#for all the content astarion has he still is the one least connected to the main story \

[elusianknight]

it was bc astarion and durge had the same writer for a period of time, potentially also affected by the fact that a lot of the production was done at the mocap studio Neil runs, so his availability is probably far more flexible than others (who have day jobs outside of acting/production/etc). neil also directed a lot of mocap, and did mocap for characters other than Astarion as well, including many monsters, all character creation animations (origins, etc).

it is a bit annoying how much content astarion gets with dark urge compared to literally every other companion. like yeah, i get budget/time constraints, but it's so obvious that astarion was larian's darling and while it's not exactly unwarranted (astarion is a great character, he's easily one of my favourite companions!) it's kind of sickening that astarion gets a whole conversation to talk you out of breaking up with him, reassuring the dark urge that they're not a monster and they're worthy of his love, whereas lae'zel and shadowheart are kinda just like "oh [default sad expression] okay"

to not even make the slightest mention of how wyll in particular was treated with regards to larian's writing (which again, i get — his rewrite was a slapdash addition to the game because he wasn't very popular in early access)

[melkyt]

Modern BG3 Idea

Astarion: Lawyer Intern in a super prestigious law firm, functions on coffee and spite. He has never known sleep and doubts he will ever. Because of this, when research for a big case is thrown his way, he doubles down, gets even more exhausted, and messes up.

Gale: Self-proclaimed scholar that "dropped out" aka kicked out of a quite prestigious college just before completing his degree after a bad time with a Proffesor who was his mentor since he was a kid. Now he is not sure what to do, is depressed and scrambling to get his life together.

Wyll: He is part of a corps that travels the world and helps people anywhere they can. His father wanted him to join the military, and Wyll was well on his way but got involved with some unsavory people and landed in legal trouble. His volunteer work, while something he would anyway, is also the price he pays for a certain youthful indiscretion

Mizora: a lawyer working for Zariel, who runs at least half the city. With high ambitions, she is always looking for a way to get an edge in any way possible as long as it is within the law. Though sometimes the law can be changed in her favor, and she makes full use of it. Always sends Wyll obscure asks and sends him on errands to strengthen her position.

Raphael: the rich kid who does not get along with his family but uses the wealth and pleasure such connections provide to the fullest. He is disatisfied that his father is content to sit back and not get involved in controlling the city. Mephisto is the oldest and most influential party in the city with a net of information brokers that he does nothing with as far as Raphael can see. So Raph breaks away to start his own dealings in the business of information and is quite successful but is still insecure that his success is only because of his father.

Karlach: is an orphan who grew up in the lower city. She got involved with one of the three criminal organizations in the area as that's just what one did. She got close to the leader of one of them until he double crossed her and dumped a lot of his debt onto her. Debt that she is still paying off by playing mercenary and killer to Zariel. It's been a decade, and she is almost out. at least she hopes so.

Halsin runs a clinic in the lower city where he takes in any and all orphans, homeless and people just down on their luck and gives them odd jobs. His place is considered a neutral ground in the chaos of those streets. This started when he saw someone very important to him die, and there was nothing he could do then. So he promised never to let anything like that happen again. It is wildly known that if you need help, Halsin will help regardless of who or what you are within the intricate power struggles of the city. Though the man does have his limits, and nobody is looking forward to finding them. He discovers a plot that would directly affect the sabctuary he has built and take it on himself to discover what's happening.

Kagha takes over. She is an ambitious woman but with not as much vision for good as Halsin. She has for a long time wanted to make the clinic more official and within the lines of the law but that means anybody who is not 100% legal due to being a refugee or any other reason, will have to leave and many of them will die because of her actions.

Zevlor is a veteran who volunteers around the city. He was once part of the same corp as Wyll under Zariel but saw how corrupt it could get and broke away, which destroyed his life. Anyone spurned by Zariel will not have much of a life and be forced on the streets. He regrets that some of his team followed him in the choice. They are hiding out in the city, hoping to bring down Zariel, and all of them can't legally be in the country as they joined from all different places.

Shadowheart just finished studying to be a doctor to set up an operation within the biggest hospital in the city by order of her cult leader. This cult is small in the city but wants to expand, so they have been working on putting their members in positions of power. She has a mission and will let nothing stop her, and her actions while not getting her caught are on someone's radar. Not to mention now that she is in the outside world experiencing how everyone else lives, she is starting to get some doubts.

Lae'zel - She is a soldier who came to the city from the same place as Shadowheart. Her organization fights to prevent cults from starting up and succeeding. This is painted as a noble pursuit. Yet the reason is that their leader wants to wipe out any and all competition. Lae'zel believes in her cause and seeks to root out the conspiracy. So she gets a job as a security guard in the hospital where Shadowheart is working.

Now to the criminal element 😎

Gortash: Weapons dealer for every organization in the city. His public company has defense contracts and a myriad of production dealings that focus on innovation and war. On the other side he provides arms and men for the other two factions.

Orin has only recently taken over as leader of a vast network of assassins and killers for hire after the very unfortunate murder of her sibling. Everyone knows she killed them as she is quite proud of the kill. Under her leadership, the organization is slowly collapsing, and she is scrambling to keep it together before someone turns on her in the same way that she did on the previous lead. Her father, who had supported the organization, turns away as soon as things start collapsing, as he has no interest in failure.

Ketheric is old money that secrety ran the city, was raising his daughter to take over as he tired but she had run away after cracking from the pressure. News eventually reached him that she had died. So he gave up for the most part in everything. This opened the way for Orin and Gortash to rise up and fill the gaps. Before Orin's sibling died, they were angling to take over as Ketheric's successor and were very close. Gortash tried to pick the pieces, but Ketheric hates the young man and does not see him as someone who can lead. Tensions are getting high between the three factions.

---

That is the scene for this AU.

Now Astarion as the linchpin to get this whole thing started. The case he fumbles with due to exhaustion is something Raphael's father had set in motion decades ago under the noses of everyone. He was biding his time while everyone fought within the city to use his net to take over. That seemingly falls through and leaves a vaccum in the powerstruggle over the city. This empty space can be filled and give the winning faction power enough to control everything.

Astarion runs away as the information he holds is valuable enough to kill and while he took alot of abuse from the higher ups, he would rather not die. He has nowhere to go but decides the lower city is the easiest place to dissapear so he comes to Halsin's clinic.

Now say the Durge survived the murder attempt by Orin thnks to Halsin and is an amnesiac doing odd jobs around the area. Living their best relaxed life away from the drama of their old life.

They are cleaning up at night in the clinic and Astarion runs into the room in a panic. Assassins/Hunters after him. He is out of breath, clutching the information from the case to his chest.

The Durge acts on instinct, not to protect but to kill. At the end they are standing in the middle of the clinic covered in blood and terrified of the memories that suddenly break through the blood fog.

Astarion just a tad terrified of them but also grateful he found a place to rest for the time being.

The Durge cleans everything up on autopilot, and then they talk. So starts their journey navigating all the factions in the city while trying not to die xd.

(I may write this as my next fic, hehe)

[blackjackkent]

Broken Little Puppets

Pairing: Astarion & Karlach Characters: Astarion, Karlach Rating: Gen Content Tags: Dialogue-heavy, bonding, moving on, light angst Word Count: 1.8k Setting: Several days after Cazador boss fight, Lower City camp. Read on AO3 other bg3 one-shots | send me fic requests! Summary:  Karlach supports Astarion after a nightmare about Cazador’s ritual - and gets a little support herself in return.

“Hey. Psst. Astarion– hey, hey!”

Astarion hears Karlach’s voice as if at a great distance. He is at the bottom of a deep black pool of reverie, trapped, drowning while still breathing. The world is far away, and the memories infinitely close, crawling across his skin. 

Images flash through him with agonizing clarity. Some nights they are more indistinct, the accumulated recollections of years upon years of varying torments - but tonight it is almost as immediate as it was in life. The humming power holds him helpless on the edge of Cazador’s ritual circle, stripped of armor and weapons and friends and hope, feeling his master’s ascension starting to boil his blood with agonizing heat…

“No. No– please–” he whimpers, his head thrashing side to side. “Let me go–”

“Hey!”

The grip on his wrist enters the reverie and pulls. Another force trapping him, another surge of blazing heat. He jerks, lashes out blindly with his free hand, and his knuckles connect with a hard, solid jawline, sending a stab of pain through his wrist and up his arm.

“Ow! Fuck!” Karlach yelps. 

Her voice finally breaks through the reverie, shattering it apart around him. His eyes snap open and he finds himself half-sitting up in his bedroll, looking at Karlach crouched in the tent flap. She’s holding her cheek with one hand and looks distinctly startled. 

“What…?” Astarion mumbles, shaking his head to try and clear the lingering fog in his thoughts. “What happened?”

“Well, you punched me, for one thing,” Karlach says. Her usual grin, never far away, is already sliding back onto her face now that she sees him awake. “Didn’t know you had that kind of right hook, Fangs.”

“You never asked,” Astarion says, with a painfully transparent attempt at his usual cocky disdain. He sits up fully, rubbing absently at his stinging wrist. “What’s the idea, grabbing me like that?”

She shrugs, letting her hand fall. There’s a visible bruise already darkening along her jaw; he really did catch her perfectly square-on. “You were, uh, having a nightmare, I think,” she says cautiously. “Or whatever you call it when you’re an elf, doing your elf thing.”

“Elves don’t have nightmares,” he says curtly. It’s not entirely a lie - reverie is not sleep. It serves the same function, at least theoretically, but an elf in reverie is not unconscious and does not dream. He remembers, locked in meditative trance, everything that has ever happened to him, often in brilliant, visceral clarity. If only that truly meant there were no nightmares…

She shakes her head. “Well, whatever it was, you were - I dunno. You were… sort of whimpering, crying out. Sure didn’t seem like you were enjoying it.”

No. No, he most certainly wasn’t. It’s only been a few days since Cazador’s blood splattered over his knife and his hands and his face; those memories are still crisp and fresh, not yet melded in with the rest. “I’m fine.” He smiles thinly. “But thanks ever so much for your concern.”

“Uh huh.” She hunches forward, crouched on the balls of her feet, and rests her elbows across her knees. “You know that’s not at all convincing, right?”

He clicks his tongue and makes a show of rolling his eyes. “Oh, all right, fine, you’ve dragged it out of me,” he says. “It was a sex dream. Very intense, lots of… you know. Positions. Orgiastic debauchery. People hanging naked upside down from chandeliers. Good cause for whimpering, is what I’m trying to say. So unless you’d like to hear all the nasty details, maybe you could just see yourself out of–”

“Astarion.” She’s still smiling, but there’s no humor in it suddenly, just a sort of rueful sadness. “I’m pretty dumb sometimes, but I’m not stupid.”

His shoulders slump and he looks away from her, rubbing the heels of his hands to his temples. “Right. Of course.”

She settles forward into a more comfortable kneeling position. She’s so tall that her head still brushes the ceiling of the tent, her intact horn giving a gentle clink against the upper pole. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

She doesn’t make any move to leave the tent, and he doesn’t make any move to force her. They both just sit there, listening to the muted bustle of the city outside their alleyway camp.

After a while he speaks, low, almost inaudible. “I couldn’t possibly explain it,” he says, “in a way that would make you understand.”

“Try me.” She rolls her head to one side, then the other, stretching out the muscles in her neck. “Maybe I’d surprise you.”

“You’re young,” he says bitterly. “How could you possibly comprehend torments that operated on a scale of decades?”

She juts out her jaw thoughtfully. “I had one decade in the Hells. Feels like maybe that counts for something.” When he doesn’t respond, she goes on quietly, “I get nightmares too, y’know. Ten years in the Hells is no two hundred years in Caza-fuck’s dirty basement, but you still rack up a lot of bad memories. And Zariel was just as much of a cruel fucking prick…”

It’s pathetically obvious what she’s doing, of course. Talking first to get him to talk after. He’s not fooled. Sort of endearing, though, he supposes; how many people would actually bother to try?

“Woke up just last night absolutely convinced I was beating the shit out of a hezrou,” she goes on. “You ever see one of them? Nasty little brutes. Only I kept killing it and it kept coming back, and coming back, and coming back…” She stops abruptly, pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on them. “Fucked up my pillow something good.”

He grunts noncommittally. Another long silence stretches between them. 

“How’d it feel, killing him?” she asks abruptly. And this time her voice is quieter; it’s lost some of the note of friendly assurance. 

He stiffens. “Surely you don’t need me to tell you what it’s like to kill someone,” he says sardonically. “I think we could both give a lecture on the subject that would put Gale to shame.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She frowns. “How’d it feel killing him?” The emphasis is clearer this time.

“Mm.” He gives her a keen look sidelong. “Rather the way it felt for you to kill Gortash, I imagine,” he says. “Though I think I managed it with more artistic flair. Really spattered the canvas, if you will.”

“Yeah.” She huffs out a breath, rattling her lips dramatically. “Watching you tear him up - it felt good. Wish I’d gone all-out like that, with Gortash. All I did was sink one good one right in his chest, but you left Cazzy just a piece of fucking meat. Shredded him. That’s the way it should be - for him, for Gortash, for Zariel, for all the fuckers who use people like that. Just a piece of fucking meat for some dog to chew on.” 

Her voice has dropped lower, and he can feel the way the temperature in the tent has ticked up a notch or two as her engine starts to rev with agitation. “And even so…” she mutters sourly, “it still doesn’t fucking fix anything, in the end. Their final little laugh at our expense.”

He wants to object, to snarl out, like the wounded animal that he is, that of course it fixed things. He won. He’s alive (in a manner of speaking) and Cazador’s gone. He will never have to follow that bastard’s direction ever again, never again let his body be used, or be compelled to press a hot poker into his own flesh, or sit in solitary confinement while hunger gnaws in his belly like a furious beast. That is all over now, it’s done. It’s gone.

Except it isn’t, not really. 

He is still a vampire. He will still never see his own face in a mirror again, or taste food as anything more than ash on his tongue. The scars on his back are still deep and harsh, spelling out an infernal message of ascension that has lost its only purpose. All the memories of two hundred years of abuse still linger in his mind, ready to be recalled in such clarity as if they happened yesterday.

And the hunger will never, ever, ever stop.

Nothing he did to Cazador changed that in the slightest, just the way nothing Karlach did to Gortash changed the inferno burning in her chest.

He shudders, his shoulders hunching up involuntarily as if recoiling from a blow. “No,” he mutters. “It doesn’t fix a damned thing.”

“Yeah.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “Shoulda seen the way I screamed in Hector’s face when I figured that one out. Still, at least they’re dead. And we’re free.”

“Free. Yes.” He laughs sharply. “Two broken little puppets with their strings cut.”

She grins - with no humor but with a sort of savage intensity. “And still managing to put on a pretty good show.”

“Are we?” For a moment the sardonic mask slips and he lifts his head to look at her. “I’m not putting on a good show - I'm lost. All of Cazador’s power was at my fingertips, and instead I’m sitting in a dirty alleyway listening to Minsc snoring from the other end of the camp. This is no good show. It’s a farce.”

She says nothing, just waits, and eventually he adds grudgingly, “But it's my farce.”

“Damn right it is.” Humor flashes back into Karlach’s face suddenly. “Besides, who doesn’t love a good farce? Mistaken identities, slapstick, dick jokes… the height of entertainment, if you ask me.”

Astarion can’t help a slight, crooked grin in return. Karlach’s indomitable energy is always infectious, even in the deepest depths of his brooding. “Darling, let me be the first to condemn you as incurably lowbrow,” he says airily, giving a dismissive wave with one hand.

“Listen, vampy, I don’t have the kind of time you do to worry about appearances.” She uncurls her legs slowly from her chest to a cross-legged position instead. “Funny thing, y'know. You’re gonna go on and on forever, and I’ve got a year left in me, tops. But we’re both fighting the same fight when it comes down to it. Staring down all that freedom, trying to force it into a shape that makes sense. Make something worthwhile out of it before it’s too late.”

Astarion draws his head back and looks at her suddenly as if seeing her clearly for the first time. His fingers fidget absently with the edge of his bedroll. “Well,” he finally says quietly, “I won’t give up the fight if you don’t, hm?”

Her eyes brighten and she laughs. “Got yourself a deal, Fangs.”

[xalygatorx]

Unbound | Chapter 17, "Get Up"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: Already weakened from their fight with the duergar and subsequently Glut as well to protect Spaw’s circle, the party encounters their most monstrous enemy yet in the Underdark while they seek a place to rest. On their last legs and fighting for their lives, Áine reawakens an old power within herself to save them all at a cost. Astarion, mortally wounded and terrified for Áine, scraps with his allies as they try to help him. The group finds a safe spot to make camp and focus on recovering. An old acquaintance returns to Áine.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: Graphic fantasy violence (appropriate for canon, but described in detail); blood; descriptions of pain and injury (seeing it on others and feeling it); grief; trauma and descriptions of trauma, panic, and anxiety responses; angst; comfort/hurt; close calls for canon characters; no one dies but I do love to toe that line, besties; suggestive dialogue and content; lightly proofread

Word Count: 9.3k

Listening to: Destroyer - Of Monsters and Men

“I knew that fucking mushroom was going to be trouble!”

“Seemed like a fun guy at first.”

“Karlach,” Wyll warned through a snicker at Gale’s joke, “he didn’t mean it.” More likely it was Wyll who didn’t mean what he was saying because Gale had gone all-in on that one.

Karlach was halfway between laughing and barbecuing their wizard. “Gods, I hate you both,” she seethed, her flames calming in time with her chuckling. “Affectionately.”

“Chk,” Lae’zel grumbled. “There is no overlap in love and rage.”

“There is when it comes to dealing with their puns, Lae,” Karlach noted, adjusting the straps of her pack. “Gods, I need a nap and away from these two… Áine!” Up ahead, the bard paused and glanced over her shoulder at the tiefling barbarian. “How long until we camp?!”

“Soon,” Áine called back, taking stock of their party while she was half-turned. They were all tired and battered—the duergar had proven a tough fight, especially when their plan to take them by surprise had failed and one of the slavers had raised a small army of zombified corpses to fight on their behalf. Gale had helped to minimize the damage by destroying the rope ladders connecting the wooden platforms and funneling them into a singular nearby path, but they’d still taken a beating. 

And then there was Glut. They’d no sooner finished one fight before another was started and they’d had to kill the clanless myconid, who’d attacked them as soon as Áine refused to betray Spaw’s confidence.

They’d meant to take a more straightforward path back to Spaw’s circle, but the path had led them in a more roundabout route than intended and they were now more fatigued than ever. At least the path forward was clear—the Selûnite outpost was just up ahead and with a couple of short climbs, they’d be back near its crumbling walls and able to retrace their familiar path from its gates, back to their old camp.

“What do we think?” Áine asked no one in particular. “Keep going until we’re back to the circle?”

“The outpost is just there,” Shadowheart pointed out, unable to keep the wrinkle from her nose when she gazed upon the outpost again. Áine resisted rolling her eyes. “I don’t recall the circle being too far from where we ran into those minotaurs, do you?”

Áine shook her head. “Not too far, no. And we are likely the safest there while we recover.”

“It sounds as though our best option is to make our way back in full,” Halsin supplied, supportive of their conjectures in his reaffirming way. He cast a glance across the others, his features a little grave as he took in the smattering of split lips, bruises, and limps. “Anyone opposed?”

Silence stretched and Áine drew in a deep breath and nodded to herself. She looked to her side, meeting Astarion’s eyes as she said, “We keep moving then.” He nodded once, equally roughed up but ready to settle down somewhere he felt safe enough to meditate and heal. He walked along just behind Áine as she approached a rocky incline and said, “If anyone starts to feel otherwise, please say something, alright?”

There was a collective murmur of agreement as the group fell into step behind her. Áine set her jaw and prepared for her body to protest as she scaled the craggy outcrop. It echoed its ongoing soreness with renewed fervor, but she made it to the top just fine. Her shoulder was even cooperating for once and it made her a little more optimistic about their journey back.

She was so focused on assessing her condition that she didn’t notice the statue she’d risen beside until it nearly scared her out of her skin. Áine hopped back, prepared for a fight until she realized it was merely stone. On closer inspection, she saw that it was a life-sized statue of a drow in mercenary garb. 

On even closer inspection, she realized it had once been a drow. It wasn’t stone-carved, it was a petrified elf. “What in the Hells…,” she murmured, her fingertips tracing along its arm.

“A statue?” Gale asked, stepping to the other side of the petrified drow and lightly knocking against its shoulder. 

“Not always, I don’t think,” Áine murmured, her eyes shifting further down the path and seeing more of the same. She raised her voice slightly as she ordered the party, “On your guard.”

“Always,” Lae’zel murmured in confirmation, her hand resting against the hilt of her sword as her reptilian eyes traced the eerie plateau.

Áine neared another of the petrified drow mercenaries, noting that this one was unmasked. The look of unbridled terror on his face, frozen into eternity, sent a chill down her spine. There was no telling when this had happened exactly, but every survival instinct she had urged her not to linger. “Let’s hurry up t—”

She was cut off by an unnatural rumble through the ground beneath her feet. Áine steadied herself, glancing toward her friends also struggling to keep their footing. “Another bulette?” Wyll wondered aloud. It did seem the most likely based on their experiences so far, but Áine’s urge to hasten away intensified nonetheless.

“I don’t want to find out, let’s go,” Áine said, turning around to step back down to the plateau and get to the break in the outpost wall. She didn’t manage more than the turn before she looked up and saw precisely what had created this purgatorial statue garden they stood amongst.

Spines rippling with every undulation of its ghastly tentacles, the monster that had upset the earth in its uprising lifted into the air and opened its singular, enormous yellow eye. Its pupil spasmed and adjusted, skittering between them for just seconds until its mouth opened on a scream, the expression splitting its nightmarish face in twain.

“RUN!” Karlach shouted, jarring them all from their varied states of panicked freezing. 

Bolts of light shot from the ends of the spectator’s appendages, barely missing Áine and Gale, but hitting Shadowheart and Halsin. The bolts paralyzed them, rooting them in place with only their eyes able to move. Any plan to retreat was shelved then and those still able to move turned to fight.

Gale was the quickest to react, unleashing a fireball at the creature and hitting it squarely in the eye. It screeched and flung an appendage at him, sending him sprawling against a nearby outcrop. He clutched his side, rivulets of blood weaving from beneath his hair and across his temple as he shot more fire at the creature. “Ardē!”

Arrows sliced the air from Astarion’s bow, finding purchase in the creature’s leathery skin and the jelly of its eye. Lae’zel surged forward, sword in hand, only pausing along the way to free Shadowheart from her paralysis. The cleric looked jarred but nodded to the githyanki in thanks as she quickly dredged up what healing magic she had left, spreading it across the group. 

After Halsin was also cured of his paralysis, Wyll concentrated his final dregs of power to unleash bolts of red eldrich energy upon the beast, unsheathing his rapier when he felt his strength draining from the effort to little avail. Nearby, Karlach screamed wrath into her veins, aflame as she took her battleaxe into the fray and hacked at one of the spectator’s tentacles.

Their confidence was momentary. Fleeting, even, as their preexisting injuries screamed back to life, worsened or accompanied by new ones with every bite, every hit, and every bolt the monster threw their way. They were reminded that they’d meant to retreat, only fighting out of necessity, when the spectator took a chunk from Halsin’s broad, blackened shoulder with its needly teeth and flung him into the dirt near Gale. 

The appendages ignited anew with bolts of what they first thought would be another paralysis spell but instead found purchase on the petrified drow. Reinvigorated from stasis, the mercenaries were propelled into the spectator’s defense and caught the party’s blades with their own. 

Astarion’s attention diverted to sinking arrows into the resurrected drow, finding his shots counting for more against the smaller enemies descending upon their companions. He was unloading an ice-imbued arrow into a mercenary nearing Áine’s flank when the spectator unleashed a new wave of paralysis that caught him in its turning tide. The arrow had found its target, loosed just before the light struck him. 

His crimson eyes froze wide as the spectator descended upon him, shredding his torso and right arm with its teeth. He was left unable to scream his agony as his blood poured from the gaping wounds, his undead body barred from beginning any sort of healing process until he could move again. 

Cold blood waterfalled from his slashes as the spectator ravaged their frozen, bloodied friends, only Karlach, Lae’zel, and Áine left mobile. He felt his body growing colder, his mind growing fuzzier and number, sending him back in time to when this was his normal state of mind, bloodless and barely alive. If he could have shuddered, his body would’ve made him. Instead, he remained frozen in time, his struggle against the enchantment rooting him in place weakening with every second he continued to bleed.

It occurred to him that only seconds had gone by, seconds that felt like eons, when he heard Áine scream his name. With effort, he focused on her. Unfortunately, so did their foe. As the creature turned on her, suddenly bleeding out in his paralysis wasn’t his worst fate. 

Watching this thing kill the woman he adored and being unable to save her was.

Áine had been working off adrenaline and horror ever since the monstrosity hovering over them had hurled Gale to the ground. Each time one of them was paralyzed, it was a race with just her battered legs and her swords to fend it off one of her defenseless friends before it killed them in their stasis. Suddenly it was just herself, Lae’zel, and Karlach left moving. The drow were all dispatched save two. Áine had rushed to help when she saw Karlach roll with one of the resurrected elves over the edge of their plateau and disappear, only stumbling to a stop when the one Lae’zel had been fighting threw the injured gith against a rock and came at her instead.

An arrow had sliced the air and punctured his side, a sweep of ice blossoming beneath the drow’s feet that immediately sent him down on his face. Áine’s mistake had been to assume that was enough in her desperation to get her blades back into the monster assaulting her friends, her vision tunneled into protecting her loved ones as she’d slid on the ice herself and fallen on the drow’s upturned blade. 

The possessed mercenary thrust up into her when she slipped and Áine gasped, muffling a low whine of pain as she stabbed her scimitar into his neck, effectively finishing him off. She looked down at the long, spindly dagger he’d plunged into her stomach and her fingers twitched, aching to pull it out despite knowing she shouldn’t. She felt a familiar tickle of drow poison spreading through her, but her resistance was such that pulling the dagger out and letting her wound bleed more freely was the larger danger. 

The keening of stripping metal and tearing of flesh broke her bemusement and she whirled, tracing the spectator and seeing amongst its multitudes of teeth—

“Astarion!”

Gods above, there was so much blood. All around her, but leaking without pause from his pale body, his armor shredded where he spurted red. This can’t be the end…

Her vision shifted as her wounds and her panic at seeing her lover and her friends so horrifically mangled sank into her mind. She didn’t see the spectator change course. She wasn’t even sure she would have cared if she had. Perhaps she would have felt relief that it turned its attention away from Astarion onto her. Maybe he could get away.

Áine’s eyes rose to meet the spectator’s gaze, her features taut with defiance as she stabbed both her scimitars into its dripping, lacerated sclera. It responded with an unearthly shriek and a hurl of its tentacles that slammed her like a ragdoll into a nearby stalagmite with a hard crack.

The scream in Astarion’s throat was half-loosed when the paralysis finally wore off, but the condition’s fade sent him immediately tumbling to the ground, into puddles of his own blood. Shaking, he raised himself on his elbows, his nails digging and scraping against the plateau gravel as he tried to drag himself forward. The sensation brutalized his mind with intrusive flashbacks—the scratching and clawing against a stone crypt lid, painstakingly picking dirt out of the ridges after seizing against the dungeon floor for hours after being whipped, beaten, and carved into. He ignored them, unwilling to let his last thoughts be those long wretched years. If anything would be his and his alone, it would be his death.

“No, you can’t die,” he gritted out, his voice barely managing above a murmur as he clawed the dirt in a daze, desperately trying to get to Áine. What would he even do when he got there? 

She was slumped in a heap on the ground next to the rock she’d hit, her shiny pearl locks bathed red and pooled around her face. A dagger he hadn’t even seen pierce her stomach was buried to the hilt and poked past her arm folded beside her. The spectator made a breathy noise that almost sounded like a laugh and the odious air flowing from its jaws stirred Áine’s hair. It was the only movement Astarion saw from her. 

He snarled, one of his palms slipping in blood and sending him to the ground again. “Get up, damn you!” he growled, but his voice cracked in desperation.

Áine, barely lucid, slowly tilted her head, looking through hair stained red at Astarion. Around them, the paralysis was slowly wearing off the few it affected, Shadowheart included, but the damage was so great and the situation so hopeless that the freed immediately collapsed beneath both. Áine’s vision blurred and she heard Astarion plead with her as if through a long, narrow hallway, his words clear but far away.

Subconsciously, she extended her arm, reaching for him despite knowing neither of them could make the crawl. She winced at the simple movement, her body rending around every injury. She could feel her pulse, an irregular burning around the dagger buried in her belly. Get up, she growled inwardly, her mind’s voice sounding a mix of hers, Astarion’s, and voices from her past, not all of them fond. 

Shaking, she withdrew her outstretched hand and planted it against the ground, her bicep straining as she tried to do as he asked. The hilt of the dagger clacked against the dirt, sending a new shock of pain through her body and she shuddered, a hiss escaping between clenched teeth. Áine managed to push herself up just enough to turn towards the lingering spectator, her body vibrating with the effort while her legs remained buckled beneath her. A cough wracked her body and a spatter of blood projected from her parted lips.

The spectator blinked slowly, its lids hitting the hilts of her blades still sheathed in its eye. It seemed undeterred, its gigantic, slobbering tongue slipping over the surface of its teeth as it stared at her and then began to advance again.

She heard her name croaked again from the vampire lying nearby, too weak to even sit up despite trying desperately to. She could hear his hands splashing against the gore he crawled through, too drained to find purchase on the slickened cave floor. 

Áine’s mind remained addled with her own urgent demands to her body, her memories surfacing in a mingling of voices. Astarion’s, Shadowheart’s, the illithids’, even her father’s. Was this what people meant when they spoke of one’s life flashing before their eyes? Was she dying? 

No. No, she wouldn’t die. None of them would. An old voice resonated in her, reminding her, and her mind traced the contours of that voice with recognition, finding within it a buried ancient power she’d long refused, ignored until it faded into ether and the bearer of that voice left her too. Áine, for the sake of her new family, would embrace them both now.

She shoved herself up once more on one shaking, bleeding arm and with the last of her might extended her other hand toward the looming creature, its bared teeth littered with scraps of their flesh and smears of their blood. Its maw split open, still hungry, still eager to strip every scrap of her skin, every ounce of her defiance off her bones. 

A deadly silence fell over them all until all that could be heard was the crackle of building power around Áine’s hand, a building flush of emerald light blaring from her fingertips and the slits of her half-hooded eyes as, in the quiet that also extinguished the vocal clamor in her mind, one final word caressed her conscience with a tone of recognition. 

“Oathbreaker.”

The crack that split the air was deafening and, for a second, scattered conscious members of the party feared that Gale’s orb had detonated. A blinding, sickly green light erupted from Áine’s hand. When the light cleared, the spectator lay in steaming slices of viscera across the cavern floor. 

When the ringing in Astarion’s ears faded, he heard Áine collapse, unmoving against the rocks. No, was the only word he could think with any clarity and it grew repetitious and feral as his terror and fading condition mingled. No no no no no no no no no no no—

Something touched him and he snarled, swiping backward with one blood-covered hand. He heard Shadowheart mutter at him to stop moving as she dodged around him and turned him over to assess his damage while looking half-dead herself. 

“Don’t touch me!” Astarion hissed, attempting to shove her hands away from his destroyed armor but finding himself too weak to win the battle of wills. The realization just made him further lose his composure.

“Hold still!” she snapped, prying apart what she could of his scrapped armor to get at the deep wounds beneath. Shadowheart caught Astarion’s wrists, drawing another angry snarl from the vampire spawn fighting against her aid. “Wyll, help me!”

Wyll’s face appeared in Astarion’s vision and the Blade took hold of his wrists from Shadowheart, pinning his arms above his head and away from her work. Astarion’s anger bordered on panic. There were too many hands on him and he was too weak to rid himself of any of them. He hissed and growled, still struggling despite knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that they were trying to help him. All he could think of was getting them off him and Ái—

“Go help her,” Astarion gritted, snapping at Wyll’s arm when it came within reach. The Blade held fast, avoiding his fangs and maintaining his bruising hold on the vampire’s arms. Seething, Astarion shouted at Shadowheart, “Go to Áine and get off me!”

“You are dying, Astarion,” Shadowheart finally snapped, near-black bruises under her eyes as she forced her remaining magic through her fingertips as they pressed into his torso. 

“So is she,” he tried to snarl back, but the words came out with a panicked whine. He twisted desperately to try and see past Wyll to where Áine had collapsed. He got a vantage point just as Halsin and Lae’zel stooped to peel her limp body off the floor. “Bleeding Hells, Áine!”

“Halsin will help her until I can, but you’re in more dire shape than she is and she will never forgive either of us if you die,” Shadowheart gritted, finding Astarion even harder to hold in place now that he’d seen Áine. 

“I don’t care!” Astarion spat, his eyes rolling back in his head as his vision blurred sideways again. “I don’t care, just help her—please—”

Shadowheart felt panic lance through her as Astarion started to lose his focus. At least when he was fighting her, she knew he was lucid, but he was drifting again and she could only assume the worst. “Shit,” she snapped, holding his face as his head started to roll sideways. “Stay with me. Astarion!”

Wyll looked at her, panic in his eyes that only flared further when she pulled one of Astarion’s daggers from his belt. “What are you doing?”

“He needs blood,” Shadowheart said under her breath, her features contorted in pain from her own injuries. 

“Let me,” Wyll quickly said, holding out his hand. Astarion was half-conscious and had stilled his struggle in his delirium. “I’m in more of a condition to do so.”

Shadowheart hesitated, but he was right and they both knew it. She hesitated, handing him the dagger and switching her hands down to Astarion’s wrists. Wyll sliced his palm with a quick wince and held his dripping hand over Astarion’s mouth, squeezing the wound. There was a moment of uneasy stillness before Astarion’s entire body seized, almost succeeding in bucking Shadowheart off him as he lunged up toward the source of the blood. Wyll jolted but held his ground as Shadowheart wrestled the drained vampire back down onto his back. 

“That’s enough,” Shadowheart said as she saw Astarion’s pupils begin to react more normally when shadows passed over them. “That will help and we’ll still be able to cart him to wherever we set up if he fusses again.”

Wyll retracted his hand, starting to scout a makeshift bandage when he felt Shadowheart’s fingertips against his, a gentle light cascading from the touch to knit his cut closed. Wyll looked up, meeting Shadowheart’s tired but grateful gaze. “Thank you.”

Realizing they were lingering, the two quickly retracted their hands and set back to work on getting Astarion into a stable enough state to move him. Astarion had grown slightly more aware with some fresh blood returned to his system, but he felt dissociated from himself. When his eyes did wander, they tried to follow Halsin’s hulking form as he struggled to find Áine again. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about the way her head had lolled on her neck when they’d picked her up, not an ounce of fight left in her. Furthest from his mind at that moment was what she’d done to save them all. He didn’t care as long as it meant she’d saved herself, too.

It made very little sense to Áine, when she awoke, that she was still alive. It simply didn’t add up. Not the way she felt her eyes open in such a familiar corporeal sense, not the warm hands she felt resting against her stomach, and not the way her persistent, stubborn heart still thudded in her chest. 

But her eyes did open. So who was she to argue?

Past the fringe of her lashes, she saw a blur of dancing blue light, a shimmer of iridescent motes. When her amber eyes focused, she saw the bioluminescent spores for what they were, aglow as they wove in through the flap of her tent from outside. Their song thrummed gently against her aching head and seemed to settle among her bruises and cuts, their faint warmth second to the touch against her waist.

Gingerly, Áine turned her head to regard the cleric hunched over her. Shadowheart’s focus was solely on the wound she was pulling together in Áine’s gut, the dagger that had made it set aside near her medical pouch. The pouch was dotted with blood as if the dagger, coated in the substance, had been thrown down in a hurry. The shadows under the cleric’s eyes were nearly black against her ashen skin and while her hands appeared still against Áine’s flesh, she could feel the faint tremble in them through the wound they covered.

Áine tried to speak but found her throat dry as a bone. Shadowheart heard the little sound she made at least and her eyes flickered to the bard under her care. “Welcome back,” Shadowheart murmured, an attempt at humor.

“Did you have to revive me?” Áine asked, managing to find her voice this time but just barely.

“No,” Shadowheart said, the glow fading from her palms as she removed her hands to reveal a fresh scar where the drow’s dagger had run Áine through. “But it was close. Not just for you.”

“Is everyone—?”

“Don’t stress yourself and undo my work,” Shadowheart scolded Áine as she tried to sit up too quickly. “Everyone is alive. We’re back in the circle. We’re safe…” She gave Áine a peculiar look. “Thanks to you.”

Áine let out a shaky sigh of relief to hear the others were all alright. She parsed back through what she could remember before blacking out, but it was scattered. More vividly than what she’d done specifically, she remembered that whisper in her mind, the familiar gravelly voice as vivid in memory as in life. “Oathbreaker.” 

At least it had worked.

Áine glanced at Shadowheart’s imploring eyes, feeling bare under the other woman’s scrutiny. She focused on the shadows beneath her eyes again and the bruises and cuts she could see scattered across her uncovered skin. “You should rest, too,” she informed the cleric. When Shadowheart grimaced, Áine insisted, “Seriously. You’ve done more than enough. Take care of yourself for a while. Please?”

“Fine, fine,” Shadowheart mumbled, waving Áine off as she gathered her things back into her pouch. She plucked up the bloodied dagger with a sneer of resentment. “I’m going to rid us of this unless you want it for some reason.”

“I’ve had enough of it, thanks,” Áine murmured.

Shadowheart nodded but didn’t yet budge from Áine’s side. She broke her troubled silence just as Áine was about to insist again that she go get some rest. “You know… Whatever you were before we met, before you were a bard, it’s okay,” she said, catching Áine off-guard. “It won’t change anything, even if you feel it might.”

Áine frowned. “I’m not so sure.”

Shadowheart nodded, meeting Áine’s eyes. “I understand. And I can’t speak for everyone, of course. But I can relate in a way. I felt the same fear when I hadn’t yet told you I was a Sharran. And, for whatever that’s worth in relation to what you’re dealing with, that ended up okay.”

“It’s different. You’re not riddled with shame for it,” Áine said, trying to gentle her curt tone. “But I understand your meaning. And I’ll take it to heart.”

“That’s all I ask,” Shadowheart said, patting Áine’s hand. “That and for you to check on Astarion when you feel ready to get up and around again. Not that you wouldn’t regardless, but—”

“Is he alright?” Áine asked with renewed urgency. Memories of his torso slashed apart, his panicked frozen eyes, and how he’d tried to drag himself to her flashed through her mind.

“He is,” Shadowheart hastened to reassure her. “He wouldn’t be if you hadn’t done what you did. None of us would be, I don’t think. But he made it very difficult to save him and I’m worried I didn’t find all his injuries before he ran me off.”

“Ran you off?” Áine repeated.

“It took me and Wyll to stabilize him on that cliff so we could move him,” Shadowheart told her. “He was fighting us nearly the entire time and telling us not to touch him.” Áine’s heart stung. “And yelling at us to go help you instead. Then when we finally got back and I took you over from Halsin, we had to all but cram him into his tent for him to leave your side and actually rest. Succeeding that, he wouldn’t let anyone in to finish cleaning up his wounds and—”

Shadowheart was becoming more and more impassioned and blustering as she recounted it, only pausing when Áine rested her hand against the cleric’s arm. “I’ll go.” Shadowheart was frustrated and Áine could see it, but she only got this flustered when she was also worried.

“Right. Thank you,” Shadowheart said breathily through a sigh as she ran a hand across her forehead. Her palms and fingertips were speckled with blood she’d missed between patients and her nails were crusted with dirt and grime. She looked like she could pass out at any moment and it was finally that fatigue hitting that encouraged her to follow Áine’s advice. “I think I’ve said it before,” she said as she turned to leave, “but I can’t remember in my current headspace if I’ve said it aloud to you… I was wrong about him.”

Áine adjusted to her side so she could push herself into a seated position. “How so?”

“I told you a while back that I doubted his intentions with you,” Shadowheart explained. “And I still sort of did, even after he asked me about your shoulder. But I was wrong. He loves you. Dearly.”

Áine blushed and the color got mixed in with the bruises splotching her skin. “I wouldn’t go that far, but—”

“Oh, I would,” Shadowheart insisted. “You should see the way he looks at you, especially when he thinks no one’s paying him any mind. Then you wouldn’t be able to argue with me.”

“I’m sure I’d still find a way,” Áine mused, gathering her hair into a low side-ponytail and noting with some alarm how streaked with blood her hair was. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but she supposed she’d just forgotten both how much she’d bled and how much blood she’d fallen into in general during the fight.

“Hm. Probably,” Shadowheart hummed. “Take it easy tonight.”

“I will,” Áine assured her, watching her leave before slowly staggering to her feet. She ducked through her tent door as well, her eyes finding the cleric and watching her progress back to her tent. 

Shadowheart started to deviate toward Halsin, who was working on closing a wound on Gale’s scalp. She hesitated and glanced furtively back as she felt Áine’s eyes on her. Áine gave her a scolding look that put Shadowheart back on a path to her tent, not satisfied until the cleric was in her tent with the bit of canvas falling back into place behind her. 

Satisfied, Áine scoped out the camp, noting Halsin and Gale again but not resting until she also scoped out Wyll, Karlach, and Lae’zel. The last she’d seen of Karlach, the tiefling had been scrapping with one of the drow mercenaries and it had taken both of them over a ledge, but at a glance, she seemed the most intact of all of them. 

Wyll looked more or less just a bit bruised with a few treated cuts to his name and he was assisting Karlach in checking a wound on Lae’zel’s head. Lae’zel had only agreed to Karlach evaluating her wounds, as she saw a sister-in-arms in the tiefling and felt less scrutinized by a fellow warrior. However, Karlach couldn’t touch Lae’zel without setting the young githyanki ablaze, so Wyll was permitted to be Karlach’s hands, carefully moving Lae’zel’s bloodied hair so they could check the damage.

From Áine’s vantage point, they looked like they were doing well to take care of each other, which meant she could feel zero qualms about going to see Astarion and likely staying there for the rest of the night thereafter if he let her. They’d been cohabitating since he’d confided in her just a couple of nights back, but she’d never seen him in such a state of injury and figured there was a chance he preferred to weather those conditions alone. 

Meeting her comrades’ gazes as she passed them to get to his tent door, she exchanged smiles and reassuring looks with each, her heart full and her head light with relief that everyone, somehow against their odds, had survived another night. As put-together as she seemed on the surface though, her mind hadn’t stopped racing along with her heart since she remembered how badly wounded Astarion was before she fainted. Neither slowed until she was able to peek through the door of his tent and confirm he was inside, alive and in a deep reverie.

Áine held a hand against her aching heart, a sigh easing from her chest and relaxing her frame. He was okay.

Astarion lay on his bedroll, his fingers curled into small circles for his meditation and his skin littered with cuts and bruises. Shadows bloomed as dark as Shadowheart’s under his closed eyes, standing out against his porcelain pallor, dark petals against snow. He was without a shirt, either of his choosing or something Shadowheart and Wyll had managed to do when they’d fought to stabilize him. His pants remained but they were tattered from the battle, slashed through in several places. 

To Áine’s relief, the wounds she remembered pouring blood to stone looked well on their way to healing. His chest rose and fell with even breaths despite not needing to breathe. She was glad he did anyway—it reassured her in times like this.

Her gaze shifted down to a small bowl of water and a cloth near the bedroll, the bowl half spilled across the dirt beside it. A relic of Shadowheart’s scrap with him, she supposed. Áine shook her head as she carefully sank to her knees beside him and submerged the cloth in the lukewarm water, wringing it over the basin. Didn’t he understand that whatever vigil he may have kept in or outside her tent would have done her no good at all if it hindered his healing? 

She smirked softly as she supposed he probably hadn’t thought that far at all. He rarely could think more than two steps ahead into a plan at any given time.

Áine started with his arms, carefully wiping away the remnants of blood Shadowheart had been unable to get to and Astarion had likely left in favor of tending to his pain and exhaustion. She took her time to be thorough, humming the melody to “Lilac & Gooseberries” under her breath while she worked, musing over how she could change more of the lyrics to suit his fine qualities. When she felt a sliver of her bardic abilities touch upon the tune, she allowed them to flow in, giving the strokes she made with the cloth a touch of magic to help along his recovery.  

She sighed again, soft and more sad this time. My poor boy, she thought, locating his essential oils near one of the pillows she’d brought from her tent and adding a couple of drops to the basin before she began cleaning the blood from his chest and neck. He was okay and she knew that. He’d go hunt and be better in a day’s time and he was already most assuredly more healed up than she was. She just kept thinking back to the look on his face after she’d gone down, and kept hearing that crack in his voice as he’d begged her to get back up. 

It was possible, she thought while she featherlight cleansed his neck, face, and ears, that she may not have found it within herself to reawaken that old, unexplored power had she not felt compelled to push through for him. She was giving up before hearing his voice. She’d felt herself buckle, delirious with pain and fatigue, and flood with despair at seeing her friends so broken. At seeing him so broken, too. She’d started to lose hope.

A star in the Underdark, indeed, she thought, thinking she was perhaps still a little delirious with pain when she noted the sappiness of her own musings. She felt herself smile even though it aggravated the split in her lip. Áine drew her lower lip between her teeth, fidgeting with the healing cut while she moved on to Astarion’s hair, meticulously smoothing the red tints from his silver strands.

She didn’t notice he was conscious until a few minutes after he first opened his eyes, too focused on tending to his curls. When her eyes met his, she found them already on her bearing a mix of emotions, some of which she couldn’t quite translate. One almost looked like anger.

Áine’s lips curled in the beginnings of a smile that fell away when he suddenly bolted upright. They stared at each other—Astarion agitated and Áine bewildered—until Áine’s gaze once more traced the dark shadows beneath his scarlet eyes and held out her wrist. Astarion looked between her confused expression and the vein she offered him before scowling as if insulted and swatting her arm away. 

More flummoxed than before, Áine’s eyes narrowed and she parted her lips to speak, but he lunged forward and swallowed her words, his hand catching around the back of her neck as he angled her head and kissed her hard. She made a small noise of complaint against his lips, bracing her hands against his chest when he crowded her with his body. 

Regardless of his reasoning, Áine was uncomfortable and her wounds were aching as he pulled her closer and she slapped his cheek with as much force as he’d swatted her wrist away. It was enough to jar him and he withdrew, looking at her with shock that had mirrored hers just moments ago. 

“Cut it out,” Áine mumbled once her mouth was free, the split on her lower lip feeling like it might bleed again. “Astarion, stop,” she said emphatically when he yanked her closer by her belt, slapping his hands away from the buckle.

His eyes, somehow far away and yet present enough to react, flashed with hurt. “I…,” he faltered, his empty hands hovering with nothing to touch as he tried to reroute his reactions. “Darling, I’m sorry, I just need to be close to you.”

“Then come here and be close to me, my love,” Áine suggested simply and with a patience beyond her years. She guided him to her and folded him in her arms, one of her hands moving to cradle his face as he buried his head against her chest. “Is this better?”

“Yes,” he murmured almost too softly for her to hear. She felt his tears trickle over her hand before she heard them in his voice. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Áine felt her faint frustration with him melt away along with the presentation of his poor coping mechanisms that had caused it in the first place. “You didn’t.”

Astarion craned his head back to look at her, his ear still pressed to her heart. His eyes were rimmed in red. “But I almost did,” he argued in a whisper, a quiet crack in his voice.

“And I almost lost you,” Áine murmured, sniffing against her own tears that threatened to come. “But I didn’t. We didn’t. We’re both alive and on the mend.”

“I don’t think you understand, dearheart,” he said, clearly very shaken. “I can never feel like that again.”

Áine frowned, smoothing her thumb against his tear-dappled cheekbone. “We will,” she told him honestly, not liking it any more than he did. “Probably several times before this is over.”

“Well, that’s…,” he paused, drawing a shaking breath. “That’s shit.”

The bard offered him a smile dipped in nothing but understanding and sympathy. “That’s life.”

Astarion scoffed. “There has to be something I can do,” he seemed to muse exclusively to himself. “If at the source of the tadpoles’ creation, we can sort what controls the cult, the parasites, even the Absolute, too, then—”

“Astarion,” Áine admonished him, her tone flat and unyielding. He stopped and looked at her, his expression pleading. “Power doesn’t make you safe. In fact, it often does the opposite.”

“Darling, I need the means to protect you,” he murmured through clenched teeth as he sat up from her arms, his hands moving to cradle her face. “To protect myself, to protect both of us.”

“I don’t need protecting,” she told him, her hands resting over his and holding them to her cheeks. Áine turned her head just enough to kiss the inside of his wrist. “This is the risk we take in—,” she sighed, kicking her anxiety aside, “in loving each other. Especially in our present circumstances.”

“Well, I hate it,” he snapped, his tone severe even as he stroked her face as carefully as if she were made of glass. 

Áine raised a brow at him. A mostly teasing challenge. “You want out?”

“No!” Astarion muttered, tensing with embarrassment at how quickly he’d shot down the notion.

Áine tried to contain her smile but failed utterly. “Good. I don’t either.”

Astarion finally smiled a little and the sight eased the tightness in Áine’s chest. “Good,” he echoed. “May I kiss you now?”

“Depends why you want to,” Áine said. “Is it still old motions?”

“No,” he assured her, still occasionally blown away by how much of him she truly saw. It was becoming less jarring every time. “I just want to kiss you.”

“Then please do,” Áine said with a smile, giggling when her face was immediately peppered with kisses. He relished the sound of her delight before pressing his lips to hers again, his fearful urgency gone and replaced with a gentle savoring that did perfectly well to coax them both back into their bed for the remainder of their rest. 

Áine fell asleep in Astarion’s arms, a thing that was now common practice for them but felt much more significant and rare when they’d even for a moment questioned the possibility that they’d ever have this again. 

She woke to a faint tugging on her ponytail and when her eyes fluttered open, she saw the cloth she’d been using to clean the blood off Astarion being used to gently wipe down her hair. Áine watched him work for a moment, admiring his hands, before she traced the line of his arm up to his face. He briefly met her eyes to smile at her before he focused back on his task of painstakingly smoothing every reddened layer from her white locks. 

“Good ‘morning’,” he said, using the term loosely as it was just as dark outside as when they’d finally settled in. 

“Hello, love,” Áine mumbled, leaning her cheek against his shoulder. She noticed the water in the basin had darkened, which told her he’d managed to sort through more of her hair than she first realized. “How did you manage to do all this without waking me sooner?”

Astarion smirked. “Roguish stealth and dexterity, my dear,” he answered simply. “I’m afraid though that because of the oils you added to the basin last night, you’ll smell like me now.”

Áine laughed. “I probably already did.”

“Because you’re mine,” he grumbled as he leaned in to kiss her temple, reaching over her to wet the cloth again and wring it out. 

The bard smirked. “Am I now? And what am I to you exactly?”

She’d never seen Astarion get so immediately flustered. His hand froze against the basin and nearly caught the edge and knocked it sideways until he steadied himself. He cleared his throat so hard he had to turn into his sleeve to cough. Were he not low on blood, she was sure he’d be a cherry red. “Well, I…,” he mumbled, realizing she was waiting for an answer. Astarion made an impatient noise in his throat, “Oh I don’t know! But isn’t it nice? Not to know?”

Áine snorted. “Is it?” She hadn’t expected this response, but it was an interesting one.

Astarion groaned and gestured vaguely when words didn’t immediately come to him. “Well, you’re not a victim. Not a target. Not just one-night-it’s-better-to-forget,” he listed off, seeming to find it difficult to look her in the eyes lest she see the vulnerability there. As if she hadn’t seen it before. “But then… Whatever in the world could you be?”

“Is this a test?” Áine asked, raising an eyebrow.

He sighed loudly as he brought the cloth back to her hair, working on the last few streaks so he could have a secondary reason to not look at her expression. “Well, what would you call this?”

“You mean what would I call us?” Áine bartered.

Astarion bit down a small, schoolboyish smile. “I do still like the sound of that,” he mumbled. Áine melted a little. What a silly man this was. She leaned up and kissed him, a smile curling her lips as she felt him melt into her. When they parted, he tenderly added, “And I do rather like that, you know.”

Áine smiled. “I know,” she murmured, nuzzling his cheek. “I do, too.”

He hummed, ducking his head to brush noses with her. “Thank you, by the way,” he murmured. Before she could ask what for, he bridged the gap and told her, “For snapping me out of my habits. For not taking advantage. For being patient with me.”

Áine’s gaze softened. “No need to thank me,” she told him, her voice a gentle lull. “Thank you for telling me what you needed and letting me help.”

Astarion’s stare became unfathomable and it was mesmerizing for Áine to simply watch the way his features shifted. He swallowed, but the motion looked difficult. “No need to thank me, dearest,” he murmured finally, nodding a little to himself after as he reaffirmed that this was something he could do, something reasonably expected. Something healthy. Something real.

“I would call us partners, for what it’s worth,” Áine answered him at last as he set the cloth back in its bowl. “And I’d also call us late to breakfast based on that aroma coming in.”

Astarion smirked. “You’re late to breakfast, dear,” he corrected her as he rolled the word “partners” around in his mind, testing it against his tongue without moving his mouth. Equal standing, level field, two halves of a whole. He snorted softly as Áine got up to get ready to leave their tent. Cute. He wasn’t entirely sure whether the word crossed his mind in response to her answer or to just watching her get up and around, but he supposed either could’ve been the case.

The couple ducked out of their tent and Áine’s eyes went straight for the campfire, smiling when she saw their friends gathering around to eat yet another hearty meal Gale had somehow scraped together from their supply bags. She was about to apologize for their tardiness when she heard Astarion ask over her shoulder, “Who is that?”

Áine faltered and looked up at him, following his gaze toward where Withers was set up. Her stomach dropped, but she also wasn’t sure why she was surprised. She’d reawakened the dormant powers of her broken oath, why wouldn’t he show up again?

Standing adjacent to Withers was an ornate phantasm of a knight, fully ensconced in spotless bronze armor cloaked in blackened patina. Fierce, fiery eyes of vibrant orange glowed through the slits in the helmet, plumes of necrotic energy flaking from the orange aura to lick at his plating as he leaned against his enormous greatsword. His angry eyes were already resting on Áine by the time she registered his presence.

Astarion expected her to gawk at least, as he was. Or be perturbed by the intruder in their camp space, even if Withers for whatever reason didn’t seem to be. What he didn’t expect was what she actually said. 

“An old friend, I suppose,” Áine said, sounding more exasperated than appropriately horrified. It reminded him of how she’d reacted to Withers showing up in their camp as well, excluding when he’d intentionally or unintentionally jumpscared her of course. “I’ll be back in a moment or two.”

Her tone told him well enough that she wanted to speak to him alone, but he felt the urge to insist he accompany her as that innate protectiveness swelled in his chest. Ah how the tables have turned from the original “plan,” he mused, glancing down at her as she walked toward the knight. She was half the strange apparition’s size and yet strode with all the confidence of someone who towered three feet above him. Not for the first time, Astarion found his nerves easing a little at the sight and thinking, That’s my girl.

Áine drew in a deep breath as she crossed the thatch in the myconids’ circle, offering the knight a half-smile as she stopped in front of him. “Hello again,” she greeted him almost sheepishly.

“I have been waiting for you,” the knight informed her, the familiar voice stirring memories that brought her both pain and comfort. Gravelly and thickly accented, but shockingly kind. In more than a few ways, the strange soul who’d saved her in that first year of freedom. Until he’d realized she wanted nothing to do with the power her broken oath granted her and needed to make his way elsewhere to souls who needed his guidance more. At least, that’s what she’d assumed when one day she’d found him gone. “I felt your call rise again. Your broken chains echoed as they shuddered.”

She nodded slowly, still hesitant to accept this part of herself. It felt like a trap, retaining any remnant of her past and the creed that bound it. Even the shattered pieces. “I have people to protect now. I did it for them,” she said softly.

“A noble cause,” he acknowledged. “Just like the first time. I trust you still remember why you abandoned your oath?”

“Every moment of every hour,” Áine said, her throat tightening as her mind shoved the memories back down where she always held them fast. “I… I’ll never forget.”

“Good,” the knight decreed. “To know the reason for your fall, to remember it, is to know the shape of things to come. Your undoing should remain a source of comfort. For all oathbroken who have realized they are far better to choose their own path…but especially for you, Áine Ts’sambra.”

“Forgo my bloodname,” she ordered on a shaken breath. “My kin lie with my oath.”

“Your kin are alive and continue to spread their ill at Moonrise Towers under order of their master,” the knight said. “But you already suspected that.”

Áine’s blood ran cold. She had, but it was something different to hear it. She felt bile burn her throat as she asked with a forced even tone, “And my father?”

“Aye,” the knight confirmed, inclining his incorporeal armored head. “No less would be expected.”

She gave a flippant shrug of one shoulder. “I dunno. Rather hoped he might’ve died, I suppose.”

“Are you sure?” he challenged her.

“Are you suggesting I miss him?” she hissed in an effort to keep her voice low. “That I would ever forgive him?”

“No such thing,” the knight said. “But even now, the shadows gather around you. They have been with you since you ran. They sense the cracks in your armor and they yearn to be used. To be inflicted. Your power reawakens reborn. It is your path to pave, lass.”

Áine pursed her lips and glanced toward her feet. She knew what he implied. And he wasn’t wrong. While her fractured heart and broken mind reeled in terror at returning to those sickly lands knowing that the ones she’d fled still lived, some part of her looked upon this and saw opportunity. Closure. She’d always sworn to kill him, any of them, if they came after her, and some dark part of her welcomed that possibility as it drew ever closer.

“Will you be with us again now?” she asked, turning her gaze back up to his flame-made eyes. “Or is this just my ‘welcome back’ party?”

“You were not ready when first we met,” the knight said, his tone almost gentle. “You accepted this power out of fear of your family, out of fear of your weakness. You now know your way, but we reunite so I may show you how you might reach it if you have need of my teachings.”

Áine nodded. “Well, you are welcome in our camp, if you care for my permission,” she said, drawing a breath. “And I feel as if I owe you an apology. Not for resisting my power, but for how I treated you for most of our time together. I wasn’t myself.”

The knight actually chuckled. “You were young. Tortured. And too kind for your own good. Still seem to be.”

Áine smirked, a guilty press to her lips. “I suppose that’s something I’ll never shake.”

“See that you don’t,” the knight advised. “It is a rare thing and you possess the strength to protect that kindness rather than be taken advantage of for it.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Áine said, adjusting her ponytail and tracing her fingertips over the wet strands Astarion had cleansed the blood from just earlier. She glanced at Withers. “Hope you don’t mind a roommate.”

“Thou art as ever far too keen to seem amusing,” Withers informed her.

“Did you just say I’m not funny?” Áine balked. “You know what, nevermind. I’m done with both of you for a while.” When she turned to walk to the fire, the two strange figures exchanged a glance behind her back.

Áine joined Astarion’s side and served herself a bowl of porridge from the pot hanging over the fire, plunking a dab of honey into it from a jar nearby. She was surprised there was any left given how fond Halsin was of the stuff. As she stirred the honey into her breakfast, she cast another glance back at the stalwart knight. It was so strange to see him again, but also strangely reassuring. As frightening as it was for aspects of her past to be coming full circle, it felt overdue. She only hoped she proved herself in the end.

“Áine, did you hear me?”

“Hm? What?” she piped up, following the source of the voice back to Gale. “Sorry.”

“No need!” he hastened to say. “I was just curious about our, uh, new guest.”

“Do you know them? Or it?” Wyll pressed warily.

Áine deliberated for a moment before she shrugged and went back to eating her food, relaxing when she felt Astarion’s hand trace up her back. He was starting to get a little too attuned to when she was stressed. Or perhaps that was okay. Perhaps that was something she needed like he needed certain things from her. 

“Just another member of the ‘Undead Peepaw Corner’,” she said, speaking a little more loudly so she could be sure Withers would hear her. “He’s fine.”

The group shared glances, save for Karlach who was fully focused on shoveling her breakfast into her mouth. Lae’zel also seemed generally unbothered, her trust in Áine enough for her to not push further.

“There has to be more to it than that,” Wyll asserted, earning surprised glances from Shadowheart and Gale for the suspicion in his tone. 

Áine glanced at Wyll and set her spoon in her bowl to scratch the owlbear cub’s head when it ambled over to her side. “I mean, you’re welcome to go ask him yourself.”

Wyll glanced toward Withers and the knight before pulling a face and thinking better of striking up that particular conversation.

Next chapter: Chapter 18, "Bard Dance"

[coffeeanddonutscafe]

Cold Comfort

Astarion has a nightmare and fluff unfolds.

Summary:

The camp lay in nocturnal stillness. Astarion stood before his tent, the weight of his own existence pressing heavily upon him. And then, he saw her—a half-asleep Tav, her chestnut hair in disarray as she groggily stirred. Unable to resist, he approached her, a half-whispered endearment on his lips, crouching beside her. "What is it, my sweet treat?"

Notes:

I plan to make this a fluff fic, with a mix of introspections, pondering and some deep self-reflection from Astarion's point of view. I do want to envelop him into the gentle world of fluff, like a warm hug he deserves so much.

Chapter 3: Midnight Snacks

Tav's gaze remained filled with curiosity, but she held back from probing further, sensitive to the delicate boundaries Astarion had been constructing. She recognized that perhaps giving him the space to decide whether to share what troubled him was the best course of action.

Despite the brutal hardships he'd endured, he'd managed to persevere in his own way. In Tav's eyes, he'd shown incredible strength, often more than he gave himself credit for. With a fierce determination, he had managed to safeguard the tiniest fragments of his true self, slowly stitching together the pieces of his shattered mind and soul to the best of his abilities.

She thought to herself, "The same way he so meticulously mended all of his garments - embellishing them with embroidery, with exquisite mastery." Tav marvelled at the fact that some of his clothes, worn for years, retained an impeccable condition. However, that thought made her utterly sad and she made a mental note to make sure he bought himself new garments next time they stumbled upon a trader. Well, at least they are done with the task at hand.

Tav offered Astarion a warm smile, sensing that he was still lost in his thoughts. She decided not to disturb him further, content in knowing that he felt comfortable and safe in her presence. Well, comfortable enough to get lost in the labyrinth of his own mind.

His company was always welcome, and now, as he seemed lost in thought, she moved to her stack of bags. Among them, she recalled a bag of dried fruit and berries lovingly prepared by Halsin for the group. "Damn, what a sweetheart," she mused to herself, the affection for their companion evident in her expression.

Tav began to munch on the dried fruits, savouring the familiar taste of one of her favourite snacks. She decided to share a childhood memory with Astarion, seeking to connect with him in a more casual manner.

"You know what, Astarion?" she began, and suddenly Astarion perked his elf ears like a curious little cat. Tav’s voice content as she savoured another dried fruit. "When I was little and had a nightmare, my mom would give me a sweet fruit or a spoonful of honey."

Astarion opened his mouth, likely intending to deflect and try to change the topic, but Tav continued, "The taste of something I loved so much—which is sweet things—would distract me enough to calm my nerves down."

Astarion’s eyes sparkled with a suggestion he noted was in Tav’s voice. He met her gaze and smiled mischievously.

Finishing her bag of snacks, Tav made a mental note to ask Halsin to prepare another bag of dried fruits and berries for her in the future. "How about you have a snack?" Tav suggested playfully, winking at him. "Then you can go back to your meditative sleep." Her hand gently caressed Astarion's cheek, her thumb tracing soothing patterns. Scooting a bit closer to Astarion, she spoke in a soft, almost conspiratorial tone. "You deserve as much rest as I do."

"Does that sound like a good plan?" Tav said, her fingers deftly working at the buttons of her shirt's collar.

Astarion felt a rush of emotion. He understood that Tav's gesture was born of genuine kindness, but it was still an unfamiliar sensation for him. He wasn't accustomed to people being kind solely out of the goodness of their hearts, without any ulterior motives.

In a moment of panic, he reached out and gently clasped her hands. His voice quivered slightly as he spoke, "Darling, you don't have to..." He cleared his throat, trying to infuse his words with a touch of reassurance. "I'm fully capable of sustaining myself."

"Of course you are," Tav reassured him gently, her hands still resting in his. She wanted to convey that this was her way of showing care, not a gesture of charity.

"But you can also take a little sip of your favorite travel companion," Tav added with a playful wiggle of her eyebrows. Astarion couldn't help but laugh in response.

"I mean, you are free to do whatever you want," Tav continued, her tone light. "You were eyeing that gilt that was strolling around our camp. Looks like she won over me." Tav shooed Astarion away in a theatrical manner. "Go and cater to your new lady."

Astarion played along with Tav's playful banter, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Why, dearest," he chimed in, "How could I help myself? That gilt looked exceptionally scrumptious." He added a cheeky wiggle of his own eyebrows, and they both burst out laughing.

After a few minutes of shared laughter, Tav let out a contented yawn. She then looked at Astarion with genuine sincerity. "But for real, Astarion. I'm offering, and you know you don't have to do anything 'in return'." Her words carried a warmth and openness that put Astarion at ease.

He sighed softly, deciding on his following actions. He reached out to Tav and his fingers started deftly unbuttoning the first two buttons of Tav's nightshirt. "Alright then," Astarion murmured in a playful tone, "scoot onto your bedroll, darling. I want you relaxed and ready." Tav rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the smile that tugged at her lips. She complied with the request, settling onto her bedroll.

Astarion positioned himself above her, crouching so that his face was nestled into the crook of her neck. The closeness sent a shiver down Tav's spine, a mixture of anticipation and the comforting presence of someone she trusted deeply.

Tav's fingers gently threaded through Astarion's hair, their touch sending a comforting sensation through him. As he inhaled her familiar scent, he felt a sense of calm wash over him. In that moment, the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in their shared intimacy.

Her fragrance was intoxicating, a heady mixture of earthy warmth and a hint of something uniquely Tav. Astarion couldn't help but surrender to the allure of it, reveling in the closeness they shared. He nuzzled against her neck, his breath mingling with her skin. The sensation was both grounding and electrifying, a connection that transcended words.

My Masterlist

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CHAPTERS

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

[plethomacademia]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤️

I was tagged to do this by Smore and @anderstrevelyan

Hello! My name is pletho and I have written over 100k word of fanfic in less than a year which is normal and fine!

Most of it is about my OC, a dark urge named Maeve who is a charismatic cult leader and all around awful woman. Her story is all about bodily autonomy, choosing paths vs being forced on them, and how comfort and cages can feel like similar things. If you want to read about her relationship with Enver Gortash, I have an entire series that is 76k words. I would say the easiest entry point is Duet, a two chapter fic that is also my version of Durgetash Regency. Rating is E for a balcony oral sex scene in chapter 2. If you like this, definitely check out the long fic that is in here! It is still in progress but there's a lot of content here.

I also write her a little in the game timeline. The best fic for that is Intimate Connection, which is kind of threesome between Halsin/Maeve/Astarion that uses the tadpole to help Astarion with his intimacy issues. Rated E for it is a threesome.

I also write Enver Gortash with the default dragon Dark Urge, because I think Enver Gortash is a freak for a big dragon. For that I recommend Ripe, which is my most popular one shot. In this, Enver Gortash finally convinces the Dark Urge to stay for a glass of wine and it goes exactly how he had hoped, except the Dark Urge keeps saying he is going to put a bhaalspawn in him? Oh well, don't worry about it! Rated E.

Just in case you thought I only wrote Enver Gortash, I have a short series of fics with my OT3, Shadowheart/Gale/Laezel. My first and favorite is Respite. This is my pitch for the ship. Rated M! She has range!

For a fifth, I am going to zag and recommend my one original work, An Exercise in Stillness. Why? I liked it, it was fun to write shibari, it was fun to write an ice queen getting cracked open, and I think it's hot. OC/OC fic doesn't get a lot of attention and I think this one is worth it. Rated E for it's a shibari sex scene.

[timeforelfnonsense]

Read Sunshine & Starlight on Ao3 Pairing: Dafni (F!Tav) x Astarion Rating: M (Later Chapters will contain explicit content) TWs: Light descriptions of canon level violence Tags: Meet cute bad, 3rd person alternating pov, chubby elf OC, Cleric Tav

Summary: Astarion had a plan. A nice, simple plan. All he had to do was not fall for her. After centuries of practice charming victims for his master, it should have been easy, but Dafni of Gwynneth was complications he didn’t see coming. Compassionate, selfless, innocence. She was every good thing Astarion had given up on after two hundred years of torment. There is something familiar about her. An inexplicable pull that draws him to her over and over again. For the first time in his undead existence, Astarion has something to call his own. Something to protect.

“Gods, my head.”

Dafni cringed, her nose screwing up in pain as she brushed the sand from her curls. She wasn’t entirely sure how she ended up on the unfamiliar beach. The last thing she could remember was connecting the transponder. 

Judging by the ship's state, she was lucky to walk away with only a few gashes and bruises. Even the little glass jars and vials within her healer’s kit survived without so much as a crack. She got to her feet, cleaning off what grime and viscera she could. 

She was back on the Material Plane, at least. Of that, she was sure. 

There was a distinct heaviness to the Material Plane, which Dafni had yet to grow accustomed to in the two months since her wanderlust had driven her to leave the misty moors and majestic forests of the Moonshae Isles behind. She hadn’t realized just how thin the veil between worlds had been back home before coming to Bauldr’s Gate. Even in the Material Plane, the Isle of Gwynneth still echoed with the whimsical, wild magic of the Feywild. 

Dafni riffled through her bag, procuring a filigreed compass from the disorganized heap of her belongings. She could feel the airy magic of home tickle her fingertips as she popped it open. The golden needle glowed as it flicked west. 

There was a fey crossing somewhere nearby then. 

Dafni tugged at the hem of her sleeve, her lower lip pressed between her teeth. If she were lucky, it would lead her to the court of the Summer Queen or some other court on amicable enough terms with her own. She could seek sanctuary there and send word to her mother. 

Thesmia’s Spire of Laurel housed one of the most vast collections of elven knowledge outside of Evermeet. There was a possibility a solution to her problem could be found within the walls of her mother’s tower. Dafni’s lips pressed together in a tight line. She loved her mother, but Thesmia’s well-meaning coddling often bordered on stifling. The idea of running home at the first sign of trouble felt too much like an admission of defeat.  

Besides, Nothing stayed a secret from the High Lady for long. It would not be a matter of if she learned of the tadpole, but when. No matter how much favor her mother had once held with Ordalf, she would not risk the safety of Sarifal’s Court for one eladrin. Especially not her.

She took a deep breath, the sweet, synthetic smoke of the nautiloid's smoldering wreckage scorching the back of her throat. Running home was not an option. She’d simply have to find a cure herself. 

No easy task.

But giving up had never been in her nature, and this seemed a dreadful time to start. 

Finding other survivors would be her best course of action. There was safety in numbers, and besides that, there was a chance other survivors may not have fared as well as she had. Magic tickled the tips of Dafni’s calloused fingertips; she still had a bit of power left she could save for more serious injuries. She’d make do with old-fashioned field medicine for anything else until she could rest. There was one thing left to do.

 Her nose wrinkled as she cast a glamour over herself. She’d grown so used to wearing one she had almost forgotten how restrictive her mundane disguise felt compared to the vibrancy of her authentic appearance. 

The magic felt itchy and stiff as if she were cramming herself into clothing two sizes too small. It felt wrong pretending to be something she wasn’t, but she had little choice. The majority of the common folk she’d come across in the Outer City knew very little of the land of Faerie, but the few who saw her for what she was, were quick to label her a trickster and deceiver. She’d need allies if she wanted to get through this ordeal, and she’d rather not start out with an air of suspicion hanging over her. 

There was something exceedingly suspicious about that woman.

She didn’t look like the creatures from the ship, but something about her prickled at his senses. A nearly imperceptible otherness that made his hair stand on end. It was like she was blurry at the edges. Astarion’s brow wrinkled, try as he might to bring her into focus; some invisible force would coax his attention away whenever he came close to genuinely seeing her.

Astarion watched her, crouched low behind the turk of a felled tree. One of those brain creatures had captured her wrist in its tendrils. She gave it a punt, sending it a few feet back with a wet thud. She drew an elegant longbow from her back, releasing two swift arrows. The creature seized, collapsing into a heap of ichor.

Her lower lip stuck out in a pout as she wrapped a hand around the angry red mark on her arm. Light radiated from an amulet around her neck before flashing beneath her palm. A sense of instinctive dread skipped down Astarion’s spine as the air crackled with divine magic.

He felt like an idiot for missing it—the pale blue of her clothing. The eight-pointed star was engraved at the center of her breastplate. He had thought her a mind flayer thrall, but she was something much, much worse. 

A cleric.

He almost laughed at the irony. Of course, he’d be spared by the sun only to be run through by a cleric.  And a servant of the Protector of the Elves, no less. No one could claim the gods lacked a sense of humor.  At least she was pretty. That would take some of the sting out of his demise, even if it was only a mind flayer’s trick.

Her freckled skin was the color of sage and stood stark against the pale gossamer fabric of her puff-sleeved blouse. She was fuller figured than most elven maidens, with wide hips and an ample bust that her light armor did very little to hide. Bouncy, pink curls fell around her shoulders from a high ponytail as she meandered her way up the cliffside path, mumbling to herself in elvish.

Always so quick to roll over, aren’t you? The memory of Cazador’s voice taunted. 

Pathetic. 

Astarion’s nails bit into the flesh of his palms. His lip pulled back into a silent snarl. For 200 years, that’s what he has been. Pathetic. Cazador’s wretched creature. 

But he was free now and never needed to be pathetic again. 

His chances of overpowering her would be slim if he relied on strength alone. But, if he could lower her guard, he might be able to get the upper hand long enough to get the answers he needed. He crouched low beside a fallen tree, doing his best to look shaken and meek.

“You there!” He shouted, “Can you help me?”

“Over here!” He called, waving her over. 

Her breath caught as she drew close enough to see the details of his appearance. A pale elf stood before her. Lean and graceful. 

“Are you hurt, friend? I-I think I have enough magic to heal you, so long as it isn’t anything too serious.” She stammered in clumsy common.

She watched, enraptured, as he ran his hand through a perfect coif of ivory curls. Dafni flushed, imagining her own fingers running through those soft, tossed curls.

He had truly been blessed with the aloof, dreamy beauty of Sehanine Moonbow. An incandescent majesty that demanded admiration and awe. He knew it too. His pretty mouth curled up into a sly, close-mouthed grin. His crimson eyes gleamed with amusement and knowing as he returned her gawking stare with an appreciative glance of his own.

There was something about him. Something more than his spectacular beauty. It tugged at the very core of her. Familiar. Like finding something once beloved centuries after it was misplaced.

Still, she was sure this must be their first meeting. She rarely forgot a face. Especially one as lovely as his. Judging by his finery,  he wasn’t the sort to visit her clinic in the Outer City, and she would certainly have remembered him from court.

“I could do a turn if you’d like?” He quipped, “So you can check for injuries, of course.”

Dafni’s face burned right to the tips of her pointed ears. She was supposed to be helping him. Not staring like a starry-eyed ninny. 

“I apologize, I’m not normally so– Distractible.” 

Dafni strained to keep her smile in place. The taste of soot and bile filled her mouth at her little fib. In truth, she was exceedingly and frequently distractible, even in the best of situations. It was a trait that drove her mother up the wall for years before she released Dafni from her apprenticeship.

The man cleared his throat, stifling a chuckle, “I’m fine, to answer your previous question. I’ve got one of those brain things cornered. You can kill it, can’t you?”

“I– Oh! Yes! Of course!” She stammered, plucking an arrow from the quiver at her back, grateful for the distraction from her self-induced humiliation. 

The tips of her ears twitched ever so slightly to a distant rustling. Her eyes narrowed as they locked onto a shifting patch of grass beyond the cliff’s shadow. Her fingers flexed with tension as she drew back. She had been about to lose her shot when a frightened boar burst from the overgrowth. 

“Good news,” she chirped, lowering her bow, “it was just a–“

Dafni froze, his slender arms wrapping around her waist. He pulled her flush to his frame. A scream had been at the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it at the cold steel brush against her throat. 

“Shh. Not another sound.” He whispered against her ear as he guided her to the dirt below, “Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.”

“Bastard,” she spat in elvish. A crown of cascading foxgloves bloomed in her hair, her hold on her glamour faltering as the magic strained against her anger. “Spider Queen, take you.”

“ That was quite vulgar for a priestess .” He scolded, tipping her chin up to face him with the edge of his knife. “ Now, I believe I asked you not to speak.”

Dafni took hold of his arm and twisted as hard as she could manage. Did he think her a helpless child? A maiden, too frightened and frail to fight back? With a sharp jerk, she slammed her head into his jaw. Her captor recoiled, losing his grip just long enough for her to break free.

A dull throb began in her head, but anything was better than a slit throat. He snarled at her, spitting out a mouth full of blood. Dafni drew the long sword at her hip, holding it between them.

“Come near me again, and by the Seldrine, I swear, I will cut that smug head right off your shoulders!” 

“You rotten brat!” He growled, “You’re in league with them, aren’t you? Those tentacled –”

Astarion winced, his gut twisting as a wave of vertigo washed over him. He clutched at his scalp, the sharp, nauseating pain behind his eye slowly melting into something else entirely. 

Visions of an ancient forest so lush and vibrant it could have been ripped right out of the pages of a fairy story. Sunset-drenched marble columns and spires wrapped in crawling vines. The sound of feminine laughter.  The bright, spicy-sweet smell of laurel on a temperate breeze. Wanderlust. So deep he felt it in the marrow of his bones.

Memories, he realized. Not his, but hers. Fragments of her life unfolding before him to him in a rapid reverie. 

Chipping, cornflower blue paint, and creaking floors. A shabby townhouse. An elf with mousy brown hair and a sweat-laden brow. The sound of her teacup clattering softly against its saucer in her shaking hand.  The sharp, minty scent of willow bark and creamy elderflower mixed as he twisted the pestle in his hand. The crunch of gravel beneath his boots on the way to the city gate. Nostalgia and homesickness as the old oak trees of the Cloakwood came into view. 

A prayer on his lips as he twisted and writhed against his restraints. Confined to a pod, helpless as the Mindflayer approached, a wiggling tadpole between its gnarled fingers. The taste of sick that threatened to escape his throat. Like ice and shadow, a whisper of darkness crept beneath his skin, calling for vengeance.

“They took you too. I saw it during... Whatever just happened.” He offered her a crooked grin, his voice playful as he continued, “And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”

He saw her relax a tad as he sheathed his dagger. He scooped her bow up from the dirt, offering it to her with as apologetic a look as he could manage. 

“Apology accepted. I suppose I might have done the same if I thought you were a thrall.” Her expression softened, and she extended a courteous hand, “I’m Dafni, by the way. Practitioner of Corellon’s holy arts, ranger of what I’d like to think is above-average skill, and I suppose, as of today, fellow tadpole haver. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Astarion,” He offered her a shallow bow, taking her hand into his own, “and I can assure you, the pleasure is all mine, darling.”

Her pulse quickened as his lips brushed against the back of her palm. He had caught a whiff of her on the ship, but he hadn’t been able to truly appreciate the nuances of her scent at such a distance. She was floral, woodsy, and tart, with a subtle earthy sweetness that made his mouth water.

“ Astarion, ” She said, speaking each syllable of his name as if she were savoring it, “What a pretty name.”

A shiver slipped down his spine. He had never given his name much thought, but something about the sound of it in her melodic elven accent felt almost intimate. 

 “Well, aren’t you a dear? As much as I'd prefer to stand here and listen to you say my name, I think we may have more pressing matters to attend to.” He said, gesturing to his temple,  “Do you know anything about these worms?”

The cheer fell from her girlish face. Her lower lip snagged between her teeth as she drew in a sharp breath. “I met a woman aboard the ship. She told me they would turn us into mind flayers if we didn’t get them extracted in time.” 

“Turn us into….” Astarion let out a burst of bitter laughter. “Of course, it will turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?” 

A frown touched the corners of her mouth. Her heart ached for him; his tone may have been glib, but beneath it, there was a genuine pain. A world-weary resignation she hadn’t accepted from someone so bold. 

“Hey,” She spoke in a quiet, comforting voice.“I know things look pretty bad, but that means they can only get better, right?”

She offered him a small, hopeful smile, placing a gentle hand on his arm. She cringed as she felt him go stiff beneath her touch. Dafni’s face grew hot. She pulled back immediately, tucking the offending hand behind her back. With the exception of their introductory rituals, most denizens of the Material reserved touching for acquaintances and kin. A lesson she’d learned the hard way after a few humiliating encounters. 

She watched as a touch of chagrin flashed across his pretty face, fading the moment his gaze flicked up from the withdrawn hand. An easy smile formed across his lips. Blite and rakishish, but his eyes still held a touch of uncertainty.  

His reaction felt practiced as if his discomfort mattered far less than the risk of it being perceived. A furrow formed between her brows, her lip catching against her bottom teeth as she bit back her apology. It would be best to drop it. She suspected an apology would draw more attention to his reaction and embarrass him further. 

Dafni tried to keep her tone even, as if nothing had happened, “Maybe it would be a good idea to look for a cure together. There is safety in numbers, after all. Maybe we will get lucky and find the gith woman from the ship or another survivor who knows where we might find a cure.”

Astarion’s posture relaxed slightly, his head tilting to the side as he considered her offer. Dafni could feel her pulse quicken with each passing second. Truth be told, she was desperate for him to accept her proposal. The idea of facing such a task alone was more than a little bit daunting, and despite having made his acquaintance at knifepoint, there was something about him that set her at ease. Perhaps it was the comfort of being among her people; maybe it was his playful charm, she couldn’t say. But, she was confident she would feel much better if they stuck together. 

Dafni let out a breath she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding when Astarion responded, “You know I am usually more of the go-it-alone sort, but you do seem like a useful person and to know. If we could find an expert– Someone who knows how to control these things… We might still have time. Very well, I accept.”

[arsene-ee]

This is literally just my opinion b4 anyone comes for me

I SWEAR ON MY BEST FRIEND, IF I SEE ANOTHER PERSON SAY THAT LARIAN DOES NOT NEED TO ADD CONTENT FOR WYLL (AND KARLACH) BECAUSE "tHe GaMe Is FiNiShEd" I WILL THROW HANDS.

Cuz like how come the character, who is the closest connected to the plot has 4 hours less content than fucking Astarion, who is the least relevant to the plot.

And I'm not even joking cuz like Shadowheart has the Artifact which makes her relevant. Lae'zel is a Githyanki and knows about the mindflayers which makes her relevant to the plot. Gale has his Orb which is basically a last resort to kill the netherbrain making him plot relevant. Karlach was Gortash's (🤢🤢🤢🤢) slave, giving you a reason to dislike him and a reason to fight him, making her plot relevant. Minthara had a thing with Orin and works under Ketheric Thorm, connecting her to the main Plot. Halsin studies the brain worms and He once attacked Ketheric Thorm which caused the shadow curse or something blah blah making him connected to the plot. Minsc and Jaheira both encountered a Baahlspawn before (probably makes more sense when you're playing Dark Urge) and know how to deal with them (they have a fun interaction with Saverok or whatever his name is when you bring them there) making them plot relevant.

AND WYLL, he is the Son of Ulder Ravengard, you know just the duke of Baldur's Gate, making Wyll also the potential Duke incase Ulder dies. Baldur's Gate itself most likely wouldn't be standing if it wasn't for him and the pact he made with Mizora. His dad gets kidnapped and Tadpoled and then he crowns Gortash (🤢🤢🤢🤢) Archduke and then gets imprisoned in the Ironthrone (where you need to go anyways if you want to destroy Gortash's (🤢🤢🤢🤢) tall robots. Wyll is then urged by his dad to find Ansur, which basically gives you one of the biggest plot twists in the history of plot twists and bad love affairs.

Meanwhile Astarion is just a dude, sure he was a corrupt judge like 200 years ago but at this point that is so irrelevant. In regards of plot relevancy you could replace Astarion with a random NPC and it wouldn't change anything. Honestly I think Larian just wanted a conventionally attractive vampire sad white boy for no real reason.

I'm not saying Astarion's personal story is Irrelevant, it's well written and I understand his motivation (altough the fantasy raceism wasn't necessary but what do I know, right?). And hell Neil did a great job voicing him and making him sound arrogant as well as breakable when needed. the fact that Astarion's arrogance is partly what makes me hate him and infuriates me pretty much show's me that Neil is a great voice actor (also on account of him portaying Kamski in DBH whom I also hate)

Certain people Baby Astarion way too much the 200 something year old dude, who already was an adult when he became a vampire, in the end what happened between him and the people he discriminated against was what he had coming.

Meanwhile people say that Wyll was old enough to know what he was doing when making his pact with Mizora and that he shouldn't have been so naive. Wyll was 17 when he made his pact. 17. Idk about you but I, as a 19 year old look at 17 year olds and think of them as Children. 17 year old is not mature enough to make such life changeing desicions, I as a 19 year old am not mature enough to make a desicion like that. Wyll lost everything he ever knew while he was still a child. He hasn't had privacy since he was 17, he spend 7 years being watched by Mizora, without an ounce of privacy.

Also before anyone comes at me for being uninformed that the response to Wyll in EA was to small to warrant more content. I KNOE THAT, I KNOW THAT THE RESPONSE TO HIM WAS LOW. Just the other day I saw a post about it. I also saw a post how, if Wyll was just a fraction as mean as astarion, he would be one of the most hated characters in the game, so yeah, think about that.

all I want is for all the characters to have an equal ammount of content, which either means giving the neglected characters more content or cutting down on content characters who already have more content have.

[faorism]

absolutely wyll romancing astarion. spoilers below!

as i learned when i noticed someone had options i didn't get during the camp celebration night, there is precise pathing in wylls romance to avoid a bug(?) WHICH HAS YOU NOT HAVE HIM IN YOUR PARTY WTF that had me restart at the door of the underdark

i also definitely missed some subtle dialogue cues for wyll, while it's always very obvious what will seduce astarion let astarion seduce you.

it also doesn't say in the link above, but another person said asking wyll about his eye also breaks the romance. might have been an earlier patch, but i decided not to test it

you miss out on astarions lovely snippy comments and i miss his voice so much

maybe i am just so desperate for wyll interactions, but i feels other companions' reactions are prioritized above wylls? i hear SO much more from karlach, but astarions comments were definitely frequent or at least very memorable

im going to write a post about this, but unlike other companions who have persistent dialogue options, astarion does not until later on the game, and as of post-grove without romance path, wyll doesn't either. what astarion does have is the permission to feed on you. it was a delightful chore to always tell him he can. there was something somewhat transactional about it. and like people in other reblogs shared, it implies that wyll is kinda just relieving some tension even tho he knows (with a passed insight check) there's something fake about astarions approach. i really like this dynamic for how messy it is

astarion calling you darling and dear all the time 😭

wearing the bloodless condition with pride was so hot to me.......

astarion starts off strong in act i, cools off in act ii, and then boy when you complete his quest in act iii it's just so lovely.

people have spoken about wyll being underwritten. not sure for the wyll romance, but comparing astarion romance to wyll as a mainstay companion (during a tav/shadowheart run), it's definitely doesn't have the same punch as astarions emotionally imo. like,, the emotional resolution between cazador and dad/aldur ain't the same. (i personally wished ravenguard was less a set piece for all we had to go thru to find him since act i. because bruh the daddy issues there are SO real. i desperately wish that wyll reacted to the contents of his father's vault 😭)

astarion would absolutely hate being pushed into leadership (def npc in his own life energy, so he can observe others and react rather than being the one to be decisive) while wyll is the origin who steps up to the challenge

imo there is no way to play origin astarion as companion accurate while trying to impress wyll. you are forced into the noble/heroic actions or else wyll absolutely will disapprove.

meanwhile, there was only one thing i absolutely had to do where wyll that felt ooc, which was allow astarion to kill the gur hunter. (in my playthrough, i long rested immediately after the fight and astarion started the romance then. which. was so fucking depressing and wonderfully tragic in retrospect.)

in my abandoned playthrough, i was also flirting with gale and karlach with astarion. it was honestly bizarre to see how sincere, tender, and kind astarion is as origin. wyll, on the other hand, is absolutely that sincere, tender, and kind

THAT SAID i like the rp of occasionally dropping the weight of The Blade Of Frontiers and allowing himself to (as @lesbianralzarek brilliantly described) be a cunt sometimes. this ultimately is one of the biggest draws for me. i adore literal prince wyll and i cannot wait to carry on thru the romance to see him at his peak dreamy. however, im still struck with the line from companion wyll for why he hid his connection to mizora. something like, his is a tale of two men. he wanted you to know the blade, and not the shadow from the past. and like. UHDNDNDKS i really loved rp'ing from his guy who might not usually do something like this and not usually with a guy like astarion, and he doesn't see himself as a full person deserving of letting loose and living outside the grand persona. growing just a tad bit morally gray (or just a touch impolite tbh) on the small things felt like a natural way to allow the shadow to be lit

the other major reason is more ymmv: i am deeply interested in the exploration of trauma, and knowing what i know about astarions backstory, i am missing that as part of the relationship from what ive seen so far with astarion origin. like, the man says "dont touch me" hundreds of times thru a playthrough when you switch to him; having that be reflected in the rp (in terms of him not wanting to have sex after act ii for awhile) moved me. again, idk enough about wylls romance (other than the dance scene on my tav which RIP at me having to break the poor man's heart over rejecting him) so maybe my opinion will shift!

and the most important reason: romancing astarion means playing with wyll, and he is so good and sweet and i just wanna look at that man for hours on end and you should too haha

Wyllstarion people, is it best to romance Wyll with Astarion or romance Astarion with Wyll? Who has the most extra content?

[starcunin]

Astarion notes the way the tiefling leans in ever so slightly, as if mirroring his movements but unsure of how to follow through. It's not rejection——not the cold, dismissive kind he's known, anyway——but something softer, more elusive. There’s a strange innocence to his reactions, as though he hasn’t quite grasped the game Astarion is playing, or perhaps doesn’t understand it in the way most people do. Normally, this would frustrate Astarion, but in Amay, it stirs something closer to curiosity. The tiefling’s earnest responses are unlike anything he’s encountered before, and that in itself is enough to keep him intrigued.

The way Amay stumbles through a joke about calligraphy makes Astarion chuckle softly, his lips curling into a more genuine smile. The poor thing clearly doesn’t know what to do with himself, but Astarion finds it rather charming in its own way. He leans in just a touch more, letting the warmth of the fire and the closeness between them draw a deeper connection, one he’s content to let simmer for now. There’s no need to rush this.

The question about his skills with daggers and bows, however, sends Astarion’s thoughts spiraling for a moment——unbidden memories of blood and violence flicker at the edges of his mind, the weight of two centuries pressing down on him. A bitter chuckle escapes his lips before he can stop it. Of course Amay doesn’t know. How could he? No one in this little party knows the truth about where he came from, the things he’s done, or what he had to become to survive Cazador’s twisted games. Astarion schools his expression quickly, covering the brief slip with a casual shrug, his voice light but tinged with irony. ❛ Oh, I was a magistrate back in the city, ❜ he says with a smirk. ❛ Though I suppose I didn’t live life as… legally as one might expect. The skills I picked up were out of necessity rather than choice. ❜

He leaves it at that, unwilling to delve into the darker truths of his past. This conversation is meant to be light, playful——flirting, after all, is supposed to be fun. He has no interest in dragging Amay into the shadows of his history, at least not tonight. Instead, he lets his gaze soften, tilting his head as he watches Amay try to steady himself, the nervous energy still lingering in the air between them.

❛ There’s no need to be nervous, darling. I don’t bite… well, not without permission, at least. ❜ His lips curl into a sly smile, the familiar flirtation back in his voice, but tempered now with a lighter touch. He’s not trying to overwhelm Amay, just to coax him into relaxing, to see where this game can go if played a little more slowly.

Astarion’s eyes flick to the book that Amay quickly places beside him, pressing it against his leg in a feeble attempt to hide it. His curiosity piques again, and he arches an eyebrow, his tone turning mock-serious, though still laced with humor. ❛ Hiding scandalous reading material, are we? ❜ He smirks, leaning just enough to make it clear he’s teasing, though the glint in his eyes shows his interest is genuine. ❛ I won’t judge. ❜ He leans back again, his expression softening, letting the moment breathe.

The moment slips away from him like sand through his fingers, the playful back and forth that once filled the air between them now stifled by the weight of his own careless reaction. He watches Amay grow tense, his eyes flashing with uncertainty, and Astarion curses himself for letting that brief flicker of emotion cross his face. He’s always been so good at hiding it——so why now, of all times, does it fail him?

He doesn’t need this. The tiefling was practically falling into his lap with every honeyed word, every flirtatious remark. But now the air is thick with awkwardness, and he can practically see the poor man’s mind spiraling.

Astarion sighs inwardly, the familiar weight of his mask sliding back into place. He can’t let this slip any further. Not when he still has so much to gain from Amay’s trust. His smile returns, charming as ever, but there’s a sharper edge to it now, as if to cut through the tension that’s settled between them. ❛ I can tell that you don’t know what you’re doing, ❜ he says with a soft, teasing tone, his eyes narrowing in amusement. ❛ But I find it rather endearing. Your sincerity is… refreshing, ❜ Another lie, but it comes so naturally that even he almost believes it. He needs to keep this conversation moving, to redirect Amay’s nerves before they unravel completely.

When Amay suggests learning how to handle daggers, Astarion raises an eyebrow, catching the tremor of hesitation in his voice. He knows, of course, that it’s not meant to be suggestive——Amay seems far too earnest for that——but Astarion sees an opportunity nonetheless, one he’s all too happy to exploit. His grin widens, and he leans in just a fraction, letting his voice drop into a more playful, silky tone. ❛ Well, my dear, I’m not much of a teacher, but I’d be more than happy to try… I hear that such close lessons can be quite… intimate. ❜ He watches closely for Amay’s reaction, enjoying the way the tiefling seems to squirm under his gaze, unsure whether to lean into it or retreat from it.

But then, Astarion’s sharp eyes catch the way Amay covers his book, his hand moving just a little too quickly, and his curiosity piques. Amay is quick, but not quick enough to hide the damaged cover. Now, though, he can’t resist poking fun. ❛ Nervous, are we, darling? ❜ He lets the question hang, arching an eyebrow in mock suspicion, though he already knows the answer.