#party tales

[camillathe6th]

Snippet. None of us are free.

DISCLAIMER: Everything belongs to Larian and Baldur's Gate 3. CONTEXT:  This is supposed to take place somewhere at the end of act 2 / at the beginning of act 3, when Astarion and Hero were still basking in the unresolvedness of their relationship, and were NOT basking in bickering constantly about Cazador and the meaning of freedom. They're at the point where they're honest enough to know each other (this relationship is real), but not trusting enough to let the other put a blade to their respective throat (is it real?). Deception expertise will do that to you. SOME DETAILS: Hero is a bard and a charlatan, plays the lyre, has a propensity for psychic damage, and appears in other mismatched snippets here. I'm using this to explore both their voices a little, so there's nothing key in here.

Approaching Baldur's Gate, 1492 (Hero)

Watch. I am watching. Not around, around is incidental, around is always shine and dust. Eye-catcher, eye-blinder. No, I watch; I am watching, his beautiful face, which moves like cracking paint around the lies that tug below.

“When we go back to Cazador’s palace…” he whispers.

This is the right moment to do this: night has fallen, and sleep has fallen, and in the haven of the sighing-breathing camp, only the fire crackles, a little way away. I am still seating, my feet tucked beneath the cold weight of his thigh, and from here I can see.

The stars are misted with velvet fog, as Astarion is.

He smiles; on his back, as if abandoned, as if trusting, he closes his eyes, and murmurs—a tip-toe of the tongue, just a slip, a casual talk, a faraway dream. You understand, of course: if it is light, if it is airy, then surely it can’t be dangerous.

Dangerous to you. Dangerous to me.

“You know what would be even more satisfying?”

I take away my eyes—leave him time to snag himself out of hiding.

“Stealing his jewels?” I coo. “I remember talk of a bloodstone tiara, back in the day…”

A laugh: just this side of strained. Don’t joke about this, says the strain. This is serious.

“Good one”, he lies. “But no. Stealing his ritual, rather.”

I arch a brow, mimicking a surprise I don’t feel.  

“Vampire ascendant,” I say, pensive—not pensive at all. “The most powerful of them all…”

“Yes,” he hisses, and thus shows his hand. “Yes. You get it, don’t you? I knew you would.”

A touch to my ankle, as cool as night-dew. His eyes meet mine and clasp them there—another show of faith and trust, there, keep, don’t blink, oh, I can almost hear his thoughts, go on, Astarion, let your mask slip, keep, keep so the mark will see your hunger and mistake it for your soul bared.

Two hundred years of experience, and still so ham-fisted with the changing of his face… Clearly he was not a natural.

Still, I let the semblance of a lying smile shift on my mouth—barely a hint, a little coy, a little flattered. It says, Oh, Astarion, you knew I would get it? My my, we really are soulmates.

“It would become you, it’s true,” I say with a touch of my fingers to his moonshaded knuckles. “After all these years…”

“I deserve it.”

“You deserve it,” I nod.

He does. Of course he does. Don’t we all deserve to sit on the throne of power that haunt our fantasy worlds? Don’t we all deserve to climb above, to sit in the rawness of ubiquity? Why not you? Why not me? Why not us?

It’s as simple as that. Strength. Safety. Beauty. Power. Let your soul spill over the world and shape it in your image. Have you not suffered enough for this? Bled enough for this?

Yes. He’s lying, but he’s not wrong: I do get it. I do get it. I do want it. I want it, every day, I want want want it— But if we all deserve it, that means not one of us can have it. And certainly not…

“Not just I, little lyre. We would take it together, for ourselves. Just for ourselves.”

What? I feel the slip but can’t stop it. For a second, he has me there, promising something I did not expect, an alliance he can’t, wouldn’t, won’t give. For a second, I am pinned and stuck, spider-webbed, and my heart sings louder than my mind.

Just for ourselves. Centuries of power, pulsing in our joined hands. Just for ourselves.

He smiles. Just a second. Just a second. Just a second before I catch myself back.

Tsk-tsk. Be serious now.

“But I wouldn’t become ascendant, would I?”

“I didn’t know you wanted to become a vampire to begin with,” he purrs, following the curve of my calf. “And squander all that lovely vivacity into undeath? Darling…”

“Then,” I smile, darling, sweet as child-blood, “we wouldn’t take it for ourselves really, would we?”

He frowns.

“I would share my power with you. I told you, love. This is real.”

I don’t flinch; I don’t, I know I don’t. Inside my skin I do, but skin is here to screen truth. A smooth and chiseled façade for the bile-and-guts sacks we all are.

Is this real? What binds us, is it real? Me, him, is it real? Is he real? Am I? Together and apart, are we real? The gut-sack might whisper from the depth, pounding like a heart, but it is lying. I know this. I learned this.

Nothing is real. Nothing has ever been real. Promises are smoke waiting to be dispelled. Promises of power, promises of love, promises of intimacy, promises of eternity: a charlatan arsenal, nothing more. Words and lies mould the world.

This cannot be real, and I am not caught. I am not.

I am free.

“It’s a lovely fantasy,” I say, cutting the pantomime to the quick.

And so the illusion breaks. He sits up, he tenses, eyes ruby-sharp.

“It can become reality,” he presses.

What, did he think this was ever a debate?

“No,” I laugh, a last effort at civility in front of the rushing tide. “Because I won’t let you.”

It’s a cheap shot: I know this is exactly the wrong thing to say.

“You won’t let me?”

“What did you expect? That I would encourage you to take over the world?”

“Oh, so this is about you, isn’t it?” he jeers. “You’re afraid that I will take over you. Why can’t you trust me? When I’m Ascendant, I can change you too.”

“Stop,” I clench my teeth. “It’s not about that. I don’t give a damn about ascendancy—”

“You were tempted. You were. Don’t think I don’t see through you, Hero.”

“Then you’ll know I like entertaining what could be, before I decide what should be.”

“But it’s not yours to decide!”

The star-face cracks: the smile is gone, and the composure, and the promises; and the hope. Maybe… Maybe, this is real.

“What? Do you think you’ll defeat Cazador by becoming Cazador?” I ask, harshly.

“I would not—”

“You would! I get it, alright? We’re weak. We are. Fear is guiding you now. You’re a grasping, terrified little—”

“Shut it,” he cleaves.

“No. You need to hear it. This isn’t freedom. You want freedom but you keep missing the point. Freedom is tie-cutting. To be free you need to end him, and with that I will help you unconditionally; but then you need to let it go. Do you think you’ll be free of Cazador as you recreate Cazador? Do you think you’ll be free of your past by enacting it onto others? Do you think you’ll be free at all, carrying the burden of godly power in your hands? It will only control you just like your master controlled you. Gods aren’t free, Asta—”

“Oh please!” he laughs, an ugly laugh now, his face lined, his eyes blazing, his voice as stinging as a poisoned dagger. “What do you know of freedom, Herodias? What do you know of captivity? What do you know of despair? You fled your mommy because you were sad at home, and you think you understand the plight of those who have known real enslavement? You dare preach to me about freedom because you had the guts to—what—leave a golden cage whose door stood open for your escape? Did they even come for you when you disappeared? No. They wanted you to disappear.”

“That’s not—”

“Look at you. You’ve lived nothing. I was tortured for centuries. Thrice as long as your lifetime. Do you understand that? I was used, flayed, insulted, dissected, humiliated, robbed of myself until I was nothing more than pain walking, then numbness walking. Nothing in my mind, nothing in my body, only Cazador. You think you can judge me and understand me? You think you can influence me? Do yourself a favour and keep your cheap tricks for your drunken clientele. What you know of life are stories, only stories. You’re just a brat playing make-believe, but I’m real. My pain is real. My worth is real. I will make my freedom the shape I want it to be.”

There’s a moment then, a moment of floating, ringing like blood in my ears. I’m not sure what my face looks like. I’m not sure what anything looks like, really, not through the blur. Maybe I have draped myself in the singing protection of the weave—the fear is kept at bay, but it cannot muffle the treacherous roiling, roiling—inside.

Inside, usually, I am silent. I am outward, like a shimmering mirror to what lies beyond myself, making it mine. I am, joyfully, a sham—but here, and now, inward, I am—I am—a sham—a, a, a—a sh-sh-shamed.

The tadpole squirms and projects; Astarion, in the fey glow of my unveiled thoughts, has gotten to his feet. 

“You should be,” he spits, and leaves me to sit only with myself, a punishment that fits the crime.

[toyastales]

Gooey Garlic Cheese Bread

[dunmeshistash]

Where is the stuff about Dandan from? I also remember seeing something about the marriage hunter former member, but haven't been able to find it again, so I'm wondering if there are (more) extra chapters somewhere.

From here that's the only extra about his old party that I know of.

[aroacesetitoff]

not romantic not platonic but a secret third thing (in the same adventuring party)

[wanologic]

Hi! Your drawings are amazing! But may I ask why Danny, Sam, and Toker are living together? Under what circumstances did they move in together?

They’re all STEM kids so they found a school that had decent programs in all their majors (Sam in Ecology, Danny in Physics, and Tucker in Computer Information Systems). In my head it’s some reasonably cheap(ish), decently easy to get into state school or something similar.

They were looking for places to live during the summer after senior year, when Sam’s parents looked over her shoulder and decided buying their daughter a house and renting it after graduation would make them more money in the long run than paying some other slumlord rent for four years (campus rentals are a racket and the Mansons wanna cash in lmao).

Danny, Sam, and Tucker wanted to live together bc long live team phantom. They don’t have to hide any ghost stuff from unknown roommates and the rent is free. Danny and Tucker both have part time jobs at Nasty Burger and Sam volunteers and has a million extracurriculars.

[detailedart]

The kind of parties I need, on the furthest edge of the world. | Come unto these yellow sands, 1842, by Richard Dadd.

[katakaluptastrophy]

At her approach, one of the pilgrims shook her hood back. She wore spectacles, and her thick brown hair was neatly bound back in a black fillet, as was customary; the man next to her had shaved his head and kept running a hand over it surreptitiously, like a child at its first cropping. Harrow was surprised to see the first pilgrim give her a weary, troubled smile, as though the woman knew her. It was a smile that was sorry you had missed the mark in your exams, but thought you had not quite studied hard enough. Harrow had never set eyes upon her in her life. She did not know her. She did not know her husband. Except—how had she known that the man was the woman’s husband? “This isn’t how it happens,” said Abigail.

My cosplays seem to be getting rather more niche as the Alectopause goes on... Here's Ninth pilgrim Abigail from the Harrow Nova AU, feeling very weary about a teenager playing dressing up games with her ghost instead of going to therapy.

Two visitors kneeled toward the back of the pews, on the kneeling rail, their black church robes taped with brown around the right shoulders to show their House affiliation.

I had a lot of fun thinking about what the various elements of the outfit - the brown tape at the shoulder, the fillet - might look like, and of course no pilgrimage is complete without acquiring a slightly tacky rosary! Thank you so much to the anon who suggested going in a fully medieval direction with her headcovering, which also inspired the braids. (I still wish we had more answers about the theology behind the veiled necromancers and shaven cavaliers...)

[descendinight]

Nuryniíth - Rosemary and thyme

[lylahammar]

Weight loss is a completely morally neutral personal choice that anyone can make for any reason, but if you choose to lose weight because you hate your fat body, please do the internal work to get over that internalized fatphobia before or during your weight loss efforts. I’ve seen far too many fat people become skinny and immediately turn their internalized fatphobia outwards, and it’s a bad time for everyone. If you have to keep the weight off through a strictly maintained diet and exercise, it’s pretty much inevitable that you will gain some weight back at some point in your life (likely more than you had in the first place if yo-yo dieting is in play), and you will find that all the hatred you projected at the fat community will come back to bite you in the ass with twice the power. Work on loving your fat self while you’re there, and if you choose to lose weight then work on continuing to love your old fat self. Life will feel much better for yourself and the fat people around you that way.

[dsemulator-00]

midnights doodles at @coro-sg 's whiteboard :D

(never did one of these so i decided to try out)

[iliothermia]

Thought process as I work on drawing for dark fairy zine: he is bad little fairy = he is wet and angry

[camillathe6th]

Snippet. You catch me, I catch you.

DISCLAIMER: Obviously, this is all inspired by Baldur's Gate 3 and Larian Studios. CONTEXT:  Another short snippet to explore my Tav's demeanour, her bullshit, the vibes of the group, her dynamics with Astarion and all that. The goal was to write your character(s) caught in a lie, and observed by a third party. Shadowheart is the POV of choice for this. SOME DETAILS: Hero is a bard, she plays the lyre, she loves psychic damage, she's weak of arms and poofy of shorts. If you're into her, she appears in another snippet here. I think that's all you need to know! There's no spoilers in this, this is just for fun and the location/quest is invented.

Somewhere in Faerûn, 1492. (SHADOWHEART)

It happens like it always happens—sometimes, more and more, I do wonder. I do wonder if they already know and delight in being caught all the same. The theatrics of the aftermath. Sharing something as real as anger by way of the lie.

The jewellery case lies at the back of the room; we have agreed to leave it alone. It will curse us all, said the sentry; it will mess with our heads, and our heads are already tilting on an unstable axis. Mine, because it is full of shadows; theirs, I surmise as they grow in power, because it is feasting on illithid parasites. Better focus on the delusions that come for us at night, and look away from the Amulet of Godliness.

I believe too much in gods to be tempted by it; Hero believes in them too little. But Astarion…

“I’ll scout ahead and lockpick the door,” he whispers, slipping on his gloves. “Wait for my signal.”

She is looking at him. She does not miss a beat.

“Careful”, she says, eyes alight with a spell I don’t know. “The turret’s beam falls right on the door. You can hide behind the jewellery case to reach the lock.”

She was looking at him; not at the room. I think my brow arch; but he doesn’t see, no: he is looking at her too.

“No traps on the jewellery case?”

She blinks away the diamond glow, and there she is again, the picture of innocence, her face as youthful and soft as a fairy stool.

“No traps,” she whispers, holding his gaze. “Just stick to the shadows, vampling.”

“Trust me, I always do,” he preens, his sharp chin raised, his sharp smile cutting.

She smiles back; here, now, next to his blade of a face, she looks like sweetness incarnate.

“I do trust you,” she says, quickly, just a breath, like a secret escaped, and with a touch at his wrist so fast and artful it manages to look instinctive. The need for contact. The impulse to connect. This is what faith does, doesn’t it?

Of course, that is her biggest lie of the day.

“And I trust you, little lyre,” he lies right back. His fingers against her cheek are a surprise: there is intimacy there I didn’t expect. He turns away quickly.

And there he goes, swift as a sigh, weaving in the darkness of the room, a bare glint of opal through the stone-forbidding hall. I lean back against the wall; our gazes follow his trajectory to the coffers and the case, behind which he disappears altogether.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

She looks up at me. This time, the smile is genuine. I think.

“Just testing a theory.”

“You think the Amulet…”

The scREAM cuts me off. 

At the back of the room, a column of radiance has fallen on the jewellery case, and Astarion stumbles away with a howl, his graceful hand burnt charred black; around us, the room EXPLODES in sounds of shots and fractures; defensive turrets whirr to life, sweeping the ground for hidden intruders, blasting derelict statues to bits.

“Hero!” Astarion screeches, running towards us through the chaos, teeth bared. “I’m going to ki—”

“Don’t threaten me, you ass-white half-corpse!” Her eyes shine blue, her voice booms above the shattering of rock and glass; Astarion dodges a magical beam but hits the wall nearby, holding his head.

“Stop using vicious mockery every time we fight, or I will use my teeth,” he seethes.

“Is this really the time?” I sigh, redirecting one of the blasts with the blade of my glaive.

“My hand is burnt to a crisp!” Gods, his voice does really reach new heights when he is angry. “How dare you! You said there were no traps!”

“And you said you wouldn’t steal the Amulet of Godliness.”

Apparently, it is really the time. I roll my eyes and pull Hero through the latch from whence we came. This little detour heist will have to wait until the turrets’ have discharged.

“It’s called the Amulet of Godliness. Of course I was going to steal it,” Astarion huffs, following us lithely. “You’ve made your point. Now cure me.”

“No.” Here it is; that face is her genuine one: mouth hard, chin high, she looks like a petulant little lord. And he doesn’t like being lorded over.

“Cure me, bardlet, or I’ll have to take a hand for a hand,” he hisses, fangfull.

There’s something there, though, in the treat of the threat: after all, he could ask me to cure him. He prefers the game of inconsequential violence, I think: a dance of darts, an equal footing of non-lethal strikes. Her stubborn mask melts into a smile as whetted as his dagger.

In the dark, I sit on a chest we’ve already looted, smooth out my leather skirt, and settle for the show.

[toyastales]

Fried Chicken and Mashed Potatoes

[weaverofink]

punk douxie redesign!!! i just think he should have had an undercut tbh

+ bonus doodle:

i feel like they for sure wouldn't let him wear his whole punk getup at his cafe job so i put him in a uniform. for fun.

[heatherskept]

thought maybe i should post this here....hello griefer

[coffinpal]

Tail!!!!