#weapons and armor merchant

[dead-end-draws]

WOF tribe Merchant/Trading booth concepts:

Hey folks! This one was the recent winner of this WOF poll, so here’s my concept art that headcannons trading in Pyrrhia.

Read below cut for close-ups of the individual booths + the thought process / headcannons behind the design choices: 👇

Skywings: The Sky Kingdom’s mountain ranges provide plenty of pasture for raising sheep. As such, Skywing shepherds benefit from traveling to sell their wool, dyes, fabric, and woven tapestries. Many of these merchant tables also include herbs grown exclusively in the mountains, or ibex drinking horns that can be strapped on a dragon’s shoulder & carried in flight.

Along with goods, Skywing merchants may offer sewing services to fix tears, burn marks, or other fabric damage. They are sought out for their quality clothing, and most fabric across Pyrria originated from a Skywing’s talons.

Mudwings: Mudwings’ abundant food & cooking skills are envied almost anywhere in Pyrrhia. Their swamps have fertile soil, responsible for hosting diverse crops which can be purchased as produce at merchant stalls. For those lucky enough to find a traveling Mudwing merchant, the promise of a delicious dish can be whipped up and served at the stall in no time. Along with produce goods, Mudwings sell weaved baskets, spices, and cooking ware.

Sandwings: Sandwing booths offer luxuries of the desert: It’s most common to find accessories such as gold carved jewelry or musical instruments such as drums, lyres, & mandolins for sale. Though, even more sought out across Pyrrhia is Sandwing tattoos/piercings, which are done within the merchant areas. Ink etchings on papyrus paper are stationed outside their tents to showcase designs. All which can be selected, and poked into the skin with a tapping stick and plant dye ink by a trained talon.

Seawings: SeaWings sell a variety of ocean related goods; taking a share in the fish market with Icewings. Outside of food, there are den decorations like driftwood carvings, accessories such as seashell & pearl jewelry, and rope nets weaved by expert Seawing sailors. Some Seawings even sell fishing equipment, canoes, or offer sailor knot tying instructions to curious dragon buyers.

Nightwings: During the war, it was near impossible to find a Nightwing merchant. Most refused to participate in merchant territory, mostly as a way to keep up with their tribe’s mysterious nature.

Though in the more shady, unground parts of the market you can buy from a huge selection of obsidian weaponry, the sharpest in Pyrrhia. No one knew initially how Nightwings smithed so many weapons, or why, until their secret volcano kingdom and the intention to invade the rainforest was discovered. Then forging armor & weapons became clear. Along with a vast armory, for the right price, some Nightwing merchants offer Prophecies & Nightwing Literature (not always guaranteed to always be reliable) and assassin services as well (very reliable).

Rainwings: Though Rainwings haven’t been part of Pyrrhia trading for years, they have a vast hold on dragon medicine. An apothecary of herbs, salves, and remedies are all offered for various ailments due to the rainforest’s abundant resources. Along with medicinal goods, many Rainwings are fruit vendors, promising to any hesitant meat-eating dragons that such an array of flavors isn’t to be missed. Though, their fruit selling pitches often fall flat to most other predominantly meat-eating tribes.

Icewings: Icewings have everything a dragon could need to brace the cold, with a selection of goods only found in the most frigid regions of Pyrrhia. Furs, bone jewelry, and fresh fish (thanks to frost breath) are served on ice. Though Icewings themselves don’t require fur to withstand the cold, it’s considered fashionable and common in upper ranks to wear fur as a status symbol. Since metal is hard to smith without fire & in cold temperatures, fur and bone are more accessible to Icewings for clothing statements.

[notquitecanon]

Insufferably Admirable // Astarion x Reader

Summary: After a restful day turns into a bloody night, your unspoken yet painfully obvious dedication to Astarion has put you in what should be a harder choice. Once Astarion realizes just how far you'd go for him, he has to begin to confront the feelings and realizations he's been ignoring for a while. OR that time You figured out the most effective way to heal a vampire and Astarion got emotional about it

Set at the end of Act 1, but not quite act two. Pre-confession but it's obvious they have some sort of feelings for each other

TW: canon typical violence, blood & blood drinking(obvi this is an Astarion fic), no use of Tav or (Y/N), one use of technical self harm (c*tting) but not in a self mutilation way??, mentions of manipulation obvi, reader might be a little too willing to help (totally not be projecting what???)

this is my first time writing anything for Astarion after hyper fixating on him for a month so please be gentle. I know it's a bit all over the place. (yes I could have completely left out the first half, but there isn't much actual dialogue in the second half and I like to put this guy in situations)

"Remind me again why you insisted on coming with me? I figured you’d be ripe for a day to lay around camp and let us do all the heavy lifting." You grumbled, scanning the crowded streets for a merchant. The goal was simple: get to the nearest village, sell off the extra weight, use the gold to stock the necessary supplies, and whatever the gold couldn’t buy… well, acquire it by any means necessary. No matter your path, through the shadows or the Underdark, you'd need to be prepared.

Gale had gone to pilfer for useful scrolls and maybe an enchanted item to snack on. Lae’zel and Shadowheart to a blacksmith for specialty arrows, useful armor, and any other weapons that caught their eyes. Karlach had carried the two trunks and barrel of items you had collected from your adventure thus far, finding you a wheelbarrow before heading back to camp to help Wyll with his preparations. Halsin… had taken his wild form and disappeared into the forest. Originally, you had intended to do your tasks alone, until- 

"My dear, I’m always ripe for a lay." Astarion twisted your words with a smirk, easily dodging the hand that reached to swat his chest. With a short laugh, he answered your question, his theatrics only increasing to more you argued, "To begin with, Someone- my fabulous self- had to make sure you didn’t get the whole group wrapped up in another laundry list of side quests- who knows what trouble you could have found if you were left all by your lonesome? A gnoll den? A kraken in the pond?  an old woman’s wagon with a broken wheel? a kitten up a tree? An orphanage with a leaky roof? Another cult for us to dismantle? Another temple to drop on me? Where would it end? You’re incapable of turning people away, it’s one of your insufferably admirable qualities."

"It’s called being kind, you dramatic elf." You grumbled, not prepared for the in depth analysis of your character. Trying not to focus so much on the fact he’d called something about you admirable.

"Second, knowing you, you’d sell all this off and still manage to come back to camp with them full. Honestly, pet, how have you managed to collect this much junk? You don’t even have a bag of holding." Astarion scoffed, using a single pale finger to peek under the lid of the barrel. It was just barely containing the countless daggers, goblin bows, pairs of leather armors, and dusty sandals. Your cheeks burned hot- maybe you had a habit of being overzealous in how eagerly you pilfered through all the crates you came across, checking bodies for anything valuable, and demanding the vampire to pick every locked chest the party uncovered. Hells only knew the thrill you got when you would find a buried chest.

"You never know when you might need something!" You reasoned, but swatted him away to hastily shut the barrel before the contents could spill out. It had taken you the better part of the night to pack it full of all the things your companions had convinced you to get rid of. The pale elf rolled his eyes, brushing past you so gracefully you didn’t feel his fingers in your pocket. 

"Really, my sweet? When, pray tell, might we need the collection of rusty necklaces you’ve amassed." Astarion held the bronze and silver necklaces up to the light, the red and blue stones sparkling despite the rust. His voice always like velvet, ruby eyes alight with teasing, "Far be it from me to criminalize accessorizing, but that darling neck of yours is tempting enough already." 

"Astarion!" You cringed, hearing your voice almost whine. Damn him for having that effect, so you cleared your throat as you snatched the jewelry back, "They are useful when we can sell them for gold." 

Astarion, having gotten the reaction he wanted, let you shove the necklaces back in a pocket before glaring at him, though it didn’t hold much actual malice, "Well, come on then, let’s sell the sandals for all the riches the village has to offer us." 

—

An afternoon later, you were smiling smugly as you watched Astarion grumble. Between all the goods and six different merchants, you were leaving with an additional 9,000 in gold, not to mention the additional 3,000 Astarion had managed to pickpocket while you bartered, and the items the two of you had managed to swipe. You felt particularly vindicated as he complained about the weight of the coins in his pack. 

"I’ll buy you something pretty in Baldur’s Gate." You cooed teasingly, to ‘appease’ him. Astarion spared you a deadpan glance before standing to leave, only making you giggle all the more, "Let’s get back to camp."

Astarion caught your eyes once more, scowl softening out at the sight of your bright smile. He was just about to say something sickeningly sweet and perhaps more than a touch vulgar when his eyes flitted up to something, pointed ears twitching at something you couldn’t quite hear. Until you could. 

The door of the jeweler you had swindled burst open, a strangled voice shrieking, "THIEVES! SOMEONE CATCH THEM!" 

Astarion must have been rubbing off on you, because for a moment you tried to feign confusion, looking around for the ‘culprits’ as if the dwarf wasn’t pointing directly at you.  Not that it did much good as several passerbys began to circle around the two of you. 

"Everyone’s so touchy about their personal belongings these days." The rogue scoffed.  Astarion grabbed your wrist and tugged you to him, so that your back was pressed to his and no one could sneak up on you. In his other hand, a dagger had already appeared. 

You sighed in defeat, taking your bow off your back, "No killing." 

"No promises." 

Compared to the goblin camp or fighting through the githyanki creche, disarming and incapacitating untrained townspeople and barely trained guards  was barely a warm up. Still, Astarion never left your side, an increasingly common occurrence when you found yourself in tight situations. Together, it didn’t take long to put distance between yourselves and your attackers, managing to get far enough to escape to the fight. Deflecting one last blow as the two of you passed by an open tavern, you incapacitated a rather pitiful guard with a blunt thunk from the pommel of your dagger. Taking one relieved breath, you tried not to focus too much of the trail of bleeding, unconscious bodies you and the rogue had left behind in your escape attempt. 

"Best we stick to the shadows before we attract more attention." Astarion mused with a cruel smirk, grabbing your sleeve and using it to wipe the blood off the corner of his mouth, his fangs glinting in the afternoon sun. The rogue only chuckled at your curses, giving some inane quip about the crime of dirtying his ensemble and how blood someone always looked better on you, "Now, believe what I said about you finding trouble? Back to camp before you find more." 

Before you could wrench your arm back or remind him that he was the only who got caught stealing, he pulled you off the main road into the alley adjacent- unaware of the attention that had already been attracted from inside the tavern. 

____

Ambushed in the night.  

A whole hunting party of Gur hunters. Willing to purge your party as they slept. 

And they were calling Astarion the monster. Fortunately, Scratch was an excellent guard dog. Waking the entire camp when the hunters tried to creep where you slept. Just as fortunately, there wasn’t a soul in camp that didn’t sleep without at least a dagger under their pillow. 

Your camp had become a bloodbath in the dim glow of the campfire. You had used the book you had fallen asleep reading as an improvised weapon, throwing it so hard it broke the first hunter’s nose. Lae’zel was single handedly mowing through three hunter with her long sword. Spells and incantations sent flashes of light from Gale and Shadowheart’s part of camp, and fire and brimstone lit up Karlach’s. There was yelling and cursing echoing in the cool night air, orders to take the vampire spawn alive and to kill the rest. 

And Astarion? Their target? 

He was where he always was during a fight these days. Right beside you, like a pale, snarky shadow. He had been the one to press your sword into your hand so you’d have more than just your dagger.  With him, you slashed and sliced anything that came near. Until the bastard appeared out of no where, squeezing in between you and the rogue. You would have applauded (more likely cursed) the near perfect use of an invisibility charm- had it not been for the poison-dipped stake raised against Astarion. 

This hunter was different, you could see it in his eyes. They were somehow devoid of life and yet also simmering with rage as they trained on your snow haired companion. This hunter didn’t plan to take Astarion back to Baldur’s Gate, not alive at least. He didn’t care about whatever orders they had, or what consequences would come for disobeying them. He only cared about driving the stake into Astarion’s heart. 

Astarion’s eyes went wide as well at the sight of the stake, realizing as you did that this was no longer just a kidnapping, it would be an assassination. Your thundering heart stuttered, blood going supernova in your veins before freezing to ice as your mind whirled through a hundred different possibilities and also went blank. Your own opponent, along with years of learned strategy, were instantly forgotten as blind instinct took over.  Every ounce of strength and speed you had was directed into a desperate lunge. In your desperation, you really weren’t sure if your goal was to tackle the hunter, grab his arm, tackle Astarion, or maybe even take the stake to your chest instead- you decided to choose along the way, as long as it ended with Astarion alive(ish) and well.

You managed to close the distance, one hand planted firmly to Astarion’s chest shoving him further and the other clamping onto the leather of the hunter’s gauntlet, the same arm poising the stake. With a feral sounding shriek, you pushed his arm so his aim was off. At the same time, your original opponent, frustrated at being forgotten, cast a wave of thunder that sent all three of you flying. 

Astarion, the Gur, and you flew backwards a good fifteen feet, the thunder shaking you to your very bones and splitting your ears. The breath was knocked out of you so hard you thought your poor lungs might collapse and you weren’t able to tell if it was the spell or the impact that did it. You didn’t have time to contemplate, the moment you were able, you scrambled onto your knees. With the same feral tenacity from earlier, you grabbed the hunter by the front of his leather armor, nails leaving scarily deep tracks as you hauled him off your vampiric companion.  With your new opponent, you rolled both your bodies until you were on top of him, knee to his chest. Seeing the look in your eyes, the rage left his own, pure survival instinct taking over. You didn’t even feel the sting of the slicing blow across your shoulder, too consumed with a singular mission. It was Astarion’s dagger you had snatched from the ground on the way that delivered the quick death blow. Halsin, in bear form, had appeared out of the tree line and took care of your other thunderous hunter, taking a defensive position around you and Astarion with a goading roar. You expected to hear something from Astarion- a snarky comment about your lack of technique, a snide remark about his assailant, or even just a stream of petty curses- but he was silent. You turned back to him, only to have dread flood every cell in your body. 

Nothing else mattered anymore, not the fight, not your injuries, and especially not your forgotten original hunter. Halsin, in bear form, had appeared out of the tree line and took care of your other thunderous hunter, taking a defensive position around you and Astarion with a goading roar. You barely noticed.

The moment you’d disposed of Astarion’s assailant, you were scrambling back towards the rogue, who was laying all too still. At first, you hesitated to even touch him as if that might make it worse. You called his name once, and then again when you were able to gingerly lay hands on him- one hand to his chest and the other pushing some curls out of his eyes. The stake, what should have been an almost useless weapon against anyone else, was still buried in his chest, piercing his favorite frilled collar shirt. 

"No… Astarion-" Your voice was breaking, thick and raw. Your eyes couldn’t rip away from the stake, protruding from his chest, the poison staining the white linen of his shirt a sickly green. The hand on his chest balled into a fist, bunching the unsoiled fabric in your grip, but something caught your attention. The tiniest candle light of hope in the rapidly encroaching darkness of grief. 

Your hand was directly over his undead heart. Anytime you touched him, your hand always fell directly over his heart. When you teasingly swatted at his chest, when you needed to steady yourself against him, when you needed to catch you balance… you always sought out his heart- subconsciously, instinctually, always his heart. Your hand was over his heart, and that gods-damned stake was four inches to the right. A tiny light, but a light none the less. It was then you realized you were calling the wrong name. 

"SHADOWHEART!" 

None of your companions had ever heard your voice that desperate, that scared.  All their heads snapped to where they had last seen you, finding Astarion pulled to your chest as you wrenched the stake out of the spawn. Astarion stirred only long enough the let our a gurgling shout that fizzled into a groan at the pain, and you could only hope he heard your soft apologies before you started barraging the vampire with healing cantrips. You didn’t stop until the words held no more magic, your supply of magic tapped for the night. 

The night air had changed, no longer fueled by adrenaline and challenge, now it was thick with urgency and fear. Each of your companions starting fighting towards the two of you, and when you locked watery eyes with Shadowheart you found her clearing her path with her spear. She had stopped using magic to fight, saving it all for Astarion.

"I’m coming! Hold on!" She promised as Karlach fell in beside her, battle axe taking over and sending two hunters to the grave together. Scratch and the owlbear cub had taking a lesson from Halsin and formed up beside you, growling into the night with hackles raised and feathers ruffled. 

"Just hold on, Astarion." You relayed to the vampire, who was completely limp against you his back to your chest, head tilted back against your shoulder which bared his neck to you, showing the fang marks on his pale skin. If you were capable of humor, you would have laughed about the reversal of roles, it was usually you baring your veins to him. But at the moment, his lack of movement wasn’t particularly amusing, so instead you laced his fingers through yours, hoping the warmth would bring him some comfort.  You pressed your cheek against his white curls, using your other hand to brandish his dagger just incase anyone got too close, and whispered all the reasons he was going to be okay. And that’s how you stayed until camp quietened and Shadowheart slid to a stop in front of you. 

___

Hours later, Shadowheart had used every healing and restoration spell she knew, not stopping even when she began to sway and sweat. Halsin had offered his magic and healing herbs, Karlach made sure there was always a bucket of hot water and a stack of clean rags available, and you hadn’t missed Gale trying to hide the scroll of reviving from you as he slipped it to Shadowheart.  Everyone in camp had been quick to gather all the healing potions, depositing them at the entrance of Astarion’s tent. Wyll and Lae’zell had slipped into the tree line to make sure the ambush was well and truly taken care of.  

And you? Their appointed ‘fearless’ leader? You had gone uncharacteristically silent. Your heart hadn’t left your throat, clenching painfully every time they jostled the rogue. Your hands were shaking too much, both from fear and white hot rage, to really help the two more experienced healers of the group. And the thought of being too far from Astarion made your stomach turn, so you kept rooted like a tree. But, you were grateful, truly, for all of them. Even if in the moment, all you could do was sit beside Astarion and pray to any God or Devil that would listen. You felt like a wild animal in a cage and a helpless child at the same time, your insides very well might vibrate out of the body if you didn’t melt into the soil first. 

The vampire needed all the help he could get. Aside from the occasional heartbreaking groan of pain or agony driven writhing, Astarion was eerily still. Barely breathing, less so than usual. His already pale, chilled skin had taken on a stony complexion, almost gray. And despite the inability to run a fever, there was a sheen of sweat over his face, clammy and uncomfortable. You hadn’t allowed them to undress him all the way, but part his shirt had been cut away to reveal the stab wound. It was deep, weeping Astarion’s already dark blood, and stretching out from the injury were black, twisting varicose veins that afforded you the cruel visual of the poison spreading. You wanted to take Gale’s revival scroll, use it on the hunter, and revoke the kindness of your mercifully quick death.  

"It’s like the effect of our magic is being dampened." Shadowheart huffed, hands glowing as she cast another restoration spell. The sweat on Astarion’s brow subsided briefly before returning. Halsin nodded beside her, taking a deep sniff of the stake. 

"His lack of blood isn’t moving the potions or antidote through his body fast enough, and this poison isn’t doing any favors." The druid thought aloud, taking some of his herbs to make a paste, "It doesn’t matter how many we pour down his throat if his body can’t absorb them." 

Shadowheart’s worried gaze flickered to you for a moment, before settling back on Halsin, "We’ll figure something out." 

You knew she was saying that more for your benefit, but you couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge the pity. Instead, your grip tightened on Astarion’s hand as you swiped a clean rag to dab at his face. There was one more round of healing incantations and one more bottle of healing potion nursed into Astarion’s mouth. Your jaw twitched, watching most of it fall from the corner of his mouth. The same trail your own blood usually made after he fed. 

"I’m tapped." Shadowheart sighed almost ruefully, the glow around her flickering and then fading, falling back on her heels. Halsin stood, stooped slightly in the low ceiling of the tent, turning to you. 

"We’ve done everything we can do. We’ll try again with fresh minds in the morning. For now the best he, and we, can do is rest." His voice was calming, as if he thought you might start screaming again, but you just nodded, muttering something along the lines of thanks for trying, and not meeting either of their eyes as they ducked out of the tent.  

Since you had belligerently refused any of their magical attempts to heal your shoulder, Gale had done a rather pitiful job of wrapping it, taking some pointers from Karlach along the way. The wizard offered you a tight smile and a gentle hand on your uninjured shoulder before pressing a bottle of healing potion into your hand, "This one is for you. You’re no good to him if you bleed out all over the floor of his tent. We all know how Astarion feels about waste." 

"Yeah- fancy boy will be starving when he wakes up." Karlach’s chipper voice was still laced with a sting of concern. The tiefling didn’t touch you for fear of burning you, but did leave you with some roasted meat and a carafe of water from earlier in the night, "And it wouldn’t hurt for you to eat something either, soldier." 

Then you were left alone with your thoughts, hunched next to Astarion’s side, tired eyes examining the bottle after confirming the rise and fall of his chest. In your hand, the potion glowed slightly with the subtlest warmth, the scarlet liquid seeming to have a mind of its own as it swirled in glittering patterns behind the glass. Your injuries were meager, this little bottle of healing would have you as good as new. Bitterly, you flicked your eyes to the numerous empty potion bottles in the corner that had barely slowed Astarion’s bleeding. Your hand closed around it as you cast another look to the Vampire spawn beside you. His breaths were shaky and shallow even after Shadowheart and Halsin had exhausted every last bit of magic they'd had. Now in the quietest parts of the night, or maybe the darkest hours of the morning, your thoughts swirled, desperate for any sort of plan to latch onto. You had to do something. 

For you, Gale had said, No good to him if you bled out… He’d be starving, Karlach had been joking, His lack of blood wasn’t moving the potions enough to be effective, that had been Halsin’s hypothesis.

Blood. He needed blood.

The revelation was like being dropped into a freezing lake, determination razing the fearful lethargy out of your soul. With your teeth, you pried the cork out and downed the first circular bottle, the overly sweet taste a stark contrast to the somber mood of the night. For good measure, you did the same with a potion of superior healing and two bottles of general poison antidote, slamming them down so fast you had to ignore the churning in your stomach. You’d loot twenty more goblin caves to make up for the dent in supplies if you had to, in that moment you just didn’t care. You waited a moment, begging the powers that be for your ragtag plan to work, not so patiently watching the bruises on your wrist until they started to fade.

You felt it, the moment that you had been completely healed and there was no where else for that magic to go. And then, you wrapped your arms under Astarion’s, heaving him against your chest. You bared your neck, letting gravity gently swing Astarion's nose to meet your pulse point, his silvery lashes tickling your jaw. He stirred slightly, groaning at the movement, pressing himself into your warmth before stilling again. Was he too far gone to realize what was being offered? 

Realizing you’d need to play into his vampiric insticts, you huffed, shattering one of the empty vials against a stone, struggling to do so and keep his deadweight in place. Taking a shard, it wasn’t hesitation but a moment of stilling your shaking hand before you pressed a shallow cut to your neck, right above where his lips rested.

You hissed at the haphazard sting, not as gentle as the pinprick of his fangs were in the night, feeling the blood instantly pool at the seam, a single red ribbon dripping before the potion healed the scratch, "C’mon, Astarion-" 

The moment his name left your lips, or maybe it was the moment a drop of your blood hit his, regardless you could feel his instinct, that sanguine hunger, take over. The soft lips at your neck were replaced with dagger sharp fangs digging into where the small cut had been. The sound you let out was somewhere between a gasp of pain and sob of relief as you barred him against yourself, fists clutching into the back of his shirt like it would keep both of you rooted to each other. Somewhere, in the back on your mind, you thought about the irony of the position, being so afraid to let him slip away, like a rabbit latching onto a snake for fear of the serpent starving. Even if it meant being consumed. 

In that moment, you were so relieved he’d started feeding that you didn’t care that his fangs dug in deeper than they ever had before, much more animalistic than his usual polite nibble. You didn’t dare flinch or wince, in case that might break the spell. Instead, you focussed keeping the both of you upright, one of your arms wrapped under his own, your fingers splayed across his ribs, and your other hand cupping the nape of his neck. The angle had his silvery curls dusting your fingertips and your thumb caressing the sharpest part of his jaw. Never had you been so happy to feel that throbbing numbness in your neck. Astarion’s chin prodded further into your neck, deepening the hold he had, and with his own shaky breath, he swallowed the first mouthful of your blood. 

The hand at his ribs clenched, pulling him impossibly closer and twisting his shirt into your grip again as your pulse began to speed up. The increase of your heart rate only seemed to encourage the vampire, teeth sinking ever deeper to draw more blood flow. Clenching your jaw, you forced your muscles not to tense, it would only make it hurt more. This mouthful was quicker, Astarion seemed to be actively drawing it out of you instead of just waiting for it. He swallowed again, gaining the strength to snake his arms around you. It wasn’t a strong hold at first, but one arm snaked around your waist while the other cradled the back of your head, those long fingers finding their usual place in the locks of your hair. You couldn’t help the short laugh that escaped, relishing the cool touch. Your voice stoked another fire in him, provoking another instinct, your blood provided the strength for his grip to harden, becoming more cage like. As if he needed to worry about you trying to escape. 

He swallowed again, and the numbness spread, not just in your neck but into your cheeks and across your chest. Blood was racing, coursing through you and into him, and with it all the magic of the healing potions. You could feel him getting his legs underneath him, untangling himself from you. At the same time, it was getting harder to hold your arm up, the numbness had reached your fingertips leaving them fumbling at his curls before falling to his shoulder. Another long drink and you found your eyes starting to flutter, everything was starting to feel cold as a shiver shook your body. Astarion, against two centuries of vampiric instinct, started to pull back, and you didn’t stop him, but didn’t let him go far either. He was mostly supporting himself now, which was a relief because a fair bit of focus was freshly delegated to preventing yourself from swaying. 

"Take all you need, ’Stari-" You meant for your voice to be assuring and strong, but it came out breathy and slightly slurred. Astarion pulled away, the movement bringing you mostly out of your stupor. His ruby eyes were as sharp as ever once again, even if the shadows under his eyes were still too dark for your liking, and they stared into your own half lidded eyes. Other than the deep purple shadows, the ashen complex had started to even out, the sweat on his brow had faded away, and when you dropped your gaze, you noticed the twisting black veins were starting to recede and fade. Hells, you could get up and dance (very briefly before you passed out).

Even, with a foot in the grave, more dead than usual, and covered in both of your bloods he was unfairly beautiful. His eyes narrowed on your dopey smile, as if he your relief was a symptom of too much blood loss. If that was the effect of four swallows, just a little more would flush out the poison completely, "I can take it, love, just please let me help you." 

Astarion never considered himself to be someone that had to be coaxed into receiving a gift, and you were offering him one so sweetly, practically begging him. After 200 years of rats and spiders, you had put literal magic in your veins for him. Magic that was bringing him back from death to his usual state of undead. He could feel it bringing his strength back, allowing all the magic the cleric and druid had poured into him to finally take some affect. Your blood, his first thinking blood, was always delicious- sweet and metallic, a delicate blend of all the good tastes, something so intrinsically you. With the potions infused, though, if Astarion was to hazard guess what sunlight tasted like- this would be it. How could he refuse? 

Before he went back in, he placed a reverent kiss to the marks he had left in your neck, gingerly lapping at the wounds before sinking his fangs back into your tender flesh. This time, it wasn’t a gasp or sob, but a mewl, your frigid fingers once again digging into the flounced collar his shirt. If you both lived until morning, you were sure he’d gripe for hours about all the wrinkles you’d put in his favorite (only) shirt. Probably throw a proper fit about the stake hole.

Now, as the potions effects dwindled in your own body, you could properly feel the drain. The coldness crept up from your extremities but didn’t counteract the burn in your muscles, making it harder and harder to suppress the shivers. Your breathing was quick almost a pant, but you still felt like you weren't getting any oxygen. If you were thinking rationally, if you hadn’t gone through the brief grief of thinking you’d lost him, you would have realized you need to push him away, that you were approaching your limit. But you weren’t thinking rationally, no. You still were too busy grinning- as your hand had fallen from his collar, it grazed across the wound, now fully closed. Just a little more, you promised yourself. You felt him swallow more, he held himself up completely on his own allowing you to lean into him. 

Astarion was okay, more than just on the mend, he was alive and strong, the potions and magic were working, were the thoughts that were reverberating through your head as things started to feel farther away. Your desperation had melted away, leaving a grateful smile in its wake. It wasn’t completely on purpose, but you let Astarion take on more and more of your weight, barely aware of his fangs in your neck anymore, not quite hearing Scratch and the cub whining outside, the shivering even began to subside as it seemed to take too much energy. 

Earlier, you had drug him to you and held him against your chest almost crying. But, as more of your blood flowed through him, it had become juxtaposed. Astarion held you in place, leaning over you for the best angle at your neck. It was his arms that kept you from falling over, his firm hand that kept your head from lolling too far back. His bite became less fervent, his grip less cage like and more affectionate. His survival instincts started to give way to civility and charm. You barely noticed as he twisted himself so he could slowly, gently lay you down onto the bedroll that had moments ago been his sickbed. He laid you on your back, onto the generous stack of pillows he kept in his tent. He tangled his fingers into yours, just as you had done for him, his knees holding him in a predatory crawl over you, all without breaking from your neck. 

Barely registering the softness, it was the thud of your other hand against the floor that roused you, just a bit. It was also what drew Astarion’s attention, it took everything in him to withdraw his fangs. He gave each puncture would a diligent cleaning with his tongue before pulling away completely, lest he lose control and dive right back in. (Really, how could one person be that tempting?)

But, you had arguably saved his life, it’d be terribly impolite of him to kill you. When Astarion’s eyes met yours, your gaze was more than half lidded as you watched him- what little of your eyes he could see were glossy and fighting to stay focused, he could hear your heartbeat markedly fainter than he was comfortable with. 

You were watching him as intently as you could. In the dim lantern light of his tent, surrounded by potion bottles and bloody rags, Astarion was up and moving and breathing again. Revived and strong, his eyes practically glowing scarlet, and, if you really focussed, you could make out the tips of his ears becoming pink. Something that only happened when he was freshly well fed, nothing was left of his stab wound but the hole in his shirt, the frayed edges dyed from the poison and his blood. He could have looked like a angel, complete with the fire’s reflection creating a halo effect on his snowy curls, had it not been for the sheen of sticky blood drenching his chin and neck. Your blood- the blood that gave him enough strength to heal. How could you not smile? 

Astarion tried to come up with a snarky comment, but for once, nothing came to mind. Instead, he kept glancing between your intertwined fingers, glassy eyes, and that idiotic little smile. Your giddiness was beginning to unnerve him, had you been charmed or perhaps taken a hit to the head? With the parasite, he reached out briefly into your mind. His brow twitched when he was only met with waves of relief and gratitude, you were too tired for structured thought, but too relieved to give into the exhaustion. How could someone on the verge on exsanguination look so happy? And why in the nine hells did it seem to be directed towards his well being? 

The vampire was stricken, taking count of everything you’d truly done that night alone: fought beside him, tried to take the death blow in his place, comforted him, held his hand, cleaned him up, hadn’t let the others undress him anymore than necessary, stayed with him, circumvented his vampirism to find a way to heal him, and had genuinely tried to bleed yourself dry for him. Hell, you’d cut your own neck for him- not even metaphorically, but literally cut your throat for him. He could feel your warmth, your kindness and everything good about you settling into his very marrow. Something uncomfortably… gooey… stirred in his chest, something more and more worrying common as of late, when it came to you. Had his manipulation really worked so well? A feeling too close to sharp guilt gnawed at that warm gooey feeling. Was it really manipulation anymore? Gods, your morality was infecting him.  

“This is that Insufferabe admirability I was talking about ." He muttered into the tent, shaking his head as he watched your chest rise and fall, using his free hand tame some of the hair at your crown. It was then Astarion realized your eyes had slipped shut, your fingers, now just as cold as his, going limp against his. Weeks ago, he would have polished off the last of your blood and left you behind. But at present, he felt the sickening need to return even half the care you’d shown him. He’d have to dissect his emotions later. The rogue was glad the other companions had left supplies within arms reach, as it meant he could gather them without dropping your hand. 

"Ah, ah, ah," He called quietly, gently pulling you back to the real world, pleased to watch your scrunch your nose in the exertion of waking back up. Finally, that contented little smile on your face slipped into a frown, a protest against his interruption of your sleep. Astarion’s smile was almost apologetic as he helped you into a slightly more upright position, "Not quite yet, little love. It’s your turn. No sharing this time."

Another healing potion was pressed into your hand and opened for you, and you allowed Astarion to guide it to your lips, his pale hand guiding your own. This time, the warmth of the elixir was welcome, a comfort instead of a taunt, assurance instead of a plea. Astarion carefully watched you as you swallowed the potion down, noting how you shivered less and a bit of color returned to your face. When the potion bottle was empty, he traded it for a small cup of water, keeping a guiding hand on the silver chalice he’d nicked from a tradesmen weeks ago until you had enough strength to hold it. 

Though still exhausted and dizzy, you had the energy to throw him an obstinate look. Astarion feigned a dramatic sigh but kept a firm enough grip on you that you couldn’t lay back down, "All this for me, yet you won’t even let me give you water?"

Ignoring how it made the dizziness worse, you rolled your eyes, taking a few sips of the water at a time even if it was mostly just so he’d let you lay back down. Astarion was in one piece and you were exhausted, you couldn’t bring yourself to think about anything else. But, Astarion seemed very pleased with himself, squeezing your hand once again, "Good girl." 

If you weren’t on the verge of blood loss, you could have choked on the water. Still, there was a part of you that whispered in relief he must be better if he’s back to teasing you. Astarion watched you take a few more sips before you sagged back against the pillows. Your eyes closed again, but your breathing was deeper now and the hand he held didn’t feel as cold. Outside, Scratch and the cub seemed appeased at your improvement as they stopped their pacing and whining to settle at the tent flap.

This time, he didn’t pull you back up, instead muttering to himself as he gently tilted your head to the side, exposing his bite marks. No wonder you seemed so tired, they were much messier than usual. Vicious, was the better word. Not only had his two fangs pierced your delicate skin, but his bottom canine teeth had punctured through as well, and he could see the outline of his other teeth in the deep bruising grooves they had left behind. In unfortunate addition, it seemed in the height of his blood lust he’d made more than one bite, leaving your neck littered in marks. Astarion grimaced, it really was more of a mauling, “Apologies, darling, I’m not typically so brutish. Forgive me?" 

Astarion pointedly ignored how his heart lifted at the slightest nod you gave him, instead focussing on cleaning you up as gently as possible. The potion had stopped the bleeding, and he watched as the wounds themselves were slowly closing. Each swipe of the rag was feather light, almost not even there. The elf noticed you give back into sleep, this time not bothering to wake you again. Instead he kept working and fussing until the only sign of his feeding was the stained neckline of your shirt. Then, he gently ran a clean, wet rag over your face and hands, taking away the evidence of your tears and worry. Finally, he threw a cloak over you like a blanket, to hopefully ward off the last of the shivers from the warmth he’d stolen from you. 

Not stolen, he reminded himself, though the truth somehow felt more dangerous, it was freely given to him. The vampire settled in, laying across from you, the only part of you he could touch was the hand still holding his. Though, already in your sleep you had shifted towards him. Astarion frowned, eyebrows furrowed, the more he came to know you, the more he knew that you would give and give and give. Truly, he knew that he didn’t need to manipulate you anymore, maybe he never needed to, and for the first time in centuries, he didn’t want to just keep taking. He didn’t want to bleed you dry and loot you for all you were worth. Astarion was surprised to find he wanted give something back to you. He just needed to figure out what.

The nights events caught up to him once again as his eyes closed, listening to the evermore familiar sound of your heartbeat as it became steadier and the even sounds of your breathing as you slept, letting it guide him towards meditation. 

Gods damn you and your insufferable admirability.

___

Part Two Here!

Again this was my first time writing for Astarion. I also tried to balance things into being equal parts in each persons perspective. I just love when two lovestruck idiots have to confront their own feelings about being in love.

[ladykailitha]

The Harrington Pattern Part 2

A longer chapter today because it didn't want to end. It's Steve finishing all the costumes.

@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @emly03

Part 1

****

Steve worked on Max’s costume first. Like Robin’s Max was going to be a pirate. He had the names of a couple of lady pirates in his back pocket for them to pull out if they ran across assholes at the Fair.

Because Max was underaged he set out to find a less form fitting costume then Robin’s.

He found a large men’s black shirt and pants and tailored the waist to fit Max’s slender form. Paired with the boots and the hippie vest he dyed red, she looked bitchin’.

Then he focused on Lucas’s costume in secret. Every time someone came by, Steve would hide it out of sight. He didn’t want anyone to see it before it done.

Whenever anyone would ask about it he would pull out the tunic that he had been working on for his costume.

It was blue and white in a checkerboard pattern. Blue on the right of the top portion and then on the left on the bottom portion.

The pants that he was using for Lucas’s costume were similar to Steve’s for his.

Not loose like Max’s, but not tight like Robin’s. He knows it’s technically inaccurate, but he wants to be comfortable and he’s not about to make a poor little sophomore to-be uncomfortable either.

He finishes it with a week to spare and then picks up the other outfits from the moms.

He throws a party and has them all make their own weapons for their costumes.

Lucas is the only one that didn’t join in.

Steve put his arm around Lucas. “So why aren’t you in there making something, too?”

Dustin is making a spear, Max is making a cutlass, and even El is making healing potions with water and food coloring.

“I don’t know what to make,” Lucas admitted shyly.

“What does your ranger use?”

“A bow,” Lucas said. “But I wouldn’t know even where to start with that.”

Steve smiled. “A bow’s easy. Come on, I’ll show you.”

He helped Lucas build up a stick with toilet paper and aluminum foil.

“Shouldn’t it be curved?” Lucas asked as Steve was putting on the handle.

“Nope!” Steve said cheerfully. “It curves when the bow is strung.” He added the long string and the bow bent. “See?”

“Oh!”

Lucas pulled back on the string and the bow bent further.

“It’s more for looks,” Steve said with a wince when the bow remained bent. He straightened it out. “But let’s make you a quiver. No arrows though, your mom would kill me.”

Lucas laughed.

“It’s so cool you know all this stuff, Steve,” Will said. “Why don’t you ever want to join us for D&D? I think you’d be really good at it.”

Steve flushed. “Too much math and I’m not very good at the role-playing part.”

“What would you do if you could play any character?” Eddie asked. “It doesn’t have to be any of the classes or races.”

Steve licked his lips. “You won’t make fun of me for it?”

Everyone looked down at their feet. They were swiftly learning that teasing Steve was one thing, but that they tended to take it too far.

“Go on,” Eddie urged. “If anyone makes fun of you for it, I’ll nuke their character to hell.” He grinned at all the kids.

“That has no effect on me,” Max said, tossing her hair back. “I’m not in your nerd game.”

“Whatever you say, zoomer,” Eddie said with a wink.

She gasped. “Who told?!”

El tilted her head to the side. “Why? Is a zoomer a bad thing?”

Max deflated. “No.”

Eddie winked at El and the girl blushed.

“So Stevie, what would you like to be?”

“The merchant.”

“But that’s–” Mike stopped when he saw Eddie’s glare. He licked his lips. “Wouldn’t it be more fun to be the hero?”

Steve tilted his head to the side and then scratched his cheek. “Um...I’m not trying to brag here. But I’ve been the hero in real life. It’s not fun. It’s terrifying. But being able to armor and arm the heroes? Make sure they have everything they need to succeed? Now there’s the dream.”

Eddie rubbed his bottom lip thoughtfully.

“That’s his DM thinking face,” Dustin said.

“Is that a bad thing?” El asked.

Lucas shrugged. “Sometimes. It can end in us fighting the worst Big Bad ever. But it can just make things more interesting. Like a tidbit of backstory for one of the NPCs.”

“So a former hero who has retired and settled down with the love of their life to sell the fruits of their travels...” Eddie spoke out loud more to himself than to everyone else. “Magic items, healing potions, weapons and armor the shopkeeper is willing to part with now that they’ve settled down.” He looked up at Steve with a grin. “I like it.”

Steve blushed hard.

Will lit up. “Does that mean the next merchant we meet is going to be Steve?”

Eddie’s grin got bigger. “Anybody have a problem with that?”

Everyone turned to look at Mike. “Hey, I don’t care what your NPCs do, man. As long as the story’s good.”

Steve’s blush spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears and down the column of his neck.

He cleared his throat. “Everyone done with their weapons? Because I think we should do a final fitting so we can make sure nothing needs to be adjusted.”

“Why?” Will asked. “Don’t you think our mom’s did a good enough job?”

Dustin crossed his arms. “Yeah. I thought you trusted our moms.”

Steve sighed. “It’s because you’re adolescences. Your bodies are always constantly changing. Lose weight, grow two inches, fill out in weird areas. I just want to make sure everyone is going to have a good time next week, okay?”

Will and Dustin looked at each other and then nodded.

“Yeah, okay,” Dustin conceded.

“There are three bathroom and four bedrooms,” Steve announced. “So there should be rooms for everyone to change into their costumes.”

They all grabbed their costumes and then dashed for their favorite rooms to try and get there first. Max beat Dustin to the upstairs bathroom, sticking her tongue out at him before slamming the door. So Dustin got Steve’s bedroom.

All the other kids went scrambling for the other bathrooms and bedrooms while Lucas was left standing in the middle of front room, looking down at his sneakers.

“Did you want to try yours on right now?” Steve asked, leaning down to try and look Lucas in the eye.

“I don’t know if I want to be an elf anymore,” he muttered darkly.

Eddie and Steve shared a concerned glance.

“Did someone say something?” Eddie asked. “You were really happy about it when you were making the bow with Steve.”

“Not really,” Lucas said with a shrug. “I just kept thinking about the ears. I know I can have Will draw some really good ones, and he wouldn’t give me shit about it, but...”

Steve sighed. “But you know that Mike would. Fuck, I’m going to kill that kid.”

Lucas waved his hands. “No, no. It’s fine. I’ve got an old pirate costume from a school play I did. I’ll just join Queen Max’s crew.”

Eddie licked his lips. He didn’t have them yet. Jeff was still making them. He shared another glance with Steve.

Steve nodded.

Eddie turned back to Lucas. “It’s up to you, man. But Stevie and I have something in the works regarding the ear situation.”

Lucas glanced between Eddie and Steve but couldn’t find any indication that they were mocking him.

“This isn’t a prank to make me look stupid, is it?” he asked, just to be sure.

“Scout’s honor,” Steve said holding up the correct salute.

Eddie snorted. “Of course you were a boy scout. Could you be any more perfect?”

Steve blushed and ducked his head bashfully. “I’m really not.”

“Anyway,” Eddie huffed, shoving his hands in his back pockets. “Try on the outfit at least. Because you don’t have to be an elf with the costume Stevie made for you. But at least see it before you dismiss the idea completely out of hand.”

Lucas took a deep breath. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m being stupid. I shouldn’t care what they think anyway. Just as long as I’m having fun.”

“That’s the spirit!” Eddie said clapping him on the shoulder. “So where is this masterpiece, my liege?”

Steve walked up to the sofa and pulled out a plastic bag. He thrust it at Lucas’s chest.

Lucas looked down at the bag a moment before taking it from him. He pulled out the warm grey breeches first. They weren’t the broad kind that Steve had made for Max, but they were loose enough that they would hang a little over the top of the boots.

“They’re so soft...” he whispered.

“They’re made out of light weight material to keep you cool,” Steve explained. “There will be absolutely no heat stroke or heat exhaustion on my watch.”

Lucas let out a small huff of laughter and he took that as one for the win column.

He then pulled out the pale blue gambeson, it was trimmed in antique silver ribbon.

“It’s not strictly historically accurate,” Steve said with a shrug. “But I figured I could take liberties considering it was supposed to be fantasy based.”

“Steve...” Lucas said, voice rough from emotion. “It’s perfect.”

He threw his arms around Steve and hugged him tightly and Steve hugged him back twice as fierce.

“Let’s put these away for now,” Eddie said gently tugging them from Lucas’s grasp. “You try them on after everyone leaves.”

Lucas nodded and let Eddie pull them away, but he kept hugging Steve.

Suddenly there was a burst of activity as the other kids came back. Robin, too.

Steve let go of Lucas to take a look at his ragtag crew of misfits. Robin and Max’s costumes he knew would fit to perfection. His exacting standards would bow to nothing less.

The costumes that Joyce and Claudia made were good too. He let out a little breath through his nose.

“Looking great, guys!” he told them. He tugged Will’s tunic a bit. “You grew some, there.”

Will looked down and blushed. “I didn’t even realize.”

“That’s because you’ve been wearing shorts,” Steve explained, “so you just didn’t notice.”

“You were right to make sure the costumes still fit,” he murmured, trying to pull the tunic down to the right length.

Steve’s shoulders sagged. “You were just trying to defend your mom, dude. It’s fine.”

Will and Dustin still shared a look of chagrin anyway.

“I can add a couple of inches to the hem,” Steve continued. “I have some ribbon that will hide the extra material.”

Will nodded.

Steve moved on to Dustin and tugged on the side of his shirt under the vest and then tugged on the waistband too. “Don’t tell your mom this, but you’ve lost weight. She’ll freak out and try to feed you the entirety of your cupboard.”

Dustin blushed. Claudia Henderson was notorious for constantly feeding anyone who came through her door.

“But I’ll just pin it in case your weight fluctuates again,” Steve said. “The hazard of being teenagers unfortunately.”

Dustin nodded with a sigh of relief.

Max’s was perfect, as was El’s beautiful red dress.

But she was looking at the ground twisting her hands together.

“What’s up, Supergirl?” Eddie asked.

She looked over at Will and then down at her feet again. “I don’t want to be ungrateful. Joyce did an amazing job.”

Steve tilted his head. “But?”

She sighed. “But I was wanting a gold trim, but Joyce didn’t have any and I didn’t want to make her buy some...”

Steve held up a finger and then dashed off.

But he was back before they even had time to wonder where he had gone. In his hand was a cloth bag that he handed over to her. “Pick your ribbon. It’ll take me a day to add it to the dress, no problem.”

El looked down at the bag in shame. “Steve...”

He clicked his tongue. “I don’t want to hear it. I have to extend Will’s tunic anyway, adding ribbon to yours would be cinch in comparison. In fact, why don’t you both pick a matching ribbon to be twins.”

Will and El perked right up and the two of them wandered over to the sofa and began sorting through what Steve had.

That left Mike. Steve walked around the outfit. It had a white, billowy top with broad black pants and red tunic to watch El’s dress.

“Looks good, Mike,” he said. “Is there anything you’d want a little different? I don’t mind adding to your costume, too.”

Mike chewed his bottom lip. “There is the one thing. I asked Claudia about but she said she wouldn’t have the time...” He looked over at Dustin and blushed.

“What’s that?” Steve asked.

“Little...” Mike grunted. “I don’t know what they’re called. They aren’t strings or tassels, but kinda a cross between the two to kinda hang down off shoulder of the tunic...”

Steve pulled out his drawing pad and doodled something out really quick. Mike peered over his shoulder.

“A little more spaced,” Mike muttered.

Steve erased and doodled some more.

“Yeah, like that.”

Steve nodded. “I can do it, but you want to see something cool?”

Miked nodded back and Steve left the room again. He came back with a weird little device.

“This is what I use to make tassels,” he explained. “I’m betting Claudia doesn’t have one.”

Everyone looked at Dustin.

“I’ve certainly never seen one if she has,” he replied.

Steve nodded again. “That’s what I thought.” He showed them how to make tassels and Mike’s face lit up.

“This so cool, Steve,” he whispered.

“Do you want to make your own tassels?” Steve asked, gleeful at finally finding a common ground with the prickly teen.

“Can I?”

Steve shrugged. “I don’t see why not. You’ll just have to do it here. I’ll get the leather scraps from the tanners on Saturday and you can come over on Sunday to do it, okay?”

Mike nodded. “Thanks, man.”

El and Will picked out a nice braided gold ribbon and he set it aside, making a note to grab another spool to be on the safe side.

Soon it was time for everyone to leave.

Eddie took home Mike, El, and Will. Leaving Steve to take home Max, Lucas, and Robin.

Steve turned to Lucas. “You okay with these two seeing your costume?”

He figured Max was fine, but Robin might be a no go.

Lucas looked at her thoughtfully.

“I can go make us all lunch if you don’t want me to see it yet?” Robin suggested.

Max hopped up. “I can help. I want to be surprised next week.”

Lucas let out a sigh. “Thanks, ladies.”

Max rolled her eyes and Robin snorted as they wandered toward the kitchen.

Steve tossed Lucas the bag and immediately he began to strip. He put on the costume and ran his fingers over the material.

“Steve you really out did yourself.”

Steve grinned. “Bend, twist. Make sure you can move in it. I don’t want you popping a seam.”

Lucas did as he was told and Steve circled around him.

“Looks good,” he said. “Now go take a look in the mirror. Then tell me what you think.”

Lucas nodded.

Five minutes later Lucas came out with tears streaming down his face.

“Oh no!” Steve cried. “It’s that bad?”

Lucas shook his head and then launched himself into Steve’s arms. “It’s perfect, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve blushed. “You’re welcome.”

****

Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

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[mybworlds]

THE GLADIATOR

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader (no use of Y/N) | Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Summary: You and Marcus Acacius loved each other until society didn't separate you.

Warnings: no use of Y/N, use of you, some smut elements, some historical aspects may not be entirely accurate.

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Thx for the dividers @saradika-graphics

"This story began a few years ago, when I was little more than a girl, when I was a gorgeous creature wrapped in fluffy, fragrant clothes. . "

You were the daughter of a rich merchant, you didn't miss anything, you were always finely dressed, full of jewelry, you always have manicured hair and arranged in complicated hairstyles, you had dozens of servants who accompanied you everywhere. The only time you were free is when you slept or when you pretended to sleep and took advantage of it to sneak out the window and run away.

It was so nice to run on your steed and took in the scents and smells of the night, the silence of the night, when there were only stars to keep you company.

When you were far from Rome, you slowed down the race of your horse until you reach Marcus Acacius' villa, he was known only as General Acacius, no one could call him Marcus. He was a very powerful man, esteemed and feared by everyone. Except you. For you it was always just Marcus, the man you learned to love.

You and Marcus met during one of the many banquets organized by your father in your domus and immediately he attracted your attention for his stern look, his dark eyes and his proud posture. That evening, although from afar, because the banquet was intended only for the powerful men of the city, you didn't miss the opportunity to spy on him from around more corners of your domus. You still remember how his eyes immediately found yours and how his lips bent slightly upwards, while you hid embarrassed by being caught in the act of spying him.

That same evening you introduced yourselves, and a strong bond was immediately established between the two of you, which was seen with great enthusiasm by your father who encouraged your union, and he was delighted to be able to marry his daughter to one of the strongest generals in Rome.

Surely your father could not imagine that you would not wait for the sacred moment before the gods to consume your love.

"Marcus. . ." you sighed in his arms as he made love with you.

"My love," he whispered in your ear and kissed you until your lips turned red as a rose.

When your union was still frowned upon from all over Rome, you and Marcus could walk together during the public holidays, during the clashes organized at the Colosseum. You shook your hand tight, his big, strong hand wrapped around yours, and his single handshake was enough to make you feel safe, and his safe, sweet look made you feel like the strongest, most beloved woman in the Empire, then disaster and officially the end of your union.

Things were still going well for your father, but as a result of a bloody and violent battle that saw the Empire as a defeated party, Marcus was captured and enslaved and your father’s fortune ceased.

You were forced to leave your domus and you moved to the countryside, your jewels and your riches gradually were sold to allow you to survive, you had no more slaves who followed you everywhere. Now you were forced to clean weapons and armor before the fighting in the Colosseum to survive, your thoughts always went to him, to Marcus.

Many moons had passed since you last saw him, you hoped with all your heart that he was well and that he had not forgotten you.

One day, the Chief of Guards escorted into a heap of slaves, and your eyes immediately recognized Marcus, despite his skin covered in dry blood and dust, despite his hair being tangled in a tangle of dark curls of soil, despite no longer wearing the armor with his coat of arms on. When you saw him, your heart lost a beat and you had to make a huge effort not to run towards him and embrace him. He recognized you too, his gaze did not lie, he wanted to tell you something, you saw him, but the Chief of Guards imposed them the line and silence before putting back in chains the survivors from the last clashes.

Before leaving, the Chief of Guards approached you and slapped you on the ass and said that if he found you there later he would fuck you to death, you swallowed, but you didn't say nothing. When you were finally alone, you ran to the slaves and ran to him, throwing your arms around his neck and hiding your head in the crook of his neck. He could barely lay his hands on your back because of chains, but he kissed you and looked at you full of sadness and love.

"My love. . ." you whispered, putting your hands in his hair before kissing him again.

Your kisses were desperate, a couple of times you missed tears. You wished that time and misfortune had not rowed against you and that he had granted you the way and the time to be together, but the gods had not been on your side.

One night, you managed to sneak into the prisons and at that time there was no one controlling the slaves. You looked for him in the cell where all the others were gathered as in the previous days, but that night he was not there. Milo, one of the slaves forced to fight like Marcus, was now aware of your relationship and your desperate love and so told you where you could find him.

Marcus was in a separate prison, he was isolated from the others, his chest was bare and full of obvious signs of whipping, there was a torch that barely lit the cell, when he saw you, his look was different, he seemed worried and scared. That night he was tied by a wrist only and, like other nights, you ran to meet him and hugged him. He embraced you even more than other nights.

"You came," he said in your ear.

"I wanted to see you, how are you?" you asked him looking for his eyes.

He looked at you sad, "I need you to promise me something," he said.

"Anything you want," you replied, looking for his dark eyes.

"Tomorrow look for Juba, you find him at the gates of the city and say my name, he will take you away from Rome," you wrinkled your forehead and were about to reply, but he went on "he will get you a ride and allow you to find a safe place to live. From there, stand up for yourself, dance, sing, but get out of here. Do you understand?"

"My love, but then I wouldn’t see you anymore! Why? I don’t understand." he kissed you, it was a different, desperate kiss.

He drew you to him by sitting on the stone seat behind him, your mouths slowly devoured, "Promise," he whispered between kisses, "Swear,"

"I swear," you said kissing him as you could and stroking him with the delicacy of a feather, "I love you, I would do anything," you said.

He laid a hand in your hair looking for your eyes, "I wish our lives were different, I wanted to treat you like a queen, make you live in luxury, I wanted to see your belly grow and see my son come into this world. . ."

"Sssh, please don’t talk. . We will. When you are free, you will see your child come into the world, my love."

He closed his eyes with an almost desperate expression, "Marcus. . ." He opened his eyes, "Fill me, I want you here," you say, carrying his hand over your belly, "There will be your son."

Until that moment your intercourses had never ended with his release inside you, but not that night, that night you tried to be silent and you tried not to moan conspicuously when his cock filled you completely, "I love you, baby. I always loved you." he said between groans.

"I love you too so much, please don’t leave me alone in this world," you pleaded desperately, as his release filled you with painting the inner walls of your pussy.

"I will never forget you, as long as I live, as long as I live you and my son will be my only thought." he said to you going even deeper inside you, it almost hurt you, but you didn’t say anything, you limited yourself to stay with him inside you and to kiss him until your breaths allowed it.

"Please, join me when you are free. I wait for you. Forever."

His expression was unequivocal and his eyes filled with tears, he didn't answer, but he only nodded before kissing you again and again.

The morning came and you were forced to go, not before exchanging one last intense look. You never saw him again, never again.

"Outside the walls, there was really the man who Marcus indicated me, there was no need to say anything but his name and I left, I came here in this beautiful country house, surrounded by Spring flowers and I waited for you, my little one, to come into this world."

Your story was over. You found yourself fighting tears before looking your son in the face, before meeting the same dark eyes as Marcus, "You know, your daddy was a very brave man and he always fought for what he believed in." you smile bitterly, "Now rest, my son." you said, stroking his dark curls like his daddy’s.

"Good night, mommy." he said before you blew out the candle.

You came out of your house and went to the hill from which you saw Rome from far, far away. It was your way of looking at what you were sure was Marcus' grave.

"I will see you again," you whisper "But not yet, not yet. . ."

[leighsartworks216]

Prompt for whenever you want it: the reader grew up in a household where she wasn't allowed to be very feminine/like cute things. Her family was adamant that she be tough and that anything remotely feminine or pretty would be wasted on her. So she secretly likes cute and pretty things, but has internalized all the things her family told her so she never let's it show. I would love to see astarion pick up on it and how he would react? I just imagined one day he presents her with a delicate handkerchief with her initials (he embroidered them himself) and I practically bawled my eyes out 😭😭😭

Idk why I really struggled to write this one. I just had a hard time starting it. So I'd write an opening, hate it, leave it for a bit, come back, leave it again. But I finally got it to a point that I am happy with it

Astarion x fem!Tav/Reader

Warnings: vague references to trauma, self-doubt, swearing

Word Count: 1,041

Main Masterlist

Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

One gets quite good at reading people when that’s all you did for 200 years. Someone would twitch and Astarion could know exactly what they were thinking. Reading you was as easy as opening a book.

Every time you passed a market or merchant, Astarion could see the way your eyes flit longingly over jewelry or dresses. It was always brief. If the vendor noticed, they’d try pitching the item to you; the same old lines: “A beautiful necklace for a beautiful lady!” But you just smiled politely and shook your head, muttering how it wasn’t your style.

It was curious. Throughout your journey so far, he’d noticed other things, too. How you’d save the most beautiful, feminine dresses for your female companions. At first he just thought you wanted to give them something nice, but it was odd when you’d provide them an item much more suited to your strengths than their own. How your eyes would linger a little longer on flowers and lace gloves. But the moment you felt eyes on you, you’d turn away, the distant longing gleam in your eye replaced with a set determination.

He’d even caught you staring at the embroidery on his clothes once or twice.

(“Distracted, are we?”

“I was only wondering what it says. An odd poem for a shirt.”

“Hmph. Clearly it’s meaning is lost on you, darling.”)

So, with 200 years of experience, Astarion came to the only conclusion he could plausibly find. He accounted for your own attire - masculine or purely functional - your steadfast avoidance of anything feminine, the sorrow that visibly washed over you when you came across something particularly beautiful.

You didn’t allow yourself these things, because you couldn’t.

Well, you could, he supposed. But you weren’t. Perhaps, like him, you felt you didn’t deserve it. Or perhaps, like him, it had been ingrained into your very being that you couldn’t have it. Either way, the result was the same.

He wasn’t honestly sure what came over him when he realized. And it had taken him a few days to think about the idea that formulated unbidden, itching at the back of his mind in a way that put the tadpole to shame. But one night, after feeding (on you and a boar), he sat within his tent and got to work. He threaded the eyes of needles with practiced ease, steadily guided it back and forth through the material in his hands, creating elegant shapes. If he was being honest, it was some of his best work.

It took him even longer to gather the nerves to give it to you. You handed out gifts freely - armor, weapons, trinkets, blood. But he’d… well, he’d never really given anyone a gift before. Nothing as genuine as this, certainly. His mind, his own worst enemy aside from Cazador, kept plaguing him with thoughts of how you’d hate it. How you’d take one look at it, struggle through a smile, and tuck it away at the bottom of your bag. And so it remained in his belongings, safely hidden.

And then you just had to go and be so damn good. You just had to stand up to Araj Oblodra when she kept insisting he drink from her. You just had to quietly tell him that he could, if he wanted to, but only if he wanted to. And you just had to respect his choice. He’d never been so overwhelmed with emotion before. Nobody had ever done that for him. His choices didn’t matter, his comfort didn’t matter. But you didn’t even hesitate.

When you sought him out at camp later that night, you even told him he was free. No longer a slave who had to get on his back for mere breadcrumbs. Too many emotions - relief, fear, euphoria, worry, gratefulness - flooded his chest.

He cleared his throat. “There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to give you,” he admits with a nervous chuckle. “Consider it a… thanks, for what you did for me back there.”

He pulled the neat, white handkerchief from his pocket and presented it to you. Red eyes flit over your face, trying to read every little expression that passed, as you stared at the cloth. On the corner, embroidered in the same golden thread as he used on his shirt, were your initials. Immaculate and shiny.

Your mouth opened. Your eyes were wide, your brow furrowed and then raised. You struggled for words. You met his eyes with shock. “A-Are you sure? I mean, this is much too fine for me - I was happy to stand up for you - Not that you needed any help! I mean-”

“Darling,” he hushed. So you did enjoy it, after all. “It’s a gift. Consider it repayment for all the nights you’ve bared your neck for me, if nothing else. A simple exchange.”

A dying sound left your throat with a breath as you looked back down at the handkerchief. With shaky hands, you took it from him. You held it as though it was a religious artifact from the gods, not a folded square of soft silk with lace borders. It had the same smooth feel as running your fingers over the surface of still water. Tears welled at the corner of your eyes as you ran a thumb over the letters.

“I…” You took a shaky breath, looking up at him again through the building water in your eyes. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”

He smirked, though your blatant joy made his lips twitch into the start of a genuine smile. “You… deserve something nice. Something more than, well,” he gestured vaguely at your worn cotton attire, “this.”

You laughed and brushed away the tears beginning to slip down your cheeks with the back of your hands. “You’re still a bastard.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.”

“But a nice bastard.”

“Careful, darling.” He leaned forward with an even wider smirk, fangs peeking out as a mischievous twinkle glinted in his eye. “We wouldn’t want word getting out.”

And if he caught sight of that little cloth poking out from a pocket or resting at the top of your bag, well maybe he let himself enjoy that warmth in his chest.

---

Tag List:

@satelliteapotheosis @hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @lynnlovesloki @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @mheerdraws @kindadolly @httyd-chocolate @bloopthebat @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @olitheghostboy-blog @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171

[whereserpentswalk]

You sell items to adventurers for a living. It's relatively easy to get business in a frontier city like the one you live in. You were planning on becoming an adventurer yourself but an injured leg when you were young prevented that. But because you already know how to find items, and how they should be fairly priced, so it's a good living.

Not everyone who thinks of themselves as adventurers actually are adventurers. You sometimes have to sell weapons to naive groups of kids, who have no idea what they're doing. Useally you humor them, they tend to go off into useless places with no gold to be found, an old mineshaft that's been explored a thousand times over has become famous for such things. If they seem like they'll go somewhere way more dangerous than they should, you point them to the mineshaft.

Of course, most of your business is from actual adventurers. They tend to be wanderers, foreigners, a lot of ex merchants or ex millitary, or children of nobility who cant inherent, the type of people who never had the chance to make a safe living. Most of them are nice to you, and if they're not you know how to get them to leave.

You also know how to become a protecter for the adventuring parties who need it. Your shop is basically the center of their community in this part of the city. If a spellcaster is part of an illegal religion, or performing banned practices, you know what symbols to sell them to help them hide themselves. If someone is clearly a runaway slave or serf, or from a race that's considered a monster in this part of the world, you know how the forge the right documents. There was a hobgoblin who frequented your shop for a long time, who you sold weapons to, who you had to testify in front of the city sherif was not a hobgoblin but was infact a member of a rare subrace of elf that you made up to protect him. You may have also recently made an entire fictional category of magic legally real for the sake of protecting some necromancers you know.

There are some people you never sell to. It's not considered good principle to sell to people who would gladly kill your other clients. There was a group of warriors weilding holy magic who talked a lot about punishing sinners, they came back with the heads of goblins and hobgoblins a lot, and vampires, and humans of religions other then theirs. After they started bringing in more of their freinds you cut them off.

There are people who you wished you hadn't sold to for other reasons. There was this human noble girl who you sold a suit of armor to, she had run away from an arranged marriage and joined an adventuring party so she could be as far from her parents as possible. She seemed so excited to be in a big city, to be out in the world, she chatted with you for hours about an epic poem from ages long gone that she liked. When she came back to your shop after her first quest she had turned undead, something happened in her first dungeon that changed her, her skin was pale, and her teeth had turned sharp, you just remember her shivering and trying to cry, and muttering about how cold she was. Her other party members said they were happy she was more durable like this, they didn't seem to care about her outside of that.

And of course, there's the fact that every adventurer you know, useally doesn't come back eventually. When a full party goes you can assume they left town, but when just one or two from a party is missing there tends to be one explanation. Most adventurers don't have long careers, and mortality especially high for rookies. But you don't tend to ask if anyone is dead, it's better to just assume they went home, as implausible as it may be.

[burr-ell]

A Not-Necessarily-Exhaustive List of Good Moments from C1 1-27:

"I have an intelligence of 6, I know what I'm doing"

"We're here to right wrongs, and right lefts—" "And write comment cards"

Tiberius Kraghammer

Clarota

"We'll explain later. You're on the roof of Osama bin Laden's house"

"We'll be taking your weapons, your armor, and I believe your pride"

Percy making the first trick arrows for Vex after a shopkeep was a dick to her about arrows, which is canonically when she began to fall for him

Keyleth killing that one duergar from the TLOVM flashback

"I encourage violence"

Lady Kima being freed and then pulverizing the corpse of the duergar who'd been torturing her

Matt's fucked up body horror monsters

Scanlan taking a dump on a bed for the first time

Pike's crisis of faith when she slits a duergar's throat with her mace and her holy symbol breaks

When the limited T-shirt run went live and then sold out before Marisha could finish reading the announcement

Vax getting his foot burned off in lava

Scanlan the Kingslayer

"Can I use my Luck feat for this?" "You don't have any feet left"

Kima and Keyleth's argument (it was good, haters eat my shorts)

The origin of The Cube

"I'm Vax that's Vex ->" "I'm Vex that's Vax <-"

"Screw you, I want my final words with you to be indignant and irritated!"

"He has three-quarters cover" "I ignore three-quarters cover :)" "...then fuckin' fire!"

"Some people have no sense of fucking honor!"

Travis's notes that just say "I don't trust Clarota I don't trust Clarota I don't trust Clarota"

Percy reacting to the Briarwoods being namedropped during a council meeting

Meeting Gilmore on-stream for the first time

The Belt of Dwarvenkind and Grog's obsessive attempts to grow a beard

Scanlan's blue-shit-scrying potion

Grog "Philip" Strongjaw vs Kern

Vax giving Minxie!Keyleth a belly rub

The hydra fight and the beef with the Slayer's Take

Episodes 18 and 19, in their entirety, but specifically:

Zahra and Vex's initial rivalry-turned-friendship-turned-"I have a crush on Zahra"

Lyra. She's just. so much. idk of what but she is it

"I'm wearing the pajamas with the buttflap and the buttflap is down. The buttflap is DOWN"

Scanlan introducing himself to Rimefang as Burt Reynolds and then Matt, in his scary dragon voice, calling him "Burt"

"I'm sorry, I'm a genius, I'm sorry! Oh, god I'm clever!"

Zahra killing Rimefang

Percy and Vex working together on a history check (it's important To Me)

Wil Wheaton rolling five Nat 1s. In one session

Keyleth and Vax posing as a married couple to get information

Kash insight-checking Thorbir, believing he has to be actively sabotaging them because no one could possibly be that bad at their job (he's not, he really is just that unlucky)

Wil, playing a dwarven fighter, finally rolling a nat 20...for an insight check

The magic carpet losing its enchantment in a pit of acid and Laura's scream of horror from offscreen

"Rakshasaaaaaaa!" -jazz hands-

Kashaw and Keyleth, which was thankfully reworked in TLOVM but was also hilarious

Vex exasperatedly kissing Grog, portrayed by Laura kissing a bewildered Travis

Tyriok the cartographer

Grog, the Vasselheim merchant, and the first and only time Vex started beef with a retailer

Keyleth recounting a vision she had of her own death

The Aramente trial in Pyrah and a cameo from Thordak

Travis getting a medal from a fan for losing to Kern and Matt making it canon

Grog fighting Kern again and winning

Keyleth getting arrested. For the second time in Vasselheim alone

The first appearance of the man. The myth. The Viktor

Kynan's first appearance and Vax's idea of "tough love"

Percy telling his backstory to the party and them immediately affirming their support for him ("You don't have to get involved in this" "Oh, we are SO involved" "You said you wanted 'em dead!") and Taliesin himself being moved to tears over this

Percy creating Diplomacy

Vax and Keyleth bear-sitting Trinket and braiding pink ribbons into his fur

Gilmore finding out Vax wants to see him and teleporting in from half a continent away

Vax shaving half of Grog's beard and Travis breaking a mechanical pencil with one hand

The feast, where Percy actually threatens the Briarwoods to their faces while disguised as Vax

Vax and the Briarwoods. "Gosh you guys are good-looking"

Vax nearly dying and having a vision of the two people he cares about most: Vex and Keyleth

Sylas jumping out the window and doing a perfect 3-point landing...while Delilah blows the athletics check and faceplants in the dirt

"SYLAS"

Vex scoring two crits on Delilah

Tiberius getting Feebleminded

Percy's attack on Desmond. My horrid little skrunkly <3

"YOUR SOUL IS FORFEIT! DIE! DIE!" and Keyleth skipping her turn to just stare at Percy

Vox Moochina

Keyleth taking charge to save the ember roc

Keyleth conjuring a water elemental and Taliesin gargling water to translate her commands to it

And finally, the conversation between Keyleth and Percy where he privately confesses his own worries that he's going dark and that he's afraid of himself, and she expresses her concern for him and promises to be there for him

anyway c1 good

[comfortless]

Syl, my lovely, please. I need to see this vision come to life through your words. Would König take his darling to the Ren Faire?🌷

VANI!!! my angel!! of course he would… König is a just a hapless knight at heart & it gives him an excuse to treat you like an actual princess! 🗡💕 i can not promise you that he will not force you to sit in his lap and play skyrim or something when you get home though…! /:

“Danke for agreeing to come,” he whispers to you once you’re out in the sprawling field, an abundance of colorful tents, partitions and others in similar dress surrounding the two of you.

It’s a lot to take in, as though you’ve been whisked away to a separate world entirely; the air smells faintly of fresh food, a bard strums a lute somewhere out in the distance, and… was that supposed to be a dragon’s roar?

König dons a veil of tightly woven chainmail, only a glimpse of his jaw visible, lined with prickly stubble. The rest of his armor leaves little glimpses of him, his thick wrist between cuff and glove, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he curls his arm around you protectively. If it were possible, he seems even larger wearing the plates of armor, far more imposing like this.

Tucked at his side, stands you in your linen bliaut, a soft woolen cloak dyed a royal blue thrown over your shoulders; a stark contrast from the shimmering and hardened armor of the knight guiding each of your steps with his arm around your waist.

König has to look at everything— marveling at the handmade objects and shiny, smithed weapons in each booth.

When you give him a quizzical glance as he ghosts his gloved fingertips over the angular blade of an exceptionally smart spear, he pauses his frantic admiration for a time to explain to you that it reminds him of one he read about once— like Odin’s Gungnir, fierce and proud. Even you take a moment to admire its craftsmanship, to which the pale blue of his eyes seems to light up; he makes the purchase without a second thought.

You find yourself enjoying the atmosphere, especially with that ever-present grin on König’s face; he’s in his element surrounded by fantasies drawn from history. It’s a nice change, seeing him so filled up with whimsy as he whisks you from tent to tent, buying you anything that catches your eye, taking your picture any chance that he gets.

You humor him, lifting your skirts a little when you pass between two of the fabric structures, hidden away from the eyes of any other grinning merchants, pretty ladies, and bellowing bards.

Seated in his lap he tells you of holy grails and swordplay tactics while feeding you from a dish on a wooden countertop, a pastry stuffed full with apple.

You only think to offer a complaint once you note the three now emptied pewter goblets of mead in front of him as König proclaims he wants to act out a proper sword fight with one of the others donning armor in the small, hastily fenced in area serving as a knight’s training yard.

(It was certainly a coincidence that the one he chose to spar with happened to be the very same man who offered you a friendly wave in passing.)

He makes a display of his swordsmanship, swift knocks and parries that leave your eyes wide as you clasp your hands over your mouth; even a prise de fer as you dig your nails into the wood of the shoddy fence. You’ve never seen him so swift, so brutal, as when he finally knocks his opponent into the dust, the sharpened edge of his blade pointed downward. Had this not all been pretend, you could imagine the bloodshed that would have occurred here.

Thankfully, König backs off, dips his head in a begrudging bow to his opponent before wandering back to you.

Your hand is pried from the fence, a kiss placed upon every knuckle as you praise his talents. He smirks, proud, and whispers to you something about how he had to show off for his lady. Even has the audacity to tell you that he would kill for you, and you knew very well it was not said entirely in jest.

When the sun finally dims and lanterns are lit, bathing the green below your boots in a soft, tangerine glow, you find yourself helping to loosen the straps of König’s armor. Poor thing had not thought to wear a proper shirt beneath, or.. perhaps, that was intentional. The sweat glistens off of him when you’ve tossed his dark top and curved metal into a heap, the curls of his chest hair sticking to pale flesh.

You rove your hand over him to dull the ache of those straps digging into his shoulders. He groans, contented as he pulls you up to your feet, leaning down just enough to kiss you, to desperately grope at your hips, your rear, before the strumming of a lute and the cheers and giggles accompanied by dancing fills your ears.

Attentions turned, you find yourself curling your hand into his, tugging him towards the feathery songs and shuffling of feet.

“We should dance,” you suggest, all giggles when you tilt your head to offer a pleading glance to him over your shoulder.

“Anything for you, meine prinzessin.”

[felassan]

New BioWare journal entry:

"Journal #7 Progression & Companions An inside look into Rook & Companions’ progression Hello everyone, It’s September already! Today, we want to dive deeper into Progression, Items, and Companions with this blog and accompanying videos (minor spoilers in the video). Hopefully after today, players will have a better sense of how to customize Rook and unite the Veilguard.  SKILL TREE PROGRESSION Reaching a max level of 50, Rook will be able to have a unique playstyle tuned to deliver coordinated attacks alongside their Companions. The largest experience boosts come from completing quests. The bigger and more momentous the quest the better the bonus will be. Rook also gains experience from killing enemies and exploring, but gaining levels is most efficient when helping the people of Thedas or taking time to deepen Rook’s bond with the Veilguard.  After enough experience points, Rook  will level up and be awarded with a Skill Point to place in the Skill Tree. The Constellation Skill Tree lays out all the possible areas of growth, with the types of skills denoted by the shape:"

"- Large circle: Class (core skills and weapon proficiencies) - Diamond: Ability (can be assigned to an Ability slot) - Medium circle: Major Passive or Ability Upgrade (adds effects or modifies existing Abilities or stats, like guaranteeing a critical hit on knockdown or extending range) - Small hexagon: Trait (modifies existing class skill, like counter-attack, extending an attack combo or missile block/return) - Small circle: Minor Passive or Stat Boost (increases efficacy of Abilities, Passive, or stats) Node selections are designed to harmonize into cohesive builds. This ensures that Rook’s strength is always growing as the playstyle is being refined. Still, if another path calls to the player instead, Skill Points can be refunded (individually or the entire skill tree) at any time, with no resource costs, and spent elsewhere.  Each Class will also have access to three Specialization Areas, outlined in our Combat blog. Rook can gain powerful Abilities tuned to the theme of that Specialization, after unlocking it. While the Specialization Areas are themed by Faction, they are not restricted to a Rook of that Faction. For example, a Grey Warden Rook can still take the Veil Ranger Specialization if they are a Rogue.  ITEM PROGRESSION There will be a plethora of equipment to find or buy throughout Thedas, including weapons, armor, and accessories. Each item will have its own stats and properties. With respect to weapon and armor advancement, duplicate items empower them to increase stats and unlock additional properties.  For more upgrades, Rook will find the Caretaker’s Workshop in the Lighthouse, as seen in the screenshot, where equipment can be upgraded and enchanted to unlock additional effects for Rook and their Companions. Upgraded equipment will receive increased stats. There will be a list of basic enchantments to start with, but each time Rook upgrades the rank of the Caretaker’s Workshop, more enchantments will become available. Each item or Ability can have a single enchantment applied to it, and each enchantment can only be used on a single item or Ability at a time.  Rook will be aligned with a Faction of the player’s choosing from the beginning of the game. The chosen Faction will influence the initial appearance of Rook, particularly when dressed in casual wear. However, don’t worry about getting locked into any specific style since any visible armor can be ‘transmogrify-ed’ to resemble another that has been collected, via the Wardrobe in the Lighthouse. There will also be appearance-only armors, such as the Blood Dragon Armor for pre-orders, and casual outfits. You can find these at some merchants and found by exploring over time. This gives the player the ability to tailor Rook’s appearance independent of tantalizing stat boosts and upgrades. COMPANIONS' PROGRESSION"

"Rook’s Companions are equally important to success as the player endeavors to save Thedas. Members of the Veilguard each have their own Levels and each level gained grants them 2 Skill Points. Each companion will have quests to deepen Rook’s bond with them, and this is one of the main ways for them to gain experience. Companions also can gain experience through unique conversations and decisions with them. These quests and bonds are not limited to romantic interests; platonic friendships are just as important and in focus in Dragon Age: The Veilguard. Rook will be able to take two Companions on missions. Each Companion has their own set of gear to manage, which can be upgraded and enchanted at the Caretaker’s Workshop, as well. Companions also have Primer and Detonator abilities that can combine with each other or Rook in combat. Each Primer has a matching Detonator. Using the correct combination, a Detonation will trigger - dealing increased damage across an area and increased stagger. For example, as seen in the video, Rook can use Toxic Dash to prime the target with the Sundered status, and Neve detonates it with her Icebreaker Ability.   These videos have highlighted the three main areas of Progression in Dragon Age: The Veilguard. Rook and the Veilguard will grow throughout the game, and there’s plenty of builds to explore. We’ve put the videos all together; so they can be watched uninterrupted! Check out the full video below.  As Rook journeys through Thedas, overcoming challenges, forging alliances, and facing down the corrupt Elven gods, their strength and power will grow. It will be up to the player to define what kind of Rook and Veilguard will emerge from this conflict. Will you be the hero? We’re in the thick of it now; so we’ll be back soon with more details on missions and exploration! This month, IGN will also be releasing exclusive content; so keep an eye out. Chat soon! - The Dragon Age Community Team"

[source]

[dalishious]

My Current Mod List for Dragon Age: Origins

(Requested on my stream today)

Awakening Abilities for Origins

Awakening Silverite Mines Bugfix by TerraEx

Bow Replacer by Seyt

Bugfix for Pixelated Shaders Begone by Ashhawk

Camp Merchant Chest

Character Respecialization by weriKK

Clan Sabrae Says Goodbye by SarahCousland

Cleaner Screenshots from conversations by beertje99

Complete Bi Overhaul by GoesOnGhost

Crow Assassin's Armor for Zevran by kylin3

Dalls_Rescaled Weapons by Dall

Dialogue Tweaks by Vaire

DoF Off - remove depth of field by Ashhawk

Dragon Age Origins Unofficial Remaster by me

dwarf proportions by tmp7704

elf proportions by tmp7704

Elven Scenery by commanderstrawberry

Extra Dog Slot by Dheuster

Faster Bow Talents by Lord Thing

FtG UI Mod - More Readable Fonts and UI by FollowTheGourd

Gift Guide - Awakening by hdhd

Goblet De-Gobbler by Ashhawk

HQ Eyebrow Stubble and Scalp Hair Replacers by Ashhawk

Human Female Proportions Fix by tmp7704

Lock Bash by xatmos

LOTC's Female Eyelashes by marquiseondore

Madd Gift Guide by maddbomber83

No Exp loss from NPC kills by efunfun

No Helmet Hack by yonline2

Personal Annoyance Remover by Rekicker

Pixelated Shaders begone by bl4idd

Real Pigment by Ashhawk

Retcon Light Armor Texture Rehaul by hoarous (Dalish a la carte)

Sigrun's Roguish Past and Law and Order fix by Trylane223

Surana Circle Mage Robe by commanderstrawberry

Thedosian Grey Wardens - Dwarven Expansion by IceBuckets

Thedosian Grey Wardens - Inquisition Retexture by VagranDreamer

Thedosian Grey Wardens by makara5656

TSM Vignette Be Gone by theskymoves

Universal Voices by Shadow_Dragyn

Weapon Enchantment and Poison VFX Remover by Offkorn

ZDF Dialog Fix by ejoslin

Zevran ASAP by charsen

[taydraws2much]

Alright I got some food- eat up! Some doodles of @nonomives​​ Vamp AU Meet Mr. Croaks! A travelin’ merchant outside of town that sells an assortment of goodies, ranging from armor, weapons, healing items, and so on. He can repair your weapons and craft new ones, if you got the money for it. He’s a bit of a trickster! Only willing to sell a fair price if you’ve got the guts for it, don’t so soft on him he’ll only take you seriously if you’re worthy of his wares so bargain with him if you can, sweet talk, show him what you’re made of! Tiny comic below!

He’s an incredibly experienced monster hunter, don’t be fooled by his incredibly short height, he has defeated countless monsters way back then with his old crew of lean, mean, green, fighting machines. Although as time passed and things got more industrial, Ribbert doesn’t retire nor’ go back to live a more modern life. He does things old school! You can’t always rely on guns and fancy tools.

He is well aware of the Pillars and often scoffs their reputation as ‘heroes’. So when he first met Howdy he liked to mess with him a bit, get on his nerves. When Ribbert realized this kid is different from the rest of his family, he decided to give him some advice and show him how things are done around these parts. He taught him how to craft, showed him the use of different special herbs in these forests, becoming a bit of a mentor for him!

[artbyblastweave]

i dont know anything about fallout except its a wild west postnuclear survivor game and there’s a jaunty lil dude who’s always giving you a thumbsup? Anyway i would love to know your thoughts on water collection/distribution and/or the economy of mended stuff.

sorry your brain is on the brink

In the context of fallout? The post-nuclear Water economy is the backbone of three different games; the plot of the first involves you getting kicked out of your fancy underground Bunker City in order to find replacement parts for the water filtration system, and the rudimentary post-apocalyptic society you explore uses a currency backed on the water standard (in lieu of the Gold Standard- one bottlecap for one bottle of water.). Water Merchants (those with access to water towers, etc) are power players in the nascent political ecosystem. The (not-very-well-considered) plot of the third game involves trying to get a widespread water purification program working for the DC area. And the central conflict of New Vegas (sometimes referred to as "the really good one,") consists of the local powers brawling over control of the still-functional Hoover Dam due to the control it would provide over the regions freshwater and electricity supply.

I liked New Vegas's take on the scavenged-equipment economy the best. The setting shift to Nevada (previous games by the same writing team being in California) is in part meant to reflect that people back west have simply run out of old-world materials to scavenge, and are now back to living in actual cities that they build out of novel materials, eating food they grow and cook- which makes for a boring place to set a game, hence the shift to the "frontier" of Vegas, where you'll encounter neo-western "prospectors" (scavengers) looking for new claims to tap for pre-war resources to supplement what re-industrialized society can produce. Many of the weapons and armor-sets you use and fight against are encountered in a mad-max style environment, but many of them aren't implausibly-still-in-use antiques- they're being manufactured by a largely off-screen 21st-century-styled liberal-democratic society that's rebuilt enough to redevelop mass consumption and arms conglomerates, the negative externalities of which are spilling out to affect those on the frontier.

[artemis-ches]

so i was in a mood and decided to compile every aesthetic items we were shown so far by the marketing for Dragon Age : The Veilguard. Feeds my brainrot, and (possibly) serves as references for those who want to think about their Rooks. This one is for casual wears, but i'll make others for armors and/or weapons. Maybe. Don't know yet.

The pics are cut so as not to leak any possible story spoiler (or even hint at one), but they come from the game anyway, so consider yourselves warned !

I'll start with the release date trailer. We know that each factions of the game gets a default casual wear, but also that you can transmog it at will if you don't like the look of it.

While there's no actual moments where we see this character's inventory (and, thus, no way to actually confirm he's a Grey Warden), the color scheme and the warriory style of the clothes seems to imply this is the Grey Warden Casual wear. We can see a few of the Wardens NPCs wearing similar attires in the IGN First Gameplay vid.

Speaking of the IGN First Gameplay vid...

So an orangish vest, with a lot of triangles, and going around barefoot. It already ticks a lot off the elfy list of "how to dress like a Dalish", but it's also worn by actual Dalish elves in the Exclusive First Hand-on vid. So that would be the Veil Jumper clothes.

Sticking with the Hand-on vid...

This one i'm a hundred percent sure. You can see that the arms are the exact same design than that of the tevinter concept art that we saw sometimes ago, and it's also what the Shadow Dragon's merchant wears under her robes (same colors and everything).

And, finally, still from the Hand-on vid, all black sleek leather and worn by a character confirmed (by the voice in the vid) to be an Antivan Crow...

That's all we have for the moment ! We are still missing the gothicy Mournwatch and piraty Lords of Fortune casual wears. Don't know if we'll get neutral ones.

[danshive]

RPG in which your weapons and armor don't have visible stats. Your character can attempt to assess them, and will give feedback on what they think they can tell, but beyond that, it's a case of try them and find out.

This would also mean there would be merchants who would genuinely try to scam you, and potentially even get away with it.

[gxr25256]

Mercy in the Shadows - Sixshot x reader

🌵 If there are any mistakes, please forgive me.

--------------------------------

The black market of Cybertron sprawled beneath the grimy spires of an abandoned industrial sector, where the remnants of war and conquest had been shoved aside to decay in shadows. Towering structures—relics of past battles and conquests—cast long, harsh shadows over crowded rows of stalls where vendors hawked anything with a price. Stolen weapons, forbidden tech, scraps of Cybertronian armor, and unfortunate captives from distant planets—all of it littered the scene in a chaotic mixture of neon and rust. Each item was a trophy, a whisper of violence from a hundred other worlds, and Sixshot drifted through it with a growing, gnawing sense of restlessness.

Megatron’s unexpected day off grated against his nature; idleness felt like rust forming on his circuits. A day without purpose felt like a day stripped of his essence. That's insulting. But the boredom had brought him here, among his fellow Phase Sixers. They were scattered across the market, each drifting toward different distractions like predators prowling in the dusk.

Overlord prowled through the stalls with his usual swagger, laughing off merchants' terrified glances with mock kindness that barely hid his violent intent. Sixshot had long ago come to understand Overlord’s twisted relish for bloodshed, a brutality that went beyond any sense of duty. There was something grotesque, almost obscene, about his joy in suffering, a sentiment that made Sixshot uneasy.

Black Shadow, on the other hand, drifted between stalls with a smooth confidence, a face that alternated between detached boredom and intrigue. Occasionally, he exchanged a few sly words with some of the merchants or put his arm around some of his deceptions colleagues and appear very friendly. But Sixshot knew better—he saw through the charade. Black Shadow wasn't here out of camaraderie. No, the only reason he is here: profit. Energizing his private stockpile was his real objective. Sixshot knew as soon as black shadow got a good enough price, he’d betray them without a second thought.

Putting thoughts about his colleague aside, sixshot adjusted his posture. He leaned back against a wall of rough, rusted steel, arms crossed, optics skimming the market with a disinterested glare. His gaze skimmed over the vendors and buyers, creatures of every shape and size, each chattering in grating voices over who or what might be worth a trade. The entire place was a crowded mess, littered with broken artifacts and miserable captives. Some were quiet, others despairing, a few shouting or growling in languages he didn’t bother to understand.

But then, his optics landed on "you."

It took him a second to recognize the figure—a tiny form crammed behind the energy bars of a cage, looking so out of place it was almost laughable. Among the clanking, bulkier species of aliens, among all the caged beasts and prisoners from dozens of battlefronts, you stood out: fragile, trembling, skin pale under the harsh Cybertronian lights.

A human.

The human's fear was almost palpable. Your breathing was quick, shallow, and you clung to the far side of the cage as if hoping it would dissolve into an escape. Your wide eyes darted around the market in search of something, anything, to save you from the towering titans that prowled the area. That look was one Sixshot knew well.

He couldn’t resist the pull of curiosity. What do you feel when you know your existence is utterly insignificant in a universe ruled by giants? he mused. Something about their terror was... different from what he usually saw. Battle gave him excitement, yes, but this? This was a glimpse into the helplessness he so rarely encountered.

He pushed off the wall, striding slowly toward your cage, his optics studying every detail. Your small form clung to the bars, eyes darting wildly around the market, your breath coming in quick, shallow gulps. From the trembling in your limbs, to the way you pressed yourself against the back of the cage, every fiber of your being screamed of fear, like an animal that knew it was cornered and hopelessly outmatched.

There was no bravery in you, no defiance, no hidden strength waiting to be unveiled. And yet…your fear was different from what he normally saw in battle. There was a desperation in it, a rawness that he rarely encountered. The beings he faced on the battlefield had a hardened kind of fear, a last-stand defiance, as though they had already accepted their fate before they ever laid optics on him. They were soldiers, warriors resigned to the end. You were none of those things. You were terrified in a way he hadn’t seen since his earliest days of combat, when his first foes had still been innocent enough to believe that fighting back would save them.

He leaned closer, his optics boring down on you, watching with an intensity that made the cage rattle as his presence loomed. You flinched violently, clutching the bars of the cage as though willing yourself to vanish. Your eyes met his briefly, wide and pleading, then darted away, too afraid to hold his gaze. The look on your face—it stirred something deep within him, a flicker of recognition that was more instinct than memory.

This was prey. True prey. The kind that knew only terror, the kind that understood its helplessness in the face of absolute power.

He was aware of your every movement: the small tremors running through you, the quiver of your lip as you fought to stay silent, the shallow rise and fall of your chest as you struggled to control your breath. He could practically feel your pulse racing from where he stood, a tiny, frantic heartbeat in the face of a predator that could crush you with a single motion.

Something cold and calculating sparked in Sixshot’s optics as he observed you, an old, he hadn’t felt in cycles. It wasn’t the thrill of conquest, nor the satisfaction of a worthy opponent. It was simply a glimpse into something so small and insignificant that it gave him a reminder of what he truly was: a weapon, a machine of total annihilation, one that even other Decepticons viewed with unease. His power had made him a pariah, feared and isolated even among the monsters he called allies.

Yet, he respected the strong. He valued those who fought back, who met him on the battlefield with fire in their optics. This human was none of those things. But there was still something about them, something attractive.

An annoyed sigh came from him, like a roll of thunder. “Pathetic,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. But he didn’t move away. He stayed there, towering over the cage, optics fixed on you like a scientist inspecting a specimen.

The vendor, noticing Sixshot’s interest, sidled over eagerly, his voice a grating whine. “Quite a rare find, isn’t it? A rarity from that little backwater planet, Earth." The merchant gave a smug chuckle. “Not much of a fighter, but they cower in the most entertaining ways.”

The words barely registered to Sixshot. He continued to observe you, noting every subtle tremor, every desperate shift of your eyes. He saw the way your fingers gripped each other tightly, knuckles turning white under the strain, your breathing growing shallow as you tried to make yourself smaller, less visible.

“Interested?” the trader ventured, clearly hoping for a transaction.

Sixshot’s optics narrowed. “What would I do with something so fragile?” he replied, his tone dismissive, though his gaze hadn’t shifted.

The merchant chuckled, mistaking Sixshot's interest as mere curiosity . “A toy, perhaps. Or a pet to keep your quarters interesting. Some find it amusing, having one of these creatures cowering in the corner, watching you with those little eyes. It can be… satisfying.”

The idea of taking you as a “pet” was laughable to him. Amusing? No, that wasn’t it. He had no need for amusement. His life was not about leisure or indulgence—it was about the thrill of worthy combat, the satisfaction of watching an opponent meet their end with dignity or terror. You didn’t fit into that world; you were not a warrior, nor an enemy, nor anything remotely close to a combatant. And yet, your fear called to him.

It would be so easy to snuff out that fear. One flick of his finger could silence you, end your miserable terror in an instant. It would be a mercy—a quick death, a release from the agony of knowing you were powerless.

And yet, he didn’t.

“Do you understand what you are?” he asked quietly, his voice a deep, rumbling growl that filled the space around you. The question seemed almost rhetorical, but he was genuinely curious. What went on in a mind that knew it was nothing more than prey? A creature so weak it couldn’t even defend itself, forced to rely on hope or mercy—neither of which existed here.

Your head lifted, just barely, and you managed a timid nod, your eyes wide and glazed with tears. He could see the struggle in your face, the way you fought to keep some shred of composure in the face of absolute terror.

"Then you understand this is where you die," he continued, almost conversationally, as if discussing the weather. His tone held no malice, no cruelty; it was a simple statement of fact.

Your lips parted, a faint tremble to your voice. "Please…" The word slipped out, barely audible, a plea that you knew was pointless yet voiced out of desperation.

With a dismissive huff, he straightened, turning away from the cage, folding his arms and giving you a final, unreadable look. “I’ll take this one,” he said simply to the merchant, his voice devoid of any emotion but finality.

The merchant’s face brightened with greed. “A fine choice! You’ll enjoy having a creature so… malleable. They’re delightful to break.”

Sixshot didn’t respond. He didn’t take you because he wanted a pet. He didn’t take you becausehe found any joy in your terror. But perhaps, in his own way, he was giving you a purpose. A purpose in his world—a chance to exist, however briefly. Or it would simply be a way for him to kill time.

Whatever it is, then for you, it would be the beginning of a nightmare from which there was no escape.

--------------------------------

[chronurgy]

Gortash Week Day 3 - Battle/Party

People act with such limited perspective. They divide everything up into neat little boxes and never think to question their assumptions. They fail to see the bigger picture. Their tiny minds lack the capacity to behold the world in all its glory.

They're not like him.

They can't see the war.

More's the pity. For them, not for him. He can use their foundering for his own ends.

After all, decisive victory is always easier when then other side hasn’t even realized that the war has started.

~~~

He attends one such battle tonight.

It requires careful preparation – it would not do to be caught off guard. First, he bathes and perfumes himself with vanilla and rosewood – the scent he has settled upon as his upper-class signature. Scent is a powerful thing, tied every so strongly to memory. Yet another way in which he may be known and unknown as he pleases. A spritz of his perfume in the right room at the right time could easily sow division amongst his enemies. And should he wish to go about in disguise, its lack would simply be one more note of discord with which to obscure his true nature.

After that, his next layer of armor, his next weapon. Clothing recently returned from the tailor, made and remade to his precise instructions. It is the perfect sort of design – fashionable but not too fashionable, speaking of wealth but not screaming of it, the sort of thing that makes it clear that he belongs here in these elevated circles. That he is, for all his low origins, one of them. No accusation of cuckoo-ism on his part could be sustained, dressed as he is in all the raiment of the upper classes. And further still, every fabric, every cut, every fastening has been pressed into service in his great war. His coat is cut in a particular style that one society matron had said suited him perfectly. It will please her. More importantly, her fawning will displease her husband in a way that will send him straight to the bar and then to the gaming tables, where – drunk – he will proceed to lose money he already does not have. His piling bills will force him to withdraw his investment in a particular Knightly society. All to his advantage.

A ring upon his left hand boasts a Calimshan emerald near the size of a dove egg, brought in on one of his own merchant cogs within the past fortnight. The patriars will gush at its size and clarity and ask after its origin, which he will be only too happy to reveal. Especially the fact that he's brought over cases of them at a price never before seen. Not all had his talents in negotiations, after all. And why of course he intends to see more brought over, and other gems besides! Such talk will reach the ears of one particular man there, one whose family is invested heavily in the gem trade. And perhaps worry over his declining fortunes might lead him to stay home in the future, far away from fancy parties, and thus prevent him from making ill-thought-out comments to certain other attendees. A humbling might teach the man to mind his manners in front of his natural betters.

A cravat is wound around his neck. It is the highest quality silk, dyed a deep, bloody red – it alone had cost more money than his parents had seen in a year. He should know. He’d kept the books. But more important than the wealthy bona fides it provides is the enchantment laid upon it. One that would stop a single strike of a blade, just the once. Silk did not take enchantment well he had been told. The magic ran from it like water. A larger swathe might hold it better, but in such a slight and delicate strip as this it was only through the very great skill of the enchanter that any magic would take root at all. He had half believed it impossible himself, when they had presented it to him. But perhaps he ought to have known better. They had always had a way of surprising him. The knot he ties it in is more important still – a request from Vesper. It is specific and unusual and full to bursting with meaning. Upon seeing it, one man will believe he has their support, another will feel snubbed. The snubbed man is well known for his hot temper, a temper he will not hold even in public. He will confront them, by appearance unprovoked to all outsiders, and be disgraced for it. The man supported will relax and drink and return home in a stupor, and when he wakes the next morning he will put anything out of place in his chambers down to his own drunken stumblings. Anything missing will be attributed to the same. A convenient cover and neat little solution, all told.

Finally, a multitude of minor details. A button, looser than the others, one he could snap off at a moment’s notice should he need to leave a token of his passage in some bed chamber or other. A sown flat pocket, hiding both a poison and its antidote. A buckle on a delicate shoe from which, if pressed in just the right place, would snick forth a small, sharp blade. One must always be prepared for any unexpected opportunity that might arise in war, lest one lose an advantage all for want of a simple tool. He would do no such thing. He plays to win, always has.

Satisfied with his appearance and weapons, he leaves his dressing room for the entry hall where he hopes his greatest armament yet awaits him. He is pleased to see that they do, resplendent in the clothes he had chosen for them, the very image of beauty and power and barely restrained violence. Their regalia hides many touches similar to his own, he knows. Some of his devising, some of theirs. He is familiar with it all, having given every last measurement to his tailor in exacting detail, and yet he finds cannot keep his eyes from them as he descends, entranced by the ripple of muscle under silk, by the emerald-set necklace that mirrors his own ring so picturesquely, by the canny eyes that divine the drift of his thoughts so exactingly.

“Shall we?” Vesper asks, offering him their arm. He takes it willingly and they set off, a pair not matched but reflecting one another nonetheless.

“I know you have picked your own targets for tonight,” they say, touching their necklace, a whisper of amusement brushing over their features, “but I have a list besides, one you’d do well to heed. A few precision strikes now might see this campaign shortened considerably.”

“Do tell,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, armed and armored for the night to come.