. So here it is, my "Tav" Elénariel with her favorite vampire spawn! I also got a bit of background lore about her, since she isn't really like the ordinary Tav in the game. If you want to know about my rambling...uh just hit me up!

[tavs-tressym]

Delicious Denial - Chapter One

(AO3 Link) | Master List | Ko-Fi

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Tav (You). F/M.

Word Count: 2100 (approx)

Tags: Fluff, eventual smut, Tav w/tragic backstory, graphic violence, domestic fluff, camp life, Tav has no magic/fighting ability, slow burn romance, sexual tension (A LOT).

WARNING: Contains graphic descriptions of violence and gore.

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A reimagining of the game's events if Tav had zero magical or fighting ability. But she's still pretty fucked up. 👍

(Lots of comforting camp life content.)

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Chapter One - Intoxicating

“Fucking-... Piece of-... Ugh!” Your fingers burn from the friction of wrestling with your chain. You let out a guttural growl as you fall back, flat on your arse in defeat. Yep, you’re definitely stuck. The cuff makes your ankle itch and the chain doesn’t seem to have weakened. Panting, you search your cell for some form of escape to no avail. Just in the cold cobbles beneath you and the bars that cast lengthy shadows on your bruised body. Your clothes are tattered and ripped, if you can even call them clothes anymore. They leave your injuries from your perilous journey here on full display. The last thing you remember was falling, then… Floating? Then black. Now, there’s goblins everywhere and your head hurts… A lot… It really, really hurts actually…

The room begins to spin as you focus on the sensation, then you remember the creature that lives behind your eye. You shiver at the thought as the room pulses around you. It’s searching for… something? It searches for… it’s own kind. You sense it’s kin nearing your cell. The creature writhes in your skull, burning your eyes from the inside. You cry in pain, holding your head to prevent it from coming apart. “This, is the human?” A raspy, deep, feminine voice commands. You squint, attempting to pierce your vision through a wall of warped pulsations. “Y-yes ma’am. We found her by the crash site.” Another voice responds, full of gravel and apprehension. Whoever he’s speaking to, he’s afraid of her.

“Hmm… Interesting.” Your creatures connect and you feel an overwhelming urge to open your mind to the intrusion.

You see her silhouette: Thin, tall and armoured. Then, her wisteria skin and light blonde hair comes into focus. “Welcome home, True Soul.” You do not see her mouth move, nor hear the words through your ears. Instead, her voice echoes in your mind. She pokes and prods at your thoughts, prying open your defences and harvesting your memories. She smiles and pulls out of your mind abruptly once satisfied. You gasp for air as the pain finally subsides and you crumble to the floor. “It will get easier.”

“Wh-what is this? I don’t-” You speak through tears.

“Shh. It will become clear soon enough. The Absolute has plans for you. For us all.” Her words almost sounded like comfort, but there’s something wrong. When she dug into your mind, it left hers open to you. She wants something.

She scans your deteriorating rags, then glares at the goblin by her side who shivers under her gaze. “Do you have no sense?! No respect?! Find some clothes for her. Now!”

“Y-yes Minthara! Sorry! Er-” He dashes away and returns moments later, bundle in hand, he slides it through the bars, shaking.

“Thank you…” You reach for it hesitantly.

“Once she is dressed, you will bring her to me.” She walks away.

“Y-yes Minthara.” The goblin responds. He flicks his eyes back at you and gestures for you to hurry up. You nod and dress yourself, trying to conceal as much of your body as you can from the worried eyes of the goblin.

You smooth down a dress made of various pelts over your wide curves. It wasn’t well made and it certainly could have been more modest, but it fit well enough and you were grateful for the change. The gate opens and the goblin hastily releases your ankle from the chain and pushes you forward. “Move.” You obey and walk in front of him, arms behind your back as he directs you through the camp by your wrists. As you move through what seems to be a lively party, all eyes are on you. Some goblins jeer and make obscene gestures, others inspect your body from afar as they glug their ale. Choosing not to let this phase you, you dare to ask your guard a question: “What are you celebrating?”

“Raid. Good one.” Despite his bluntness and reluctance to reveal information, you hear the smile on his face in his words.

Eventually you make it to the inside of a large, run down, temple-like building. It seems the party stopped here. The grand architecture allows for various phrases, commands and even cries of agony to echo and bounce off the walls. Minthara is observing a map as you approach her. She looks up at you, briefly. “Better. Leave us.” You can’t help but admire her authority as the goblins scatter at her command. She looks back down and traces her fingers along painted roads. Curiously, you look over to find that the map contains no location that you recognise other than Baldur’s Gate. “Is this where we are?” You ask hoping that maybe you aren’t as far from home as you once thought.

“Yes. But I’m hunting for something that isn’t on this map, or any for that matter.” She doesn’t look at you as she speaks.

“That doesn’t sound easy.” You try to sympathise. Powerful allies are always useful, especially in situations such as this.

“No. Especially when all you have are dimwitted pawns at your disposal.” She spits disgust through her words, you nod and move closer to get a better look at the map. “In usual circumstances, I wouldn’t care, but I plan to make great use of you, True Soul. Your name, what is it?”

“Tav. And you are Minthara?” She nods. “You call me True Soul, what does that mean?” She grins with excitement as she gets to be the one to explain The Absolute, the tadpoles and your potential. She does so with a fierce determination in her eyes and a proud loyalty in her voice that speaks to the darker cravings of your mind. You consider that maybe this creature in your head isn’t so bad, after all. “And your hunt? Is it to serve The Absolute?”

“Correct.” She pauses to consider whether or not to reveal her intentions. “There’s a weapon. Powerful and well sought after. I am sure that it is being protected by a grove of druids somewhere in this area.” She circles a section of the map for you. “No matter how many patrols we have sent, they return with little information. Pathetic creatures.” She grumbles under her breath. Her eyes light up, she looks at you and grins.

“We have a prisoner. Though, I believe our… ‘interrogators’ lack a certain finesse. His lips remain tightly bound. I’m sure The Absolute would have a fine reward for the one who loosens them.” Her eyebrow raises as she eagerly awaits your response. Torture isn’t your usual expertise, but you can see in her eyes the excitement and even arousal at the thought of you shedding such blood for The Absolute’s cause. You deduce that her disappointment in you would have far greater consequences than the pain of a stranger.

“I understand.” Your eyes are wide as you accept this unsightly task. You stretch a smirk over your teeth in an attempt to match her enthusiasm.

“Excellent. Follow the screams, oh, and do not come back empty handed.”

You do as she commands, following the pleads for mercy until you find two goblins and a human tied to a torture device. You try to put on your most authoritative voice as you speak. “I have orders from Minthara. I’ll take over from here.” The goblins grumble, displeased with the arrangement as they open a space for you, directly in front of the stranger. You move into position and look up at him. His eyes are dry yet his cheeks are stained with tears, his cracked lips part as he whimpers softly. You approach, he scans you, unsure of your next move. And honestly, you’re unsure too. You’ve never been in a position to hurt someone, before now there was no opportunity for you to take. In fact, you have grown accustomed to the opposite, but this is different. This is… Powerful. Powerful in a way that makes your stomach churn and your heart flutter. A questionable, undefinable mix of want and need. You graze your finger over your canvas as he squirms. His fear is intoxicating.

Hot pokers sit in a brazier, you take one and hold it in front of his face, just close enough to singe hairs. “Where is the grove?” You ask him calmly, allowing the poker to emphasise the question for itself.

“F-fuck… Y-you…” His response doesn’t anger you, it frightens you. Your eyes widen as you build the courage to transform your threat into action. Your breathing becomes deeper as you try to submerge your hesitation. You muster as much command in your voice as you can, trying to hide your pleading. You do not want to hurt this man, no matter how intriguing this sensation is. “Where is the grove?”

He lets out a desperate whimper before feebly grasping onto his loyalty. “I s-said… F-fuck you.” The emanating heat travels from his cheek, down his neck, down his chest, stopping at his stomach. He gasps and desperately tries to wriggle away to no avail. You look into his eyes, searching for the key to end his torture, you find none. He screams in devastating agony, the smell of his burning flesh causes the goblins around you to salivate. You look down to find your own hand gripping the poker. Although you had prepared and felt it’s movement, somehow the choice your arm made surprised you. “Okay! Okay! Please! Stop!” You hold on a moment longer, examining the strange appendage before you as it shamelessly displays it’s power over it’s victim.

You pull away suddenly, your mind inhabiting your arm once again. The man splutters and cries, riding out the unrelenting wave of soreness. Regaining composure, you look back into his eyes. You yearned for the ability to communicate that he was not the only victim in the room, that you don’t want him to feel such pain. Then again, you suppose that would offer him little comfort. “Where is the grove?” The tears in his eyes obscure his vision until you are nothing but a blur.

“P-please…” By now he knows his pleas are useless but he continues anyway, using them as a mantra to calm himself through the pain. “No more… I beg of you…”

“Where is the grove?”

“No… I can’t be responsible for their deaths… I can’t…” In all the chaos, you hadn’t even considered the possible slaughter that Minthara had planned for the grove. If these druids are guarding this ‘weapon’, it is doubtful that they will hand it over without a fight. You can only hope that their forces are stronger than hers, for there is nothing you can do now, you need this information to protect yourself.

You spot a rusted dagger on the floor and swap it with the poker. The man flinches at the possibilities you now hold in your hand. You place the tip on the left side of his stomach, below the steaming burn. “Where is the grove?”

“No, I-” His defiance is interrupted by a shriek as the dull blade buries itself into his skin. You push. “Stop! Stop!” You look at his pained face, he looks at you, you need not repeat the question. You begin to drag the blade to the right, rust snagging on flesh, his blood leaks in irregular spasms, it is and isn’t pretty. He cries and looks at you in terror as he realises that you have no intention of stopping and his innards will soon be spilled onto the floor. He submits. He submits to you.

“P-please! I’ll tell you! Everything! Please!” You step back, removing the dagger from his body and releasing it from your grasp. Once he regains somewhat control of his breathing, he speaks again. “E-East… P-past the ruins and… The bridge. They c-covered the gate with ivy…” His head lolls in defeat and exhaustion.

You look around to find goblins staring at you in awe. Before any could compliment you on your twisted success, you nod and leave to report back to Minthara. She leans back and hungrily gazes at you as she processes the information: satisfied, impressed, fascinated. Before you know it, you’re travelling by her side, her army marching closely behind. She steals glances at you, noticing your beads of nervous sweat. You’ve never been close to a battle like this, and you’re really, really bad at hiding it. She doesn’t comment, just smirks and continues her pursuit. Together you head to the grove, to the weapon, to the East. Once again, you hope that they can handle what’s coming.

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