#my genasi child

[nerdsbianhokie]

Alas, poor Yor-chick

[thatsadguymochi]

I made a reference sheet for my dnd character since we have artists in the party! I dont really know where else to share this so it will be here

[chaosgenasi]

"it looks like it's essentially a minor ritual. the source is to be present or bound and the funnel is then attached to the focal point... though it will likely destroy whatever the source of power is, unless it's a massive source... i don't think it's an instantaneous thing..." this doesn't sound familiar at all

[frisky-mist-blog]

Kyri my fighter fire genasi ^^ drew her tradtionaly then play'd with her a lil in PainttoolSAI2 (one of my dnd chara's)

[yellowsyro]

That’s our team for Curse of Strahd Campaign

Me as a Nix Silverose, Tiefling Paladin of Ruby Rose! From Neverwinter, the village of Nightsage

Other characters belongs to my friends:

Lindria as a Barny Khokhaibov, Bard baby Boy from Barovia village, protect that child what is he doing in this dangerous place, using violin

Maria as a Wojtek Khokhaibov, Barbarian big brother of Barny, also Barovia local, dude got some beef! Not much words from him. Sleeps with his hood on always, uses axe as weapon

Wicked Ingo as an Ingo, short and mischievous Sorcerer Tiefling, some wild dude from Neverwinter, always flies around as an annoying mosquito, talks with himself

Candymint as a Chup Marblemane, quite Half-elf warlock, Barovia local as well, got some cantrips that barely works, got some fancy sword

Ayumumum as a Tarsi Latrangrif, genasi Druid old woman, met her in Neverwinter forest, act like an angry annoyed hag, crazy around animals.

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 30: A Brand, A Tether

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.1k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

The marketplace of Abriymoch is a sprawling bazaar carved from the very heart of a volcanic city. Its jagged pathways twist and writhe like molten rivers frozen mid-flow. Gouts of steam hiss from the vents scattered throughout the market, shimmering in the ashen air and leaving a film of sweat across your brow. You stumble, your legs still trembling beneath your weight. Astarion, ever the picture of poise, watches your clumsy movement with disdain.

“Honestly, pet,” he scoffs with a liberal amount of disdain. “If you are trying to garner sympathy from the locals with this pathetic display, you’re going about it all wrong. You look less ‘helpless waif’ and more ‘drunken oaf.’”

You grit your teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. The crowd swirls around you, a sea of exotic traders and infernal beings bartering wares in harsh, guttural tongues.

Astarion pauses at a vendor peddling enchanted garments. The merchant is a stern-looking fire Genasi with skin the colour of burning coals and hair that flickers like a living flame.

“Do you have anything with resistance to cold?” Astarion inquires, his tone polite but distant, like someone humouring a rather dull child.

“Resistance to cold? In a place like Abriymoch?”  The merchant’s laughter is like crackling, dry tinder-catching fire. “Strange request.”

Astarion quirks an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, we all have our peculiarities,” he remarks, glancing at you. “For instance, I travel with a half-dead liability that could use some thawing.”

The merchant doesn’t catch the barb, but you do, and it tightens something bitter in your stomach. Astarion leaves the stall and continues to a nearby weapons stall, where an array of daggers gleam under the angry light of the sky.

The weaponsmith watches Astarion with wary respect as he plucks a dagger from the display, testing the balance, twirling it between his fingers with practiced elegance.

“The balance is off,” he accuses the merchant while balancing the dagger on his finger, where the blade meets the hilt.

The weaponsmith stiffens, his soot-streaked hands twitching as if to snatch the dagger back, but Astarion's casual demeanour and the faint, predatory edge in his smirk keep him rooted in place. "Off? Impossible. My blades are unmatched in all of Abriymoch!"

Astarion tilts his head, the motion serpentine. “Unmatched? How charmingly ambitious. But look here—” He flips the dagger, the blade catching the fiery gleam of the volcanic light, and presses the hilt toward the merchant's chest. “Feel the weight shift. It pulls just enough to ruin a throw. Not much, but enough to cost someone their life if they miscalculated.”

The merchant reluctantly takes the dagger, testing it as Astarion instructed. His scowl deepens, a reluctant recognition in his eyes. “Perhaps, but most wouldn’t notice.”

“I’m not most,” Astarion purrs, folding his arms with infuriating elegance. “I make a point to demand perfection in all things. Now, if you have a blade worthy of someone of my calibre, perhaps we can do business. If not, I’ll take my coin elsewhere.”

The merchant hesitates and then begrudgingly reaches beneath the stall’s counter, pulling out a sheathed blade. Its scabbard is simple and unassuming, but the moment the merchant unsheathes the dagger, a low hum fills the air. The blade gleams unnaturally, the surface etched with infernal runes that flicker faintly as though alive.

“Is this... adequate for your ‘particular talents’?” the merchant asks, his tone edged with irritation.

Astarion takes the dagger delicately, his movements reverent, as if handling an artifact rather than a weapon. He tests it with the same methodical precision. “Now this,” he murmurs, his voice almost too soft to hear over the din of the market, “is more like it.”

He tosses a handful of gold onto the stall, far less than the weapon is likely worth, and the merchant opens his mouth to protest. Before he can utter a word, Astarion's crimson gaze flickers to him, silencing any objection with a look.

“That was dangerous. You didn’t need to humiliate him,” you say quietly, your voice strained but firm.

He glances at you, an eyebrow raised in mock surprise. “Humiliate? I was doing him a service. If anything, he should thank me for pointing out his incompetence.”

There’s no use arguing; he thrives on it, feeding off your frustration. His dismissive, detached tone sets your teeth on edge.

“You don’t have to make everyone feel small, Astarion,” you manage, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He stops abruptly, turning to face you, and the smirk vanishes. His expression is cold and empty, sending shiver through you despite the ambient heat. “What would you have me do? Be kind? Generous? Spare the feelings of a man who wouldn’t hesitate to cheat us if given the chance?”

His leer sharpens, pinning you in place. “This world—my world—does not reward kindness, pet. It eats it alive. You would do well to remember that.”

Astarion straightens, his composure snapping back into place. The smirk returns but feels hollow now, an echo of something long dead. “Now, shall we move along? I believe there’s a merchant selling potions just ahead. Unless, of course, you would like to chastise me further?”

You swallow hard, the sting of his words cutting deeper than you’d like to admit. You trail behind, struggling to keep up, the exhaustion in your limbs making every step feel like wading through molten slag. Your vision swims, the heat, and fatigue conspiring to make the world tilt and warp.

Your muscles feel like melting wax, quivering under the strain of merely standing. Every step you take seems to echo inside your skull, each footfall a sluggish, off-kilter drumbeat.

Astarion glides through the marketplace like a shark through dark waters, all grace and cunning wrapped in a veneer of aristocratic disdain. His pale hand darts out to grab your wrist, his grip firm yet cold, yanking you back when you nearly trip over a mound of smouldering obsidian gravel.

“If you insist on stumbling about like a drunk kobold, I’m going to have to put a leash on you,” he drawls without even sparing you a glance.

You can’t muster the energy to fire back while your head spins, and your legs feel like they've been hollowed out, filled with something weightless and unreliable. Astarion, for all his cruel mockery, never lets you truly fall. His fingers linger too long on your waist, and when you falter near a pack of bickering devils, he hooks an arm around you with a grip that’s almost protective.

There is no way to know if it's genuine concern or some twisted way to ensure his possession—his property—remains unharmed.

“Illyria!”

Your name echoes through the haze of exhaustion. At first, it barely registers—just another sound slipping through your muddled mind, something distant and unreal, like the fading remnants of a dream that refuses to settle into memory. Your thoughts stumble, sluggish, struggling to bridge the gap between the voice and the face it belongs to.

Karlach.

The realization lands with all the grace of an avalanche. Then, like a knife driven straight through your chest, comes the dread. Your breath catches, not that your lungs require it, but the reflex remains—like the ghost of something you used to need.

Karlach. Here. Now. Calling out to you, her voice undeniably real, slicing through the crowd. You feel the bloodless chill seep through your body. If she’s here, if they are here, then everything becomes infinitely more complicated.

More dangerous.

Your muscles lock, heartless chest tightening as you desperately wish to disappear, to blend into this infernal marketplace. But there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and as the dread coils tighter, you know there’s no avoiding the collision that’s about to unfold.

Karlach barrels towards you, a smile that could light up the Hells themselves, breaking across her face. Her hand claps down on your shoulder, and you feel a pang of guilt mixed with relief. It’s like being washed in sunlight you can’t feel—a distant echo of what should be joy but isn’t.

Wyll comes up beside her, his stance refined but alert, one hand resting easily on the pommel of his sword. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says with a grin that holds more than a hint of worry, his eyes flicking from you to Astarion and back. “What in the Nine Hells are you doing down here?”

Astarion’s reaction is immediate, turning smoothly to face them. His smile spreads, practiced and gleaming, like a snake basking in the warmth of its next meal. “Ah, our delightful companions,” he purrs, and you hate how convincing he sounds. He wraps an arm around your waist, his touch both possessive and delicate, like the petal of a rose lined with thorns. “We are on our honeymoon if you can believe it. Such a romantic locale, don’t you think?”

Karlach’s eyebrows shoot up; her confusion is blatant and genuine. “You’re married? Since when?”

You feel like you’re shrinking under her gaze, your words caught in a tangle somewhere in your throat. It’s too much effort to speak, too much to force a smile and make it look natural. Astarion, of course, has no such trouble. He lets out a silken laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple that makes your insides warp.

“Since not too long ago,” he says, his lips curving in that infuriating, perfect way.

His fingers trace little patterns on your hip—a touch that feels like a brand and a tether, keeping you locked in place.

Wyll’s eyes narrow slightly. “A honeymoon. In Avernus,” he repeats as if tasting the words for poison. “I’m not one to judge unconventional choices, but surely you’ve had your fill of danger?”

“Exactly!” Karlach interjects, folding her arms over her chest, her usual buoyant demeanour dimmed by suspicion. “I mean, come on, there’s more romantic places out there. Waterdeep? The Moonshae Isles? Literally, anywhere that’s not a giant inferno filled with devils?”

Astarion only grins wider, his charm like a net tightening around them, every word carefully spun. “Well, Illyria and I do so love a bit of adventure.”

You force yourself to nod, the movement small and tense. Your silence is stretching on too long, and you can feel Karlach and Wyll trying to read between the lines, searching your face for the real story. Panic claws at you, whispering that they’ll see through it, try to intervene, and then everything will unravel.

Karlach’s hand squeezes your shoulder. “You alright, soldier?” she asks, her deep voice tempered with a gentleness she usually reserves for friends in pain.

The familiarity nearly unravels you, but you muster every scrap of energy left in your drained body. You paint on a smile, one bright enough to rival the lava streams cutting through the landscape, and infuse your voice with a sickly sweetness.

“I’m more than alright. We’re on our honeymoon!” You gesture broadly to the fiery expanse around you as if the hellish panorama could ever be described as a lover’s paradise. “What could be more romantic than the Hells? Endless warmth, scenic infernos… truly the stuff of fairy tales.”

Astarion chuckles, though it never reaches his eyes. “Yes, darling, the stuff of fairy tales, indeed. It’s been an unforgettable trip so far.”

Karlach exchanges a glance with Wyll, her worry far less concealed. "Well, why don’t we celebrate your... unforgettable trip with a drink?”

Her intonation is casual, but the invitation is a thinly veiled attempt to feel out the truth. An interrogation masquerading as a reunion, with your freedom—or lack thereof—dangling in the balance. Panic coils in your gut. This is a game of survival, and one wrong move could end in disaster. If they push too hard, if they try to take you from Astarion, he won’t hesitate to make an example of them.

“Oh, that sounds splendid. We would love to celebrate!” Astarion exclaims, in full performance mode, before you can think of a way to get out of it.

Your knees feel as weak as a sapling in a storm, but you must stay strong. You might be caught in Astarion’s web, but their lives are still salvageable. You’ll have to put on the performance of a lifetime.

Their lives depend on it, even if yours is already forfeit.

The tavern they lead you to is a significant step up from the dingy inn Astarion chose to stay in. Here, the walls are decorated with tapestries and Baatorian green steel beams that look like they’ve stood through centuries. The clientele is far more refined—devils in resplendent armour, tieflings with elaborate jewellery, and the occasional cambion squaring you up to decide if you’re worth the trouble.

Karlach slaps a handful of gold onto the polished bar and orders rounds for everyone, her exuberance filling the room like a bonfire. You can’t help but watch her, a spark of warmth flickering in your chest despite your exhaustion. She seems more at ease than when you last saw her, the embers of her soul burning brightly. Wyll stands at her side, poised as ever, but his smile softens when he catches Karlach laughing.

“So,” you say, leaning forward and propping your chin on your hand, determined to steer the conversation away from the sword of Damocles hanging over your neck. “What’s the story this time? Have you managed to fix Karlach’s heart yet, or did you take a few too many scenic detours?”

Karlach laughs, warm and infectious, her eyes crinkling. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe the things we’ve had to do,” she starts, taking a swig of her drink. “There was this one devil, right? Called himself Zarum the Unyielding. We had to barter with him for an infernal gear needed for my engine, and let me tell you, that bastard has a sense of humour as twisted as a corkscrew. He tried to make me arm wrestle his pet hellhound while fire rained down from above. Not my finest moment.”

You can’t help but grin, picturing Karlach in the thick of that chaos, muscles straining against the weight of a monstrous hound. “Please, tell me you won.”

“Damn right, I did!” She slams her fist on the table, making the mugs jump. “Sent that mangy mutt flying across the room! Of course, Wyll had to play the diplomat afterward because, apparently, smashing a hellhound into a pillar doesn’t exactly warm people up to you.”

Wyll leans in, lips quirking. “Someone has to clean up after her,” he says teasingly. “I managed to talk our way out of Zarum, turning us into charred statues, but only after a harrowing game of infernal chess. He was relentless, but I had a few tricks up my sleeve.” His expression grows momentarily serious. “It’s been... taxing. Every step forward seems to come at a cost, but we’ve made progress. We’ll get there.”

You nod, swallowing back the lump forming in your throat. Despite the weight of the hellish environment, it’s easy to get swept up in their tales and forget the shadow looming over your table. Astarion’s hand finds your knee and your entire body tenses. His touch is deceptively gentle, fingers tracing circles in a mockery of tenderness.

He smiles, the picture of a devoted husband, his crimson eyes warm and full of fake adoration. “My love,” he murmurs, leaning in to nuzzle your temple, “aren’t our friends the most charming of heroes? It’s a shame we don’t have such riveting stories of our own to share, hm?”

You hate how your body betrays you, leaning into his touch because it’s familiar and easier to pretend. For a heartbeat—or the lack of one—you let yourself imagine this is real. That he’s yours and not the cold, calculating monster he’s become.

Karlach’s concern etches lines into her brow. She doesn’t seem to buy your act entirely but hasn’t pressed the issue. Not yet, at least. You sip your drink, willing your trembling hands to still, and nod along as they continue to share their misadventures.

Wyll leans forward, elbows on the table, his posture deceptively relaxed, though his eyes are as sharp as a blade unsheathed. “You know, Astarion, I’ve always been told a good husband keeps his wife’s strength up. Ensures she’s well-fed, happy, not wasting away.” His words slip from his mouth with the elegance of a courtly challenge, smooth but barbed.

The jab lands with precision. You can see how it pierces Astarion’s pride, even if his expression remains nonchalant. He offers a slow smile, polished and perfect as if nothing could ruffle his aristocratic feathers. “Yes, well, culinary delights are dreadfully hard to come by in this charming inferno. We make do, don’t we, my love?” His fingers brush your shoulder, trailing down your arm in a caress that looks adoring but feels as cold as the grave.

Karlach’s eyes narrow. They flick between the two of you like she’s searching for cracks in a beautifully painted vase. Wyll tilts his head, suspicion stamped into his usually warm features, and you feel the suffocating weight of their concern.

As Wyll’s question burrows into your mind, the realization snaps into place. Your fatigue, your stumbling, the fog in your thoughts—it all clicks. Bloodlust. Your hunger, suppressed and strangled by compulsion, has seeped into every corner of your being, leeching your strength away.

You’ve been wilting in slow motion.

A curse slips from your lips, too quiet for anyone but Astarion to hear. He tenses beside you, his hand still tracing lazy patterns along your arm, and you’re suddenly aware of the precarious dance you’re both performing. The thin veneer of civility, the fragile mask of wedded bliss—it’s all dangerously close to shattering.

“Astarion, perhaps you would accompany me to gather the next round?” Wyll suggests. “I’d rather have you there with me to ensure the drinks are properly measured. The barkeep seems to think she knows how to pour, but I’ll be honest—there’s not a chance I’ll trust her judgment when it comes to spirits.”

“As if your taste is any better,” Astarion retorts. “The last time you picked something, I had to spit it out. We are lucky I did not turn into a puddle of regret.”

Wyll chuckles, brushing off the jab. “You wound me, my friend,” he says, but his tone holds an undercurrent of genuine camaraderie. “But seriously, I’m not going to let you keep Illyria locked away in this hellhole without a proper drink.”

There’s a flicker of something cold in Astarion’s gaze, but it vanishes, replaced by his polished demeanour. He stands, smoothing his clothes, the movements exaggeratedly elegant. “Fine, I’ll humour you.” He looks over at you, his gaze too sharp for comfort, as if he’s measuring your every reaction. “Don’t expect me to enjoy this.”

Wyll grins, a knowing, friendly grin that only makes Astarion’s disinterest seem even more feigned. “Oh, I don’t expect much from you at all.”

Karlach watches Astarion and Wyll walk away, the tension visible in the set of her jaw and the furrow of her dark brows. As soon as she’s sure they’re out of earshot, she leans in, dropping to a whisper, rough with worry.

“Hey, are you sure you’re alright? You look like you’ve been dragged backward through the Nine Hells and then asked to do it again, and don’t even try to tell me it’s all rainbows and roses with your vampire beau. I know him.” Her eyes search your face, wide with hope and fear. “If something’s wrong, we can get you out; you know that, right?”

You force a light and dismissive laugh, even as her earnestness threatens to crack the fragile mask you’re wearing. “Karlach, it’s fine,” you insist, waving your hand as if brushing away her worries like cobwebs.

You sip from your drink, savouring the way the alcohol dulls your senses and lets the edges of your reality blur just a bit more.

Karlach isn’t convinced. Her mouth pulls into a grim line, and she glances over her shoulder to where Wyll and Astarion have disappeared. “You’re sure? Because I swear on my hammer if he’s hurting you—” She stops herself. Her hands clench into fists, and she looks ready to fight the entire Hells.

You reach out, touching her arm in what you hope is a reassuring gesture. “I’m okay,” you lie, the words tasting bitter even as you say them. “Promise. Besides, you’ve got your own battles to fight, right? Focus on your heart. Let me handle this.” She’s still not convinced, and you wade through your muddled thoughts to grasp at something to redirect her attention. You lean forward and wiggle your shoulders. “Speaking of things on your plate, you and Wyll seem pretty... close these days.”

Karlach’s crimson cheeks deepen in hue, but it’s nearly impossible to see the blush against her naturally red skin. Still, there’s no mistaking how her eyes dart away or how she fiddles with a loose thread on her armour. “Oi, you cheeky little thing.”

You shrug, the movement loose and playful in your half-drunken state. “What can I say? I live for the drama. Spill it.”

“Alright, alright, but if you breathe a word of this to Wyll, I’ll throw you in the Styx myself, got it?” She gives you a mock-threatening glare, but there’s no heat behind it, only fondness.

You make a show of zipping your lips. It’s an easy way to shift the focus, but more than that, you want to know. You crave a story that doesn’t end in blood and tears, a narrative where hope isn’t a lie. “Locked up tight. Now, out with it!”

She groans, covering her face with one giant hand. “Okay, fine. It’s just—gah, he’s so good, y’know? And not just in that heroic, ‘I’m here to save the day’ way. He’s got this soft side that, ugh, I never thought I’d get to experience.” Her voice drops, a little more vulnerable. “He looks at me like I’m not a monster, like... like I’m someone worth caring about.”

Your chest tightens as her words pull at the threads of your fragile memories. You can almost see it: Astarion’s gaze, soft with adoration, as if you were the only thing that mattered.

It feels distant now, like a reflection from another lifetime.

Try as you might; the images slip through your grasp like sand sifting through your fingers. The warmth you once clung to overshadowed by the weight of indifference. That cold, detached stare has taken its place in your mind, freezing over the fragile remnants of tenderness like frost devouring the last blooms of spring.

You nod mechanically, forcing a wry smile you hope passes for composure. Inside, though, something within you keens, low and mournful, like the call of an animal that knows it’s been abandoned. You want to brush it aside, blame it on exhaustion, the chaotic haze of your current state, but the ache lingers, carving itself into the hollow places you’d rather not examine.

“Has he, you know, made a move?” You press the conversation onward.

“Okay, okay, don’t get your hopes up too much. There’s still this whole ‘heart of infernal iron’ thing, yeah? We’ve had moments. Close ones.” She bites her lip, and for a second, she looks almost bashful. “He held my hand the other night. Just sat there with me, thumb brushing over my knuckles, telling me stories about his dad. He’s so damn gentle. It’s driving me wild.”

You clutch your chest dramatically as if you have a heart that could swoon. “Oh, gods, that’s adorable! The Blade of Frontiers, bringing you to your knees with hand-holding and sweet words.”

Karlach snorts, smacking you lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up, you hopeless romantic. You’re the one who dragged me into this mushy mess.” Her smile softens, though, and she sighs. “It’s just... nice, you know? To feel like someone sees past all the rage and the fire and thinks there’s something good in here.” She taps her chest, where her broken heart lies.

You nod, suppressing the urge to clutch at your own empty cavity. “Yeah,” you murmur, more to yourself than to her. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“Enough about my love life. What about you, huh? You and that broody bastard of yours. How’s the ‘honeymoon’ really treating you?” She wiggles her eyebrows, mimicking your earlier playfulness, but there’s an edge to her question.

You force a laugh; the sound a little too high. “Oh, you know us. It’s all passion and drama.”

When Astarion and Wyll return, you snatch up the shots before anyone can say a word, downing them quickly. The moment Astarion's gaze lands on you, you feel the need to perform, to throw on the mask you’ve fashioned from necessity. Your mood shifts like a chameleon in self-defence, all smiles and sparkles, like a mirror reflecting a happier, more foolish version of yourself.

Astarion tuts you with a blend of reprimand and mock concern, lips twisting into an almost-believable smile, the edges too sharp to be truly soft. “Darling, if you keep drinking like that, I will have to carry you back.”

You match his grin with a lopsided one, tilting your head as you lean into his side. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You tease with a pitch of flirtation, every syllable a painted-on lie. “It’d give you an excuse to put those strong arms to use.”

The words taste bitter, but you let them roll off your tongue with ease. He plays along, slipping an arm around your waist. You arch into it, craving more—more closeness, more gentleness, more love. You crave it so desperately that you almost forget this is all a game, a farce to keep Wyll and Karlach from guessing the truth.

“Anything for my beautiful bride,” he purrs in a timbre that’s melted chocolate peppered with razor blades.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple, and it’s so convincing you almost believe it yourself. Karlach watches with suspicion lingering in her eyes, but she forces a smile for your sake. Wyll tries to lighten the mood, but you can’t focus on his words. All you feel is Astarion's touch; all you see is the dance you’re trapped in. You keep pushing for more affection, pressing yourself against him, willing him to pretend just a little longer.

Even if only for a moment, you want the illusion to consume you and drown out the truth.

Astarion obliges because his facade must hold, but you know it’s as fragile as spun sugar, ready to shatter the instant your friends catch a glimpse of the cracks, and good Gods, they are looking.

The room spins, like a carousel teetering off its axis, and the drinks keep flowing. Words blend, barely more than sounds strung together by tenuous coherence, but the performance must go on.

“You must have stories from the Hells. Some daring escapes, I’d imagine, and plenty of danger,” Wyll remarks skeptically.

You laugh a bit too loudly, feeling the strain in your throat as it mimics mirth. “Oh, the danger. Demons and devils at every turn. Barely had time to catch our breath between all the romance and life-or-death scrapes.”

The word romance tumbles out like something bitter wrapped in sweetness. You hiccup, and Astarion squeezes your hip in warning.

Karlach folds her arms, leaning back in her chair with a scrutinizing look that could pierce steel. “Come on, though,” she presses. “It doesn’t make sense. You don’t look like you’ve been getting enough to eat. And those shadows under your eyes... ”

You force a grin, the corners of your lips pulling tight. “Food’s not so easy to come by when you’re constantly running for your life,” you offer, slurring just a fraction too much. You swat Astarion’s chest. “But he takes care of me, doesn’t he?”

You giggle, the sound cracks and lean into him more, hoping the pressure will keep your unravelling self together.

Astarion’s fingers brush along your collarbone, leaving warmth in their wake like hot coals dragged over your skin. “My poor love,” he croons in a perfect blend of affection and concern. “I’d drag the moon down from the sky if it meant you’d have a proper meal, but alas, our resources are... limited.”

Karlach’s expression tightens, suspicion flaring, but she forces her tone to remain light. “Limited, sure, but you’ve always found ways to keep each other safe, right?”

You nearly choke on another sip of ale, but Astarion saves you, his grip tightening. “Indeed,” he says smoothly in a timbre of honeyed poison. “I would never let anything happen to her.” “You know,” Wyll ventures, tilting his head with that princely charm, “if it’s getting a bit too noisy down here, we’ve got a room upstairs. It might be better to catch up in private, where we don’t have to shout over the music and the chaos.”

Karlach’s eyes flick between you and Astarion, and she nods, her heavy hand clinking against her ale mug. “Yeah. It might be good to just... unwind away from all this racket. We could keep things nice and cozy, just the four of us. What do you think?”

The pressure wraps around you like a clamp, your half-drunken haze scattering for a moment of sharp clarity. Alone. No public eyes. Just you, Astarion, and two well-meaning friends who have no idea of the danger they’re inviting.

Your smile wavers, the effort of keeping up your carefree facade corroding. Your tongue feels thick, each word sticking like tar as you stumble for an excuse that could keep this from spiralling out of control.

“Astarion and I have... other plans. Isn’t that right, darling?” Your voice lowers, taking on a coy, suggestive edge. "Something... a little more private.”

Astarion’s crimson gaze gleams, and you can see the moment he seizes the opportunity to torment you. “Oh?” He purrs, leaning in so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your neck. “Do tell them exactly what you want, little love.”

Your face burns, and not from the alcohol. You swallow, your mind spinning, but your mouth, traitorous and loose from drink, follows his demand without pause. “I want... you,” you stammer, and the mortification crashes over you, but you can’t stop. “Right now. Alone.”

Karlach coughs, shifting uncomfortably, and Wyll hides a grimace behind his hand. You almost feel relief, thinking your performance might have been scandalous enough to dissuade them, but Astarion, ever the master manipulator, sees your hope and twists it into something cruel.

He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, then he pulls back, leaving a cold void where his warmth had pressed against you. “Patience, my darling. You can have me... after our little gathering.” His smile widens, more predatory than affectionate. “We wouldn’t want to deny our friends a chance to reconnect.”

Your stomach drops, dread pooling like lead. You’ve played right into his hands and made a fool of yourself for his amusement. The game isn’t over, and you realize, with a heavy sense of resignation, that Astarion won this round.

You stumble up the stairs, each step a monumental effort, your limbs weakened by a mix of drunkenness and something more sinister. The room spins at odd angles, like a stage poorly set, but Astarion keeps you upright with a firm grip. It's not a comfort, though—more like a leash made of flesh binding you to his side.

The room is a world away from the dingy quarters you and Astarion are stuck with. Real soap sits in a wooden dish by the washbasin, its lavender scent wafting through the air. The bath gleams, free from the murky stain of questionable water, its brass fixtures polished to a golden shine.

Wyll and Karlach sit in chairs and order food from the tavern below—platters of steaming meats, freshly baked bread, and odd fruits. They urge you to eat, gentle but insistent.

“Come on,” Karlach coaxes. “It’ll do you good to get some real food in you. No sense in wasting away.”

You shake your head, refusing. The food, though beautifully prepared, isn’t your kind of sustenance. Astarion, on the other hand, puts on a theatrical display. He picks up a roasted chicken leg and bites into it with almost exaggerated enthusiasm, chewing slowly, eyes closed as if savouring every morsel. It’s a performance, of course. He doesn’t need it, but he does it anyway, wordlessly taunting you.

He’s showing off, reminding you of everything you’ve lost, and the unspoken challenge: Can you keep up your facade as well as he does, or will the cracks finally show? Wyll, ever the noble and well-meaning soul, sits forward. “You know, if food is hard to come by… perhaps I can help. It’s no trouble, really.”

His meaning is clear, his eyes shining with a kindness so genuine it’s almost blinding. He’s offering himself to you, his blood, in an act of compassion you don’t deserve. Your mind flashes back to the horrifying moment you sank your fangs into Shadowheart, driven by the ravenous hunger that makes you more monster than person.

Panic strikes like a lightning bolt, and you leap backward so violently that your chair crashes to the floor with a deafening clatter. Before you know it, you’re at the far end of the room, back pressed against the wall as though you could force yourself to disappear. The room feels smaller, your breath coming in shallow, unnecessary gasps. Even Astarion’s eyes round with surprise.

“No,” you croak.

Wyll stands, hands raised in a calming gesture. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just an offer, nothing more.”

His good intentions should comfort you, but they don’t. The kindness in his eyes burn like holy water.

Karlach looks between you and Wyll, her concern evident. “It’s alright, Illyria. We’re just worried about you, is all. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Before you can respond, Astarion steps forward, a gleam of wicked delight dancing in his crimson eyes. “Actually, darling, that’s not a half-bad idea. Wyll here has such a noble, rich flavour, I imagine. You should indulge.”

You turn to him, horror rising in your chest. He’s serious—deadly serious. He knows exactly what he’s suggesting and knows that once you sink your fangs in, you won’t be able to stop. He’s baiting you, trying to push you over the edge, and there’s a twisted pleasure in his smile.

“Astarion, no,” you breathe, but the words barely leave your lips.

Your body trembles, dread crawling up your spine like a colony of spiders. He inches closer, each step slow and deliberate, as if savouring your fear.

“Oh, come now, love,” he coos. “Think of it as a… bonding experience. You wouldn’t want to refuse such a generous offer, would you?”

Astarion’s hands slide to your waist, fingers pressing in with an iron grip that looks deceptively tender. He pulls you away from the wall as if he’s steadying you, but you feel the force behind it, the quiet menace woven through his touch. You meet his gaze, and all you see is darkness—an abyss where warmth and humanity should be replaced by something cruel, twisted beyond the realm of mercy.

“Please,” you whisper, a plea you barely dare to voice, but he’s relentless, his smile widening.

Compulsion begins to weave through your limbs and the insidious command slides under your skin like a parasite. Feed, it whispers, a wordless insistence from Astarion that overrides your will, bending you to his desire.

Your legs move without your consent, carrying you forward in stilted, jerky steps. Each movement feels like your bones are being puppeteered, and you struggle to regain control. Wyll watches you approach with open trust, his eyes full of that infuriating, radiant kindness.

You glance at Astarion, your eyes wide with desperation, mouth opening to beg, to plead with every ounce of strength you have left, but the words that spill out aren’t yours.

“Thank you, Wyll,” you hear yourself lilt, sweet, and sincere, even though it should be shaking with fear.

You hate how calm you sound and how Astarion’s compulsion makes you sound grateful for the monstrous thing you’re about to do. You want to scream and beg Wyll to run, but the compulsion forces you to press your lips to his neck.

You try. Gods, you try. Your mind thrashes against the invisible chains binding you, but Astarion’s compulsion is absolute. The more you resist, the more the pain sears through you—white-hot, blistering agony that tears at every nerve.

Astarion’s presence looms a cold, unyielding shadow. He’s everywhere—in your thoughts, in the twisting agony, in the way your hand rises to steady Wyll’s shoulder without your consent. Tears sting your eyes, but they’re useless; they can’t stop what’s coming. The compulsion tightens like a noose, cutting off any hope of escape.

There will be no coming back from this.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

Well, fuck. How in the Hells is she going to get out of this?

[dontmindme-imjustfangirlin]

it's MY turn to share my ratgrinders theory

this has been stewing in my head for weeks and it has little to no support from what we've seen thus far but it speaks to me and may not be coherent but here it is. this got suuuper long so everything is under the cut.

what if the ratgrinders aren't evil or manipulative, what if they're just traumatized and in way over their heads and scared?

i just keep picturing them running in parallel to the bad kids' freshman year. just another group of six kids with powers and abilities they can't wait to learn to harness, to use; to make the world better and to help. arthur aguefort stands in front of them on the first day and tells them an adventurer is a violent wanderer. he romanticizes the adventure, the glory, the prestige. they go to their first classes, and kipperlilly sits two seats behind a goblin her height with a briefcase trying to hand out business cards with his phone number on them; hakinvar, oisin sits a row away from abernant, adaine in material components; ruben ducks his chin down to avoid his brotherdaduncle? henry and completely misses the tiefling girl stomping past the bard class door; mary ann boredly watches on as a half-orc three times her size sings at her barbarian instructor; ivy rolling her eyes when a braggart of a child cold-cocks a fellow freshman; lucy sits beside a redheaded girl who, in the rush of first-day jitters and habitually shielding her little brothers from her parents' vitriol, forgot to bring a pencil to class. of course lucy has one to spare.

i wonder how they met. who found whom first. if kipperlily, type-a and organized, presented everyone she met with a perfect four-year plan. day one to graduation laid out in color-coded sections, the school years broken down by quarter. maybe she found mary ann first, and mary ann went along with her because no one else had bothered to approach. ruben was two feet tall at best and could barely see over the crowd; he kept getting his feet stepped on until a frost genasi gently caught his wrist and healed his bruises with a soft burst of chilly, bracing wind. oisin's horns caught on ivy's bow as they passed by, and he apologized so profusely and earnestly she could only laugh. maybe kipperlily and ivy went to the same middle school, and kipperlily was so excited to see a familiar face she marched right up to her and oisin. maybe lucy noticed the strawberry plush keychain swinging from mary ann's backpack and approached to tell her how much she loved it. she had a matching watermelon, you see. they laughed, hopeful, right there on the sunny turf of the bloodrush field. they decided to call themselves the high-five heroes.

they were so excited to take on the world. they thought they were ready. and then the screaming started.

they'd been at school for less than a day, and the cafeteria was destroyed. the half-orc mary ann watched disinterestedly had been killed. the redheaded cleric lucy gave that pencil had died, too, blood staining the wood of the no.2. the lunch lady who smiled at ivy despite the grimace on her face had been killed. the counselor who said "welcome to aguefort" to oisin with a calming smile had been killed - murdered - by their principal, who immediately took his own life as well in order to bring the two students back.

an adventurer is a violent wanderer. but death and violence found them without warning, and without much wandering at all. the world was a vast and dangerous place. kids died on the tiled floor where they ate lunch. girls were going missing; the most recent one to go missing, penny luckstone, bore a terrifying resemblance to kipperlily.

the far haven woods were not very far at all, but they were safe. they were close to home. they stomped on rats and small elementals and this was not the glory they dreamed of, the rush of adventure or the thrill of wandering this vast world. this was not making the world better. but then even home was not safe anymore. the coach of the bloodrush team pulled half his athletes into a cult and tried to kill their fellow classmates. their assistant principal ended up being an evil dragon and defeated by the aptly named bad kids.

the bad kids, who for their part spent their freshman year murdering people in car chases, doing sick kickflips in abandoned mithral mines, releasing devils from gemstones, tearing up arcades, getting themselves arrested, and saving the missing girls and the world. as sophomore year rolled around, maybe the high-five heroes looked at each other and thought, surely we can do that. they thought they were ready.

their path hadn't been a glorious one, but they grew stronger nevertheless. mary ann never grew taller, but whenever she flew into a rage, she was scrappy and fierce and relentless. ivy's arrows always flew true. oisin bolstered their numbers with fey, elementals, constructs, once even the faded visage of one of his draconic ancestors. kipperlily ducked and wove between rats and put them down with quick slices, so rapid and humane they never felt them. ruben tuned his guitar to folksy ballads and inspired them to imagine they could be more than rat exterminators in the forest behind the school. and dear, sweet lucy, their glue, who kept them safe and healed their wounds.

sophomore year included a project worth a whopping sixty percent of their grade. this did not surprised the high-five heroes like it did the bad kids. preparations for this were baked into kipperlily's plans from the first day of school. ideas for projects were tacked up on her bulletin board and home and in sticky notes in all her binders. i wonder if the high-five heroes really cared what they did, just so long as it was something more that indiscriminately killing rats in the woods. lucy was a cleric; surely she heard whispers of the forgotten one, the god of giants whose name was stricken from the giants' records. maybe the name was hidden so well she had no idea why this god was one best left forgotten. maybe she thought even gods of rage deserved redemption, kindness, a second chance.

sophomore year flew by in a blaze of research and magic. oisin and kipperlily spent long nights in the library and on a rotating series of floors reading tomes of religious history. lucy prayed and communed with her goddess for information, snuck ancient giant texts out of the library and translated them for all to read. ivy and ruben weren't scholars, but their suggestions were occam's razor slicing through thousands of dusty pages of arcane theory and religious treatise. the simplest explanation is likely the right one. mary ann was as quiet as ever, but after long nights of reading, the high-five heroes would awake under soft, fluffy blankets, a plush nestled right up beside them.

when did things start to go wrong? when did ruben's lyrics take a turn to the dark and angry, the romanticizing of self-harm? when did kipperlily go cold and controlling, her thin-lipped smile an iron veneer over anything beneath? when did ivy's attitude turn disinterested and condescending? when did mary ann go into a rage and sneer, all teeth and claws? when did lucy realize they had passed a point of no return and return to the woods to revive the rats they killed, a small penance only she could offer?

what happened that night in the forest? the night lucy died? was it a ritual gone wrong, the culmination of a year of research trying to contact a dead god? was it a channeling or communion turned possession? something dark and evil came to the far haven woods that night. it took their dearest friend from them. was it a rage, this god possessing lucy and forcing the rest of the high-five heroes' hands? was it a gambit, the giant god of rage returning to snatch lucy's soul from her body as collateral?

learn my name, the god whispered that dark night. bring me back, and i will bring her back. you need my name to get her back.

they thought they were ready. they were so, so wrong.

what else could they do? where could they go? they could hardly tell anyone they killed their cleric trying to contact a dead god. arthur aguefort may have helped, but he is gone, running amok across time with his daughter. principal grix would disintegrate them all if he knew what they were doing.

maybe this, too, is where the ratgrinders' (or at least kipperlily's) disdain for the bad kids comes from. when two of their number died, arthur aguefort killed both a teacher and himself to bring them back. he stopped time for half a day to let them rest and defeat the dragon kalvaxus. he smoothed everything over after the bad kids broke out of jail. he risked war with a neighboring country - the second in as many years - because one of his students was detained illegally. the ratgrinders had none of the bad kids' chances or resources or connections. for the long, dark summer of no sun, that resentment festered. they needed a plan to get her back. kipperlily likes to make plans, and she has friends - angry, traumatized, terrified friends - ready to do whatever it took to get lucy back.

maybe the ratgrinders weren't ready before, but for lucy, they would do anything.

i just. do you see my vision?

[the-ellia-west]

I'm trying to decide which mundane little comic I should start before J&R to develop my art skills

I have three options

1. Gilded Sails A story about a golden statue brought to life to serve a false God who falls in love with a song-less siren, and together, he finds a purpose, and she finds a voice

2. Doctor Sunny A story about an optimistic plague doctor and his sour little girl patient-turned-apprentice/adopted child who go around trying to find a cure to a disease turning people into monsters and getting into trouble

3. The Sentinal's Flower A story about a hardened peacekeeper warrior and the little genasi girl who won't stop following him around

@supercimi @sugar-phoenix @corinneglass @urnumber1star @darkandstormydolls

@vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @pastellbg @homelessnerd @i-hate-happy-endings @i-do-anything-but-write

@yolbert @blue-kyber @cherrychiplip @ellowynthenotking @illarian-rambling

@lunaeuphternal @fantastictrashpolice @phoenixradiant @rivenantiqnerd @gracie-d-5

[endlessmidnightcreates]

I made a ref sheet for my DND char's mom. I had originally just provided Malaika to my dm as a quick ref and didn't expect that she was going to actually play her. I was a fool. So I decided to revisit her for that reason as well as the fact that I realized that the first iteration of her hair didn't make sense to me, so I had to bust out CSP's 3d models to figure it out. More deets under le cut

Malaika is the 7th of 13 siblings that are scattered throughout Faerun and beyond. Quite a few of them are druids and frequent their local bogs while the others reside in normal villages and have average families and lives. Malaika has lot's of nieces and nephews, which is one of the reasons she never bothered to have another child after Opal. That and the fact that raising a Genasi baby has its challenges. She is an elderly woman anywhere 60-100 years old (she will not divulge the information regarding her birth date or season) at 5'10" give or take a few inches when her back isn't hurting, she is a woman of substantial stature and sharp features. Her broad shoulders are often covered by her hair and her favorite dark-grey robe that drapes all the way down to her feet and drags on the ground. It has accumulated so many rips, tears and grime over the years that you cant really see the gold-inlaid floral patterns that line the bottom. Malaika is more of a doer than a talker —unless there's a book involved. There is a reason why she chose to take ownership of the shop instead of the other 12 siblings. With her warm, measured tone, she could recite the entire history stored in the Baldur’s gate anthology as easy as she could tell you where to find the Scrying 101 books.

[jackzarts]

Some time ago I had to design my forever magenta changeling artificer’s, Creed, mother. She is also a changeling in an air genasi persona that goes by Avi. She works as an air ship engineer all day and hangs out with Creed at night, nerding about science and stuff. She’s a single mom, and would’ve loved to have the funds to send her child to wizard school… But well, Creed is doing fine, they’re happy learning on their own.

instagram - twitter - patreon - more

[whomstsnek]

another contender to the ring!!

introducing ANOTHER of my silly lil dnd characters, my goofy lil bard Catcher :)

Catcher was made for a friend's 'World of Gods' campaign, where essentially they had each of us make a demigod character (ie one mortal and one divine parent) and plopped us into a random mythological setting.

We have 2 Greeks, 2 Celts, and only one PC who sprung for a Faerun god lol. Bonus points for us accidentally ending up in the realm of Norse mythology, where none of our characters have a DAMN clue what's happening

Catcher was one of the Greeks (obviously lol), the child of Prometheus. For obvious reasons I had difficulty figuring out how the fuck that would have happened but eventually I settled on Catcher's mother passing Mt. Caucasus (where Prometheus is chained) while traveling, and finding herself curious about the eagle she saw near the peak every day. She climbed up, found Prometheus, and one thing led to another then BAM baby. Side note, I can't imagine them. getting it on. And instead I think some fucked up titan god magic happened, yknow? just not entirely sure what :/

n e ways I imagine that Catcher is a fire genasi specifically BECAUSE of Prometheus's own connection to flame, and she also inherited her parents' ambition and thirst for knowledge, reflected in her being a bard of the college of lore.

Unfortunately, she ended up dying pretty early on in the adventure, and anyone who follows me might have seen a post a while back asking for the public's opinion on which character I should next play. Currently I play an elven cleric, and a child of Themis, might post about her soon too :)

[triaelf9]

Air genasi barbarian self-proclaimed archivist (of dangerous items) with looooow CHA can have a little accidental ruidium corruption on a failed save, as a treat XD. Whoopsies! 😘

Ahhh, Call of the Netherdeep is a blast, love me some Critical Role campaign settings XD

(Quick post-game doodle because how could I not draw my disaster child taking on yet another curse in stride XD)

[morrigan-sims]

D&D OC Intro

(inspired by @goldenwaves's post!!)

[transcript under the cut]

This is FAR from everyone, but it's the characters I've played for more than a oneshot, and the ones I actually talk about.

TRANSCRIPT:

Zenara Raventhorn (aka Zen)

Tiefling Warlock (Pact of the Fiend)

The first D&D character I ever played.

Only got to play two sessions with them.

Unintentionally inspired by Critical Role Campaign 2

Backstory written between 1-3am on my phone.

Has an imp familiar who looks like a raven.

Occasionally gets possessed by their patron, and then gets given new powers as an "apology".

Fire theme.

Rook (Adrian Lockwood)

Half-elf Rogue (Swashbuckler)

First (and only) character to make it past 8 sessions. (So far.)

Disaster bisexual pirate boy with SO MUCH trauma.

Wields a magic rapier that was a gift from his captain + first mentor.

Enemies with a different pirate captain who wants to capture him.

Has decent charisma but relatively terrible social skills.

Bastard son of a nobleman. Has daddy issues.

Reckless and impulsive to a fault. Would die for his friends.

May or may not be cursed by a demon lord.

Asola Riava Ashmark

Aasimar Paladin (Oath of Vengeance)

Made it 8 sessions before we switched campaigns.

Doesn't know she's an aasimar. Her powers show up when she experiences extreme emotions and it's only ever happened twice in her life.

Got briefly possessed and then force-shut-down by a literal god.

Has a habit of picking up stray traumatized young people.

The party's moral compass. Tried to keep them somewhat in line.

Believes that laying down her life to save someone else's is worth it. Swears she doesn't have self-worth issues.

Morana Novak

Witch (Curse Patron)

Character for an eventual Pathfinder game.

Named after a Slavic goddess of death and winter.

Necromancer, got kicked out of her hometown for graverobbing and experimenting on corpses.

Her familiar is a raven named Miro, who she rescued and trained.

Autistic as hell, which will be fun for me to play.

Very creepy and unsettling person.

One of her future party members nicknamed her "Mortician".

Cyra

Fire Genasi Barbarian (Path of the Storm Herald)

Newest character on this powerpoint.

Fights with a magical flaming quarterstaff that she can summon from inside herself.

Has a stolen, magically powered vehicle.

Formerly part of a cult. Only stayed around for their toxic then-girlfriend.

Somehow basically the least traumatized member of the party. That was NOT the plan.

Avra Shadaowbreath

Shadar-Kai/Reborn Rogue (Phantom)

Devout follower of the Raven Queen, has utter faith in her actions.

Used to work for an assassin's guild until she was killed after a job gone wrong.

Revived by the Raven Queen herself to be her assassin.

Sent to Barovia to kill a powerful lich.

Has complicated feelings on her own resurrection, but her faith in the Raven Queen is stronger than her doubts about herself, for now...

A massive hypocrite when it comes to other people being resurrected.

Odynia Adrasteia Erinys

Aasimar Paladin (Oath of Vengeance)

Devoted follower of Nemesis, goddess of divine retribution.

Got transformed into an aasimar after being chosen to be Nemesis's eye on the mortal plane.

"And eye for an eye" but make it literal.

Has black feathered wings sometimes.

More than a little bit of a bitch. Very prickly at best.

Her name means "inescapable pain/grief" so that bodes well.

Hellbent on revenge... but why?

Aspen Vale

Half-Elf/Changeling Bard/Warlock (Glamour/Archfey)

Pied Piper'd into the Feywild as a child.

Learned bardic magic there, and made a pact with their patron, Fin, the god of death.

Sent back to the material plane with ZERO memories.

Named themself after the first thing they saw in the material plane - an aspen grove.

Carries a "broken" compass that Fin uses to guide them in the right direction without their knowledge.

Carrion Vice

Barbarian (Path of the Fractured)

Physically a tiefling, mechanically a Beasthide shifter.

He grew up religious and his birth name was Reverence.

Received his name after being left for dead and told "Soon you'll be nothing but carrion".

Transforms into an unrecognizable monster when he rages.

Transformations caused by exposure to Delirium (magically radioactive crystal) when he was a kid.

Current goal is to kill his former mentor, the one who left him behind...

[slab-bananaburger]

A character design I made for my friend of his dnd character, Caspian is a water genasi fighter who grew up as a child soldier (oof).

[y-rhywbeth2]

While I get why they didn't include it (because 4e fucked with the tieflings and now we have archdevil tieflings and the og hereditary tieflings in the same space, and the former are hogging the limelight) I think it would've been interesting to have Bhaal tieflings as a subrace option. They wouldn't look as flashy as the others - no horns, no technicolour skin or tail, for example (unless their mortal parent was a tiefling who looked like that, I guess) - but they would be highly inclined towards violence and murder. Deity descended planetouched are known for having birthmarks in the shape of their ancestor's holy sumbol, so maybe they'd have the Circle of Tears, or a bone dagger marked somewhere on their skin.

I mean, Durge's origin pretty much covers everything they'd bring to the table, so it's obsolete, but the thought stays in my head:

The first generation Bhaalspawn did reproduce: Abazigal had at least one son; Yaga-Shura was attempting to create half-giant progeny; most of the romance epilogues feature children (this was intentional, the original BG3 was supposed to have Charname's child as the protagonist, apparently). There were hundreds of Bhaalspawn who reached adulthood; many of them would've had the opportunity to marry or have children, knowingly or accidentally.

I've said this before, but again, the offspring of a quasi-deity and a mortal is a tiefling, genasi or aasimar and the divine blood may go dormant and activate generations down the line too. It's also not unknown for the planetouched to become pawns in their ancestor's games, and entire lineages (not simply the first half-outsider child alone) may be created intentionally.

Notably, Abazigal's son Draconis - a grandchild of Bhaal, and not a demigod - was not part of the giant prophecy his father, aunts and uncles were drowning the world in blood over (except as a pawn of his own half-mortal father, anyway). These planetouched mortal children would've been passed over unharmed and unnoticed (too unimportant on the divine stage). I wonder how many of Bhaal's grandchildren and great-grandchildren are running around? How many cousins might Orin have? How many nieces and nephews might have Bhaal's strings tied around them? Is resist Durge going to leave behind their sister/niece drama only to run into another one in the future?

(I am aware that it appears BG3 has ignored/handwaved away the existence/possibility of these guys: I don't care. BG2 left these plot threads and I will be taking then and running off with it.)

[sorrowsaint]

OOC --

for fun, here's some of my headcanons for Lucy's pre-hs and freshman year life

- very, very lonely child. and very cold to the touch as a kid because she couldnt control her frost genasi powers just yet. she would reach out to folks on the playground but nothing ever went right. she spent any time other kids socialized reading instead. got very intense about fantasy high warrior cats. cried all the time because she got picked on. not awesome.

- once she hit middle school her parents started bringing her on vacations to the mountains of chaos to visit ruvinas old shrines and the sparse other members of ruvinas faithful. when she spoke to them, a cold little genasi girl who was grasping for answers about her loneliness and isolation, life kind of clicked in her head. it was okay for her to be sad but she should push on and keep trying. 12 year old level 1 cleric what will she do. still cries al the time

- even with knowing how to keep her skin a bearable temperature, lucy was still very, very lonely. she had maybe one or two friends who she would do anything for and would dote on incessantly, but they were not enough to fill that void in her chest. maybe she even gets a little mad. she pushes it down though and keeps trucking. still cried all the time

- freshman year at aguefort. lucy redefined herself, did all she could to be open and outgoing and kind. but hey yknow something? still weird. she was super tall, still generally cold physically, and so Odd. socially awkward but so earnest it hurts. she gets Very Mad, because highschoolers are much better at being cruel, and yet she doesnt falter to that anger. she keeps all of it bottled up and pretends its something shes better than. no one is netter than being angry but she doesnt know that. shes stopped crying and started gritting her teeth.

- of course, very dedicated to ruvina. even though her parents introduced her to her deity, lucy is so sure she would have found ruvina regardless. ruvina is kind of a role model for lucy. she's in control of her emotions and expresses the one she wants to (sadness), she teaches the values of using sorrow and sadness to diagnose your pain and better yourself theough feeling bad. anger may be a check engine light but sadness is the actual diagnosis. you have to feel bad about something to know its bad. lucy already found a lot of comfort in the wintertime, and even more knowing the cold winds were blown to her by a very cool goddess.

- very vague how but she ends up with the high five heroes. porter pays a Lot of attention to her for them not sharing a class. weird but whatever. it takes a while for her to open up but once she does she is So Nice. like "ignores her own feelings" nice. helped everyone with anything they needed, of course healed them when they got downed and even more, threw herself in battle and fought like a giant when she needed to. still that odd undercurrent of anger she can't process. porter offers to help with that. hes a barbarian after all, and giantkin like her. he can help. she trusts him.

... and thats it for Now.