#like cazador took everything from him and then abused and tortured him for so long

[thranduel]

i'm so proud of him you don't understand

[animentality]

You ever think about how the fandom will go nuts trying to explain how Astarion is ~basically~ an elven child and how he’s absolved of all guilt for everything he’s done by the abuse he endured and yet… on the other hand we also have Gortash, who very literally was a child when sold to the hells and put through who knows what manner of abuse, saw who knows what messed up shit, who has had chances to do better, yes, but has also had to fight to survive and be more than just a beggar on the streets once he escaped. And he’s the totally evil and irredeemable one according to most fans. I’m not trying to woobify him btw, it’s just always interesting how every other character gets defended on the basis of “but cult conditioning/abuse/etc” but Gortash is uniquely the worst man alive. Which he is, but also. Cmon. Astarion has a long list of innocent victims and is a razors edge away from becoming the next cazador in any given play through and yet he’s a perfect uwu angel apparently. This isn’t about saying Gortash isn’t evil, this is about saying he’s not drastically more evil than a lot of other nuanced characters in this game who get defended by the fandom masses.

ANON if I could kiss you, I would commit tax evasion with you.

THIS.

Like I know Gortash is awful, but so is fucking everyone.

Shadowheart can become a Dark Justiciar and do awful things for Shar. Lae'zel and the githyanki are a bunch of pricks who kill their own kids for showing weakness and kill innocent people all the goddamn time. Minthara obviously slaughters a bunch of innocent refugees, if you allow her to, and as a drow, probably committed a cavalcade of evil actions.

Gale's blind ambition could've nuked a fucking town. He might not have intended to become a living bomb, but he did, and by running around Faerun, he WAS putting literally everyone within like five miles of him in mortal danger. Wyll would've killed Karlach if you weren't there, and he expresses this horror, because he has definitely killed innocents for Mizora before.

Astarion would've gladly become Cazador 2.0, if you didn't stop him. He might've started out ok, but he would descend into that same evil, using you until there was nothing left of you, and treating others the way he was treated, because he sees himself as a god now.

Even fucking Karlach...who is a sweetie, and god I love her...well fuck, didn't Gortash accuse her of knowing just how shady his shit was? She was a desperate kid, yes, and he definitely took advantage of her, but he explicitly calls her out for working for him, even though she knew he was shady (if not a Banite). Plus she was his bodyguard for years. As if your bodyguard wouldn't know you were being a peace of shit?

The WHOLE POINT of Baldur's Gate 3 is that you and your companions are defined by your choices.

The option EXISTS to SAVE THESE PEOPLE.

THERE IS NO OPTION TO SAVE GORTASH.

The game gives you the option of seeing him die one way or the other way.

I'm just SAYING it's not totally fair to act as if Gortash is truly irredeemable, when out of all the villains, he at least had an idea of a better world, even if it was still self serving and frankly awful.

He was slightly better than the Dark Urge, and they GET the choice of redeeming themselves.

He never does. And maybe he wouldn't have taken it, but that's really not the point.

You hit the nail on the head, bud.

Gortash is evil, no doubt, this is true, he is not just a victim of circumstances, he made every wrong decision he could've made...

But the fandom has no problem woobifying Astarion even though that scene with Sebastian is fucking soul wrenching.

They raise their hackles at Gortash, as though he's been alive for 200 years and lured thousands to their deaths/vampirism, and they forget that Lae'zel is absolutely awful, and approves every time you murder children in front of her.

And Shadowheart spent her childhood learning to torture people.

You can say well their crimes aren't equivalent- and yes, that is true, HOWEVER.

Remember that you have met them when they were powerless.

If given power...if they had never been mindcontrolled by parasites...well shit, they might've fucking killed you.

They might've become tyrants themselves. I know it's purely conjecture on my part, I just kinda...I don't even necessarily want a redeemed Gortash storyline.

I'm fine with him just being a villain!

I just also have a working brain that doesn't understand the reflexive urge to say, he couldn't redeem himself if he tried.

I think, in this fictional world of course, that redemption should be possible. I think if they are honestly trying, and they repay the debts they incurred, then it might be justified.

But we didn't get that choice, and neither did he, and honestly, with what the game presents...I can whole heartedly say no, he wouldn't have redeemed himself. Even if he could, he would not have done it.

But the possibility does exist.

Trying to deny it makes you look like a hypocrite as you insist Ascended Astarion is still an uwu baby.

Like nah, sweetie. Good luck with that.

[snowfolly]

Nothing Can Make Up For That

Astarion is released from his tomb. The year of silence is finally over but he struggles to process what has happened, what is happening and what horrors are yet to come.

One shot | 1,863 words | No Beta

CW: torture/abuse/neglect/slavery/implied sex slavery/confinement/buried alive/blood/dark/bleak/self harm

Read on ao3

It's pretty sad- read under the cut

For a time Astarion had screamed ceaselessly in the perpetual darkness, scratching his fingers to tatters, to the bones. They healed in a short time, as they always did, but he would run them ragged again and again.

The pain was excruciating, but at least he felt something when he clawed at the unyielding stone sitting right above his face, weeping and wailing curses at the gods for his fate.

But it had been quite a while since he had uttered a single word. Had been forever since he had torn his fingers to shreds.

The vampire spawn had lived in a fugue state, more or less, for a time he could no longer measure. It could have been months, years in the darkness — could have been days, even, but he wouldn’t know the difference. It didn’t matter anymore, did it?

His mind was distant and blank, or as far away and inactive as it could be as his body screamed for blood, begging for the movement that he simply could not grant it.

Astarion was filthy in a way only an undead creature neglected for an extended period could be, dried out and yet oily, smelling musty and of sickly sweet rot, but he wouldn’t notice these unpleasantries. His mind is numb to all but pain and starvation…. and sound.

Rhythmic tapping, far away but growing louder, brought his poorly slumbering consciousness to the present. The spawn opened his eyes uselessly in the dark, gritted his teeth, and listened intently, realizing that the sound was of multiple footsteps, echoing against the endless stone walls of Cazadors estate. They were approaching the tomb, approaching him.

Astarion gasped as the footsteps halted before his prison and he shuddered at the sound of the stone lid grating over the lip of the tomb, the noise deafening to ears that had only known silence for so very long. The dark figures that had released him said nothing and walked away, and Astarion was so traumatized that he continued to lie still, shaking like a leaf.

He stared above in shock at a ceiling where a lid had covered the world for what felt like an eternity, his starved eyes detected the faintest grays that indicated light.

When the echoing footsteps on the stone floor subsided for an indeterminate amount of time he tried to sit up, but his unused muscles — although unable to atrophy — were so stiff that it was excruciating. He managed shakily to get an arm up on the seal of the tomb, teeth bared in agony, bone-dry red eyes wide, his downy white curls, grown long, hung mussed up and wild.

The spawn didn't need to breathe but he instinctively inhaled air raggedly like a man saved from drowning as his mind, so atrophied from the silence, could barely process what was happening, what had happened, what would come.

Astarion’s mind could barely wrap itself around the fact that he had been released. He could do nothing but cry softly into his threadbare shirtsleeve still propped up on the edge of the tomb, but no tears came from his blood-starved eyes. His body continued to tremble from the shock of the sheer amount of space that he had been denied for so long, his crying turned to wailing, and his body heaved from the sobs as his shattered mind took its time to process the situation.

He was freed from the tomb, but he was far from free. He felt no joy. He thought that he could never feel a thing such a joy ever again.

Astarion should have been furious at the world, ready to tear it and the gods to pieces for this tragedy, for this unjust torture inflicted upon him. But the anger would not come.

He was empty. Gods he was so fucking empty. Drained of everything but unfathomable starvation, excruciating pain and the numbness that his mind has created to save his sanity, a constant state of dissociation to spirit him away from the horrors of his waking life. He had been denied every emotion but sorrow.

Astarion felt the agony of complete and utter sorrow bearing down on him like an incomprehensible weight, crushing him as he continued to shudder and gasp for the damp air that his dead lungs made no use of. He despaired the life he had lost, for the parts of his memories and mind that were gone forever. He mourned for all the time that had been stolen from him and the time that would forcibly be taken from him forever.

Forever. Endlessly.

He wished that he had just died so long ago, beaten to death in that dark alley.

The spawn’s pitiful weeping was eventually interrupted by more footsteps, that of a dark figure, one that he could barely make out with his atrophied eyes. He didn't need to see who it was though. He already knew.

Cazador lurked at a distance, standing silent before his spawn in the darkness for some time as he watched Astarion cry and struggle before casting a fire cantrip to light an oil lantern. The sudden light caused his spawn to cry out once again, the flame blinding and excruciating to eyes accustomed to endless darkness.

Cazador ‘ tsks ’, laughing at Astarion’s pained and dejected form before taking a small pouch from his cloak and throwing it at his pitiful creation. It hit the spawn gracelessly in his blinded face before it fell to the floor with a gross thud.

“Dinner is served, dear Astarion,” the vampire lord smirked wickedly, relishing in his spawn’s anguish, “And how unlike you, little star, to let yourself go like this. You do need to get it together. All that I’ve done for you, and yet you lie about idly for an entire year.”

Cazador sighed derisively, savoring the view of Astarion who struggled to regain his mind and toiled to speak. The vampire lord laughed heartily, for it was such a treat to see his favorite spawn suffering so, once again.

“What a shameful, slovenly creature I have made, am I correct?” Cazador purred and was delighted as Astarion nodded pitifully, “and don’t forget to make yourself presentable, boy. You’ve got lambs to bring to slaughter, and I presume you will not fail to deliver them to me this time?”

Astarion felt like retching, dry heaving of course, as he was nothing but a dried husk after a year without blood, and he knew that he must quickly answer the vampire lord. He managed a croak with a mouth uncustomed to speech, dry as sand, “ Yes master. ”

“Enjoy your dinner, clean up your filth and then look alive! You’ve work to do tonight!” Cazador laughed once again, the sound like broken glass to Astarion, and he watched blearily as his master turned to leave, giving his spawn a dismissive wave before striding down the long, dark hall.

The spawn could barely wait until the sound of his master’s footsteps were out of earshot to cry out as he retched, his gnawing, unfathomable starvation sickening and overwhelming him at the mouth-watering stench of decomposing vermin. He would finally be satiated by the wretched contents of a bag that lay on the ground. Gods.

Astarion managed to heave himself up to step out of the tomb, his stiff legs gave out and caused him to fall to the ground in a crumpled pile during the process. He gasped, his body screaming in agony as he feebly crawled on his arms toward the bag that contained two foul, bloated dead rats. In that moment they seemed the rarest delicacy in all the world to the severely neglected vampire spawn.

And so Astarion ate, devoured, choked up on the hair and coagulated blood that he forced violently from the creatures as he tore into them like an animal starved. After he’d bled them dry he shakily pulled hair from his teeth and gods, he hated himself. He hated this, hated Cazador, hated the entire fucking world.

He sat up weakly as his veins filled sluggishly with the rancid blood of the vermin, giving him enough energy to move his body once more. He was finally able to stand, to stretch, to walk.

The spawn was still starving, still in shock and pain, but he found anger and fear steadily pushing out the numbness. He had work to do.

Astarion walked unsteadily, like a man in a horrible dream as he made his way to the dank washroom to do as Cazador demanded of him. He scrubbed a year's worth of undead grime from his skin, he washed the rot from his mouth, and he combed the wet, tangled mess that his hair had grown into.

He finally dressed in fresh clothes that had been laid out for him, well, they were some of his old clothes but at least not the rags he had wallowed in for a year. He stood in front of the floor length mirror, longing to be able to see himself, desperately hoping that he had made himself presentable enough. Attractive — at least to the damned drunks.

The pale elf ignored his siblings as he passed them in the halls, they were saying words to him, about him, but he could only hear distant sounds, no discernible language. He couldn't comprehend what they were saying because his mind was still shattered, but he knew that he had to hunt, had to not fuck up again and land himself in another year of pure shit. He knew that he must do everything in his power to avoid the most horrendous solitary confinement conceivable.

So Astarion quickly remembered how to smile again, remembered how to wear a mask and be pleasant, be charming, be fake . He had to do these things because he had to lure the stupid godsdamned lambs to a night of practiced pleasure before their slaughter.

Astarion stepped out into the damp chill of the night, startling slightly at the light rain that pattered against his face, and he glanced up into the darkness to see clouds so thick that they blocked any glimpse at the stars and moon. Another lid to block his view.

The pale elf pulled his hood up to save his hair from ruining as he crept into the night once again, picking right back up where he had left off a year before, doing as he had done for over a hundred years prior. He didn’t even have to recall the dark alleys or where the seedy taverns and flophouses were, they were ingrained into his mind, would always be. He could never forget them, or how much he hated them. Gods how he hated them all.

Astarion would let everyone in the entire fucking city die to not have to spend another year lying in that tomb. He would lure and bed every peasant in Baldur’s Gate so that Cazador could make the streets run red for all eternity if only to save himself from the horror of silence once again.

Nothing in the world could make up for the time that he had spent in that tomb. Nothing.

[mad-dogs-bg3]

Mad Dogs: Part Four

Part One: A Dead Man's Throne

Part Two: If It's All the Same to You

Part Three: I Tried Them All

Content warning: This is a sexually explicit series that includes violence and may contain other triggering content such as traumatic memories, murder, allusions to sexual assault, and consensual power exchange, along with other BDSM themes. Reader, beware of your triggers and limits.

Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

!!Please proceed with caution!!

This chapter is quite a bit darker than the previous chapters. It deals with physical torture, self-harm, psychological torture, non-consensual sexual activity, forced sexual activity and is full of triggers for abuse. Please be aware of your limits and triggers before reading. It outlines one of Astarion's memories of his time with Cazador. It is dark. Beware.

Part Four

None of Them Answered

It wasn’t the cold that broke Astarion in the end. Not the searing pain. Not the empty, sick hunger gnawing at his insides. Not the chittering of the rats in the walls, painfully out of his reach. It was the loneliness. He was so far gone that he was starting to look forward to seeing Godey when he decided to stop in and torture him. The torture had become a comfort. This is something Cazador learned from his little experiment. Astarion hadn’t even seen Godey in a long time. Cazador had taken to bending his mind to perform torture on himself. From afar, of course, he was not one to slum it with his victims. But no matter how far away Cazador might be physically, he was always there in Astarion’s mind.

The kennels were cold and bare. There wasn’t even a straw pallet for comfort, just cold, dirty stone. At the beginning of his captivity, Astarion had scratched the days on the wall with a long, dirty nail. But when Cazador realized this, he began to play cruel jokes and dig around in Astarion’s mind so that the number always reverted to one lonely scratch. Astarion started to look forward to the days that the torture tools arrived. 

He heard the clinking outside the door and scrambled to it. 

“Godey?” He asked, not even bothering to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Don’t leave, Godey, please. I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll scream so beautifully for you.”

Silence engulfed the room until the latch suddenly opened, and a tray of sharp, rusty tools was shoved through. The latch then slammed shut, the sound echoing for what felt like an eternity. Astarion sobbed, banging his head against the door in despair. He felt himself slipping into madness. All he wanted was for someone—anyone—to say something. It didn’t even have to be kind; he would welcome a barrage of insults over this unbearable silence. He was so isolated that he didn’t even have rats to talk to.

Astarion stared at the tray of tools for a long time. They were particularly nasty today. There were too many blades and sharp points. They were less rusty than usual, tools for precision rather than gore. He swallowed. It was like he had graduated to advanced torture. He waited for the feeling of being shunted to the back. Cazador liked to make him wait alone with the torture tools sometimes. But he always came into his mind and took over eventually. Astarion hated it. It made him nauseous. He remained in himself but became strictly a viewer. He saw everything and felt everything, but had no control. His body moved without his consent. He waited.

It felt like hours had passed and he was still in control. He dozed a little, mostly trying to relieve some of the anxiety. When he woke, the tools were still there, teasing him. It wasn’t like Cazador to forget something like this. Forget to feed him, sure. Forget he was here for months at a time? Absolutely. But Cazador never forgot a torture day. As soon as the tools were sent, it was a guarantee that Astarion got at least a tiny bit of Cazador’s twisted attention. He was starting to panic. Was he doing something wrong? Was he being punished? 

It took Astarion a long time to figure it out. He was usually so smart. He was an excellent magistrate, top of his class in the university, though he supposed being imprisoned and starved and turned into a blood-sucking fiend would do that to one’s intelligence. Cazador wanted him to proceed without him. He wanted Astarion to prove he was broken. He wanted Astarion to torture himself with his own will. Astarion imagined that he heard laughter somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind.

“No,” Astarion muttered. “I will not do it.” He shook his head as if trying to convince himself. What if he did it well enough? What if Cazador was satisfied and let him out? The idea was tempting, but Astarion knew it must be some sort of cruel trick. His stomach hurt so badly. Could a vampire spawn die of starvation? Would Cazador leave him here forever? He couldn’t stop the tears from pouring down his cheeks. He knew he shouldn’t cry. He was losing resources he would need if he were left to starve here, but he couldn’t help it. If Cazador wanted broken, well here it was.

It took Astarion a very long time to pick up the scalpel. He stared at it. He paced around the cell. He banged his head on the wall. Once he did pick it up, it took him even longer to press the blade against his skin. He knew he had to make it good. He had to impress Casado enough that he would be satisfied. Unfortunately, Cazador's tastes were twisted. And Astarion was desperate enough to get out of this hell that he would play to that. 

He pressed the scalpel to his stomach. It was difficult to cut himself. Far more difficult than he thought it would be. He had been through this so many times, watching from the backseat in his mind. It was easy—just a slice, then another and another. He took a deep breath, thought of freedom, and started slicing.

He thought it would get easier after the first cut, but it did not. He cut vertically across his body, a few inches below his navel. As starved as he was, he still had a lot of blood inside him, and watching it seep out was agonizing. He knew better than to try and drink it. Cazador wanted him to suffer. Once he had cut a straight line across his lower abdomen, he stopped; his hand was shaking too much to continue. He waited, hoping and praying that someone would come in and tell him to stop. That it was enough. That he was good and he would be rewarded.

He dropped to his knees in the puddle of blood on the floor and prayed. He had never been one for piety, even before his change. He had seen far too many horrible crimes pass across his desk as a magistrate to believe that the gods cared for the people of Faerun. The amount of crimes that people got away with because it was done in the name of one god or another sickened him. But desperate times. He would even take a hero at this point if the gods were busy. I mean, this is what an entire career of adventures lusted for, was it not? Saving innocents from vampire lords? He heard the distant laughter in his head again. Cazador was watching him after all.

Astarion prayed. He prayed to every god he could remember the name of. He prayed to the old pantheon and the new pantheon, and he didn’t stop after the Elven gods; he even prayed to the dwarven gods, the gnomish gods, and he prayed to Lolth and Gruumsh. He didn’t discriminate. 

Surely one of them would answer. Isn’t that what all the songs and tales were about? Fearsome heroes, empowered by the gods, coming to save the wretched and the damned? He imagined a strong Paladin breaking down the cell door holding Cazador’s severed head, shining with the light of the divine. The laughter in his head was louder now.

He ignored it and prayed. Please. Please help me. He wasn’t sure if he was doing it right.

He prayed to all the gods. And none of them answered. 

Eventually, he stopped. The blood had dried up. He felt empty, like he was just a shell. He knew what had to be done. He couldn’t rely on the gods, the heroes, or anyone but himself. He would get himself out of this dungeon. He would find a way to move forward, to live with this new, horrible life.

He took up the scalpel once more. He reopened the almost-closed wound from earlier. He screamed and cried. He didn’t bother trying to be brave. If Cazador wanted him broken, here it was, at last. He wedged the knife between the tear and the muscle on his stomach and began to separate the layers of skin and fat from the muscle. Flaying was Cazador’s favorite torture method. If this didn’t satisfy him, Astarion wasn’t sure that anything would.

Astarion was no surgeon, no agent of torture. He had no idea what he was doing. His hand and the scalpel were slippery with blood, and he kept dropping it. Eventually, he couldn’t hold the scalpel anymore. He let it fall to the ground. He didn’t even hear it clatter against the stone. He wasn’t entirely sure he was still inside his body. He could feel the pain like all of his nerves were lit up, but it was like it was happening to someone else. He had a headache, and it was almost worse than the pain in his abdomen. The room swam, and his vision was blurry. There was no point in trying to continue with a tool. 

He felt around in the slick gore and found the flap of skin he had managed to separate. It took a few tries to get a proper grip on it. He was lucky his fingernails had grown out during his captivity and were broken and jagged. He used them to grip the slippery flesh and pull. He screamed while he did it, but continued to pull it up and away from his body. The sound of his skin tearing was enough to make him want to puke. The pain was blinding. The laughter in his mind grew louder. It inspired him to keep pulling. Cazador was watching. He was pleased.

Astarion wasn’t sure exactly how much of his skin he had managed to separate before he heard the lock click. The sound reverberated through the room, like a release. He let go of the skin and collapsed on the ground. He started to fade out of consciousness, the pain, the shock, everything finally coming to a head. He was exhausted. His vision was blurry, but he could see Godey’s ugly skeletal face looking down at him. He heard Cazador, somewhere nearby.

“Clean him up. Deal with the wound, and send him to my chambers. He is ready.”

He felt Godey grab him under the shoulders, the bony fingers jabbing into him painfully. He was benign and dragged across the floor towards the door. Towards freedom. Well, towards something.

Astarion stood awkwardly in Cazador’s rooms. The grandiosity of the room was a stark contrast to the dungeon cell that had been his home for the last year. Everything was drowning in deep red velvet. Every surface was adorned by some object of leisure. The decadence was almost nauseating. The walls were hung with huge paintings depicting scenes of horror and torture. How cliche, Astarion thought and quenched it immediately. He had just escaped the cell. He was going to be good. On his best behavior. He was going to do anything, be anything, to prevent being tossed back in there. 

He was clean and perfumed. Servants had stitched him and healed him. They scrubbed him raw, rubbed oils through his hair, and put perfume on his skin. He was dressed in an itchy doublet, far fancier than he had ever worn in his days as a magistrate. It was stiff and uncomfortable. The material grated against the stitches on his abdomen. He was healing fast, much faster than before he became a spawn. But he was weak and starving, so he needed stitches to keep his skin from rolling up.

Cazador stood before him, inspecting him, eyeing him like he was a chastened colt and not a thinking, breathing person. Cazador took his chin in his hand, tilting his face one way and then the other. He ran a finger down Astarion’s jawbone.

“A beautiful idiot,” Cazador said at last. “That’s why I picked you, you know? Why I sent the Gur after you... That bone structure. It’s to die for.” He chuckled at his little joke. “And all those laws you tried to pass, a real defender of the people, a paragon of justice... An idiot. If I hadn’t gotten to you, it would have been another patriar, another noble; one way or another, you would have been dead in that street. Aren’t you lucky I got to you first?”

Astarion swallowed. Cazador waited expectantly. 

“Yes,” Astarion said at last, barely above a whisper. Cazador slapped him across the face. 

“Y-yes, Master,” Astarion corrected himself.

“Good boy. Even idiots can learn.” He pointed to the floor, and Astarion kneeled so quickly that he almost fell over. Cazador laughed.

“You’ve proven your dedication to me already; I’ll give you a break. Besides, you need to learn how to do this properly.”

Astarion’s mind was assaulted by psychic power. He was shoved to the backseat, his control of his body slipping away. No, no, please, Astarion thought, unable to scream, not this, I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll do what you want. Cazador ignored him. Astarion could do nothing but watch as Cazador sat in a lush velvet armchair and freed his cock from his pants and forced Astarion to crawl to him. He was forced to watch as Cazador “taught” him how to please him. He felt his tongue move of its own accord, his mouth stretched, and his throat opened to take Cazador’s cock.

Astarion hated him so much. He also hated himself because he was paying attention to the lesson. He made note of the techniques that Cazador was forcing on him. He hated himself. But he hated being in the dungeon more. If this was the price of freedom, he would gladly pay it.

When Cazador was finished, he released him. Astarion fell back, the sudden return of control surprising him. He was going to wipe his mouth on his sleeve, but he knew Cazador would be displeased if he ruined such expensive fabric. Instead, he waited for a command, keeping his face neutral.

“Go hunt, boy. Find me a handsome one, take your time with him, really seduce him, and use the skills you just learned.” Cazador smirked. “It should be easy for you. If he satisfies me, I will consider letting you feed tonight.”

[moonslittlestar]

ahh, i don’t know a lot of the names but i’m going to say of moon, echo, the twins, and i forgot how it’s spelled but darragh

for an emoji, you can use 🌀 if you’d like

Sorry in advance this will be long 🤭 I'll try to keep it as short as possible! Also, their stories are very angsty, so just a prewarn that these are not light of heart. TW for violence, physical and mental abuse, murder, death, substance abuse and hurting animals (willow's tale).

Moon Personality wise Moon is very cold, stern and quiet intimidating when you first meet him. He's got this presence that feels almost royal, but grounded, it's a very heavy presence that surrounds him, and although he no longer owns his wings their weight is still carried on his back. Moon's got this electric field around him too, fuelled by the magic that runs through his veins, when he uses magic the smell of Jasmine permeates the air and lingers sometime afterwards too (this is how Astarion realized that Moon was near when the ship crashed). Moon carries himself like you'd expect a demi god to, he's majestic. Once you get to know Moon the coldness doesn't change, he is not one to let his guard down, only Astarion has seen him in vulnerable state. I imagine as Cazador ripped his wings off that he still held his own, just so Astarion wouldn't have that be his last memory of him. Moon, much like Aylin is centuries old. Born the son of a god and a moral, Moon spent a lot of his life fighting in the wars between gods, sometimes being summoned by mortals to wield is sword by their side. He was unstoppable. That is, until he descended, tales of why he descended are unclear and many ballads tell different tales. No one is sure why Moon ended up living amongst mortals. Moon and Astarion's backstory goes way before Cazador, which is why the Emperor is trying to trick Moon with a pre-Cazador Astarion disguise. They randomly found each other, and in a twisted turn of fate fell in love. What was meant to just be some fun, a get away from the harrows of daily life, turned into two souls crashing together, bound to each other. When Astarion was turned by Cazador, Moon did everything in his power to reverse the curse, but the gods had abandoned him and they had to look for other avenues. Moon started research how to remove vampirism and who he needed to get a hold of to help them. What Moon was able to do in that time, was cut off Cazador's ability to control Astarion for short periods of time, in those moments they spent hidden away, in their own little world. Cazador found out and Astarion pleaded that Moon go into hiding, that he leave and never return, no matter how much the idea hurt him, Moon refused to give up on Astarion but Cazador had other plans. He made a pact with Bhaal, Moon's life for information on how to become the Vampire Lord. Bhaal agreed. Moon was caught and tortured in front of Astarion, his wings ripped from his body, never to return again. His life, his memories, were sacrificed to Bhaal, who claimed the newly born Moon has his chosen. And Astarion would never see him again, locked away and punished for disobeying his Master...

Echo Echo's always been a softie, even during their darkest times, deep down all that Echo ever craved was love and acceptance and someone to show him there's more to life than pain. Echo is shy, closed off and quite, mysterious and intimidating to those who don't know them. They would do anything to be just held, have someone run their hands through his hair and tell them everything's going to be alright. Echo lives in fight or flight mode, constantly alert, ready to go on the defence if needed. Echo suffers from C-PTSD and has frequent panic attacks and flashbacks, thankfully Halsin and Astarion have learnt how to calm them down and help them get grounded again. The child of a Drow (father) and a High Elf (mother), they have one older brother. Echo's mother passed away when they were just a child, a naïve and innocent, none of them took it well. Oilibhéar (father) grew cold and distant from his children after their mothers death, unable to show either son's any sign of affection. Torán, Echo's older brother took his pain and grief out on Echo, a punching bag for the feelings that Torán could not put into words. Torán blamed Echo for the downfall of their family. Blamed by his brother, ignored and abandoned by their father, Echo could never amount to anything, always living in the shadow of his mothers death. Home life was harsh and cold, there were no safe spaces for Echo and outside family life it wasn't much better either. As Echo aged, they suffered at the hands of many, adults and peers alike. A victim of physical and mental abuse throughout their life, used for their body, often returning to an distance household, bloodied and bruised. One day whilst heavily intoxicated Echo snapped. A switch flicked and during a fight with Torán, whilst defending himself from Torán's brute force, Echo took a knife from the kitchen counter and ran the blade across Torán's throat, leaving him to bleed out on the kitchen floor. Echo ran away from home that same day. Soon after, Echo found comfort in the cult of Bhaal, able to take a life time of anger and resentment out on strangers with no names and no families to mourn for them. Slowly climbing the ladder and becoming Bhaal's favourite little killer, his Chosen. This also lead him to their relationship with Gortash, who was the first person to really and truly show Echo devotion. Gortash was smitten, praising Echo and accepting Echo for all their flaws. Thus their evil plans began to play out to the downfall of Baldur's Gate...

Darragh Runt of the litter, or so they liked to tease them, the smallest Cervitaur of their herd. What Darragh lacks in height they make up for in personality. A clumsy little thing that often trips over their own feet or gets their horns tangled in forest vines. Their warm hearted and radiate kindness, though it took them awhile to reach this point. Darragh spends most of their time stoned, a keen eye and taste for magic mushrooms granted him more abilities than the rest of their herd, allowing them to communicate in ways they couldn't. Darragh's veins work like roots, from their head to their feet they send signals and messages to the world around them and other creatures, via mycelium. Darragh's hair consists of about 80% moss, leaves and twigs tangled between their horns. Their skin marks a pathway for the magic that flows inside them. When Darragh uses their magic their veins glow in a bioluminescence light. They stay barefoot so they are able to keep communications open as they wonder. Their roots also allow them to communicate with other creatures and beings via touch, through micro electric pulses, meaning they can completely tune into someone's body and mind all through their finger tips. Darragh wanted more from life than being a part of the herd, seeking freedom from their circle, Darragh travelled to Baldur's Gate in search of someone to help give them a more humanoid form. One their journey Darragh stumbled across a Hag, who, for a price, gave them their wish, only to tease that they'd never lose their antlers as a reminder of the part of them they so easily gave up. What else the hag stole from them remains a mystery. Darragh's wild shape remains a deer.

Hunter & Willow The twins are polar opposites. Hunter's alignment is Lawful Good whilst Willow's is Chaotic Evil. Their story is two sides of a coin.

Orphaned at a young age (roughly 6ish), Hunter and Willow lived on the streets. Hunter, being the "older" of the two took it upon himself to do whatever he could to keep his sister safe. Hunter would find them shelter amongst derelict houses, dingy back alleys and abandoned factories/shops, ect. Whatever he could find to put some sort of roof over their heads. By night they'd rummage through trash, bins and all sorts just to find a meal, no matter how old or moldy it would be. They wold drink sewage water and dirty rain water. After several years of living on the streets, they were taken into foster care. Originally homed together, until Willow started showing signs of being anti-social. She found it difficult to blend in with the other kids. Hunter tried to do everything he could to help his sister, but her aggressive side only grew stronger as she aged and obsessive behaviours began to show. This got them passed around several different foster homes for a few years. By age 10, Willow's obsession with dead and dying animals had grown significantly. This obsession only grew, until one day their foster family came back to their cat, dead and displayed in their living room, with Willow sitting across from it, covered in it's blood. Willow got taken away after that, and Hunter got thrown into a different foster home, unable to know where his sister was taken. Hunter, feeling useless and like he failed his sister packed his bags one day and showed up outside the Flaming Fists training ground, where they took him in and gave him shelter. Hunter spent years training under the Fists, hoping to climb through the ranks and find a way to help his lost sister. During Hunter's time with the Fists, he met Wyll, a young boy roughly the same age as him. Wyll's father took a shining to Hunter, and Wyll trained with him regularly, the two becoming extremely close. Hunter and Wyll's relationship grew to something more emotionally (not physical) intimate, though the two were still young and figuring out who they were in the world, their bound had been sown, and the two of them were inseparable. That was until Wyll left, leaving Hunter behind and alone... again. After Wyll left, Hunter started becoming suspicious of his disappearance and without any answered, he left the Fists. During this time, Willow had only grown more chaotic, after being torn away from Hunter she got put into an asylum, where she managed to escape and go underground. There she found a guide, and joined that for awhile, robbing and thrifting her stolen goods. But it wasn't enough for her, she needed more. Her hunger wasn't sated and she became an assassin, finding joy of taking people's lives and watching the light fade from their eyes. Before Hunter left Baldur's Gate in search for Wyll, he heard rumours that Willow had become a Bhaal cultist...