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atsadi-shenanigans · 3 days ago

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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

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loquaciousquark · 4 hours ago

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Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤️

This week has been hell and now that I'm finally coming to the end of it, I'm going to sit down & enjoy this! Sorry in advance for the length.

My favorite fics vacillate wildly depending on my mood, interest, and the time of year, but right now, I think this is what I've got. In no particular order:

Invicta, Invictus (2016)

Magister AU. Hawke ends up owning Fenris while in Minrathous & they fall in love anyway. This fic was difficult to write for a lot of reasons (a main one just being my fear of not doing justice to the premise and underselling the slavery aspect), and it took nearly a year to finish between the writing itself, the rewriting and additional scenes required from @jadesabre301's beta, and final edits. By the time I started posting I felt confident that I'd written something solid, but despite the otherwise positive response, I did end up receiving a series of extremely angry, lengthy critical comments from someone who basically accused me of perpetuating the glorification of rape, the enslavement of people of color, and the entrenchment of cruelty against victims of sexual assault. (I vividly remember a comparison between Thomas Jefferson & Sally Hemings.)

This came out of the blue from someone I knew & had otherwise quite respected; it was a blow that shook my confidence to the core, despite several wonderful people reaching out to me at the time, and while I finished posting the fic, I completely stopped writing otherwise altogether. I ended up not writing anything of significance for three full years afterwards. It wasn't until I got extremely drunk on a work trip (after a personal dinner, no colleagues around) and went back to my hotel to jot down the first lines of the Hawke-is-rescued-from-the-Fade fic that I even entertained the idea of picking the hobby back up.

Now, looking back after almost ten years, I've long come to terms with her criticism. I've decided that I disagree with her, that I'm actually still okay with what I wrote, and that I'm proud of the work I did in that fic. I think the premise is good and the examination of the social and political structures is sound, and I think the fic does what it needs to where the relationship strains against the societal boundaries around it. Not to mention I think it has some of my best Fenris characterization I ever managed, and some of my better Hawke jokes. I think the letter exchange at the end is effectively poignant even after all this time (though I do wish I'd written Danarius's actual death a little differently), and I still find the ending as they approach Kirkwall very satisfying. I'll also never turn down a chance to let Varania have a moment or two.

I'm proud of this one, and I'm glad I wrote it.

A Midwinter's Carol; in Prose; Being a Ghost Story of Baldur's Gate (2023)

I think this fic has some of my best technical mimicry I've ever managed. I've always enjoyed a good stylistic parroting, but this was the first time I'd attempted Dickens, and I genuinely think I did a good job. 😂 I've always been fascinated by the mechanics of language, and I had a great time spoofing his oddly frank addresses to the reader and his serpentine asides.

It's quite short—less than 10k—but I think it does exactly what it's supposed to, and I'm genuinely proud of some of the AU elements. @eponymous-rose gave me Christmases Past and Present, so I can't lay claim to those (aside from execution), but the way Future's demand resolves & the Thayan book standing in for the door knocker were all mine, and I still think they're genius, ahaha. (I also fully acknowledge that I owe Jade big time for helping me clarify the final deal Astarion strikes.)

I think the wordplay throughout of what it means to be redeemed is well written, and I'm genuinely pleased with the turn of the mood during the Future sequence. I can tell my love of flippant characters having stark face-to-face encounters with gods is probably a little strong at the end, but Megan Whalen Turner was a formative influence, and I still love it the way it came out here. This is a fic that did exactly what I wanted it to from start to finish, and I love rereading it.

I also think Astarion refusing to participate in the narrative and Tav's modern voice against the Dickensian backdrop are utterly hilarious.

Iron Bound (2023)

This is the most ambitious project I've ever tackled, even considering Invicta above. I knew this would be a long fic, and while I'd daydreamed about scenes from it for nearly a decade, I genuinely didn't know if I had the technical ability to execute it the way I wanted. Once I finally, finally, finally sat down to write it, the words came out like butter, and I wrote almost 70k words in two weeks.

This fic was interesting because it included a love triangle, which is not something I have ever had the slightest interest in reading or writing, but I felt the relationships were strong enough between all three pillars that I wanted to give it a shot. I love Hawke & Fenris, obviously, but the Fenris + Sebastian brotherhood is likewise vitally important to me, and I've always treasured the Sebastian + Hawke friendship as well. Getting to examine all three of them closely here was wonderful from start to finish, and I loved looking at where the lines strained and grew lax as they got to know each other.

Likewise, I've also adored characters who have to face the conflict between love and duty, and this premise let me marinate in every part of the idea. Knowing that I'd be able to give them all happy endings—knowing that they'd be rewarded for doing the right thing—was very pat and yet very satisfying, and I enjoyed every minute of the tension before the resolution.

This fic was in many ways an homage to Patricia McKillip, one of my favorite authors, and also a frank wish-fulfillment exercise for me. This is the one where everyone lives. This is the one where no one suffers for too long. Malcolm, Carver, Bethany, Leandra—even Varania and Sebastian and Anders and the dog. Everyone lives. Everyone is happy and loved and fed and secure and will remain so for the rest of their lives, and I remain thoroughly unapologetic for it.

I do think (despite Jade's attempts to correct it) that there's some marked narrative clumsiness in the back third, and with a little distance I can see some ways I could have revised the Danarius confrontation and the series of epilogues to hang together more cleanly. There are also some heavy-handed sequences with the broader world politics which I think stand out in what is otherwise fairly mature writing, and I wish I'd threaded those through a bit more deftly.

That said, I'm still immensely proud of this project, and once I finish this post I'm probably going to reread it start to finish. 😂

This Lethal Light Falls Softly (2023)

I was very passionate about the central conceit of this fic, and I think it shows. It's cleanly written with no wasted time—even rereading it now for this post, there's only one exchange I'd still tweak—and I'm very happy with the way I wrote the Tav & Astarion relationship at this stage. They're a wholly different beast to Fenris & Hawke, who are friends for seven years before they finally embark on a real relationship; Tav & Astarion know each other maybe a few weeks before they sleep together for the first time, and even with the most generous possible interpretation I don't think the game can take more than a handful of months. This meant I was writing lovers with new-to-me insecurities, and with Astarion's own basketful of bugaboos on top of that, everything felt fresh and exciting and a little terrifying.

Aside from that, I'm very happy with the solution I came up with to Astarion's vampirism. It was hardly inventive, but I did feel it was both practical and lore-friendly, and I felt like its cost (Tav's absence for Astarion, the exhaustion and battle and injuries for Tav) balanced out the number of boons it provided. It also made negating the vampiric effects an active, ongoing choice for Astarion, which I deeply prefer over more permanent solutions like True Resurrection or a god restoring him to mortality.

I also just honestly think it's just fun to read. I like Astarion being snippy and short-tempered while still being overjoyed to see Tav alive. I like Tav confronting the idea that Astarion loves her as much as she loves him and that her silent absence was an active harm to him. I think I did a pretty good job setting the scenery and conveying the appropriate atmosphere where it was important, and I think there are some turns of phrase throughout that came out quite lovely.

I also think ending on the button of him seeing himself in the mirror is hilarious. (Not pictured: Tav having to ask him to put down the hand mirror for literal weeks.)

ah! this grief like cold bells ringing (2020)

This is probably the most difficult fic I've written in terms of headspace. COVID's forced isolation was particularly awful for me, and I didn't know how to handle it except to try to write it out of me in a way that could help me find the light at the end of the tunnel. This, like Iron Bound, contained something I never thought I'd write (rape/rape aftermath), but the gravity of the situation and the world at the time seemed to demand something likewise grave, and I ended up feeling like it was an appropriate choice.

This was also the first fic where I felt like I didn't shy away from or veil Tevinter's atrocities (now a necessary artifact of the premise) and while it was hard to write, it wasn't hard to write, and looking back I'm glad I made the choices I did. I think to undercut the severity of the moment would have cut the legs out from the fic, and the recovery which came after.

I also think this is some of the most effective writing of catharsis I've ever managed. When I'm having a really difficult time and need to read a moment of recovery, the second chapter of this fic is always my first place. I actually have only reread the first chapter a few times (usually the pain's not the part I need), but I've reread the second chapter a hundred times or more since I posted.

I also do think that the style of this—a little flatter and more direct than I usually write—came out well. While I'd prefer never to go back to that emotional place, I'm glad this came out of it.

Honorable Mention:

Lacrimosa (2011). Still one of the oneshots I'm proudest of. I think it's technically proficient and emotionally very effective, and I love the structure of it.

A Detailed Accounting of the Rigorous and Remarkable Struggles Faced by One Fereldan Refugee in the Singularly Capricious City of Kirkwall, as Experienced by the Illustrious Author (2022). While the writing is not the best I've ever managed (it began life as a warm-up exercise, after all), it took ten years to finish, and I'm deeply proud of several sections.

Find Me a Wayward Sun (2023). I like the emotional complication of this fic very much. This was the first place where I felt like I really started to understand the dynamic between Tav & Astarion, especially in the complicated back half of Act Two, and I've gone back to it several times when I need to recapture that feeling of confused selfishness and nascent, uncertain affection.

#quark replies #wufflesvetinari #baldur's gate 3 #dragon age #fenris #hawke #fenris/hawke #tav #astarion #tavstarion #long post

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pursuitseternal · 14 hours ago

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“𝕺𝖚𝖗 𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉: 𝕷𝖎𝖆𝖗𝖘’ 𝕹𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙: 𝕼𝖚𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖓”

Astarion x Cordehlia | M | 3.6 K

🎨 by @marimosalad , Cordy’s cocreator (on X and on BlueSky)

Summary: In the walls of Lord Mallicus and his coven, Lord Astarion charms and threatens one and all, the perfect semblance of power and intimidation. Until they enter the vaults and more than pride is just wounded.

CW: mild violence, vampire dick measuring, jealous Aatarion, angry cat Astarion, petulant spoiled brat Astarion.. Crowdehlia.

Prev ch | ao3 link | ao3 series link

Bg3 Masterlist

𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹��𝓮𝓻 3: “𝓠𝓾𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓡𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓷”

The great doors to the coven’s tower gaped open, a maw of light in the pitch dark around them.

“This ridiculous,” Astarion muttered under his breath, fluffing the lace coiff cravat under his chin. “These horns are preposterous. This outfit is obscene, and this cane?” He couldn’t sound more incredulous than he did right now. Exasperated and… pissed. He tapped it against the polished toe of his boot in his annoyance. “This is never going to work, darling.”

“It has to work, my love,” Codehlia replied into his mind, her little black feet gripping the curve of his horn perfectly. Her feathered body swayed with his every step, something they had had to practice a bit with Gale… much to Astarion’s chagrin earlier that day.

Now they were moments away from standing before Lord Mailicus as the Vampire Ascendant, feasting on all that the world has to offer. Their premise was simply spending the legendary Liars’ Night in Waterdeep, finding it “customary for vampiric relations,” as Gale had so garrously put it.

Astarion’s hand flexed on the curved handle of his cane, trying to find the same comfort in its smooth chilled feeling in his palm as if it were one of his daggers. He focused on the presence of Cordehlia’s conscience over his shoulder, but it was strange to feel it towering over him, floating on nothingness.

One more aggrieved sigh, and he held his hand out, finger extended. With a flap of her wings, Cordehlia settled on his hand in an instant. Her shiny black beak snapped gently, making little clacking sounds. “What’s wrong, Astarion?” she asked into his mind, even as she looked back at him with those same scarlet eyes.

He does that small, nervous way he clears his throat, eyes cast down to the side. “I won’t lie, entering into… diplomatic conversations on another Lord’s territory is… a bit daunting. It’s different than pulling the strings in the shadows of Baldur’s Gate, or even the faint memories I have of Mother and Father from our youth.”

Cordehlia ruffled her feathers, hopping up to sit on his shoulder. “My love, you are the Ascendant, the only daywalking vampire in existence. More importantly, you are a good friend to Gale and a superb sire to your bride…” She pushed her little feathered head against his cheek and rubbed. “If I could touch you more right now, I would.” Her voice purred, reverberating in his mind with so many sensual promises.

Astarion took his finger to run over that curve of her head to scratch under her chin. “Promises, promises. You’ll have to make it up to me later, is that it?”

“Would you ever doubt it?”

A sly smirk on his face, he pressed a gentle kiss to her head, her feathers tickling his lips. “Never, but we… just need to make sure we make it out of this in one piece.”

Cordehlia gave a little sigh from her mind to his. “If I could shift without causing a scene or ruin our disguises, I would take you into the shadows and let you ravage me.”

Astarion let out a positively sensual moan out loud.

“Are you two having a moment?” Gale’s voice resonated in Astarion’s mind, the presence of the wizard from the Sending Stone on his head taking over.

“Fuck you, Gale, why do I have to have you in my head too?” He snapped exasperated. “Do you have any idea how much more annoying it is to hear you from the inside instead of the outside?”

Gale scoffed, “Must be a new experience for you to have a safe voice guiding you for once.”

Astarion growled, and Cordehlia laughed as she flapped her way back up to his horn. “What’s wrong? Too many voices inside your head?”

“Hells, as if mortals didn’t already think me insane for one, being a vampire, and two, ascending to gain immeasurable power, the pair of you flooding my thoughts might just prove them right!”

Cordehlia sent a burst of soothing love from her heart to his down their bond. “You will be magnificent, my love,” she whispered. “Ready?”

Astarion took a deep, steadying breath. He tried to ignore the thoughts of his past, those glimmers from his two centuries of torment, enslaved to Cazador… perhaps the last time he had been to such a vampiric scene of debauchery.

But this time, he would be the most powerful being in the room, unparalleled in his gifts as the Ascendant. And he wouldn’t be alone.

A thousand candles, maybe more, lit the grand ballroom. Walls of glittering golds and sea greens and cobalt blues were brimming with guests of the undead persuasion. Each pale face was masked, leaving only a sea of glowing crimson eyes, darting over him as he entered. His cane rapped loudly on the marble floor, his boots clacking with confidence as he strode in, slow and confident and ready for a different sort of battle. Strings and lutes whined their melodies, couples dancing, necks red with their partner’s crimson… the typical scenes of debauchery that had colored his two centuries of separation from Cordehlia.

He kept that now beating heart steady, knowing that every vampiric ear in the room could hear it. Cordehlia gave a loud squawk in the direction of anyone who dared to look at them with disdain, rustling her black feathers as she remained perched atop his head. In this sea of faces, his alone was barren, and as he stalked deeper into the fray of the revelry, he could feel that same gnawing in his gut… the vestiges of shame and fear that had consumed him for two centuries.

“You’ve got this, my love,” Cordehlia whispered in his mind, “and I’ve got you.” She flooded his soul, his mind with her love and presence so much, he could smell her scent in his nose, the blooms of wildflowers grounding him again.

Astarion kept his feet moving with predacious grace, his shoulder back, chin held disdainfully high. The Vampire Ascendant amongst mere spawn. The crowd gave way to a dais, not unlike his own back in the Crimson Palace, its black steps seeming to suck the precious little candlelight in. Atop those step sat a throne, and its occupant rose the moment those red eyes settled on the unmasked Ascendant.

And it took every bit of strength within him for Astarion not to growl in rage or panic with dread.

Long ebony black hair, high elf ears, a cruel smile, and glowing scarlet eyes beneath a gilded golden mask. With half his face covered like that… he looked…

“Hells, Astarion, breathe. It’s not him. It’s not Cazador….” Cordehlia cooed into his mind, pushing wave after wave into his heart.

Even Gale piped up inside his mind. “By Elminster’s beard, a spitting image, no. Astarion, stay calm. It is not that monster, nor any relation.” The Wizard’s pedantic voice paused. “It is such a likeness…”

“Would you both stuff it!” He snapped at them in his thoughts. “Let me do my job!” While his mind went suddenly silent, Astarion gave that well-practiced liar’s smile.

A fitting expression for Liars’ Night.

“Lord Mallicus,” he purred, voice dripping with formality and decorum as he gave a brief bow of his head. Cordehlia’s wings flapped loudly as she kept her balance on his horn with the motion, saying nothing inside his head. “A pleasure to pay a visit to your auspicious coven.” He scanned the room of masked faces. “I heard something of a costume party,” hand pointing to the horns on his head gracefully, “though I’m sure you understand I’m not eager to hide my face, not when I look this good…”

“The pleasure is all mine, Lord Astarion, Vampire Ascendant….” Mallicus spoke, his deep rumbling bass of a voice shattering the likeness to his former master. And Astarion gave a sigh of relief, shoulders relaxing as the vampire lord descended his dais to greet him.

Astarion had to admit, having his old master’s near doppelganger bowing at the waist before him was… quite the feeling.

But then those red eyes flashed as he stood. “Lord Astarion, to what do we owe this visit… unannounced and on such a debaucherous night? Did you mean to enter my domain while we revel, thinking us weak?” The words sounded threatening, and yet, the way Lord Mallicus uttered them reached the ear as if they were… a jest.

But Astarion knew better.

He gave that high-chested easy giggle of his, hand splayed on his chest. “My, my… no heavens no…” he dabs the corner of his eye as if he’s been brought to tears by the funniest thing imaginable. “I am tasting all the delicacies Faerûn has to offer. Your city’s festivities during Liars’ Night are legendary… and your coven’s level of hedonism ranks second only to my own back in Baldur’s Gate. I just had to see for myself, and I assumed you wouldn’t mind a visit unannounced.”

He flashed his fangs in a toothy grin.

“It would be horribly bad form to turn the Vampire Ascendant away, sending him to land on his most powerful ass on your doorstep…” he paused, lifting his cane to tap it for emphasis on the ground. “Not a particularly judicious way to make allies, and a quick way to make… well… the opposite, I suppose.”

“Well done, my love,” Cordehlia crooned inside his mind, her little feet jumping on his horn as she surveyed their numbers from her perch.

Lord Mallicus drew up short, that easy smile still plastered on his pale, masked face. “I mean no disrespect… my lord…”

“Lord Ascendant,” Astarion corrected bluntly. “You will call me ‘my Lord Ascendant.’” He clipped those consonants with aggression, almost a growl in his voice. A claim on his power and a threat to anyone who stepped too close to his light that it might burn them alive.

“Like the hells we will, you upstart!” Two spawn rush at them… only two. But a score of red masked eyes watched and assessed. They launched towards Astarion, claws and fangs ready to attack.

The raven on his head beat her wings. In a matter of moments, she dove for the closest spawn, turning those red eyes a new shade of crimson as she pecked them right from its skull. Cries of anguish sent ripples of twittering commentary through the ranks of onlookers. But as his crow flapped her great wings at the second spawn, who hurled headlong for Astarion, she dipped away.

Hand on that cane, Astarion unsheathed a thin, shining blade from its innerworkings. Metal bit flesh, the thin sword lancing through the spawn’s chest. His hand in the spawns hair, he pulled his body up the length of the metal to the hilt to hiss in his ear. “Be glad it’s just metal and not a stake…” he growled, baring his fangs before he shoved the would-be assailant to the ground back the way he came.

The ballroom fell silent, only the flapping of his crow familiar’s wings broke the quiet as she flew to settle back on his horned head.

Lord Mallicus held up a hand. “Enough,” he commanded, a pulse of his magic that sent every spawn in that room to pull back slightly. “This is our guest,” he chided, condescending in tone. “The mighty Vampire Ascendant should be welcome here.”

Astarion watched the Lord’s throat bob, his jaw clench. He perceived this was paining him to make peace. He also knew the looks of fear in his eyes as he watched Astarion and his crow so rapidly dispatch two spawn at his command.

Cordehlia cawed loudly, menacing and threatening to fill the silence, the shrillness reverberating off the stone walls to add to the chill.

“Tch, I didn’t come here for a fight,” Astarion purred, “I came here for a good time… not that stabbing someone isn’t fun,” he chuckled, licking his blade clean before sliding it back inside the scabbard of his walking stick.

Lord Mallicus gave a slight smile, red eyes glinting in humor. “Then a good time you shall have, after all…” he paused, a flash of his own fang-toothed and dangerous smile, “it is Liars’ Night.”

The music struck back up, the conversations and revelry returned to its maelstrom levels of noises and movement. Astarion fixed a smile on his face, even as he moved towards the banquet table for refreshment.

That smile never broke, that swagger never faltered. Not even as both voices in his head commented the same conclusion…

“I don’t like that…”

“Sounds suspicious…”

After the incident, most guests kept a wary eye on the Ascendant and especially his raven… many commented on his affected costume, on the authenticity of his Cambion-like horns, and if he had been to the hells.

That last query he just gave a small, knowing smile.

“Small talk is tedious. I remember why I leave these social calls to you, my love,” Cordehlia snapped in his mind, even as her beak bit the air at nothing, at her own irritation. “Can’t I peck out someone else’s eyes?”

“No!” Astarion chided out loud, having to pretend he spilled his drink as confused faces turned to see his outburst. Once recovered, he linked their minds. “No, another show like that and you and I might be found to be the true liars of Liars’ Night…”

“Can’t have that…” Gale chimed in from his safe distance inside his mind too.

“Fucking hells, let’s just find this vault and get out of here. You’ve grossly overestimated my ability to handle this much in my head at once.”

He wags his head in irascible irritation, earning him an internal gasp from his Bride and a chastising peck on his head for her troubles. “Love, please. Get it together.”

“Gah! Would one of you please…!” Astarion realized he was, once again, speaking out loud and drawing attention. A quick recovery, “…point the way to someone I can feed on? I’m so, so peckish…”

With polite disdain, the pair of Waterhaven spawn pointed him in towards some hallway off the ballroom.

“Turn left now, Astarion,” Gale’s voice ordered, somehow the usual pedantic tone making him feel more confident. Astarion squared his shoulders and turned smoothly in that direction. He found himself in a darker, smaller hallway, taking a few hesitant steps before Gale spoke again. “Third door on the left.”

“How in the nine hells do you know this?” Astarion huffed as he turned for the third door… gods he hoped it was the third door. But given his Bride-now-corvid didn’t peck him in the head or correct him, he figured it must be correct. Hand on the door latch, he pushed it open and shut it quickly behind him.

“Nothing magical, I assure you,” Gale laughs at his own dumb joke, only making Astarion grind his teeth harder. “A map of the tower from the last to survey it.” A long pause settled in before Gale spoke again. “Of course the cartographers were never heard of since…”

“Gods,” Astarion huffed at the back of his throat. “Why do l ask? Why do I bother?” He muttered under his breath as he pushed deeper into the darkness. The tingle of magic, a pulse of the weave, and Astarion stopped in the pitch black room. “Gale?” He asked aloud. “Where are we?”

Cordehlia ruffled her feathers, already a nervous habit in this form.

Gale’s voice filled his mind, pressed and careful. “There’s more than a touch of magic guarding this place. Astarion, can you see anything?”

“Gale… what the fuck is the point of a Sending Stone if you can’t see?” He hissed with vitriol.

“Cast Detect Magic,” Gale suggested.

Silence was his reply, and Gale groaned.

“Can you cast Detect Magic?”

Silence.

That annoying voice huffed judgmentally in his head. “How about… Daylight? Just to see?”

Astarion grinded his teeth.

“Dancing Lights?”

Cordehlia flapped and flew off his horn, a burst of magic and she stood beside Astarion, dressed in leathers and ready for anything. She pressed a kiss to his jaw that was clenched far too tightly. “It’s alright, my love,” she whispered into his ear just for him to hear.

Magic on her own fingers and she revealed lines of trap after trap riddling the floor. Lines of purple glowed in strange formations nearly over every inch. No clear way across to what was a massive metal door on the other side.

The vault.

Astarion, flustered and deeply irreversibly annoyed, smirked. “Yes, thank you darling. I’ll just Misty Step across and…”

“Nope,” Gale’s aggravating voice once more interjected.

“Fucks sake! I know how to cast Misty Step… Gale,” he throws all his suppressed vehemence on the Wizard’s name.

“Wait!” the Wizard shouted inside his head. “You can’t! The magic here is a sort of trap, and while I know just how skilled you are at disarming plates and vents and the like, this is next to impossible to disarm. If I were there, perhaps.”

Cordehlia gave a quiet giggle. “And what about a raven’s flight across the way to see if there is a way to turn them off?”

Gale exclaimed, “An excellent idea! With nothing more than a sparrow’s flight we can get you into the vault and get you home.”

Astarion’s face scrunched up, irritated more with each passing interaction. Even at Cordehlia. “You know, if you both just wanted to go through with this godsforsaken mission, you could have just left me behind. A glass of wine by a roaring fire would have been far more preferable than having both of you nagging me inside my head!”

Cordehlia gave him that look, the concerned one. “Astarion…”

But he only glowered more. “Well?” He snipped. “Aren’t you going to save the day? Go flap your wings and be the hero.” He scoffed harshly through his nose. “Never thought I’d still have to be the damsel in distress even after my Ascension.”

She reached out to cup his cheek, but Astarion glowered, flinching away. “Don’t trouble yourself. You have a job to do.” He spat the words, petulant and angry.

Cordehlia withdrew, sadness in her eyes, hurt. But she did as she was told, summoning her form and flying about the room with deadly precision. Reaching the far wall, she shifted again, finding a groove for a button… a lever… anything. Her fingers passed over just the right spots and the door darkens all the black stone. No more glowing sigils.

“All clear, my love,” she calls from across the room.

“Et Alemin,” he intoned. Appearing right beside her, he ignored Cordehlia, clenching his jaw and locking his eyes on the keyhole in the door. “Allow me to do the second oh so critical task you require me for, hmm?” He muttered, irascible and petulant as he bent forward to look into the keyhole. Flexing his fingers, he pulled out a set of Thieves Tools and got to work. “Hmm, easy…” he purred as he slid the metal into the hole and fidgeted with them.

He could feel her shift on her feet, uneasy and frustrated. It made a single sliver of guilt pierce his heart, until his petty annoyance filled back over it. “Could you not stand so close as I am working?” he huffed, snapping his fangs at the presence behind him. He heard her sigh, felt her pain in his own chest as if it were his own. It almost made his sure and smooth fingers drop the tools as they threatened to shake. Until something gave way internally, and the large metal door creaked open into a sea of darkness.

“Astarion, my love,” she whispered, a look of concern and hurt, even as she cast more magic into the chamber within. As nothing responded, she cast daylight to illuminate the room. Large and square, it was barely remarkable.

“Don’t,” he snapped at her. “I don’t know what Gale was thinking when he insisted on my presence. Maybe it was just to insult me… put me in my place. Maybe it was just to remind me that you and he still have a lot in common, yet.”

He enters, tense and seething. “Maybe I should have let you be the one that stood before that knock-off Cazador, staring him down and trying not to break a cold sweat from centuries of torment! Maybe I should have stayed in the Palace and enjoyed my luxuries and decadence alone and let you two do all the hard work!”

Cordehlia froze, her red brows knit together, her voice tense. “Is that what you think?” She hissed. “Truly?”

Astarion scoffed then gave that laughter that was tight in his chest and rife with bitterness.

“I got you in, unlocked a door. I’m surprised it’s not your head the wizard wanted to be inside…”

“Hey, that’s a low blow, Asta—”

The ascendant dismissed the horns, silencing the wizard in his head. Finally.

He plunged inside the empty room, crimson eyes searching for the next lever or door or…

“My love, you’re being an arse,” Cordehlia snarled, stepping inside after him. But something triggered under her foot.

The ground rumbled. The stones shifting beneath her feet until they gave way.

For a split second, they locked crimson eyes, the briefest look of panic on both their faces…

…until she disappeared into the cavern below.

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