#naven tlin'orzza

[jadewing-realms]

trying to bring my art muse back from the dead now that i'm finally recovering from la concussion. first rule of thumb in strengthening muse that i've learned over the past year... follow the serotonin.

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Nearly dying was threatening to become a triviality at this point. All the trials they've faced, all the tribulations endured, they'd begun to bleed together in Naven's mind, congealing into a great, indistinct sludge of pain, fear, and exhaustion. Given how everyone seemed to rely on him for morale - what else was a bard for, after all - he often did his best to raise their spirits, take care of them after each long, grueling day.

But tonight, his will has all but abandoned him. The drow's fingers hover listlessly above the well-loved strings of Lihala's lute, his long silver hair a curtain against the world with his head hung low, but no songs come to mind. He's simply... tired.

Astarion breaks the stillness and its like the felling of a distant tree in the forest. Something snaps. The air moves again. He can breathe.

The question is a strange one, but Naven has always squirmed under the weighr of the average menial small talk. He has a fondness for odd queries. It makes a small, crooked smile tilt his lips, warm his face. "I doubt my palate is refined enough as yours, to grasp the true nuances of blood... but I would like to think I taste... pleasant. Comforting, maybe. Like a warm cider in winter."

It was a long and grueling day for Astarion and the party. He almost died, they almost died, and Gods, why is it so godsforsaken quiet around the camp? Usually, the camp was alive with chatter around this time of night, with shared drinks and an amazing meal made by Gale—and yet each one of his companion's sat around the campfire in sullen silence and Astarion LOATHED it. So, doing what he does best, he breaks the silence with a rather odd question—

"What do each of you THINK your blood tastes like?" He asks with a suave wave of his hand, breaking the deafening silence that loomed over the camp.

(Open RP prompt for Tavs and companions) tagging @ask-gale @askgale @ask-shadowheart @ask-laezel @ask-karlachbear @ask-thebladeoffrontiers @ask-thedarkurge @askastarion @anderwelt @althaea-roserun @oakfathers-embrace + anyone who I forgot to tag who wants to join in on the fun.

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daisy, daisy, tell me your answer true...

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whatever comes next, i have you

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ask and you shall receive, i can't shut up about my son so

forewarning: he is over 200 years old and I have thought out his backstory extensively so this will be a long one. buckle up and settle in, boys

Naven Tlin'orzza, Seldarine drow, College of Lore bard and Great Old One warlock. He's 5'8", neutral good, 211 years old, and the quiet, bookish sort. meek, not comfortable with strangers or crowds or small talk (not that his 16 Charisma would let anyone know that, he's become very good at pretending), but bring up astronomy or philosophy and he can talk for hours. he knows all the constellations and their stories by heart. his favorite colors are royal purple and gold, his favorite food is warm buttered bread, favorite drink is spiced cider. he taught himself how to read and write.

his younger brother Drinn and sister Lillis, when they were little and Naven tried to teach them what a surname was, couldn't pronounce his full name. so they just called him Tavvy, later Tav.

he's attempting to both be good, help everyone who needs it, while also not in a hurry to be rid of the tadpole, seeing the abilities it grants as a way to help more people. his romantic interest is Astarion, who he admires for his courage and spirit.

extended backstory under the cut

he's the firstborn son of a deserter Lolth-sworn mother and an Astral elf father. for separate reasons, both parents abandoned him and his siblings as children, leaving Naven as their sole provider and guardian in the little cabin they called home. they had to leave that home behind when they ran out of food, and they took to the streets of Baldur's Gate as urchins.

Drinn and Lillis had inherited their mother's eyes, so getting people to trust them enough to pay them was difficult. they scraped by on tips they earned from putting on little plays and performances on busy street corners. when Naven was 16, after 4 years on the street, they were approached by a human man who owned a theater and claimed to want Naven's talent.

this man, Regis Baskerville, took Naven under his wing, let him live in the attic of the theater with the promise of his siblings joining him should he earn his keep. Regis groomed him as both a performer and arm trophy, and Naven considered the man his first "love" without realizing how he was being used. and when the theater was struggling financially and relying more on patronage from the adjacent bordello, which Baskerville also owned, Naven became a Dove there to make ends meet and finally made enough for his siblings to have a roof over their heads. He didn't mind the work and was popular with noblewomen, despite his own sexuality.

for the next two generations, Naven walked the edge of poverty under the thumb of the Baskerville family. Regis married some noble lady of pedigree, made profits off plays Naven wrote for him, and never gave proper credit, citing food and shelter as reimbursement enough. He'd parade Naven to the occasional noble function as "his Star" and "his Swan" but Naven was not permitted to speak, only to smile and wave and sing on command.

after him, Regis' son Edwin took over, turning the theater into a show stage and gambling den instead of a place of high art. Naven was pressed to write more and faster as he and the rest of the performers were run ragged. when he couldn't produce fast enough, Edwin locked him in the attic until he finished something. that was when he found The Carcosa Scripts hidden under the floorboards among some old trunks of costumes.

the script was dark. strange. inspiring. Naven began to write play after play, and each new one sold out when performed. Naven came to know the King in Yellow through this manuscript, finding comfort for his overwhelming insignificance in the face of the unchangeable eternal. and as decades continued to pass and nothing improved, and Drinn died in a mining collapse at the job he'd gotten outside the city to help keep them afloat, the play inspired Naven to darker thoughts.

as Edwin's son Wolfgang took over the theater next and wished to return it to its former artistic glory, Naven took the opportunity to pitch a grand performance of the Scripts themselves. their story was one of existential dread and bitterly opposed to the ruling class, and Naven wanted to see them squirm and ruin the theater's reputation for good.

he couldn't have known how well it would work. he wrote himself into the starring role as the Masked Man in Yellow, donned a golden gown and porcelain mask he'd found with the scripts, and when the play began so did the madness. the doors barred. the cast, including his sister Lillis, became mechanical, husks of themselves. the audience was enthralled, laughing and crying to tears, to suffocation. all the Hells broke loose, fights erupted, and only Naven seemed lucid as he watched in horror. when the curtains caught fire and he couldn't even run for an exit because of the throng clawing at him, even he succumbed to the madness, dissolving to manic laughter.

he doesn't remember how he got out. only that he did. that he watched the building burn as people rushed back and forth trying in vain to fight it. that Wolfgang eventually got out as well and called the city watch. he was placed in prison for arson until his mad ravings caused him to be sent into the countryside, to an asylum run by Sisters of Ilmater.

there, decades later, he was snatched up by a nautiloid and a mindflayer tadpole gave him the first clarity of mind he'd had in a very long time.

...that's uh. the short version. i have more, over on his toyhouse.

if you made it this far, thank you for reading jfklsfdf

Hey y'all, send me your Tavs/Durges and their backstories (preferably in post form) so I can look at them and reblog! I wanna see all the little guys you make!

Also let me know if you're ok with me reblogging them and leaving comments in the tags.

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been a while since i did a figure study

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the romancing is going... well?

after this, i got the convo where astarion says the most hollow “i love you” anyone's ever heard and naven has realized maybe he went into this whole thing just a liiiittle idealistic.

listen, he didn't think it was love or anything like that just yet but

he was ready to let it bloom naturally, then astarion had to go and tip his hand. if there's anything naven knows, as someone who lived and breathed theater from age 16 to 114, it's acting. and he feels a little silly for not having noticed it sooner.

maybe he didn't want to.

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i did... a thing. is it weird to be stupidly happy with how the potions turned out??

thanks for the lovely template goes to @arcandoria

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i don't know if there's a specific term for the thing when... you're so used to being told you're too much? too loud, too quiet, too stubborn, a pushover, too excited, too cold, too close, too distant... so you just kinda give up doing anything without explicitly being told to because you just can't figure out where the balance is?

especially physical affection. what's 'too much'? when is it okay to hold hands? how do you know when you're allowed to hug someone? gods forbid you give someone a forehead kiss at the wrong time and make them uncomfortable. you don't know how to intuit what anyone needs at any given time so... you figure you should just... not move. unless someone specifically asks you to.

whatever That is, it's how i imagine Naven is. stuck in perma-freeze response, unless he has a designated Role to Play. he's been molded into the model support system. he enjoys making others feel good. he likes seeing them smile. feel safe. he always asks how others are feeling; he always asks for their permission before doing anything that might affect them. he's thoughtful, quiet, agreeable. he never asks for things for himself, and he certainly never takes up space... it's been too long since he had permission to. he's always had to be the caretaker, the older sibling, the protector, the adult, mature, rational, self-sufficient, the perfect island content with simply being ground for others to walk on.

i think this is why Astarion catches his attention right away. the vampire seems so... fearless. not in the usual sense, the heroic sense, but in that he's not afraid to be loud. to say what he's thinking. to take up space and a lot of it. and he's funny and confident and charismatic even when he's being an asshole and Naven is a little in awe of it, muzzled and afraid to misstep as he is.

how does one go about being so unapologetically flawed? he wants to know.

then of course... he learns more. glimpses cracks in the mask. learns of the fears behind the facade, learns that what he'd been witnessing wasn't Astarion saying what he was thinking but saying what he believed others expected or wanted and oh, Naven understands. and now he swears he will do anything in his power to help Astarion feel as safe and respected and loved, truly loved, as he can. he's good at that. and... it works. Naven is used to feeling blind to what others want from him, he tries to account for what he can't see so nobody ever feels unheard or unseen. Astarion is used to having any and all his boundaries crossed, he's relearning how it feels to be treated as an individual. he's also not interested in a protector or guardian... he wants an equal. something neither is used to having but both crave like they crave air to breathe.

sitting by the fire at camp, Naven asks if it's okay to lean on Stari's shoulder, maybe even hold his hand. some other time, Astarion is upset and is surprised when Naven asks whether he needs comfort or advice or space. even more so when he asks for space and Naven accepts without question or second-thought and simply waits until Astarion is ready.

at night, a nightmare and anxiety attack leaves Naven a frayed mess and he dares to ask for a hug for himself for the first time in more than a century and gods is Astarion more than willing to give him one. later, Naven feels guilty for being frustrated about something and Astarion tells him to let himself be angry for once. that nobody will hate him for it.

Stari says he needs a little excitement, asks if Naven would like to visit the market street with him; Naven's had a burst of muse and needs to be alone to write. they're both fine with this and hope the other enjoys themselves for the day. Naven asks if he'd like a kiss for luck; Astarion accepts it and gets Bardic Inspiration to schmooze some vendors later, I dunno.

ask and receive. a cycle of love and respect. giving each other the freedom and space to just... be. exist, as they are, together. over time, they get to learn not only about each other, but about themselves, what they like, what they don't. and that it's okay to speak up about both.

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aesthetic - naven

I want to watch the universe expand. I want to break it into pieces small enough to understand and put it all back together again in the quiet of my private collection.

It feels like an out-of-body experience, but something gets lost from a safe distance. Now I can't put my mind to rest, and I can't help but second guess living behind this one-way mirror.

I'm hypnotized by this anomaly. Such strange, uncharted territory. A white flag waves in the dark between my head and my heart. My armour falls apart, as if I could let myself be seen, even deeply known.

Like I was already brave enough to let go.

And now I want to generously lose this energy that I've been hanging onto so desperately. I finally feel the universe expand. It's hidden in heartbeats, exhales, and in the hope of open hands.

~

lyrics - five - sleeping at last

art credits - kenny callicutt | @silent.steppi | @aestheticcozystudios | brandon stricker

[jadewing-realms]

on a moonlit stage - astarion oneshot

surpriiissseee i wrote another thing!

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Title: On A Moonlit Stage

Characters: Astarion; Naven Tlin'orzza/Tav

Pairing: Astarion x Tav

Word Count: 2636

It’s a tale as old as time: salacious vampire meets gullible fool. Astarion knows the script backwards and forwards, but he swears on everything he knows this is going to be the last time. The last time he grovels at someone else’s feet. The last time he bows. It’s for his own protection, he tells himself. It’s insurance. The fact that the drow bard is frustratingly handsome as he is naive is an afterthought.

TW: allusions to sexual themes and SA

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There was something uncomfortable, heavy, dense, settling in the pit of Astarion’s stomach. It was miserably distracting. It didn’t seem to matter how many gulps the vampire took of the tart, chalky excuse for red wine that the devilkin had proffered as party favors, it didn’t – couldn’t – drown out that cursed feeling. Instead, all it served to do was add to it and sour his mood even more.

Oh, he kept it from his face of course, as was expected. He froze his practiced mask in place, grinned when appropriate, nodded, winked, and gave theatrical bows to the stream of people who were determined to thank the entire party for the great, selfless work they had done. The goblins were vanquished! The Grove saved! So many cheery faces. So many boisterous voices and empty words, so much bad wine and tasteless food.

‘Our heroes,’ they kept calling them all. ‘Courageous.’ ‘Warriors.’ ‘Right decent folk.’ It made him want to spit their peasant liquor at their feet. 

Ignoble fools, all of them. Heroes didn’t exist, and if they did, this group of freaks certainly weren’t them. Only Wyll – local hero as he was – had truly wanted to help these people; the rest wanted only the kidnapped healer’s skills; saving the tieflings was a convenient bonus. Astarion hadn’t even cared about that, set as most of the party was on getting rid of their little cranial stowaways rather than using them, common sense be damned.

Nobody else seemed to have any problem accepting the shallow jubilance and praise, either. Least of all their new permanent companion, Karlach, who was beaming bright as the bonfire. The red tiefling made up for her inability to mingle without roasting the skin off anyone unfortunate enough to bump her arm by shouting her greetings, waving high, laughing low and loud; and when their illustrious leader – that arrogant, guileless sucker that was drow bard extraordinaire, Naven fucking Tlin’orzza – whipped out his lute and strummed up a jaunty little tune for the mood, Karlach trumpeted the lyrics louder than everyone else. Astarion was sure he heard the frantic flutter of feathered wings as it set alight a few poor evening doves roosting in the trees. 

The whole affair was as sickly and saccharine as the bottle he nursed. Perhaps Wyll had the right idea, wandering off to the riverbank as he had; perhaps Astarion could simply steal away. Go on a hunt. Get something out of the night. 

The thought reminded him that he’d already made previous arrangements for the hours to come. Plans with the aforementioned drow. He almost grimaced past the next draught of wine.

Gods, he’d be glad when the whole song and dance was over. The drow was insufferable, naive as he was aloof, painfully polite, and a terrible conversationalist unless there was an audience to entertain. He also got along far too well with their resident wizard of hubris for comfort, and the two engaged in regular pontifications that went on for far too long and contained far too many obscure terms no one else could understand. He was also constantly sticking his nose into everyone else’s business, asking about their lives and histories and secrets…

On top of it all, he was either a liar and a charlatan equal to any of Cazador’s best thugs, or he genuinely believed in the do-gooder bullshit he spouted. Astarion couldn’t decide which was worse at this point. The only positive thing Naven had going for him in Astarion’s book was that he was the only one who seemed interested in taking advantage of the tadpoles in their brains for the power they provided.

Well, and he was easy on the eyes. But that, of course, was a requirement.

It didn’t really matter whether he liked him or not, though. Somehow the drow had wormed his way into everyone else’s trust, despite everything, and that made him the most important person to have on Astarion’s side if he didn’t want to wake up staked to the ground one of these nights. 

It hadn’t taken much; it never did. A few well-spoken words, shallow compliments; a brush of a hand here, a hooded glance there. If he’d done it once, he’d done it a thousand times. Carnal lust was always so easy to invoke, mortal feelings like clay beneath the hands of a skilled artisan. Naven was practically in his pocket at this point and tonight was sure to cement his position nicely. 

Second to the man in charge. An auspicious match indeed. 

Over the rim of the bottle, his gaze slid across camp, to the little ring of bystanders gathered around the music makers. Naven, the court jester tiefling, and even that fool Volo, the music flowed from them, honey on the air. 

They… weren’t half bad. As far as music went. It was no symphony or opera, that was for certain, but they had a folkish charm to them at least. And they stole the attention from everyone else, which gave the odd pit in Astarion’s belly a chance to fade.

Until the drow’s gaze rose to meet his. Golden eyes caught firelight and moonlight both at once, a broad grin split his face through the words he sang, and Astarion almost choked on his drink.

Was that… a smile? A real smile, the first he’d seen on that man’s face? He had to pause, think back, skim his memories from the day they met to the present, and he couldn’t actually recall a single moment he’d seen… that smile. Oh, there’d been little glimpses, quirks of his lips, placating smirks or bewildered half-grins. Never teeth, never so strong it wrinkled the dusky skin at the corners of those eyes. Never something so… radiant.

Gods damn this drow. Of course he would have a gorgeous smile hiding under the pomp and intellect. How infuriatingly unfair! Astarion hadn’t been aware dark elves could smile. 

It lingered, too, as did that burning gaze. For the sake of appearances, Astarion didn’t let himself look away. He shifted his weight, let the lines of his body do the talking, knocked back the bottle and slowly, deliberately downed the last of the liquor, swiped his lip with his thumb once it was gone. All the things he knew would have the drow looking at all the right places.

The smile dimmed to something softer, something… fond. 

He couldn’t be serious. 

A patronizing play, perhaps; Naven had mentioned having been an actor before all this. Astarion had watched him charm his way through a horde of goblins without trouble, behaving by all accounts like these True Souls they couldn’t shut up about, never giving anything away. Every word, every glance, it could be nothing more than an elaborate facade.

They were both playing the same game. But when it all came down to the wire, a vampire would always play it better. If only for the centuries of practice.

Though… he didn’t actually know how old Naven was. The way he behaved, the way he trusted, surely he had to be fresh off his Naming. But then again, there were those creeping lines under those eyes of his, the barest hint of creases striking through the tasteful tattoo on his forehead. It could be age, or it could be… well, grief.

The pit was coming back, and the wine had done absolutely nothing. He shouldn’t have expected anything else. It had been two-hundred years since blessed inebriation came to him from a bottle. He recalled the night he’d drained the bear, the absolute euphoria he felt afterward. What he’d give to engorge himself again now, before his moment came. Before he knelt at the feet of another for the last fucking time, and laid the last nail to the emotional coffin lid. It’d certainly make it easier to get through if he could be drunk as the Hells.

But alas. Would that the gods could be so kind. They weren’t. He could only sling the empty bottle to the side for its personal offense to him, where he didn’t even get the satisfaction of watching it break. It simply rolled across the dirt and clinked to a stop against a stump. He pouted at it for good measure. It did nothing more.

It had to be better if he took his leave now. The party would wind down before long, he wagered. He needed to be in place, ready and waiting, properly alluring, for when his quarry came looking for him. 

He gathered what he knew he would need in a pack. Then, steps composed but quiet, he idled backward, away from his tent, into the treeline. He slipped from the edges of camp without the notice of a single soul and plunged into the darkness beyond the fire’s light. His eyes and light feet, used to the shadows, made entering into them easy as breathing.

The long walk that followed, that was another story entirely. Stumps and dirt and grass and stones made what might’ve been a leisurely stroll into a struggle that no amount of shadow could ease. Roots snagged his boots. Branches clawed at his face. Bloody nature! He grew more and more weary with it each passing day, each night he laid his head on a pack draped in a blanket instead of a pillow. 

He missed proper beds. He missed private baths and locked doors and armchairs. He missed… the city.

The city meant the clan, though. The clan meant Cazador. Cazador meant… He stopped, shaking the creeping memories from his skull. Flashes of blood and bile, hunger pangs, the pitch black of a closed coffin. A ripple of discomfort seared across his back. 

“No! That’s enough of that.” The words left him without permission, murmured to no one but his own mind and the deepening night. He shoved the memories down, down to that blasted pit in his gut. He was far, far from Baldur’s Gate. Far from his reach. He strode deeper into the night, imagining each step as another one further from those long-reaching arms. 

This is mine! All of this. My night. My mind. My choice! No one was ever going to take this away from him, not with freedom in his hands, at long last.

His feet had stopped again, and that wouldn’t do. 

He needed to find a place for tonight. The perfect place. Yes, somewhere properly… romantic. Ideally, in the cradle of two luscious trees, with the moonlight beaming down just so. Mortals did adore when their lovers waxed poetic to them beneath the moon.

Ah… he needed something to say. Just the right thing.

He found a deer path and began to follow it, keeping his steps close together to avoid any sudden obstacles in the gray landscape. The trade-off for the gift of night sight, of course, was that he wouldn’t be able to take color into consideration when picking his spot. But then, neither would a drow. Double negative makes a positive and all that. 

His gaze wandered aimlessly as he went, and he let his mind go with it. “What to say… I’m thinking literary. He seems an educated man.”

Some classics, perhaps. ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire’ sort of thing. Yes, that could do nicely. Everyone loved that one. It had been a while since he recited it, too; he practiced a few stanzas to test the rhythm and rhyme on his tongue and when it didn’t sound quite perfect enough, he tried again. And again, and so forth, until he began to hear the rippling of water nearby.

He’d circled back to the edge of the river, it seemed. Which wasn’t a terrible thing; the serenity of the sound would only add to the desired ambiance. He kept it just out of sight.

Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks. Something in his gut told him right here… it felt close. Eyes narrowing, he raised a hand, thumb out at an angle like the corner of a frame, and he swiveled across the trees that surrounded him. He needed just the right spot…

There. Two grand oaks standing side by side, framing a small clearing, moonlight streaming down in divine shafts. It was no mansion bedchambers, but it would do.

He winced, immediately regretting the comparison. Now he was thinking of Baldur’s Gate again. Of his service room. Of Cazador.

“This isn’t for you!” he spat to nobody. Skin immediately crawling, he spun a quick circle, just… to make sure. He was alone. “This is for me! Me.”

He raked his fingers into his hair, distracting his mind by making sure not a single strand was out of place. He had to be perfect. Everything had to. Like a dream. When all was said and done, that drow needed to leave this place so enthralled, he couldn’t bear for Astarion to leave his side ever again. Then Astarion would never have to worry about Lae’zel getting a bit stab-happy if he smirked at her wrong, or Wyll living up to his status as a monster hunter if the mood so took him. Not unless they wanted to face the wrath of their beloved man with the plan.

So it was decided. This was the place. He stepped between the two trees, gave one trunk a light pat before he rid himself of his shirt and shoes. The grass was satisfyingly cool beneath his toes. A breeze whispered through the summer leaves and he paused folding his clothes, just to watch them dance.

It… really was a nice spot.

Getting here had been an absolute drag, no doubt; the Great Outdoors were not his natural habitat and never would be, but he couldn’t deny that when he didn’t have to trudge through knee-high brush or duck under rudely low-hanging boughs or wave bugs out of his face or watch for animal scat… well. It was peaceful enough.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This moon felt much kinder than the one he knew before. She was soft. Soothing. The night’s watchful guardian, shining silver just for the bards that might look up and write of her beauty. Or for anyone.

Back in the city, the moon was simply a hollow sun for the likes of him and his ‘siblings.’ They couldn’t have the real thing, so they settled for experiencing a world that was only half what it should be. Add to that the fact that the moon could not penetrate the deep, dark alleyways of the city where vampires best hunted, and it was never a friend of theirs.

Strange, to find it so different now. 

Then again, everything was. Everything except for the scars on his back; his permanent reminder. And he still didn’t know what they said.

Absently, he reached a hand back to trace his fingertips over the raised edges like he’d done countless times. They felt so terribly pronounced, so… ugly. A hideous presence amongst such serene midnight perfection.

Would… Naven notice them?

“Hello?” a distant voice called. Louder than it usually was, but still familiar after traveling together so long. The man himself, come to join him at last. “Astarion, are you… close by?”

Astarion’s hand fled from his back. His stomach seized again and he wished he had wine to pretend to drown it with. He took one last deep breath and the way it stuttered would have made him scowl, were he not already schooling his features into the very picture of debonair charm.

“Over here, darling,” he called back, taking his place behind the tree, readying words in his mind for the moment his companion came into view. “Just a little closer.”

It was time to play his part again.

But the pit never went away.