#new age druids

[thedruidsforest]

Bow In The Clouds, Michigan August 2024

linktree / instagram

[illegalmemes]

back in 2014, i made an inquisitor that i fell in love with. BUT I NEVER THOUGHT WE'D LIVE TO SEE ANOTHER DRAGON AGE GAME AAA, so all these years my Enasalin Lavellan was the elf i picked up and shoved into SO MANY DIFFERENT AU's, including d&d and BG3, so this is her as a wood elf druid. still ena, still my Lavellan <3

her toyhouse :)

[voiceoftheoldways]

Worth pursuing or not? Media evolves so fast I’m not even sure if newsletters are even a thing anymore. 🤷‍♂️

[stormystarlight]

secret santa for @vamp1r1cjuggalo! caprino (it/he/they/spore) is another character in the same campaign i'm playing five in :]

[absurdditties]

[fearsomejibblet]

Another old art today, this time of Hedera, my swamp witch.

[strawbattyshortcake]

Growing Season

Words: 3685

Triel’dra sighs, contented, she and Astarion curled up on the soft, springy mat of tough toadstool caps carpeting the rocky alcove she’d deemed a safe place to... Well, to let their guards down.

She’s a contented kind of exhausted: a day of travel and fighting, the lightheaded numbness of his feeding, the afterglow of their intimacy. The gentle luminescence of the underdark below is a welcome reminder of home, and she could so easily drift off here in his arms like she did in the forest— but, the underdark is the underdark. If they don’t return to camp soon, someone’s bound to come looking. 

Reluctantly, Triel’dra stretches and forces herself up, sets to retrieving the clothing they’d scattered about the clearing in their haste. She finds her trousers, a sock… Astarion’s briefs are draped over a rock, impossible to miss. They’re a bright blue that had seemed funny to her at first, as a choice for him, but blue suits him, and it’s the colour of the sky he loves so dearly. He must miss it down here. 

She’s trying to be helpful when she grabs the briefs but stops before handing them over. She turns them over in her hands, looking for the inexplicable ridges she’d felt. Text. Elegant, embroidered Thorass script in gold thread, beneath the waistband and scrolled across his backside. 

“Astarion?” She was already grinning and has to stifle an outright laugh at the look of mortified panic on his face when he looks up to find her reading his pants. “What is this?” 

“Oh, that’s just… nevermind that. Just give those here, would you?” 

She should. She thinks about it. But the flustered expression isn’t actual distress, and instead she turns her attention back to the unfamiliar script. Astarion tosses his shirt aside and tries to snatch the underpants from her hands. He’s quick, but so is she, even a bit woozy. 

“If you… you’re, that’s… if you are, yes?“ She manages to duck out of the way and dances just out of his reach. “If you are reading this—” 

She takes another hop back but now he has her cornered against the rocky cliffside of the ledge and she has to stifle a giddy shriek when he grabs her around the waist. She’s not sure she’s ever made a noise like that in her life, and gods, there’s no time for this. He makes her like a besotted adolescent. She wasn’t even like this as an adolescent, Elistraee help her. Triel can’t stop laughing as he pulls her close against him, the cool press of his bare skin against her own, and she tries to keep reading. “You’ve managed to bed or b… be ha….” 

She feels a rumble of laughter through his chest, exhaled against the crook of her neck. “Behead,” he prompts, then repeats the word in Elvish for her. “Bed or behead me. Either way, you got lucky.” 

“You put that there?” She feels him nod, feels the sweep of silver curls against her cheek. She knows already that he’s talented with a needle and thread. Everyone in camp trades favours to get him to do their mending, but this is new. “Why?” She’s still laughing, her heart fond and full, as his lips tickle against the column of her neck, up along the edge of her pointed ear. 

“It’s a play on words. You’d have to be lucky to get the better of me in a fight—”

“—of course.”

“—and in Common, idiomatically, ‘to get lucky’  means…. Well, why don’t I demonstrate again?” 

“You are silly.” She lets the stolen underwear fall to the ground as she turns in Astarion’s embrace, draping her arms over his neck and kissing him, her hunt for her scattered clothing abandoned. 

It seems it will be a while longer before she needs them. 

***** 

The Last Light Inn is a welcome respite after the slow, eerie trek through the Shadow-Curse. A safe place to regroup, to rest and eat, to bathe. Triel and Astarion have both decided to capitalise on this opportunity to clean the blood and sweat and dirt from their clothes, wearing outfits scraped together from bits abandoned around the inn.  

She searches for a good place to secure a clothesline as Astarion fills a basin from whichever body of water it is they’re on. Triel has no idea where on the surface they actually are. 

It’s safe within the barrier, but it seems better to be safe than sorry this close to the hungry shadows and everything lurking within them. 

That’s what she’d said, anyway. If she’s being honest, she just looks for reasons to spend time with him. 

Astarion sighs theatrically, looking up at her from the soapy basin with his best puppy-dog pout. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to do this for me, could I? I’ll steal you something very nice in return; you had your eye on something at the Quartermaster’s, I think?” 

“We are not stealing from the Harpers.” 

Astarion bats pale eyelashes. “What if I’m also very beautiful and good in bed, though?” 

“Both are true.” Triel smiles, pressing a kiss to his temple as she kneels to join him at the washbasin. She does it casually, without thinking, and he seems startled by the gesture. He doesn’t stop her though, doesn’t seem displeased, just… surprised. They’ve got their socks in the same load of laundry, somehow that seems more intimate to her than a peck on the cheek. “If you are certain you would like to entrust your washing to someone accustomed to drow spidersilk… it is so very, very resilient. I cannot guarantee that surface clothing will survive my handling…”

A weariness lurks beneath the banter as they attack their heap of bloodied garments in tandem. There’s still a buzz of disquiet from the Harpers and tiefling refugees milling about, even if Isobel is safe and sound and the intruders repelled. Triel’s stomach drops whenever she thinks of the little tiefling girl, of her heartbroken friends left inside. 

For now, rest, recover. Bath and wash and sharpen weapons and fix fletching, and in the morning— or whatever time it will be, this land’s perpetual grey dusk makes it immaterial— they set out on the hunt. 

Triel throws her grey tunic over the line as Astarion, beside her, carefully arranges that linen shirt with the frills she finds so endearing, and something catches her eye. More script. 

It’s in a deep purple, scrawled upside down so it’s visible to the wearer, but far beneath where it would be tucked, in the same graceful hand. She pauses, stops between handfuls of wrung-out clothes, tilts her head farther and farther until she’s nearly upside down as she tries to read it. She hears a breathy chuckle above her (little bat, he says under his breath), but Astarion doesn’t try to stop her as she studies the hem of his shirt. 

“Lamentable is the autumn picker content with plums.” 

“Your Common’s improving, darling.” 

She’s not sure that it has. She’s been able to make sense of the letters, shape them into sounds, into words, but the words don’t make sense. “What does it mean?” 

Astarion laughs again. It’s a lovely sound, rare and genuine. “It’s poetry, my sweet. I can’t just tell you.” He looks at her sidelong, sly. A fox eyeing a rabbit hutch. “What do you think it means?” 

She has absolutely no idea, just the certainty, in the careful stitching, and the intensity in his eyes, that it absolutely means something to him. She can’t put it into words, but it feels… wistful. A yearning. Plums taste like the warmest nights of  summer…. Is it his longing for the sun? There’s something there, but it slips through her fingers. 

“It is hidden,” she says instead. “Your embroidery is so lovely; why is it only where no one can see it?” 

He reminds her of the gold filigree on his padded armour. He’s been repairing that himself for over a century. All of his things are old and held together with careful care and dedication. “Cazador didn’t let me have much.” He always spits that name, like the sound itself is bitter. “It made me want to…. Make what I did have my own. So some things I would decorate, and sometimes I’d stitch these little secrets, jokes…. Just for me. And now,” he pauses, this seems to have just occurred to him, “you.”  

“Have I ruined them for you? These little secrets.” 

He considers this. 

Astarion studies her, those dangerous red eyes so intent on her own, the wry curl of his mouth when he smiles. “No,” he says finally, amused, the impish little crinkles at the corner of his eyes making her stomach flip. “I think I quite like it this way.” 

Triel’dra is so glad he does. She’s not sure when they’ll have time for another wash day— or even if they’ll live long enough to need one— but she makes a note to herself to be on the lookout for more hidden gems when they do. 

*** 

As it happens, the surprises find her. 

She doesn’t think much of it when her tunic goes missing. There’s a pang of loss— it’s the one she was wearing when the illithids took her, one of the last things she has from home, made from her brother’s prized spidersilk in her standard stealthy grey— but in the end, it is just a shirt. She’s found others. 

It must have slipped out of her pack somewhere in Reithwin, or the gods only know what else. She asks the owlbear cub just in case he’d taken it to nest in, but no such luck. 

And then it’s back. When Triel awakes the following morning, her tunic is right there, neatly folded on top of everything else in her pack like it had never left and for a moment she thinks she must be losing her mind. Is the tadpole eating a hole in her brain? Just this drow tunic shaped blindspot? Some bizarre manifestation of the shadow curse that’s taking bits of home? 

She finds Astarion’s handiwork when she goes to put it on. There, between the buttons where they’ll be hidden, are rows of paw prints. Cat’s paws, dog’s, a row of crow prints, and even a stretch of thick owlbear tracks. A little secret, just for her, over her heart. 

He’s already up when she peeks out of her tent, pouring over a book they’d taken from the House of Healing. Seldarine save her, she suppresses a shudder just remembering the day before.

Astarion looks up from his reading and gives her a conspiratorial wink, hidden from the others, before putting on a more suggestive tone for their benefit. 

“Oh, it’s turned up, has it? Such a shame. I was so enjoying that corset top you found.” 

All through breakfast Triel finds her hands straying to the clasps of her tunic, and even once she’s dressed, beneath her armour she thinks of those rows of careful stitches. He keeps catching the furtive glances she sends in his direction, and he smiles at her, clearly pleased with himself. 

A pair of her underwear goes missing next. They return the next morning, little black bats hanging along the waistband, a few in flight towards her hip. She struggles to keep a straight face when she joins her companions at the campfire, especially given Astarion watching gleefully from his pile of pillows as she tries to stifle a laugh into her porridge. “Silly,” is all she says to him under his breath as they set off to look for the Sharran temple. 

Baldur’s gate is visible on the horizon when he next strikes, and Triel has to go back to bed, half-dressed, face buried in her pillow, because she can’t imagine how she would explain the high pitched noises she’s making. She finally calms herself, wrangling her breathing under control with an immense exertion of will, her eyes running and sides aching. It’s been a bleak few days, the stench of death and gore and the Shadowfell still fresh in her mind, and it’s a welcome feeling, laughing again. To forget the weight of everything, if only for a moment.

Triel sighs, swallows another hiccup, and goes back to put on her newly-vandalised bra: Twinkle in immaculate elvish script across the right cup, Icingdeath across the left. That he got the sides right is the thing that nearly does her in. 

Astarion says nothing, but he can tell that it got her, and he’s visibly pleased with himself. 

Around the campfire one evening she catches him carefully embroidering purple beebalm flowers into the corner of a handkerchief, and her heart catches in her throat, the fruits of her misguided courtship gifts laid out in thread and delicate knots. 

“Oh, these? I seem to have developed a sudden fondness for them.” 

He says it so casually, but his smile reaches his eyes and her heart. 

He’s just showing off the morning she wakes to find her trousers draped over the edge of her bed at the Elfsong, vines of familiar round, white blossoms sweeping from the  hem up the calves, where they would be hidden beneath her boots. 

He seems to know why when she greets him that morning by wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in the cool fabric of his shirt, 

“Funny thing about the surface, Moonflower,” he says, and she can feel his smile pressed against the crown of her head. “Traditionally, it would be me courting you, up here. Gifts to prove my devotion and means, et cetera, et cetera. Now, either one of us assimilates— or, and I like this better— we both just keep acting as the suitor and spoiling each other forever, hm?” 

Triel has surprises of her own. Astarion collapses beside her on the couch in the inn room’s little foyer, bruised and exhausted after a vicious fight, desperate for a rest and a meal. But for now, he contents himself by the fire, the rest of the weary travelling party following suit. Shadowheart is sprawled on the floor, Scratch’s head in her lap and his tail thumping against the ground, and Halsin has squeezed himself into an armchair, trying to focus on the wooden duck taking shape beneath his knife. 

“Asta?” He hums in response. There’s something about the scene, the ache in her bones, the warm glow of the fire and the friends around her. Somewhere out there in the city, Cazador is waiting, and there’s such a fierceness in her heart for the man resting against her that she can scarcely breathe.

Killing a vampire lord doesn’t scare her half as much as what may come after. 

 “Uodss valm zhah alurlssrin.”  The words come easily, despite their weight. She means it as she says it. It feels right. 

“Hmm,” Astarion mumbles against her shoulder. Her sweet, witty Astarion whose future is so uncertain. “That’s nice, dear.” 

He doesn’t speak drow… but Halsin does. 

He stops mid stroke, his knife paused mid curl of soft yielding wood, and his surprise quickly gives way to a wide, approving grin. 

Triel can only smile back, silently hold a finger to her lips. Shh. 

A secret. For Astarion to share in, but not yet. Triel knows what she feels, has never been so certain of this love she’d only ever guessed at before. And it feels good, to say it, to speak the words and hear them out loud, but Astarion’s heart is scarred and fragile, and she doesn’t want to rush anything.

He has asked her for time. For patience. 

For now, she’s content to stroke his hair and bask in the firelight and whisper words of love he can’t understand, sweet nothings that mean so much. 

*** 

She hasn’t been seeing as much of Astarion as she would like, but it’s frantic, trying to get everything in place. Their haven is well-defended, well-organised, but the thought of leaving it unattended still terrifies her, even if only for a few days. 

Despite her trepidation, she was determined to go. Even if she weren’t longing to see her friends, which she is, declining an invitation from “Withers” seems… unwise. 

So, to help prepare for their absence, Triel had a handful of her most trusted…. She’s never really sure what to call them. They’ve vampire spawn, certainly, but that feels demeaning and possessive. Her citizens? Her charges. A handful of her most disciplined charges had helped her roll the carcass of a Bulette she’d hunted onto a wheeled trolley and together they’d hauled it back to their stronghold. 

Now, with the help of a chain and pulley system they’d managed to hang it upside down for bleeding. Drow had been keeping deep bats since time immemorial, and she’d tested the methods their keepers used for feeding on smaller prey. It seemed to have worked— the taste was stale, Astarion had told her, but it seemed to keep him going just the same. 

She stands back and watches with some satisfaction as one of her helpers tries to get through the tough skin between the thick plates covering the creature’s throat, to get at the veins beneath. The bulette will provide ample blood to keep their stores full while they’re away and the hide will be extremely durable. She’s sure she’ll find some use for it. 

Triel tries to suppress a sigh. As one of the only people in their haven who eats, she and Scratch are going to be  having smoked bulette for a very, very long time. But if her people can make do, so can she. 

Astarion hasn’t fed on her in a while. It’s strange to miss it, how intimate it was— but he’s trying to lead by example, and that means animal blood with the rest of them. Gods, but she’s proud of him, her heart swells to bursting at how far he’s come. 

No one was there for him in his darkest hours, and here he is, making sure that the vampire spawn they’ve managed to track down have a place where they’re safe, where they’re understood. A community all struggling along together. 

She thinks of the early days of her enclave, the ragged huddle of escaped slaves who followed the first Moonreader to the surface. What an honour it is to attempt the same by his side. 

“Darling?” 

Triel startles. She’s not usually one to be caught unawares, but she’d been so lost in thought, and if anyone can sneak up on her it’s her love. 

She turns to find Astarion watching the bulette with an eyebrow raised. “Stocking up, my sweet? Perhaps a little excessive?” but he’s smiling at her. “I know, I know. Safe and fed, that’s your mandate. Can I borrow you for a moment?” 

Triel looks to her team of helpers, who assure her they have things under control and encourage her off, so she happily follows Astarion inside. He leads her towards their bedroom, and though she’s probably too busy for a diversion she does find herself rather hoping he may have the same in mind. It’s no doubt something logistical. He’s been trying to lay out a set of… bylaws? Something? (Which seems silly for such a small community, but if they manage to track down all seven-thousand…. Well, that’s a city.) 

He’s taught with nervous excitement by the time their bedroom door closes behind them, which does nothing to quell Triel’s amorous fancies. 

Astarion spins on his heel, grin wide, eyes creased mischievously. “In anticipation of this reunion, I’ve been working on something,” he confesses and instead of producing some papers or schedules or ledgers, she notices he’s physically putting himself between her and the bed, blocking her view. “Close your eyes, darling.” She’s confused, but does as he asks. 

His feet are quiet across the floor. She hears a soft swish of fabric, a gentle rustling of their bedclothes. 

A moment later, Astarion takes her hand, and guides it to fine, draped spidersilk. Her fingers trace the smooth fabric —Rhyl’fein’s work, no doubt—  and find shapes. His work. Embroidery, forms she can’t quite make out though she feels the flow of it along the collar and hem. Her eyes flutter open in surprise and she takes in what he has held out for her. 

“I thought, perhaps, you might want something new to wear.” 

It’s breathtaking. 

Triel’dra is a ranger. She knows leather and dust and scuffed boots, and he holds the garment up to her before she can protest— she’ll ruin this, she’s sure. It’s too beautiful to wear, she’s not graceful like he is, rough and calloused and scarred— but those ruby eyes are soft, his expression that naked adoration that always makes her heart skip. 

He’s picked up enough Drow to know what alurlssrin means. Enough to use it. 

It’s a tunic, a perfect marriage of surface and drowish influence. The silk is dyed a deep, warm purple, and it’s trimmed with gorgeous embroidery. It’s a harvest, small enough not to be loud, laid out along the edges of the garment like the last bushels brought in before the frost. Small pumpkins and their vines lay out the path and between them is a bounty of produce and flowers. Apples, green and red and gold; scattered cranberries; parsnips; pears; a pomegranate spilling seeds along the trail of loving stitches. Asters, and chrysanthemums, and violets. 

“Astarion, this is…” There’s something else, something she can’t quite grasp about it. Something beyond just bringing the season to the standstill of the underdark. “No plums.” She says after studying his work for a long moment, as the thought finally clicks into place. 

“No. No plums. Not the dregs left over from summer,” Astarion confirms, careful to lift the garment out of the way before she can crush it in her haste to throw her arms around him. He sets it aside carefully before pulling her in close, her head tucked so perfectly under his chin. “The things worth waiting for. ” 

[bodhrancomedy]

I don’t think I’d make a good children’s author because the newest plot points in my new brain tumbleweed are:

Our plot is kicked off by a minor villain summoning a legendary druid to essentially ask him annoying distracting questions so someone else can steal his stuff.

Our kid hero gets involved in the quest because of a magical postal mixup…

… That happened in part because she lied about her age to get postal order magical training pamphlets (learn magic at home!)

Her best friend just turned thirteen and suddenly can do magic and thinks this makes them completely qualified to handle this tome with ABSOLUTELY DO NOT OPEN THIS FOR GODS SAKE on it.

By the way, all our heroes are D/deaf or hard of hearing.

The big villain starts sending monsters through reflective surfaces to get them. They start off small and get ridiculously bigger until the last one can’t even get through the mirror.

Meanwhile, the minor villain has stolen the Druid’s magic and now keep static shocking himself on everything.

And he lost the druid.

Everyone’s absolutely horrified the fate of the world is in the hands of an eleven and thirteen year old, but every competent adult just keeps being taken out.

There is a cannibalistic horse.

It gets stupider.

[rainbowsmagicandshit]

Arthur repeals the magic ban! Yay! Druids, Catha, and all others come to Camelot to live peacefully under the reign of the Once And Future King! Yay! The Golden Age is starting! Yay! Merlin still hasn’t told Arthur about magic! …He’s just waiting for the right time. Things have just happened so fast and he just doesn’t know how to bring it all up.

Well, as Arthur and the rest of Camelot get more comfortable with magic, Arthur makes a decision. He’s tried teaching Merlin every type of weapon out there, and he’s hopeless with every one of them. But, Merlin still insists on coming with him on dangerous quests. So, Arthur decides to have Merlin try his hand at magic so he has some sort of self defense.

Merlin: ...You want me to what?

Arthur: I know! I know, Merlin! Magic can be dangerous! But I found a wonderful teacher for you. Say hello, Wallace.

Wallace: Hello

Arthur: He's perfectly trustworthy! And, it'll all be perfectly safe!

Merlin: Arthur, there's something you need to know. About me and magic--

Arthur: I know what you're going to say, Merlin, and--

Merlin: I really don't think you know--

Arthur: --please, for me, just try this. I know you don't really like magic. But please, Merlin. And, you know, even if you're crap at it--which you likely are like everything else--you could probably at least get your eyes to do the gold thing. That'll probably scare off some people from hurting you. Like a rattle snake.

Merlin: Arthur, really, you need to listen to me--

Arthur: I'll even do it with you!

Merlin: Arthur, really...Wait what?

Arthur: I'll do it with you! To show you how not dangerous it is! You have no reason to be scared of learning it, Merlin. It'll be easy.

Merlin: ...You're going to try to learn magic?

Arthur: Yes. How hard could it be. You're going to learn it.

Merlin, crossing his arms: Okay, then. I'd like to see this. Let's see you do magic, Once And Future Prat, Mr. Magic King

Arthur, smug at getting Merlin to agree: Good. Our first lesson starts now.

They both look to Wallace. Arthur happy, Merlin raising a judgmental eyebrow. Wallace starts with the history of magic and the theories behind using it. They don't get to the actually magic using part of the lesson day. Wallace does give them both some texts to study.

Their next lesson does get to the magic part.

Wallace: You want to really feel into the magic of the world around you. Feel the earth. Feel the connection you have to that earth. Feel the power that runs through it.

Merlin's enjoying it, letting the magic wash over him, and also peeking at Arthur who seems to be struggling with it. When asked, Merlin says he doesn't feel anything either. He wants to keep watching Arthur struggle.

Their next lesson, Wallace tries to teach them some basic spells. Lighting a candle. Moving a small object. Merlin laughs at all of Arthur's attempts.

Arthur: Well let's see you do better, Merlin!

Merlin just keeps laughing.

Their lessons keep getting interrupted by this or that. Merlin also has a very busy job. One would think that he'd have less work now that magic was legalized, but no. Now he just has more magic beasts roaming the lands, and people freaking out and attacking those magic beasts, leading to fights and stuff. He's always having to slip away to resolve the matter. He has gotten very good at calming dangerous magic beasts and relocating them. But, relocating takes longer than just killing, so he's still just as busy and gone just as much as he was when dealing with vengeful sorcerers.

Every single start of magic lesson:

Wallace: Did you do the homework I assigned?

Arthur, proud: Yes, I did. I did all the reading, but I did have some trouble with the spellwork.

Merlin, who was up all night settling a griffin family into a new nest on a tall mountain: Uh. No. Didn't have time.

Arthur: Merlin, this is your lesson!

Eventually, Merlin has his fill of watching Arthur struggling with magic, and decides that this time is better spent doing other things. So, during one of the lesson, when Wallace tells them to make the flower bloom, without looking up from the report he's going over, he waves his hand and his pot explodes with the force of plants that grow out of it instantly.

Wallace: ...

Arthur: ...

[kirain]

I decided to make adult designs and "where are they now" stories for all the child tieflings who are confirmed to survive to Act 3.

Unbeknownst to her, Arabella was a latent sorcerer with a natural connection to the Weave. Her powers likely would've manifested at puberty, but touching the idol of Silvanus imbued her with wild druid magic, multiclassing her prematurely. This caused an internal struggle between the two powers, which threatened to rip her and anyone around her apart. Fortunately, with Withers' guidance, she set out to follow the Weave and found balance in her new, strange abilities. For years she traveled Faerûn alone, honing her skills and making peace with her past. Eventually, she became known as the "Wondering Storm", so attuned to nature some would mistake her for Silvanus' Chosen. Those who crossed her, however, would swear she was Jergal's Chosen; able to end a life with a single stare. Though not unkind, Arabella became feared by many for her stoic personality, mysterious presence, and peculiar command of the Weave. It seemed that wherever she was needed, she would inexplicably be.

Though Raphael went silent, Mol continued to enjoy, and perhaps abuse, the gifts from her patron. With the Absolute defeated, she quickly clawed her way up the ranks of the Guild, eventually becoming a pseudo ward to Nine-Fingers Keene. For years she would sharpen her skills, mentored by Keene and her most trusted associates, until she challenged the notorious crime lord to a duel for leadership. Much to her surprise, Keene lost, and was therefore forced to relinquish command to the young tiefling. Seeing the move as a betrayal, however, the Guild's loyalty was split, causing the criminal powerhouse to fracture. This led to a dark time for the Guild, with many in Baldur's Gate referring to it as the "Outlaw Civil War". Much blood was shed during this conflict, but eventually Mol turned the tides in her favour, running Keene and those still loyal to her out of the city. She would go on to rebuild the Guild in her image, successfully and more fearsome than ever; though, when she approached her old colleagues with an invitation to join, they all declined.

Once he managed to enter the city, Mattis tried to find his companions from the Grove, but he ultimately turned his sights to conning rich families with "panaceas from the hells". For a while, he flourished under this racket, until his scheme was exposed by jealous competition. This led to him being violently assaulted by angry customers, nearly ending his life—he only survived by rolling into a rapid canal. After being saved by a kind, impoverished couple who fished him out of the water, he spent nearly three months confined to a bed. His recovery was slow and agonizing, but hardly discouraging. Instead of succumbing to his misery, he took the time to plot his revenge. With the couple's help, he learned the laws of the land and revived his strength. Then, when able, he cut his hair, disguised his face, spied on the man who wronged him, and subsequently tricked him into signing his business over to the couple. Together, they turned the questionable business into something respectable. Mostly. Mattis' silver tongue finally became an asset, rather than a survival tactic, though he was never above a good swindle.

Ide and Umi took up arms during the Absolute's attack on the city, each of them basking in the action. Realising that Umi had developed an insatiable bloodlust, and itching for more battles herself, Ide suggested they enlist into the army. Though technically too young, the new General—appointed by High Duke Ravengard after the fall of the Absolute—accepted them as apprentices until they came of age.

Though their time with the Flaming Fist was imperative to their training and survival, they found the rules and hypocrisy of the troop disheartening, and even more so when the General died. Eventually they deserted, leaving Baldur's Gate entirely and starting a small band of vigilantes. To some, they were a menace. To others, they became heroes of the Sword Coast. No matter the case, Ide and Umi were inseparable, never seen apart.

Inspired by his saviours, Mirkon continued to write stories about his time in the Grove and his rescue from the harpies. He never found his parents, but he refused to live in the slum's orphanage. Life was hard for the young tiefling, often forcing him to grovel for food and coin. On the worst days, he found comfort turning his stories into songs, which he slowly morphed into a semi-profitable street act. This eventually caught the attention of Alfira, who one day happened to be passing by. Recognising his talent, and overjoyed to be reunited, she took him in and taught him how to play the violin. Together, they created a lucrative show that expanded well beyond the Elfsong Tavern, which aided Alfira in opening her dream college. She and Lakrissa would soon adopt Mirkon, and he would later become one of the most beloved and celebrated instructors at the college.

Though working as a hawker for the Baldur's Mouth kept Silfy fed and relatively sheltered, she grew listless. Dealing with rude and racist customers hardened her enough to snap back, resulting in her termination. With nowhere to go, she found herself wandering into Ramazith's Tower, where she implored Rolan for a job. Feeling for her plight, Rolan put her to work stocking shelves and filling orders. It wasn't exciting work, but she was safe and satisfied, until one day a customer's tome exploded, causing a flurry of rainbow flames that whirled into the shape of a unicorn. This event, though frightening, would inspire Silfy to start reading the books in the shop, with the help of Tolna and Rolan. To everyone's surprise, she proved to have an impressive aptitude for magic, and she soon found herself enthralled. Within just a few years, Silfy would be accepted into Blackstaff Academy, where she would excel in her studies and catch the eye of the great Vajra Safahr. She would offer Silfy a position in the school, as well as a mentorship, but Silfy would politely decline, graduate, and return to Bauldr's Gate. Her true home.

[directdogman]

What kind of class would the cast of Dialtown be in DnD? (Ie, Druid, Rouge, Paladin… etc)

Oh, I did a whole DnD Dialtown thing ages ago that conveniently mentions some classes in it with some rewritten backstories for the characters in this new universe. I'll paste it below (preamble is important for the character descriptions, so sorry for the lore:)

The story is set in a fictional landmass, with parts of it based on a fucked up Alaska, parts resembling the Swiss Alps, a desert zone and nuked carnival wastes. In the present era, an evil empire rules over the whole map, ran by an evil necromancer, Callum Crown. Him and his partner, Milton, took over the entire continent in a bloody conquest together that ended with Crown dropping an arcane nuke on the clown territory, ending the war, but turning Milt against him, leading to a civil war, in which Crown destroyed Milt.

Crown has a phone head made from scraps of the metals of the heroes who've failed to vanquish him, and has a lich body, which he reinforces with the same metal he used to build his head, gaining a gradual suit of armor in order to stop himself from physically falling apart. He has a powerful arcane gauntlet which he uses to cast devastating spells. His undead empire sells death to people with a snazzy sales pitch. Basically, you sign a waiver that gives you benefits within his empire while you're alive, but once you die, your corpse is resurrected to serve Crown until your remains degrade beyond use.

The plot of the game is that Crown is trying to unravel reality to remove an ancient arcane law of magic from the fabric of reality as old as life itself: necromancy cannot resurrect a life that has taken itself. Crown, despite presiding over the whole world and everything in it, cannot bear the loss of his friend, Milt, who he beat in the civil war, which ended with Milt drinking poison before Crown could reach his throne room in the final assault of milt's base.

Crown would tell you that he wishes to resurrect Milt so he can finally have Milt answer for his betrayal, but in reality, he just really misses Milt. To revive Milt, because he specifically took his own life, would require the fabric of reality be altered... something that could potentially end the world. Gingi is a non-human monster (not considered a person, starts the game as a low level enemy) who gets caught up in a complex socioeconomic conflict/conspiracy by being in the wrong place at the wrong time and has to travel with a band of companions in order to resolve the conflict and eventually, once powerful entities begin to take notice of you, in order to survive.

The plot involves Crown's pursuit of the final piece of the puzzle: gaining the ability to rewrite universal law, and eventually, Gingi either has to choose to help him achieve this power, prevent the power from being accessed by anyone, or taking it and using it however they decide to. Basically, Crown wants to rewrite universal law because he can't accept that he owns everything, is all powerful, but cannot revive one specific person.

Now onto the companions with classes mentioned:

Randy Jade: You meet him in one of the cities in Crown's empire. He approaches you to ask you for a cigarette, and if you give him one, he then asks you for a lighter too. He explains that he had a string of jobs in Crown's empire, but kept screwing them up and getting fired, and at this point, he's stealing to eat.

If you recruit him, Randy will fight for you. Randy's a rogue, uses small blades (starting item are some house keys he found poking out through his knuckle), he's a glass cannon (good DPS, low health) and is politically neutral.

Oliver Swift: He's a traveling bard/performer who's going on a journey to raise enough money so his old mentor, Mr Dickens, can gift a sword to a young hero in his village and order him to go forth and vanquish Callum Crown (a yearly tradition for the village that always ends with crown getting another scrap of metal for his head/armor)

If you agree to give him a share of the loot to send home, he will join the party. He attacks with blunt weapons (metal lute, wrench). Ironically, despite Randy being the rogue, Oliver has the better lockpicking skill. Politically, he dislikes Crown, and without a high speech skill, will leave the party if you align with Crown.

Karen Dunn: A bureaucrat in Crown's empire. A talented mage, she works in Crown's deathdealers headquarters. She's the person at the line for mages looking to sell their souls to Crown. She really doesn't care for this job, allowing the player to convince her to ditch it + join the party. Karen uses fire magic offensively but starts with a few healing spells too.

Karen is politically neutral, though she has a personal distaste for Crown's empire as an employer.

Bigfoot: Can be admitted into the party. He's a melee tank, but has a few forest magic spells that buff himself and other party members, giving him support capabilities. Bigfoot will become frightened and leave the party during some cutscenes when loud noises/conflict occurs, if you do not equip earmuffs onto him.

Norm Allen: A former sheriff (now fugitive) in the annexed desert territory. Formerly an avid supporter of the order that Crown brought, and one of Crown's enforcers in his home town of [desert zone], Norm is hellbent on putting a bullet in Crown's head and dismantling his empire.

If you become friendly with Norm, you find out that the thing that Norm specifically bolted from Crown over... was the overreach of justice, and selling tyranny to his people as justice. Norm's a tank. His defense stat is middling, but his attack accuracy is locked at 100%, which is valuable in bad weather conditions or if the team gets blinded.

Norm will turn on the player if they do anything BUT prevent universal power from entering anyone's hands.

Mingus: Mingus is Crown's key enforcer/assassin. At the start of the game, she's trying to track down and execute Norm for betraying Crown, and as the plot progresses, eventually targets the player.

A stealthy cat woman, she strikes from the shadows, always, and usually after wetting the tips of her claws with a devastating poison. The poison she uses has no known antidote.

Politically, she's a fanatic, found abandoned as a kitten by Callum Crown many cycles ago. While Crown is cold with her, speaking to her like a tool, he keeps her in his service with his false promise to rewrite reality so other people like Mingus and to erase her abandonment from the timeline. Mingus secretly pines for his approval/kindness above all else, believing that helping Crown achieve her goals is the only way she'll ever feel loved. She's a potential late-game companion, being recruitable during the lategame, if you're doing Crown's ending.

There's more, but that's the gist of it. Hope this was interesting!

[poisonedfate]

bbc merlin 04x10 - A Herald of the New Age

two different reactions to gaius talking about the druids who died and whose souls are now lost. one who felt it and one who saw it.

[felassan]

All companions are pansexual!!!

Game is rated M, will contain nudity. [source]

Full article:

"In a new interview with The Veilguard game director Corinne Busche, we've confirmed that yes, you will be able to romance any companion you want, regardless of your character's gender or race. It's a bit of a surprise for fans, considering that in previous Dragon Age games, the romanceable characters had different sexual orientations. Some were pansexual, sure, but others were heterosexual, others were only attracted to the same sex, and some could only be romanced if you were a certain race (Dragon Age: Inquisition's Solas, for example, could only be romanced by female elves). But Busche pushes back on the idea that The Veilguard's companions are "playersexual," a term used to describe games where NPCs are specifically only attracted to the player character. She says she's seen playersexual "done in a number of games," and "it can be really off-putting where these characters are adapting to who you, the player, are." Rather, Busche insists that they're all specifically pansexual, and that might come through in what you learn about their backstories. "Their past experiences or partners, they'll reference them and indeed who they'll become romantic with," Busche tells IGN. "For instance, we saw Harding. I might be playing a straight male character flirting with her, but I choose not to pursue a romance. She might get together with Taash. So my perception, my identity has no bearing on their identities and that comes through really strongly." When asked if that means it won't take long for romance to become an option in The Veilguard, Busche confirms that you'll be able to start flirting with everyone pretty early, as you recruit all seven companions throughout the first act. But, she clarifies, "it's not until the later parts of the game where you really commit to romance and it gets pretty spicy.""

---

"Speaking of spicy... Of course, Dragon Age: The Veilguard is a BioWare game, and games from the studio — specifically those in the Mass Effect and Dragon Age series — are known to have some fairly explicit sex scenes. Busche confirms that The Veilguard will be no different, particularly towards the end of the game: "Of course, we are an M-rated game," she says. "We do have nudity." There's also some obvious parallels to be made between The Veilguard and last year's critical darling Baldur's Gate 3. The latter became known not only for its deep romances (like The Veilguard, Baldur's Gate 3 player characters can romance any companion regardless of gender or race), but also for its sex scenes, including one involving a Wild-Shaping Druid that went pretty viral. Busche isn't afraid to admit that she has played Baldur's Gate 3, and loved it, as she's an "an RPG fan through and through": "The more character-driven party-based RPGs with deep emotional connection, the better." "What I love about the two games is I think they live side by side in a really interesting way," she continues. "They're very different games, but those emotional connections and how the narratives hook you, I think there's space for both." Specifically in regards to the sex scenes and how The Veilguard will handle theirs differently, Busche says some of Baldur's Gate 3's scenes were "shocking and comical in some ways, and I would say I loved that." "Our companions, we want them to be relatable and fully realized. So they can get spicy, but in a way that I think people will actually relate to," she says. Basically: no bear sex. Busche goes on to say that how sexually explicit the scenes are, too, will vary between characters. "Some of them are more spicy than others," she reveals. "Just like real life, our companions have such diverse personalities. Some of them are more physical, more aggressive, and some of them are more... we have a gentleman necromancer, for instance, that is more intimate and sensual." Our interview with Busche comes as BioWare continues to roll out information about the highly anticipated Dragon Age sequel, with a cinematic trailer having dropped at the Xbox Showcase over the weekend. Dragon Age: The Veilguard will debut sometime this fall."

[source]

[inaconstantstateofchange]

Who Builds Theseus' Ship?

This ties in to a greater discussion about Larian's changes to the game post-Full Release, and whether you consider those changes to be a good thing or a bad thing. Personally speaking, the quality-of-life and gameplay mechanics improvements were appreciated, while the direct changes to characters and especially characterization were not so much.

In such discussions, I often see people downplaying the actual changes to characterization that have been made thus far as "minor" things, but I often see one of the most glaring examples of a characterization change left out, because so many people aren't even aware of it ever happening:

Halsin.

For those who don't know, if you were romancing Halsin at the time of the original full release, and for almost four months afterward, if you took him with you to Act 3's orgy scene in Sharess's Caress, he would open up about a situation in his distant past. He would tell you about how he had briefly been "something between guest, prisoner, and consort" in a drow House, and been kept there for three years before escaping.

He stated that this was something that happened "a long time ago", when he was "a foolhardy young druid", which would mean it would likely have been between ages 100 and 245 — or at minimum 105 years ago, and at (likely) maximum 250 years ago. He closed the discussion with a line that really struck me, and that gave me such an appreciation for his character, and for the writers who had created it:

The passage of time has a strange way of polishing even the most arduous of memories into precious keepsakes.

As someone in their late-20s, with a number of traumatic events in my past, this resonated so much both with my experience of those events – once harrowing and haunting, now just simple happenings that do not affect me the way they once did – and as an inspirational message, that hurt would not necessarily linger forever.

Not only that, I really valued the insight it gave into Halsin's personality, further showing him to be someone who was deeply complex and meditative, always looking for meaning and something to take away or learn from any experience. It also served to showcase the likely reality of the relationship elves and druids both would have to the concepts of time and memory. (Another example of this is the experience of Shadowheart's father compared to her mother at the hands of the Sharrans.)

I started playing the game almost immediately upon its release in August, and was intrigued by Halsin from the start. He was someone who was kind and heartfelt, but also very settled in himself and with a simultaneously rigid and very flexible moral code. It was that complexity that drew me to him, and I appreciated the inclusion of a character distinct from the Origin companions, all at close to the lowest point of their lives.

It was to my surprise to find that this appreciation for his character and perspective on his Act 3 revelation was not unanimous. As it turned out, there was a vocal group of people claiming that this writing was problematic, and that Halsin clearly didn't even realize he was actually traumatized, and that Larian needed to fix it. Not everyone joining in with this crusade had even played the game.

And, ultimately, in a pattern they have continued to follow, Larian responded. They fixed it. At the end of November, as part of Patch 5, they uploaded an edited version of the scene with new dialogue, where the player could express this "reality" to Halsin, in one of the most gallingly patronizing statements I've ever seen.

Sounds traumatic. You may need to reflect on that.

(If someone said this to me after I had opened up to them about my trauma and my experience of it to them, we would not be maintaining a cordial relationship afterward.)

Halsin's new response to these dialogue options is a cringing, self-deprecating cascade of how the player is of course right, and he should have known better, and time could "prove to be a trickster on one's recollections" and that perhaps he had "lost perspective".

Quite frankly, it is a completely different character answering, and an almost directly opposing overall message about the role of time in healing, and the path forward when it comes to trauma. No more "one day these events will not hurt to recall the way they do now". In its stead: "only healing that looks a specific way and follows a specific path is acceptable - anything else and you are simply a poor fool lying to yourself."

The following quote is from a comment left on a video of Halsin's original dialogue in that scene, before the changes, and is just one example of how much that representation meant to more than just me to see:

That said, Halsin is trauma recovery goals for me absolutely. Being able to remember without actually being triggered? Being able to fully and freely engage HOW ID LIKE TO instead of being fettered by trauma responses? Goals. I don’t know if I’ll ever get there 100%, we don’t get elven lifetimes irl, but his level of healing brings me hope.

Ultimately, this post is not meant to argue that you should agree with me that one is better than the other. More so, I want to highlight that this existed — for many people, this was their experience of events and characters, and that is not so easily redacted. And I also want to just state, for the record, that Larian's way of approaching narrative and characterization changes to their full-release game has been incredibly frustrating. I did not agree, in August, to play an Early Access game with the inherent understanding that any potential narrative aspect might change at any time. I purchased a full-release game, and immersed myself in the story and the characters, to get to know them as the writers had originally presented.

And when Larian makes these changes based on fan feedback, they are explicitly making decisions about which fans matter, and specifically, which fans matter most. Rather than allowing everyone to experience the story they decided to tell, and draw from it what they take away, and let that spark discussion and engagement, they made the decision to defer to some fans over others, and prioritize their experience of the narrative — something that, no matter how well-intended, is always going to leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

[bg-brainrot]

More than Vampiric Charms (Astarion x Tav)

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Summary: After some banter between Astarion and Jaheira goes too far, you (Tav) take some time to remind Astarion that he is so much more than a pair of fangs.

Tags: POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, Comfort, Vampire Spawn Astarion, set in Act 3, Astarion is Bad at Feelings, Blood, Blood Drunk, blood as a coping mechanism

A/N: Thank you to everyone who voted for this banter in my last poll! This was a fun one c:

Word count: ~3.2k

Walking through the streets of Baldur's Gate is always an adventure with your group– a particularly fraught adventure on this day, as Jaheira and Astarion seem hellsbent on trading barbs.

It had started out playfully enough, with a snide remark from Astarion, "Oh that building used to be a delightful little sweets shop about a hundred years ago. Though I suppose the crone would remember that, wouldn’t she?”

Jaheira, used to remarks about her age, often being the one to start them, was ready with a quick quip back, “Was that before or after your hair turned gray? With my old age, I can never remember.”

Astarion visibility bit back a remark about this being his natural hair color when you glared back at both of them. “Could we focus a bit please? You two can reminisce after we’ve seen to this latest bloody basement.”

One trail of blood, a disgusting array of corpses, and a piece of clown later and the two of them were at it again.

“Jaheira,” Astarion had started in a light tone– a clear indicator that he had no intent to focus. “Have you considered taking on the role of Dribbles the clown yourself? The makeup might help cover all those pesky wrinkles.”

The druid had snickered, appreciating the comment, and shot back, “I think you would be better suited to the role, given you are already a fool.”

That time, Karlach had interrupted, “Don’t either of you dare! No one could replace this Baldurian hero.”

“Which is exactly why we’re helping to piece him back together,” you’d confirmed with a nod. “Besides, you’re both cranky enough to make the children weep.”

“Darling!” Astarion had gasped, an offended hand on his chest. “How could you say that about me?”

You’d ignored his question, instead choosing to deposit a quick kiss on his pursed lips. A soft, effective bandaid that left the man with crossed arms and a reluctant smile. 

Moments later, you were ushering the group out of the building and into the city. Insults forgotten, everyone began trudging the familiar path back to the Elfsong to clean up.

Now, along this very path, you hear Jaheira strike up a new conversation with Astarion– one that has your ears perking up, even as you continue to lead the way ahead.

“It seems that you and our leader are closer than ever,” the woman observes, a smile in her voice.

There’s a moment of silence, and you can practically see Astarion’s suspicious expression in your mind’s eye as he assesses the situation. “Yes, you could say that,” he finally replies. “What can I say? I am, after all, quite charming.”

“I am glad it is your non-vampiric charms our friend has fallen for, Astarion.” A short, thoughtful pause follows before she asks, “It is, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Astarion responds, his voice reaching a comically high pitch– one that almost makes you laugh. You want to hear this conversation more than most though, so not a sound escapes your lips. The vampire scoffs before he continues. "Is it so unbelievable that they would simply like me?"

There’s a clear hesitation as Astarion’s words hang in the air.

You wonder why Jaheira isn’t responding, what her expression must be– but before you can turn around to find out more, Astarion is speaking again.

“If you insist on prying,” he starts, clearing his throat a bit pointedly. “Perhaps you’d care to join us. And see how much we enjoy one another.”

The insinuation in his tone is almost enough to have you spinning around– teasing Karlach or Shadowheart is one thing, but Jaheira? Gods, you can feel the heat rising up your neck– “Why?” Jaheira snaps back. “Do you require some instruction on how the deed is done?”

“I’m sure even I could learn some new tricks from an old veteran such as yourself,” Astarion replies, mirth shining through in his tone.

Wait, is he actually inviting her?

You know you need to stop this conversation before it mortifies you any further. “Stop it, both of you!” you say, turning your head back, trying your best to keep a stern, not-at-all embarrassed expression on your face. “We don’t need the next installment of ‘Love at First Knife’ getting any more convoluted.”

There’s some grumbling from Astarion, an amused smile from Jaheira, and a chortle from Karlach, but otherwise your group makes it back to the Elfsong without tearing each other– or their clothes– apart.

__

That evening, Astarion slips away.

It’s not an unusual occurrence– some days his hunger is harder to ignore than others, on some you hadn’t found nearly enough evil to suck dry. Ultimately, he never wanted to take too much blood from you, so he chooses to forage as he has taken to calling it.

As a result, you think nothing of it at first, settling into bed after dinner with a book propped between your hands. After all, Cazador is dead, and Astarion is more than capable of taking down some of the most fearsome enemies in the city– he should take all the time he needs to himself.

But the hours pass, and Astarion has yet to return. The candles around you begin to dwindle, words begin to swim on a page you haven’t turned in quite some time, and sleep slowly but surely starts to drag your eyelids down.

It has almost claimed you when the door to your shared room at the Elfsong slams shut. You hear groans from around the room as those who were similarly drifting off to bed are shocked awake, everyone expecting yet another unwelcome visitor. You almost don’t have time to react before an armor-clad vampire lands atop of you.

You do react though, instinctively striking at the man with the spine of your book, a loud ‘thwack’ letting you know that your contact was true.

“Oof,” Astarion mutters, now fully splayed across your torso like a stretching cat. “Darling, must you be so violent?”

“Astarion?” you ask, putting down your book, shaking off the beginning throes of sleep as you realize what’s transpired. “Weapons down everyone, it’s Astarion.”

After a few affirmative grumbles from around the room, you turn your attention back to the vampire, “Are you alright? Did you get injured?”

“Mmm,” he murmurs, burying his face in your blanket, and rubbing at the spot where you’d hit him. “Nothing's the matter. Everything is perfectly dandy.”

His words slur though and something seems to be amiss. His movements are fluid, his body weight is completely and utterly relaxed onto you.

Almost as if…

“Are you… drunk?” you haven’t seen him like this since the bear he drank near the grove. When you’d asked him the question then, he’d shrugged it off– but it was certainly the closest to drunk you’d ever seen him.

“Not strictly speaking, no…” he drolls, tilting his head slightly to stare at you with one eye. His cheeks are flushed, a telltale sign of his recent feeding, and his eye is glazed over, its blissful sheen telling you all that you need to know.

“Have a good dinner, did you?” you ask, smiling down at him wearily. You can hardly fault him for indulging, especially after the couple of weeks you’ve had.

He chuckles, his one visible eye crinkling a bit. “Oh yes. A rather large bugbear. Hardly knew what bit him.”

You run a hand through Astarion’s hair, and respond, “Well done, my sweet, bloodthirsty vampire.”

Normally, such sweet words of unabashed ​​flattery would elicit a smile, a laugh, maybe even a kiss– but tonight Astarion freezes under your touch, his eye going wide before he tucks his face back into the bedding.

“Astarion?” you ask, your previous worry about injury now promptly replaced by a worry of a much deeper hurt.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, voice sounding distant.

You scratch at his scalp, a bit, trying to encourage him back toward you. “Love, you know you’re a terrible liar. What’s wrong?”

He gives a soft, annoyed huff– an endearing, drunken noise were it not for the fact that he seems determined not to look at you. And continue to crush you with the full weight of his body.

“Astarion,” you say again, with a bit more emphasis, shaking his head a little with your next scratch. “If nothing is truly wrong, I will wake up Karlach. You know she would love to see you in this state.” As if to punctuate your point, a snore sounds from a few beds over, where you know the barbarian slumbers.

“Please don’t,” he murmurs, finally turning around to look at you fully.

You’re surprised to see his eyebrows furrowed, his lips turned down in a truly melancholy frown– always an expressive man, it seems that Astarion’s intoxicated demeanor is twice as exaggerated. Cute, you think. But also concerning. “Love,” you whisper, running a hand along his face. “Talk to me.”

Astarion hesitates, his watery eyes wincing as he debates his next words. Those same red eyes show an unexpected amount of vulnerability– all that bugbear blood is keeping his expression open, his entire face a rosy hue. His mouth opens, closes, his body shifts, and he fumbles with the latches on his armor as he thinks. You simply lay there, playing with his curls until he’s ready.

When he finally speaks, his words take you by surprise.

“You don’t just like me because I’m a vampire… do you?”

“What?” you ask, eyebrows raising in disbelief. Surely, you misheard him.

“You know,” he continues, waving a hand about the air. “My vampiric charms. The fangs. The blood sucking. The mysterious allure?”

“Why in the nine hells would you think that?” You reach a hand out to grab his, tugging on it gently to try to get him to sit up.

Astarion’s eyes drift away from you, but he does sit up, legs draping over your stomach. “Just… because of something Jaheira said.”

Oh. The conversation you’d been eavesdropping on.

“Do you mean what she said earlier? On our way back to the Elfsong?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Well, yes,” he mutters, still not looking at you. “Though I can’t help but notice you haven’t answered my question…”

“Astarion,” you start, releasing his hand, only to place it on the slightly flushed skin of his cheek. “No, I do not only like you because you’re a vampire.” Your words are firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

His eyes meet yours again, and still you can see so much doubt, so much unmitigated fear. “Are you certain? You truly do seem to enjoy it when I bite you.”

“Well, that’s true,” you admit with a small wince. It does feel rather… good when he bites you, it would be a lie to say otherwise and, besides, you’ve told him as much before. “But that’s not why I like you, you fool.”

Astarion’s bottom lip slips into a small pout and he moves away from your hand. “You’re not very convincing, you know? Especially when you call me a fool.”

You scooch out a bit from under him, leaving your legs under his. With all of the severity in the world, you reply, “If it makes you feel better, I’m a fool too.”

“You are?” he asks, curious despite himself– easily falling for your little trap.

“A fool for you.”

The noise that escapes him is half groan, half chuckle, and his mouth pulls into a lopsided little smile that you’re not certain you would have earned were he not a bit blooddrunk. “Gods, how the hells did I fall for you?”

“Now you’re asking the right questions,” you respond with a smirk on your face. When you place a hand on his knee, the smirk turns into a small smile. “But I’m being genuine– I don’t like you because you’re a vampire. And before you ask, I don’t love you because of your vampirism either.”

He gives a small huff. “Well, Jaheira made it sound as if there wasn’t much else to care for.” An uncharacteristic admittance from him– normally he would brush off such a statement with a proud declaration of how phenomenal he is. But it seems that Jaheira’s words cut deep– and that blood has loosened his lips.

“Jaheira, despite all of her many, many years of experience–” you enjoy the full laugh that elicits. “simply doesn’t have my refined taste. There are so many reasons to like you, love. In fact, vampirism doesn’t even make the list.”

“Oh, you’re keeping track, are you?” he asks, folding his arms and body over his legs and smiling up at you.

“Maybe,” you murmur, leaning forward toward him. “Would you like a sampling of reasons?”

The look he gives you then is hopeful, but more than a little dread slips through in his shining red eyes. When he answers, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Only if you mean them.”

This withdrawn, unsure Astarion isn’t a common sight to you, but, like every other facet of the man before you, he’s no less lovable. So you lean forward, placing a kiss on his pale forehead, and say, “I mean them with my whole heart.”

“Then… I suppose I ought to be lavished with them," he murmurs, and you spot the blush intensifying over his cheeks, now also coloring his ears.

Coupled with his fluid, inebriated state, his heart laid bare before you, you want to scream the reasons from the roof of the Elfsong, if only for him to believe you. But, as it is, the soft snores of your companions keep your voice hushed, your face close to his as you begin.

“Let’s see… should I start with the first thing that stood out to me?”

He hums in agreement, and closes his eyes, as if preparing to listen to the sweetest tune known to the entirety of Faerun.

“Well, it started with your first lie, I think,” you start.

Astarion gives a disapproving groan, but doesn’t open his eyes.

“My dear, you said you said you had a ‘brain thing’ cornered– I hope you know the smile on my face wasn’t from confidence,” you say with a new, fond smile at the memory. “I just knew from that moment on, you didn’t much care for what others thought of you, as long as your goals were met. A kindred spirit. Or so you said that day.”

At that, he reopens his eyes. “That’s not true.”

“We’re not kindred spirits?” you ask, an unexpected tinge of hurt blooming in your chest.

“That’s true,” he says, balming the hurt quickly. “It’s not true that I don’t care what others think of me. I do. Well, maybe not everyone.” His eyes dart toward Gale’s bed and you stifle a snicker. “But I certainly care what you think of me.”

You look into his crimson eyes, a bit clearer now than when you began talking– the blood seems to be working its way through his system. His words come from a place of honesty, not a lack of inhibition.

“Then, let me assure you here and now,” you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. “I think–” Another quick peck on his lips. “you’re the funniest–” A kiss to his nose. “the most deft–” A brush of lips against his temple. “creative, endearing, brave–” Each word comes with a kiss along his jaw. “man I’ve ever met.”

Astarion’s eyes look at you, his face still for a moment as he considers your words. When he finally speaks, it’s a quiet, choked up question, “Oh, is that it?”

“Would you like me to keep going?” you ask, lips perched just above his eyebrow, ready for another round.

He shakes his head ever so slightly. “No– no need or you’ll be here all night, surely,” he says, posturing as best as he can while still looking at you with fearful eyes. Almost as if your candid praise is simply too much for him to bear.

It may be too much, and you’re not one to push it.

“Very well,” you say, pulling back. “But I didn’t even get to how good you look covered in blood…”

The man gives a light laugh at that, some of his nerves melting before praise he understands– his appearance is a source of comfort, one that brings him back to himself. “Oooh yes, I do look dashing in red, don’t I?” he purrs, a content smile forming on his face.

“That you do,” you assure, with your own warm look. You wish he would accept all praise this easily, but you suppose this is all you can do for now.

So little of what matters to you is his vampirism, his looks… but for a man like Astarion, for whom a kind word felt like a double-edged blade for two centuries? Well, you’re reminded that regardless of how many times you may tell him, whether now when he’s a bit fuzzy around the edges or when you’re in your cups, he may never truly believe you.

No matter, you suppose. I’ll simply keep finding new ways to show him how much I care for him…

“So Jaheira was kidding, right?” Astarion asks, sitting up and finally beginning to remove his leathers.

You nod, moving to help him remove his greaves. “Naturally. I thought you’d been enjoying the conversation, actually.”

“I had been,” he replies, thoughtfully. “But the more I remembered how sinfully you shiver under my fangs…”

He’s dodging before you can so much as flick his ear. “Excuse you. Is that any way to treat your most reliable source of sustenance?”

Astarion smirks as he leans away from you in the bed. “Oh darling, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. After all, you can’t help it.”

“Astarion–”

“Ehem!” You hear from somewhere behind you. It’s followed shortly by Shadowheart’s annoyed voice, “Would the two of you please keep it down? Some of us are trying to rest.”

If by ‘rest’ she means ‘reach the end of her copper novel’, then you suppose she’s right. Either way, you whisper back, “Sorry, I was defending my dignity.”

“What dignity?” she murmurs back. “And in case you’re wondering, you’re both utter fools.”

Oh great, she’d heard everything.

“Shadowheart, were you eavesdropping?” Astarion asks, crawling over you to glare at her from the edge of your bed. He’s half-dressed and still somewhat out of sorts, so you just lean back against the pillows and accept your fate.

“Is it really eavesdropping if I can hear it all clearly?” the cleric says, and you hear her book snap shut. “Besides, Astarion, if you really needed someone to reassure you, you should have asked me.”

“You?” he asks, incredulously. “And why should I ask you?”

“Because,” she starts, and you can hear her wicked smile in her tone. “I can confirm without a shadow of a doubt that there’s no such thing as ‘vampiric charm.’ I’ve never felt less charmed in my entire life.”

You can sense Astarion is just about ready to light Shadowheart’s hair on fire, so you tug him back down from the divide. “Thank you for that clarification, Shadowheart,” you call, biting back a laugh. “And I’m starting to realize none of us really have private conversations, do we?”

“No, we do not,” you hear Gale reply from a few beds away.

With that, Astarion gives an exasperated sigh and the two of you finish removing his armor in silence.  When you’re both finally ready for bed and you whisper to him, “Goodnight.” Shadowheart, Gale, and Wyll all respond, “Goodnight!”

[tinfoil-jones]

Jerk Ford AU: Silliness VI (Family Edition)

17-year-old Shermie: *holding out a lunch pail* Stanford, don’t forget your lunch. I don’t want you to be hungry.

12-year-old Jerk Ford: Whatever, b***h.

12-year-old Stanley: Ford! You can't talk to our brother like that!

Jerk Ford: Sure.

-45 Years Later-

57-year-old Jerk Ford: *holding up a paper bag* Dipper, your lunch. I don’t want you starving.

12-year-old Dipper: Whatever, b***h *flips him off*.

[Directly From This]

-

Jerk Ford: Hey, runt.

Mabel: Yes, Great Uncle Ford?

Jerk Ford: I was reading through the entries and 'corrections' you and your brother oh-so-kindly put into my Journal, and I noticed something.

Mabel: What?

Jerk Ford: You defeated the gnomes?

Mabel: Yup, with a leaf blower!

Jerk Ford: And this whole kerfuffle started because... they wanted you to marry them and be their queen?

Mabel: Oh- uh, yeah. I was disappointed because they weren't secretly a vampire.

Jerk Ford: You don't say...

-Later-

Jerk Ford: Now, what is the age of consent in the state of Oregon?

Jeff, hanging upside down from a tree: *sobbing* Eighteen!

Jerk Ford: And what's the age of consent for anyone with the last names Pines, Corduroy, Ramirez, or McGucket?

Jeff: Infinity!

Jerk Ford: Good, we're at an understanding. However, just in case- *continues to blow on dog whistle*

Jeff: *screeches in anguish*

---

17-year-old Stanley and Jerk Ford sitting in the Stanley Mobile.

Stan: Ford, I know what you're thinking.

Jerk Ford:

Stan: You cannot blow up the state of Jersey.

Jerk Ford: Why not?

Stan: That wouldn't solve nothin'!

Jerk Ford: Yes it would.

Stan: What problem could blowing up New Jersey possibly solve??

Jerk Ford: The existence of Jersey.

(In all seriousness, Jerk Ford would definitely leave with Stanley. They would struggle being homeless in Stan's car for a few weeks or months depending on when they were kicked out, but they both still had scholarships to Backupsmoore so they'd be good once they went to college. Jerk Ford would conduct so many séances around Pines Pawns in the meantime that it would be super haunted forever)

---

Stanford: I was stuck in a dimension where the arm of the galaxy I was in was in the midst of a galactic war. And all of the men - and about a hundred other genders across the different alien species - regardless of age were required to serve in the war. But, there was a loophole.

Anyone who worked at Hooters, in space or terrestrial, was exempted, to improve the morale of the remaining civilian population of women - and about a hundred more genders across the different alien species - the real reason I was in trouble for not putting in my two weeks notice isn't just because it was bad work practice, but it made me a war deserter.

Stan: Please never speak of this again, and don't try it again.

Stanford: I can't anyways, lost too much weight. No 'hooters' to speak of anymore.

Stan: Please, stop talkin'.

Stanford: I made so much money, too.

Stan: Sometimes I wish ya didn't know words.

---

During a Game of Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons

Old Man McGucket, the Dungeon Master: You realize what you are facing is a type of ooze - a corrosive monster called a Black Pudding.

Jerk Ford, playing a Bard: Quick, is anyone's character a vegetarian?

Dipper, playing a Ranger: My character lives off of the land, so no.

Soos, playing a Druid: Same here dawg, no.

Wendy, playing a Tabaxi: Heck no.

Mabel, playing a Satyr: Surprisingly, no.

Melody, playing a Warforged: My character doesn't even eat.

Jerk Ford: Da-rn it! A vegetarian would be immune to the Black Pudding.

Old Man McGucket: ...And why do you think that?

Jerk Ford: Don't you know; if you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding?

*collective groaning from the other players*

Old Man Mcgucket:

Old Man Mcgucket: I'm giving you a negative inspiration point.