#slow boating | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wren-kitchens · 2 months ago

Text

paint me in trust

2193 words

there are endless problems that etho could have foreseen if he had been told that the new game would be to link two people's souls with each other. just the premise of that sounds terrifying—what if something broke, and suddenly your souls are just- untethered from your bodies. etho doesn't know a whole lot about how souls work, but that does not sound very enjoyable. he’s still not sure how they’re meant to unlink after this whole song and dance is over, and for his own sanity, he’s decided to assume that grian has it all handled. although- etho doesn’t actually know if grian's own soul has been mixed with mumbo's this whole time. maybe he shouldn't think too hard about that.

and it only took me 5 months to write a part 2! here's part 1 :]

it's not necessarily chapters that follow immediately after one another, but these are all in the same universe, in order. I liked the idea of a slow burn esque kind of friendship between them and chapters felt like the easiest way to do it!

the sillies ever

on top all of this existential threat, etho is quickly learning that, when you hang out with someone who you don’t really know all too well for a little while, you run out of things to say alarmingly soon. there are only so many small talk social scripts that don't sound rude when repeated more than once. after all, if you asked someone where they were from three times, you’d either look like you weren't paying attention, or very desperate. etho thinks he’s probably reached the very desperate stage.

it's not like he doesn’t want to talk to joel, it's just- how do you keep up conversations when neither of you have anything much to say? there's so much left unsaid in the awkward remarks about the weather and laughter at jokes that finishes too soon, but there's nothing else either of them have to contribute. which is- an enormously dull problem to have in the face of soulmates and unbreakable bonds: they've run out of things to say. etho thinks he'd rather have to worry about his soul exploding, or something.

joel, it seems, has also noticed the predicament they’re both in, because his contributions to their failing conversations are a lot more out of pocket than etho ever expects. which, to be entirely honest, ends up creating far more entertaining conversations than etho's failed attempts at civility ever have.

"okay- well, I have to ask,"

etho looks down at joel, where he's sat against the bed, on the floor. for the past half hour, he’s been idly carving what might be a wolf into the floorboards of the ship with what might be a completely different chisel than the last four etho has seen him using since joel made the ship last week.

"go on." etho says, a little amused.

something shifts in joel's expression, and etho wonders if he was nervous to bring this up. "where'd you get the scar?"

etho hesitates, and joel visibly considers whether he should have said it or not. "it's not- I kinda-" he tilts his head to the side, as if that could kick his brain into gear and come up with a better lie than his last one. quite frankly, he has no idea why he thought scott would believe that he fought technoblade. "it's a long story." he settles on.

joel nods. "well, I just- I was thinking we could swap stories." he shrugs, and etho gets the impression that he’s trying to disguise how much he liked the idea. "I- y’know, I have a few scars of my own. but- I don’t wanna, like- encroach."

"it's not- you’re not encroaching." etho can’t help but smile, against his own fruition. stupid joel. "what stories do you have?"

something lights up in joel's face, and etho feels a kind of softness in his chest. not that- it's unrelated. it's probably joel's actually- which might not be much better. whatever. it's not important. "you- I mean, they're not all that interesting, but-" he pulls up his sleeve to display what looks like a wolf bite. "that's from geraldine- y’know, my dog in 3rd life. I think she got confused, right at the end. it was just before I died."

etho leans forward to have a better look, and joel moves to sit next to etho on the bed, crossing his legs. the impulse to rest his head on joel's shoulder sticks itself in the back of etho's mind, and he very purposefully looks closer at the bite.

"it's nice." joel is saying, entirely unaware. "'s like I have a part of her with me still, y’know?"

"yeah." etho nods. "I never really thought about that- you’d lose your dogs each season."

still looking at the bite, joel hums. "I try not to think about it too hard." he grins up at etho with a lot more nonchalance than etho would expect after a sentence like that. "might go insane again." he snorts a laugh, and etho is suddenly reminded of his final moments in last life. "anyway, it's your turn."

"oh- right." etho pauses, trying to recall a scar he has that isn't followed by a very dull story. "I- well, I guess I have the one you gave me." he says, and joel cackles.

"i’d forgotten about that." he says, watching with interest as etho pulls his clothes up enough to display the scar. "oh- wow, I did a number on you, huh? sorry about that." he adds, a little sheepish.

etho grins. "there's no hard feelings. honestly- i’m still pretty impressed." he says, dropping his clothes again. "you got cleo and me in- what, maybe thirty seconds?"

joel gives a huff of laughter, glancing at his lap, and it occurs to etho that he’s embarrassed. wow, he didn’t even know that was a thing joel could be. "yeah- well, I didn’t really- yeah." he clears his throat, and there's something familiar about it that etho can't quite place. "i didn’t expect to- to win that." he grins awkwardly.

and- alright, maybe it's a little mean, but- etho doesn’t really know joel all too well. he’s just getting to know how he works! .. by intentionally trying to embarrass him. okay- in his defence, etho was fairly certain joel was impossible to embarrass, so- he’s doing science. yeah- sure, that's what he’s gonna go with. science.

"it was very cool." etho says, as nonchalant as he can. helpfully, he does actually mean what he's saying—even if it did end up with him dead, it was pretty impressive (if terrifying) to watch. "honestly, with you as my soulmate, we're absolutely gonna win."

much to etho's delight, joel is blushing, which- he's happy because is funny. it's funny and not- there's no other reason, okay. it's just funny. "I- you- thank you. I wouldn’t-" he meets etho's eyes, and immediately frowns. "you’re doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

"I- no, I-" even before he’s started a full sentence, etho knows he’s not gonna convince anyone. joel raises an eyebrow at him, and he immediately caves. "it- okay, I- maybe a little, but-"

joel gives an exaggerated scoff, and etho almost laughs. "I can't believe you would do such a thing, etho." he says, far more dramatically than the situation would require, but he seems to be enjoying the drama. "actually though- why?"

it's etho's turn to blush now, and joel's eyes light up with mischievous laughter the second he sees it. "it- there's not- it's unimportant. very unimportant, actually- it's just boring."

"go on." joel grins, teeth sharp. it suits him.

etho shoots joel a glare, but he can’t pretend to be upset in the face of joel's laughter for long. "okay, I just- you’ve never been embarrassed. that- that I could see, so I kinda- I was curious. about- y’know. how far I could push it."

there's a muted kind of warmth in the centre of etho's chest, which has to be coming from joel. the man in question just smirks. "okay, well- now you have to tell me about your eye. since you were so horrible to me."

etho hesitates. "I- okay, it's not-"

"i'll tell you about this." joel says suddenly. etho looks up, and joel pulls his shirt to the side, revealing burn scarring across all the visible skin on his shoulder. "y’know- it's a trade."

"okay- for that, you get the truth." etho pulls his mask down, not really thinking about it. joel looks a little taken aback, and it occurs to etho that joel has never seen his face before. maybe it should feel more uncomfortable, but it doesn’t. "so- I never tell anyone how I actually got it, except like- cleo and bdubs."

joel blinks, and the warm thing in etho's chest grows a little. "I- wow, i’m up there with cleo?"

"you- well, you’re my soulmate, right?" etho says without thinking. before he or joel has time to dwell on whatever that means, he says hurriedly, "it- everyone always assumes it's some huge traumatic thing, or like- a cool fight, or whatever, but. I- yeah, I literally just tripped. I was- I managed to land directly on the corner of my furnace." he gives a huff of a laugh.

"that- you're such a nerd, etho." joel smirks, still looking somewhat stunned. he looks pleased too though, so maybe it's a good thing. "you- and no one else knows?"

"well," etho pulls his mask back up. "now one more person knows." he finds himself smiling at the thought.

"okay, well- hang on." joel pulls his shirt over his head, revealing far more scarring than etho expected to see. the long sleeves of joel's shirt were the only things hiding it. "i’ve got them on my legs too, but i’m not taking my trousers off." he grins.

"I- how did you get all that?" etho leans closer, pushing his hair out of his eyes to see better.

"you remember when cleo set my house on fire in 3rd life?" joel says, looking far happier about this story than etho thinks he ought to be. or- maybe he’s just happy to tell the story to someone. etho decides not to think too hard about it. "well, I also set on fire." he grins. "they're also from that game tango made for those diamond boots."

etho winces sympathetically. "does- does it still hurt?" he asks, surprising himself with how nervous he is.

joel hums, running a hand over the puckered skin absentmindedly. "not really. I mean, you should know." he looks up, grinning. "soulmate and everything. it's just- it aches a little when I respawn, but.. not much."

before etho has time to think about what he’s asking, he reaches out a hand on instinct and glances at joel. "I- can I?"

"oh- yeah. yeah, I don't- I don’t mind." joel blinks, apparently surprised. etho is hit with a wave of embarrassment, but- well, it'd be a bit awkward to back out now, wouldn’t it?

the skin is surprisingly soft underneath etho's fingers, despite how textured it is from the scarring. it's interesting- etho has accumulated several scars over the years, but he’s never seen something so large as joel's. it's kind of cool.

joel gives a huff of a laugh, and etho looks up to see him grinning. "didn’t think it'd be that interesting."

etho shrugs, suddenly embarrassed but not wanting to back down. "it's pretty interesting." he says, and he can’t help smiling a little as he sits back again. "like- battle scars, or something. it's a cooler story than mine." he gestures at his eye and joel cackles.

"you said I got the 'truth'," joel says, pulling his shirt back on. "does that mean you’ve been lying to people about what happened?"

"I- well. a little?" etho says, awkward all of a sudden, and joel grins at it. "it- I just- it's not a good story, and I kinda- it adds to the mystery if no one knows."

joel nudges him, apparently entertained—or something similar, at least. "what have you told people?"

etho glances at the wall. "I- well, I told scar I fought herobrine-" he’s very rudely interrupted by joel's laughter, apparently overjoyed to learn this about his soulmate. "it- he believed it! that's not- I can’t be blamed if he believed that."

"I did think you were mysterious at one point." joel grins, and there's a kind of comfortable amusement in his expression. it's nice.

"what- you don’t anymore?" etho pouts, and joel cackles at it. he can’t help feeling proud of how good he is at making joel laugh.

"not now- you told scar you fought herobrine." joel says, and etho huffs a laugh. "you’re just- you’re a dork, etho."

etho pretends to be offended, and joel cackles at all the right moments, and frankly, etho's mask is the only thing preventing him from looking even more like a dork (in joel's words- he’s not a dork, for the record) as he can’t stop himself grinning along. it's weird, but etho keeps ending up being thankful for joel's bluntness or his loudness or his ability to take up so much space in conversation when it comes to these sorts of moments- all of which he used to find annoying last season. maybe it's the soulbound being weird.

maybe he just likes the way the ship fills with laughter whenever they talk.

37 notes · View notes

atsadi-shenanigans · 2 months ago

Text

What Shall We Become 40 - Big Damn Heroes

The rogue makes a decision.

Magic flows through Astarion. It’s like the first time, in two hundred years, when their intrepid group of weirdos reached a stream to cross. No bridge, the water lapping at the banks, likely only up to the ankles. And he’d paused.

Daylight no longer seared his flesh, and he’d entered at least one druid hovel without so much as a by-your-leave. He’d been somewhat certain (he hadn’t) his first step wouldn’t dissolve into burning and blistering and extremely awkward questions.

So he’d taken a step. Water surged up, over his foot, lapped at his ankles and flooded into his shoes to swirl about his toes.

He’d paused again. Partially waiting for the inevitable pain to start. And when that didn’t happen, to marvel at the cool softness.

The boat reaches out and washes through Astarion the same way. He gasps. Almost releases the rudder, before clutching it in both hands.

It smells of sweet water, a touch of mud, old wood, and slightly mildewy canvas, and the vessel shudders beneath his touch and stretches out like a dragon awoken from a children’s tale.

“Oh,” he breathes.

Two things happen: over the shush of the water moving below them, a drow woman shouts. And his leader turns to glance back, and makes a wretched sound. It tears out of her, all spit and blood and pain. She drops like a dead thing. For an instant, he nearly sees an arrow jutting out of her forehead. Those lovely eyes staring blankly up at nothing.

Until she starts screaming.

“No, no, please!” The last intelligible sounds before agony rips through her vocal chords and she thrashes about on the deck.

“Darling!” he says. Lunges to cradle her head. Keep her from bashing open her skull.

A purple haze surrounds her. Fogs her lovely eyes, her mouth stretched wide in a silent scream torn from emptied lungs.

Magic. A psychic spell.

Torture. She hadn’t said anything about the specifics of her captivity. But he knows stories of drow and he knows torture, and its stink had clung to her. Colored her face, her hands.

He hadn’t thought her mind…but of course. That was where she held what they wanted.

On the shore, the priestess lifts her hands, fingers hooked into claws, face twisted into a desperate snarl.

This isn’t a correction or a coercion. She means to kill. Magics exist that can shred a mind, and he doesn’t have to be a wizard to put together what that woman is doing to his leader.

He unslings his bow, draws, fires. His aim is true. She’ll be distracted maintaining her spell. Will have to, something that strong at this distance—

The arms master—her brother—swings out of the shadows and cleaves Astarion’s arrow from the air.

“Fuck,” he says.

They won’t stop. Not until his leader is dead. Better they all lose whatever adamantine prize they seek, than a human makes off with a piece. They’re going to kill Eleanor, and he can do nothing.

Not from here.

The necklace is cool against his fingers. The taste of magic still lingers on his tongue. Not a sorcerer or a wizard or a warlock. Just a stupid, pathetic boy. A slave and a whore. A thing to be used and cast aside.

But not to her.

The words form on his tongue. The magic still lingers on his skin and in the cracks and crevasses of his armor. It swirls on his tongue, bathes his body in a silver light.

“Invenium via!” he says. No idea what it will do. No idea if it will do anything at all. Only that he must try. He must—

Light flashes.

It doesn’t hurt. He only feels…light. A fog clinging to a lowlands park in the predawn light, dew drops gathering upon leaves and slumbering flowers. It eddies and swirls in a soft wind and he’s carried upon it, made part of it.

Until another flash. His feet hit solid ground. He catches a glimpse of the arms master too far, eyes widening.

Astarion can’t stop the priestess from the boat. But a Misty Step spell can bring him much closer, and he can damn well stop her less than a foot from her back.

He finds the comforting hilt of his dagger.

“Sister!” the arms master starts.

Astarion punches his dagger through the back of the priestess’s skull. The point crunches through bone and buries deep. He gives it a vicious, squelching twist to be sure, and wrenches it loose as he kicks at her body.

The woman is dead (if still twitching) before she hits the dock. The purple glow sloughs off her shivering hands.

He has no time to savor that victory. An animalistic bellow and he whips himself back just in time to avoid a sword strike that would have hacked his head from his body.

“Oh, decapitation!” he says. “However did you know, darling?”

The arms master is on him and horrifically fast, for a mortal. His slashes are a touch wild, but still controlled enough Astarion has to retreat. Has to hop over a piece of a body. Except armor snags his heel and he stumbles.

A flash of color. Another drow, bleeding heavily from the stump of her left arm, comes in low and fast. Just not fast enough. Not on a vampire having so recently fed on something alive and thinking enough to scream as it died.

He twirls to the side. Lets her knife arm slip past him, and then hauls her close.

Right as the arms master jabs. The blade plunges through the exposed top of his kinswoman’s armor. Drives deep into the woman’s lungs and severs one of the deep arteries. It sprays in a charming fountain as the arms master wrenches his blade free.

“Traitor shit!” the drow says. “What are you?”

Because he’ll have registered Astarion’s newly refreshed speed. His pallor. And that he’s not a warm body.

So Astarion grins wide enough to show off his fangs (it is such a delight doing that, if only to watch his mark’s face change). Continues edging back, and notices the spear to his right. He gets his toe under it, and flicks it into the air where he can catch it. Now he’s got the reach advantage.

Too bad he’s not terribly experienced with this sort of spear work.

“I’ll take off your arms and legs and drag you back to Menzoberranzan to melt the flesh from your skull,” the arms master says.

Astarion clicks his tongue. “Ah, and here I thought we were getting along so well.”

He steps back another foot. Two. Still on the dock.

The drow advances.

He’s still armed with that sword, which lets him keep Astarion at a distance—too far with his daggers, as always. If he can get under Astarion’s range, however, the man will have him. Getting there is the problem.

A duergar coughs just behind him. Reaches out and clutches at Astarion’s foot. It’s the one Eleanor so hilariously disposed of.

Astarion gives him a kick and sends him back to the water.

It’s the distraction the arms master needs. He lunges. Astarion lifts the spear. Gets in three, swift strikes. The first two are swept aside, but the third slices into shoulder meat and then the drow is too close, too close.

He drops the spear. Throws himself forwards. Tucks into a roll to come up behind the man so he can stab his kidneys. But the arms master didn’t reach his rank, or survive his family, through bribery or treachery, but through talent, it seems. His blade slices up Astarion’s forearm. Ligaments snap and his hand seizes and he drops the knife.

Has to scurry back to avoid the next slash, meant to open his throat. That wouldn’t kill him—at least not pre-tadpoled—but it’s hard to move an undead body with no blood to soften tissue. Joints tend to stick or shatter.

“I will find your human,” the arms master says. “And before I split open her head to retrieve what she stole, I’ll pluck out her eyes and her tongue and make you eat them.”

Astarion pulls a face. “Ugh, darling no. Eyeball fluid tastes to bland.”

He backs further. Looks about for another spear or even a sword. Finds nothing but pieces of drow. Glances to the water.

The arms master advances. “There’s nowhere to run, traitor.”

“Well,” Astarion says. Then lunges.

He’s not as strong as he’s been before, after the bear, and especially not after supping on her. But a grapple isn’t always about strength.

Sometimes it’s about surprise. And most people, it turns out, don’t expect what they assume is a sickly-looking elf to leap at them, fangs out.

But the arms master is quick. He gets his hand between Astarion’s mouth and his own neck. Astarion bites anyway. Plunges his fangs into warm flesh, pops through veins and scrapes bone.

The drow shouts. Shoves at him.

Astarion bites harder. Gives a vicious suck to pull a mouthful of blood.

Then the arms master shoves a knee up, narrow missing Astarion’s bollocks, and kicks. It shouldn’t be enough to dislodge him—especially not with his fangs buried inside, every muscle in his undead corpse locked and screaming for more. But it does. Astarion rolls. Finds empty air.

He hits the water. Immediately sinks.

It’s the first time he’s been completely submerged since the river, thrashing blindly in the current. Which itself is the first time he’s been completely submerged in all he can remember. He’s a dead thing. A moving corpse. He doesn’t even need to breathe.

Yet sinking down, even knowing where he is, none of that matters. Ancient instinct, long buried, dredges itself up and bursts through centuries of sediment and he flails. Claws about. Mouth opens and water surges in—

His feet touch something. The lakebed. He plants both of them, curls in, and kicks as hard as he can.

Explodes out of the water almost immediately. Because it only comes up to his chest and he was in no danger of drowning because he can touch the bottom quite easily and he’s a godsdamned immortal vampire. With ruined hair.

But the very best view.

The arms master stands on the deck, frowning down. Gaze flicks between him, and the water lapping at the pilings. Probably doubting the wisdom of fighting a godsdamned immortal vampire, who doesn’t need air, in a lake when he very much does need aforementioned air.

“Oh come now, darling,” Astarion says, bouncing a few steps back. He’s got to keep the man’s attention a moment longer. “You’re not going to give up that easily, surely?”

The man’s jaw muscles work. He could likely crack a stone between his teeth just now. Even through the ruin of his scorched and hollowed eye socket, he manages to glare.

Then he takes a dagger out of his belt and flings it. He has good aim, Astarion will give him that. He almost manages to knick Astarion’s thumb as he swipes it out of the air. Glances at the red gem inlaid into the handle and narrows his eyes. Then slips it into his belt.

“And here I thought you liked me,” Astarion says.

The man is going to jump in. Strategy be damned. He’s going to leap onto Astarion and try to crush his spine with his bare hands, and Astarion can no longer keep the snicker quiet. He’s been tiptoeing further and further away from the dock, angling to the shallows. The drow has been so focused on him, he hasn’t noticed.

He shouldn’t have been able to dislodge Astarion. With his jaw locked like that, the drow should have lost half his hand in the process. Would have, too, if Astarion hadn’t let himself be flung off.

It’s not until the looming shadow rushes upon them that the noise of the water finally snaps through the anger and the blood lust. The man turns.

And the ship plows into the dock, splintering boards like whittled toothpicks and crushing the drow under a pile of churning debris.

Astarion hops a few more steps away as the vessel chews through the rest of the rotten wood. Finally settles against a pile of crushed planking and twisted ropes.

“Astarion!”

Eleanor, alive and alert, comes bounding down the stairs. She hits the railing, scans below for a place to hop off, and frowns at the mess (and at the duergar sloshing to shore some hundred feet behind Astarion).

“One moment, darling,” he says. He wades closer, skirting some of the debris and a single, severed hand bobbling along. He contemplates it a moment, and then plucks it up. Waste not.

“Is he dead?” Eleanor says.

Astarion stops. Stares at the bit of purple foot sticking out. She hit the man so hard it knocked his boots off. Several of the broken boards drip blood.

“Quite,” he says. Reaches the boat. There’s a kind of rigging on the side, and he uses that to haul himself up. Lands, water sluicing all over the deck.

Eleanor’s eyes are bright and lucid. Her brow wrinkles, but not in torment. Not from torture. She’s…fretting over him. How adorable.

“Here, darling, I got you a gift,” he says. So of course she looks to the severed hand and makes a face. He snorts and pulls the reclaimed dagger from his belt.

The knife he gave her. The knife he showed her how to use. The same knife she stabbed that hooked horror in the ass with. “Consider it a souvenir. Though it hardly seems necessary to arm you when you do a rather admirable job finding creative ways to murder all on your own. You’ve no idea how hard it was not to start laughing when I realized what you were doing.”

She tucks her chin down. She used to have long hair, he’s seen in her memories. Used it to hide her expressions.

He taps the underside of her chin with one finger. Her gaze instantly finds his. He smiles. Much better.

“Couldn’t just leave you,” she ways, as if that’s a normal thing to say. “I’m just glad the boat worked as long as it did. It musta leeched magic off you or something.”

He looks up to the rudder. To the folded side sails. Considers her.

The wizard declared her incapable of magic. And she’s never produced so much as a dancing lights cantrip before.

“Are you sure?” he says.

“I didn’t do nothing but grab it. It was already drifting around. I think it just used me to get a GPS lock on you.”

Once again making no sense.

Spells don’t usually work like that. At least, he doesn’t think they do? Once the spell caster loses concentration (or gets stabbed in the brain stem), the spell dies then and there.

Hmm.

Oh, the wizard would eat his own delightful boots if they ever find the man and he hears of this. That their intra-planar leader maybe, possibly used magic for the blink of an eye.

Then she leans out to peer past him at the carnage spattered all over the beach. “Was that all of them?”

Dead drow. Dead duergar. Pieces of both scattered about like pint glasses on a tavern floor after a particularly wild party. And the dead birdshark.

“I don’t hear any others,” he says. Taps the open space in front of her chest. “Just your own heart, my dear.”

She looks at him. In a way she’s done before. In a way many other have done many times before. But she doesn’t reach for him. Doesn’t grab him. She rammed a boat through a dock and a drow to come back for him.

“Fucking sun1scum twats!”

They both look over. The half-drowned duergar staggers onto the beach. He aims a loaded crossbow right at them.

Astarion’s body reacts as if he’d been struck by a bolt of lightning. Every muscle comes alive. He’s reaching for his leader, grabbing her close and pushing off to throw them both out of the way.

When something gives a single, loud to his ears, tha-THUD.

The air rumbles. The duergar turns his aim up the beach, and Astarion catches his footing, his wide-eyed leader in his arms.

He lets her go.

The birdshark, previously dead, groans. Chitters. Thrashes about to right itself and gives itself a full-body shake. At least five arrows drop to the ground around it.

More importantly, it spots the duergar.

“Oh fuck,” the short man says. Fires the bolt, and turns to run even his shot skitters off the armored beastie.

Who seems to take that extremely personally.

The birdshark leaps. The man screams.

“We should go,” Eleanor says.

“Agreed.”

And they both scramble up the stairs to see if the magic craft will let them float backwards.

It does.

#what shall we become #these two shitheads #astarion fic #astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #bg3 #slow burn #in which Astarion shows his quality #and picks up a snack for later #boat crimes #bulettes are Faerunian honey badgers

38 notes · View notes