#POV Wyll Ravengard | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

scarredwithcruelintentions · 21 days

Text

chapter 3: a desperate revelation

Find the masterlist here!

CW: Astarion talks about his abuse.

W/C: 2,795

A/N: My dog had heart surgery last week... please send all the good vibes for her recovery!

After the arduous fight with the Hag, Astarion wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bedroll. Shadowheart had mended the worst of their wounds with a healing prayer, and your quiet songs of rest had bolstered their energy for the trek back to camp. Once out of the bog, the fading rays of the sun’s light were visible once more.

He paused a moment to marvel at the way they painted the sky in various hues of pinks and oranges, a sight he had long since given up hope of ever seeing again. He tried to convince himself that any day spent in the sun was a day worth having, no matter how fleeting a retreat it might be.

A plaintive sigh escaped him at the prospect of returning to the shadows after being blessed by the warmth of the light.

“Copper for your thoughts?” you intoned from behind him, startling him out of his quiet reverie.

“For nearly two centuries, I’ve known nothing but darkness and pain. To stand in the sun, after so much tragedy and despair, is nothing short of a miracle,” he whispered, afraid that if he spoke any louder, it would shatter the beautiful illusion he’d come to know and he’d instead find himself a psychotic wreck, locked in a mausoleum somewhere at Cazador’s behest again.

He tracked your approach in his peripheral vision, mentally preparing himself to broach the topic of his past, of his Master’s cruelty. You stopped at his side and gazed out into the encroaching darkness with him, listening along as the song of birds gave way to the chirp of crickets. The stars began their winking, and the ambiance of rural night crept over them in a subdued melody.

“Without darkness, there would be no light,” you said quietly.

He peered over at you, watching as the moon started its trek across the indigo sky just above your head. You glanced at him, and your eyes met his for a moment. He did not expect the sorrow that he found in their depths. He opened his mouth, but no sound left his lips, the icy fingers of fear choking him. He closed his eyes and steadied himself, preparing to spill his darkest secrets upon reopening them.

“Come, friend,” your hushed voice met his ears. “We are not far from camp. We may speak there.”

With that, the moment was broken. Astarion opened his eyes to see your retreating form, and silently thanked whatever gods still were for the extra time to gather his strength. ______________________________________________________________

Astarion sat alone in his tent, lost in his thoughts. He could hear the chatter and laughter of his companions just beyond its thin walls, but he didn’t even have the heart to observe from afar tonight. He waited in trepidation for you to come find him, drumming his fingers absentmindedly on the closed cover of the book in his lap. Even reading had proven to be an unhelpful distraction.

“Astarion?”

He recognized the lilt of your soft voice and cleared his throat.

“In here, darling,” he called, unwilling to move, lest his legs were to carry him far from this conversation, far from camp in cowardice.

You parted the flaps of his tent with a small smile, a question in your eyes. He waved at the space in front of him, a silent go ahead to enter and sit. You nodded imperceptibly and sat down, crossing your legs and setting your lyre in your lap.

Astarion raised a brow at the instrument.

“Do you ever go anywhere without that?” he asked, curiosity coloring his voice.

“Never,” you grinned. “It’s the source of my connection to the Weave.”

He scoffed, “A lyre?”

“Well, not the lyre specifically,” you blushed, “but the music it creates. Any instrument will do, but this is my instrument of choice.”

“I see,” he said, though he really didn’t.

“Would you like me to give you an example?” you asked kindly.

“Please, be my guest.”

He watched as your delicate fingers plucked a soft melody on the instrument, caressing the tune from them with practiced ease and fondness. The mellifluous sound of your voice began its harmony, and a sense of peace like he had never known washed over him. He was enchanted by your performance, finding it a strangely intimate experience with no one else to accompany the two of you.

All too soon, the final chord resonated in the cavern of his chest with a quiet hum.

Astarion opened his eyes - not remembering having closed them - and gazed at you. The warm feeling from earlier had returned at the start of the song, and had slowly spread its way through his limbs with each progression until he felt light and fuzzy, an unusual and somewhat dizzying sensation. A slight flush had spread across your cheeks and into the bodice of your nightclothes as he regarded you with a soft expression.

“That was lovely,” he murmured, loath to break the tranquil quiet of the moment.

“A Song of Calm for my tense, toothsome friend,” you smiled, voice lowered to match his own.

“Ah! Well that explains the sudden silence in my mind.”

He cracked a wry smile and delighted in your answering giggle. Stillness enveloped the tent once more, and your expression morphed into one of concerned sincerity.

Here we go.

“Are you ready to talk?”

“I don’t want to say a damned thing,” he bit out, rage and fear laced in his voice. You recoiled at his tone, and it took conscious effort for him to soften it. “But that won’t do anyone any good.”

You remained silent, waiting patiently for him to continue. He heaved a great, mournful sigh, and began.

“Cazador Szarr is a vampire lord in Baldur’s Gate. The patriarch of his coven and a monster obsessed with power. Not political power or military power - I mean power over people,” he said with carefully construed apathy, “The power to control them completely. He turned me nearly two hundred years ago. I became his spawn and he became my tormentor.”

His eyes had fallen to the space separating him from you, avoiding the questions he knew he was sure to find in yours.

“How were you turned?” you asked in a whisper. “Did he attack you?”

Astarion sighed again.

“Not him, no. A gang of thugs, the Gur,” he sneered, “attacked me, angry about a ruling that I’d handed down as a magistrate.”

“I see. Is that why you were on edge with the hunter today?”

“Indeed. They’d beaten me to death’s door when Cazador appeared. He chased them off and offered to save me. To give me eternal life. Given that my choices were ‘eternal life’ or ‘bleed to death on the street’, I took him up on the offer.”

He repressed a violent shudder at the memory and ploughed ahead, “It was only afterward that I realized just how long ‘eternity’ could be.”

“I take it he was rather lacking as a master,” you intoned gravely.

“He had me go out into Baldur’s Gate and fetch him the most beautiful souls I could find by whatever means necessary. It was a fun little ritual of his - I’d bring them back and he’d ask me if I wanted to dine with him. And if I said yes, he’d serve me a dead, putrid rat.”

He could still taste it even now, the fetid blood of overripe rodent corpses. He wanted to gag and retch at the thought.

“Of course, if I said no, he’d have me flayed. Hard to say which was worse,” he shrugged matter-of-factly.

“Astarion, that’s terrible. I’m so bloody sorry,” you sniffled.

He looked up at the sound to see the glistening tracks of tears running down your face in the glow of the oil lamp, more yet unshed making your eyes glassy. He didn’t know what he expected your reaction to be, but it certainly wasn’t this.

“Thank you, but this isn’t about the sympathy,” he continued uncomfortably, “it’s about knowing what we might be up against. The Gur hunter won’t be the only one looking for me, what with his favorite plaything being misplaced.”

“Plaything?” you nearly choked.

“Yes, he always did say that my screams sounded sweetest,” he intoned bitterly.

He did not raise his eyes at the sound of your sharp gasp, fearful of what your face would betray.

“Vampire spawn are less than slaves - we’re puppets. All he need do is speak and our bodies obey. The things I’ve done, seen… felt. Well, there are some things better left unsaid,” he finished, voice hollow.

He looked up again to find tears streaming freely down your cheeks, eyes puffy and nose running with your sorrow, the whimpers and sniffles of your sobs echoing in the silence. He was unsure of how to console you, so he simply looked away, giving you time to gather yourself.

“Fuck, m’sorry,” you garbled, and he looked back to see you dashing tears from your eyes. “How insensitive of me. You don’t need my tears to make this wretched retelling any worse.”

“It’s quite alright, dear. It isn’t called a sob story for nothing, after all,” he chuckled, trying for levity to lift the stifling gloom of the atmosphere. His attempt wrested a watery giggle from you, so he considered it a success.

Once your sniffling had died down, a comfortable silence settled over the tent. He had gone back to staring at the empty space of his bedroll between you and him, and a new plan slowly began to unfurl in his mind. You seemed to like him well enough, but was well enough going to keep him safe in the dire straits ahead?

He was broken from his musing by the gentle strings of your lyre, a different melody this time but with a similar effect. The dulcet tones of your harmony flooded him with that strange, tingly warmth again, and he made up his mind in that moment. You were an unalienable ally with your charisma and quiet authority, and he needed to do whatever necessary to stay in your good graces.

Resolute in his decision, he listened intently to your music, laying back on his hands and closing his eyes to bask in the beauty of it. Your songs transitioned smoothly from one into the next, and he soon found himself drifting into his nightly meditation with unprecedented ease. He didn’t even register when the music had stopped, only noticing when your hushed voice temporarily disrupted the blissfully quiet calm of his mind.

“Goodnight, Astarion.” ______________________________________________________________

He rose early the next morning and was pleased to find you already awake. You were breaking your fast with some sludgy gruel the wizard was stirring while Wyll regaled you with animated tales of his heroics. He rolled his eyes at the warlock’s prideful display, but noticed you listening intently, gasping and asking questions at all the perfect intervals. The warlock regarded you with a smile far too fond for his liking, and he found himself calling out to you before he was even sure of what he was going to say.

“Darling, a moment, if you please?”

You gave Wyll a sheepish grin and excused yourself, setting the bowl of lumpy porridge on your stool and sauntering over to him. Astarion snickered to himself at the way the warlock’s face twisted.

“Good morning, Astarion,” you said brightly, smile more radiant than the morning sun.

“Good morning, my sweet. How did you sleep?” he asked, laying the charm on thick.

“Alright, I s’pose. You?”

“Vampires don’t sleep, dear, though I’ll say that last night was the closest I’ve come to it in two centuries,” he replied, trying for his most disarming smile.

“I’m glad to hear it,” you responded softly. “If you’d like to dine with me tonight, I’d be happy to lend my neck.”

Astarion could swear he felt his undead heart give a flutter of a beat before going dormant again.

“Why, there’s nothing I’d love more darling! But, are you sure you’re feeling up to it so soon after the first time?” he asked, his portrayal of concern surprisingly effortless.

He watched as you pulled a pendant out of your decolletage, holding it up so that it glinted in the light. He could feel the faint thrum of the Weave surrounding it.

“I went hunting through my things last night when I remembered I had this. It’s an amulet of restoration. Shadowheart confirmed for me that it will counteract the effects of blood loss,” you beamed.

“My, my. Eager little thing, aren’t you?”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, as you noticeably retreated into yourself.

“I only wanted to help,” you mumbled, eyes downcast.

In a desperate attempt to salvage the conversation, Astarion shifted the subject back to the amulet.

“And wherever did you find such a pretty bauble?”

Your answering grimace and accompanying flush was an unexpected reaction.

Oh, this must be good.

“I nicked it from the druid grove,” you said sheepishly.

“Aren’t you full of surprises, my dear,” he responded with a hearty laugh.

“Shut it, Rogue,” you grumbled at him good-naturedly.

“Never! And in answer to your earlier question, I would be more than delighted to dine with you.” He bowed dramatically, earning him a few bright peals of laughter.

“Your tent, or mine?” he purred. He made a show of watching the way your flush deepened and crept its way down into the plunging neckline of your nightclothes.

“Erm, I’d assume you’d be most comfortable in your tent,” you responded, wringing your hands with eyes downcast once more.

Well, that won’t do.

He reached forward slowly so as not to spook you and tucked a finger under your chin, gently raising your face so he could catch your eyes.

“I can make myself comfortable anywhere for you, dear,” he breathed, watching closely as your lips parted in a silent gasp and pupils dilated infinitesimally wider.

Just as he was about to celebrate this small victory, your eyes cinched shut and a pained expression flitted across your face. He dropped his hand instantly, taken aback by the dramatic shift in your reaction.

“S’not you,” you gritted out, confusing him further. You opened your eyes and took a steadying breath.

“Just a bad memory,” you clarified, standing tall in a display of faux confidence.

It was a tactic he knew all too well, and he could see right through it to the rigid way you held yourself. He felt his face fall with a doleful kind of understanding.

She, too, has endured much torment.

“Ah yes, those I am quite familiar with. We all have skeletons in the closet. An unfortunate side effect of living…” he paused, “and unliving, I suppose.”

You chuckled, easing up again.

“I’m taking Lae’zel, Wyll and Gale with me today to look for the missing druid. We’ll let you know what we find,” you changed the subject, meeting his gaze.

He felt a pang of disappointment with the chill of fear quick on its heels and fought to keep his face neutral, but was ultimately unsuccessful. You caught a glimpse of something, however fleeting, in his eyes that turned your countenance steely.

“He won’t have you, Astarion. You don’t need to go back to him,” you said, suddenly vehement in your determination. It only increased his panic.

“You don’t know Cazador,” he relented in a whisper, “He could have spies anywhere. I could be gone long before you make it back. If he finds me, I will have no choice but to return.”

“He won’t find you. You’re safe with me,” you murmured back, reaching out to take his hands. It was an odd sensation, being held, made odder still by your initiation of the contact.

“Then take me with you,” he begged, just shy of desperate.

He could feel your thumbs sweeping over the backs of his hands, no doubt a placating gesture to ease the burn of your next words.

“Not today. You need to rest after yesterday’s events.”

“How rich, coming from you,” he snapped, withdrawing his hands from your grasp abruptly.

He caught the hurt that flashed across your delicate features before you managed to school your expression, straightening your spine and squaring your shoulders.

He sighed in defeat, “I suppose I will see you tonight, then.”

“Tonight,” you nodded and turned to leave.

You took a few steps away from him and paused, turning halfway back toward him.

“And I mean it, Astarion. You are safe with me. I will watch your back, so long as you watch mine.”

With nothing but your parting words for reassurance, Astarion returned to his tent, succumbing to the biting cold of dread’s barbed claws.

56 notes · View notes

vagabondfandoms · 2 months

Text

Falls on Me

Day Two: Morning

Previous Chapters:

Day One: Night

Rating: Teen (For this Chapter)

Characters: Gale Dekarios, F!Tav: Copper, Lae'zel, Karlach, Wyll Ravengard, Shadowheart, and Astarion in order of appearance.

Warnings: N/A, Gale POV, Mentions of chronic pain

First morning together and Gale is taking over cooking duties for the group.

---

Gale planned to be the first one awake to start the morning meal but much to his disappointment, two figures were awake and moving around.

"Good morning, Gale." Copper says warmly, pouring steaming liquid into a wooden cup and handing it to the young Githyanki warrior. "Were you able to sleep alright?"

Lae'zel gives the cup a displeased look, that reminds Gale of Tara when she's offered food not up to her standards. The young Gith gives it a hesitant sip, looks surprised, and then proceeds to drink some more.

"Yes, I did." Gale lies, knowing full well it took him hours of combating pain from both his orb and the hard ground to finally fall asleep. "But to be honest, I was expecting to be the first one awake this morning. I hope you aren't trying to take away my self-appointed but hopefully well-deserved cooking duties?"

"Ohh, no." Copper says while shaking her head behind the cup that was at her lips. I can't compete. The stew you made last night was delicious. I only put a pot of sib* on the fire to tie us over until more of us are awake.”

"Good," Gale says merrily as he rolls up his sleeves and reaches for a knife. I didn't want to find myself replaced on our second day together. It was very hard making dinner last night with only a couple of potatoes and a dubious-looking cut of meat.”

“Do you want any help, Gale?” the monk asks, already rising to assist.

“No, no. You go on. Relax!” Gale emphasizes. “I have this under control. We have a busy day ahead of us and these carrots are probably the least taxing things we will have to slice and dice today.”

Gale waves the knife in the air to emphasize the slicing and dicing part. But he could have gone with the fried and flambéed if he was only considering magical cooking metaphors.

Copper shrugs and sits back down next to Lae'zel. Gale keeps himself busy chopping up the carrots and potatoes to make a hash.

He can overhear parts of the conversation around him. Lae'zel was answering some questions about the Githyanki culture that Copper was asking and Gale leans in to hear more. Of course, he read books about the Githyanki but it was entirely different hearing a first-hand account from a member of that race. Fantastical stuff.

"Yo, good morning." Karlach bursts out, as she skips over to the cookfire. "Hey somebody made sib, awesome!"

The chatter around the cookfire continues but a little more loudly than before. Gale just finishes browning the hash in the slightly dented camp skillet they bought from the druid trader for a deal when Shadowheart and Wyll arrive for breakfast.

The timing makes Gale suspect the duo were hanging out in their tents instead of visiting with the group but he makes no comment as he dishes up the potato mixture into their bowls.

Wyll happily says thanks while Shadowheart gives him a curt nod of acknowledgment for the food before daintily taking a nibble of seasoned potato.

Lae’zel once again looks at the food dubiously but wolfs the meal down with a warrior's grace. Gale is happy to see his cooking being enjoyed so openly.

In the back of his mind, he begins imagining all the ways he could impress his companions if only he they were back at his kitchen in Waterdeep. But if that was the case none of them would be in this situation with tadpoles in their brains now, probably not even him for other reasons.

Gale places a worried hand on his chest and feels the faint pulse of magic. “The orb is dormant now but for how long?”

Getting lost in dark thoughts of face tentacles and magical explosions, Gale is surprised by the sudden appearance of Copper by his side. “Hey, you should go sit down and eat.” She says as she starts gathering the dirty dishes to get washed. “I can clean up after everyone.”

“Well, I have…” Gale starts to argue but the fiery tiefling cuts in.

“Yeah, wizard, enjoy your meal! We got this mess.” Karlach smiles while placing a bowl of hash in Gale’s hands and quickly marching him over to sit down with the others, who were in various degrees of conversation.

“-a spell for that,” Gale says deflated as his butt hits the ground. Words fall on deaf ears as the two taller women start carrying dishes to the washing tub to scrub.

The wizard picks at his food but listens in on the conversation between Wyll and Lae’zel about the strengths of their preferred weapons, the rapier and shortsword.

Gale grumpily thinks a fireball would make quick work of either weapon when Astarion sashays over, whining about not getting breakfast and getting surprised when Copper offers him the last bowl.

The conversations slowly die down as everybody starts to get ready for the day. As Gale slowly gets up, his damn knees disliking being that low to the ground, he looks over at the bowl Astarion left by the fire and notices it's still full.

“The prissy elf didn’t even take a bite of his food even after he made a show of not receiving any.” Gale frowns, making a mental note to not take anything Astarion says too seriously.

Author Note:

Sib is a hot drink made of bark, roots, twigs, and herbs that the mercenaries and common folk consume in the book series The Deeds of Paksenarrion, a DnD-like fantasy world. It's something small to tide one over while waiting for actual food.

#bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #lae'zel #karlach #wyll ravengard #shadowheart #astarion #bg3 tav #oc: copper

42 notes · View notes

johnny-depplyloveyou · 12 days

Text

A perfect Bladeweave date in TS4 includes:

A dance and many kisses in the Magic Realm Astral Sea

A candlelight dinner with some good wines from Gale’s cellar

And some round of games to decide who’s on top tonight (I hc them both versatile) (Gale’s giving Wyll bedroom eyes mid-game 👀)

A lot of satisfying sex! (I can't show you the process, but here's some Wyll's POV of Gale and his simulacrum before they start)

bonus: some moments in the game I'd like to share

Gale "constantly yearning" Dekarios-Ravengard

cat puns

credits: Gale and Wyll's skins are made by @technovamp-cc

#bladeweave #gale x wyll #wyll x gale #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #wyll #wyll ravengard #bg3 wyll #bg3 #ts4 #ts4 screenshots #baldur's gate 3 #the sims 4 #the sims #simblr

24 notes · View notes

carryoncastiel · 1 month

Text

Beautiful Things

Word Count: 3,000

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: Gale/Wyll

Tags: POV Wyll, Married Couple, PWP, Fluff and Smut, (check AO3 for full tag list)

Summary:

"So,” Wyll starts as he looks back at Gale again, “how does it feel to be Gale Dekarios-Ravengard?" "Exhausting for one," Gale says, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small grin. "Oh?" Wyll snorts and gives the other man a curious look. "I'm going to feel my legs for days." ~~~

After their grand wedding Wyll and Gale enjoy their first day as newlyweds - by not leaving the bedroom all that much.

So, this fic actually takes place right after the big Dekarios-Ravengard wedding. However, since I still have to finish writing that one (it's already quite a bit longer than this fic) and I can't force my brain to do what I want, you're getting the smut first.

You're welcome.

#bladeweave #wyllgale #gale x wyll #wyll x gale #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #wyll ravengard #gale dekarios #no archive warnings apply #please check additional tags on ao3 #nsft #my stuff #my writing

28 notes · View notes

maegalkarven · 6 months

Text

Homecoming

The third part of the Empty Prayers AU.

They are home, but Baldur's Gate is nothing Wyll remembers it to be.

Characters: Wyll Ravengard, Shadowheart, Enver Gortash, Nemo (Durge), Jaheira, Karlach, Astarion.

Dark Urge x Gortash.

Wyll's POV.

The city is quiet.

It’s the first thing Wyll notices, how quiet Baldur’s Gate is, almost unnaturally so.

This is not how it should be, not how Wyll remembers his city.

The streets should buzz with the sound; even at night there should be the echo of steps, someone having a brawl in the nearest inn, some criminal individual skidding about, some poor soul retching in the ditch. There should be a low, unmistakable hum of the city being alive. Baldur’s Gate, city of many, city of all. Criminals and respectful citizens side by side, the most beautiful gardens of the Upper City and the foulest smell of the sewers.

The Gate.

This not how Wyll imagined his return.

In his dreams, the deepest, most sacred of them, so secured even Mizora couldn’t get a grip on, he saw himself a hero returning home; with victory, with salvation.

Wyll saw his father pardoning him, embracing, hailing a true hero of Baldur’s Gate. He saw himself standing tall and proud in front of the patriarchs of the city and not being ashamed of who he was.

Sneaking into the city like thieves in the night was not in his dreams.

His father, exhausted, strained by the knowledge of things passed and things yet to come, was not in his dreams.

Fighting the losing battle against the Elder Brain crowned with Karsus’ infamous creation was not in them.

Allying himself with the men personally crowning said brain was...was unimaginable, really.

And yet working alongside the two former cult leaders is the best chance they have. Wyll has spend endless hours in conversations with his father about this; appealing to his sense of duty, his responsibilities to the city, his honor.

Wyll knows both Gortash and Nemo are awful people. He has met his fair share of the scum and recognizes it when he sees it. If things were different, if both of the men have not fallen from grace, then... Then they would be the enemy, and of the worst, foul kind. The clever, sophisticated kind of the enemy who knows they do wrong, but can’t seem to particularly care.

Wyll still isn’t sure how much they can actually rely on Enver Gortash, not to mention trust him. He rather agrees with Karlach’s assessment what trusting the man would be a fool’s play. But urgent need for survival pulls together and turns into allies even the strangest types of men.

And not all villains had the choice to begin with.

Wyll knows Nemo is convinced he is a being of pure evil, the Murder Incarnate, the Worst of them all. He also knows Nemo doesn’t feel slighted by that, it is his destiny, after all. It is what he was made for.

Made.

Not even born, Bhaal could not allow him even that small slither of grace. No, his friend was literally sculpted from the dead flesh of the dead god. Then, if Nemo’s recollecting is to be trusted, he was entrusted into the care of no one but Sarevok Anchev, who then proceeded to raise a boy as the true heir to their Father’s bloody legacy.

Wyll shudders at the way Nemo casually recounts his past, how he brushes over the awful details with practiced ease of someone who doesn’t see anything wrong in that.

And how could he? Who was there to explain to him that what his Father and then his brother did to him was awful? Who was there to tell the child, beaten bloody, what this ‘training’ Sarevok put him through was not humane? It was ruthless, it was unkind, and it was brought on a but a babe.

"The pureblood child of the Bhaal should be perfect," he remembers Nemo commenting, not understanding the level of horror Wyll felt, not seeing why would he even be horrified by that. "It should be stripped of any weakness, any chains society would gladly press on it. All Bhaal’s child is – His vessel, His hand, the blade striking in His name. It doesn’t have the personality, better yet no will of its own. It is Father born anew. It is His second coming. It is the maw what will devour the world."

How Nemo turned up being as sane as he is now is a mystery, all things considered. He was destined to be nothing.

Wyll will gladly help his friend to break out of this bloody destiny.

Which leads his thought to the unkind revelation to why the said child of Bhaal even started to break out of his fate. Or because of whom.

Nemo is almost sewn to the failed tyrant’s side these days; the dark shadow behind Gortash’s frame, hushed whisper into his ear, steady hand on the man’s forearm.

Wyll would think it to be suffocating if not for the way Gortash stands straighter at the touch, looks surer of himself, smugger, more unbearable.

They bring the worst into each other. They keep each other afloat.

Wyll remembers the first several days after the Moonrise Towers. He remembers Nemo disappearing into Gortash’s tent every night, emerging in the morning with the image of tiredness stitched up his face. Gortash didn’t look any better, the signs of exhaustion lying low in the dark shadows under his eyes, in the crease of his mouth, in the wrinkles on his forehead. Somehow everyone knew nothing lewd was taking place, what the two failed chosen simply guarded each other against the world.

As if the world was the enemy.

As if traveling with them has not shown Nemo what the world is a much kinder place than what he was taught to believe. As if they were not allies, were not friends.

Wyll knows the revelation of Nemo’s true identity, of his past had to cost him greatly. He remembers this confession as if it was yesterday.

***

He remembers Nemo’s fists opening and closing, helpless in the painful need to strike at someone. He remembers the half-elf taking his shirt off – for the first time showing them his naked chest – and he remembers the awful, stark revelation it brought.

The scars like those do not appear out of nowhere. The scars like those are left on the bodies forgone autopsy. Dead bodies.

And yet these scars bite into Nemo’s skin even now.

“I...I don’t remember who she was,” the bhaalspawn murmured then, voice low and dark. “But I remember her face and I’m sure I’d recognize her if we were to meet again. I am convinced she is a myrkulite and what she is somewhere in these Towers.”

“That’s not all,” he interrupted then Wyll opened his mouth to say something, maybe offer comfort, as futile as that attempt would be. “She was not the one to put tadpole into my brain. That was my sister.”

“Your sister?” Gale’s voice raised the octave. “Why would she do that?”

A smirk, a dark shadow of a smile, lips baring white teeth in a grimace what looks strained, forced upon.

“Because our father told her to,” a pause. “Our Father, Lord Bhaal.”

It quickly fell into dreadful silence then, no one knowing what to say, no one knowing what to believe in.

Wyll personally hadn't felt betrayed, shocked, yes, but not wronged.

He understood the heavy weight of a dark secret; he had one. Wyll has lived for seven long years with his lips sealed.

But Wyll would understand if the others would have different reaction. If anything, Nemo seemed to expect it.

Nemo tried to continue with the confession.

Yes, he was a bhaalspawn, but the kind of which no one saw before. He was a pure Bhaalspawn. There’s not a drop of mortal blood in him, not a drop of essence what is not of his father’s. He wasn’t born. He was made. And for the last thirty years he was the leader of the Church of Bhaal.

Thirty years. That gave Wyll a pause, and it seemed he wasn’t the only one.

“How old are you exactly?” Astarion, the resident old-timer of their ragtag bunch of misfits, inquired.

“Fifty,” came out an easy response. “I became the leader my Father wanted me to be at the ripe age of nineteen. It’s been an endless road of improvement since then, until...” A wild gesture around.

“I...I did not fail, you have to understand. I do not fail. It’s just...Father does not tolerate a straying thought. For the last thirty years I was careful with what I do and how I do it, careful to not bring his wrath on me. I was...probably the unconventional leader, I admit, but everything I did made the Church grow bigger, stronger, better. Everything but-“ he looked down. “I am not supposed to care, you see? About anything or anyone. I should only think of murder, of blood, of my Father’s goal.”

“But you care,” Karlach looked pained as she stepped forward. Carefully, as if approaching a wild beast, but surely still. “You care about us. I know, even if you try to downplay it. You care about things.”

Nemo took a shaky step back.

“I know,” came sounding worse the admittance than of his bloody legacy. How admitting you care could be worse than that? “But do you know when I started to care? Or when I realized I do, in fact, care?”

“When?”

“You will hate the next part.”

“I already hate every part of what you’ve said,” she let out a pained laugh. “How worse can it be?”

The bhaalspawn smiled the kind of smile what promised more disaster to come.

“Nine years ago,” he let out. “I was approached by the man named Enver Gortash. He had,” a movement to intercept whatever Karlach was about to say. “He had information about the Hall of Wonders,” a glance to Wyll. “You probably know of that, the disgraceful display of my brothers and sisters, put upon view like trophies. Well, I didn’t like that. And Gortash, he...offered the way in. A help, in kind.”

“Trust me when I say he would never offer any help just for the sake of it,” Karlach seethed. “He wanted something-“

“And he got it. That and more,” Nemo looked as if he was forcing himself to stay still, burning under the piercing stare of the Fury of Avernus. “We became allies. Did all sort of thing, the two of us. Planned, schemed. Broke into Methistar,” a proud little grin. “Stole the crown of Karsus.”

“You stole what?!” Gale, clearly familiar with the thing.

“-And put it on the Elder Brain,” oh fuck, Wyll didn’t like there it was leading. “Used the netherstones from the crown to control it. Started our own world domination plan.”

“And then your sister stabbed you.”

“And then my sister stabbed me. Because my father told her to. Because I started to care.”

“For what?” Karlach was hardly seen through the flames wrapping around her in waves. “For who?”

“We were perfect together,” Nemo stared straight ahead. “We were indestructible. We were meant to rule the world as the gods of new age. We were-“

“The name,” Karlach seethed. “I don’t want bloody details; just prove my worst fucking fears. Tell me the name.”

Nemo looked away. It was, perhaps, the first time he was admitting it aloud, or even at all.

The Pure Bhaalspawn was not supposed to care for the others.

“I didn’t want to kill Enver Gortash,” he let out, small and pained and weak. “I do not want to kill Enver Gortash. He is the only one...” he trailed off.

“Anyway, this is my crime, the one my Father punished me for. I care for the banite. I care. I fucking care, and I’m not supposed to. And he,” a quick glance at the Moonrise Towers on the horizon. “Is somewhere in these fucking towers.”

***

He did not have to kill the man, and Karlach didn’t get to kill him, because in the feat of reckless abandonment Lord Enver Gortash did something no one expected him to be capable of.

He saved Nemo’s life.

He ruined his own plans.

And everything changed.

Everything changed, and now they sneak across the streets, the wraiths in the night, criminals in their own city.

There’s a curfew, Wyll finds out. There was never a curfew.

Also there’s a siege on the city, brought by the forces of the army Ketheric Thorm has build and Absolute now uses.

There are posters on the streets claiming they’re enemies of the state. Wyll, his father, Nemo and Gortash. Four of their faces, painted in the likeness, printed out and put around the city Wyll calls his own.

And Florrick did it.

No, he shakes his head, Not Florrick, the Elder Brain what controls her, the tadpole what’s buried deep into her brain. Florrick would never do that, but she is locked somewhere deep in her own mind, behind the intricate web of psionic power Absolute possesses.

The Steel Watch is at her heed, used against their own creator, used by the Brain the same way it uses Florrick, the same way it uses Orin, the same way it uses anyone who doesn’t have the luxury of the astral prism and an unlikely illithid ally protecting them from within.

A mindflayer named Emperor, the one who seems to have some kind of a bad history with Gortash. If this is not the cherry on top of the overall disaster of their lives.

The world Wyll has known is burning around him as he watches, and the only hope of even getting out of this mess is the help of the criminal underworld of the Gates; the Ninefingers’ guild, the assassins Nemo claims would stay loyal to him, and Enver Gortash’s questionable contacts.

Somewhere in the city there’s a diabolist who will help them break into Hell, and at that point Wyll doesn’t even ask. He doesn’t trust Emperor, and Lae’zel demands Prince Orpheus to be released, so what choice do they truly have?

Somewhere in the city there’s a vampire lord planning to sacrifice seven thousand souls for his own selfish gain.

Somewhere in the city there’s a cult of Shar, hidden in the plain view.

Somewhere underground there’s a Temple of Bhaal, its torches alight, the screams of victims echoing in the halls.

Somewhere in the city where are refugees who managed to flood into the streets at the moment of confusion; somewhere in the streets there are Mol and Umi and the others, there are those of tiefling refugees who managed to survive against all odds.

Somewhere in this city where’s hope, and Wyll will be damned if he does not find it.

***

“Home sweet home,” Nemo smirks as they approach the building on the poor side of town. It seems to be the shoemaker’s shop, a small and unassuming building with the words ‘Flymm's Cobblers’ scratched on the plate near the front. “Didn’t expect this would be first place you’d want to visit.”

“Be quiet,” Gortash snaps back, more tense than Wyll would expect him to be. They are indeed a strange and suspicious group of adventures, with three of their faces put on every wall of the city with the world “reward” underneath. “We’re coming in, I’m taking what’s mine and we leave.”

“So no family reunion then?”

Gortash does not answer, instead working on the lock. Shadowheart looks around just in case, but the streets are empty, quiet. Abandoned.

“This curfew works in our favor,” she comments.

“This curfew is wrong,” Wyll argues.

“Would you two be quiet for a mere fucking moment?” the former lord hisses. “I am trying to do something here.”

“He is breaking into his own home,” Nemo comments helpfully.

“This is not my home and you know it.”

“And yet you still keep things here.”

“No one would think of looking here. Look at this place,” the man manages gesture around without breaking the hold on the lock. “Look at this excuse of a shop. I’m surprised they’re not run down by the debt collectors at the rate they’re going.”

“Wait a moment,” Shadowheart speaks. "You know these people?”

“They’re his-“

“They’re no one.”

The two of the gods’ chosen stare each other down. Nemo is the first to look away.

“Be it your way,” he murmurs. “But I think it’s dumb.”

“You think table manners are dumb.”

“Because they are!”

“Quiet,” Gortash hisses and pushes on the lockpick with the force the poor thing does not deserve. Somehow it works and the lock opens with a soft click. “Inside.”

“Who made you the boss?”

“Nemo, for the fuck’s sake, just once in your goddamn life-“

Shadowheart pushes them all inside and closes the door behind.

“There,” she comments plainly. “That’s better.”

The inside of the store is...quite insignificant, in lack of other, kinder words. The room to the storefront is small, ill-kept and rather unwelcoming. There are pairs of cheap shoes on display behind the counter; not badly-made, but not masterfully either.

Just a little poorly-maintained store in the Lower City, one of the many.

What Enver Gortash is doing here is a question. Nemo called it Gortash's home, but Nemo talks people in circles. His words should be put under scrutiny more often than not.

"Keep watch," the lord barks a command, already climbing the steps, and some part of Wyll wishes to whip the arrogant order off his lips, to remind him he is a lord no more. His fingers tingle with magic, Mizora's gift always ready to draw first blood.

That makes him pause.

Wyll is not that kind of a man and Enver Gortash will not turn him into one.

He resolves to respond with silence, locking gazes with visibly annoyed Shadowheart.

"I fail to see how Nemo finds it charming," she comments, observing the room around them, poorly lit up with the waning moon. "But again, he was raised in a cult."

You were raised in a cult, Wyll almost says, but manages to bit his tongue just in time. This is a dangerous topic.

"And so was I, I suppose," she continues, oblivious to his inner turmoil. "It's funny, I'd never thought Bhaal and Shar would be so alike; in their methods, if nothing else."

"All things evil tend to walk the same path," he offers tentatively, listening closely to the surroundings. So far things seem to be going smoothly. There's not a sound around, not as much as a creak of the stairs. The rooms above are silent, obvious to the intruders no doubt ravaging through things.

An echo of steps appears in the distance, and they crouch by the windows, peeking outside. A single steel watcher walks by, its steps mechanical and devoid of any life. A monstrosity of infernal iron, connected to the tadpole somewhere deep in the Foundry. Gortash told them that much after it became clear the Watchers are no longer his to command.

How they're going to defeat the Elder Brain in possession of one of netherstones is a mystery clouded in a failure.

"Look," Shadowheart murmurs, touching his shoulder. "Near the counter. Isn't that Gortash?"

And indeed it is him, or rather a very well-made portrait of him. It looks expensive and entirely out of place in the poor cobbler's store.

"That's weird," Wyll comments. "Should we investigate this place while our companions are busy?"

Shadowheart makes a face.

"I don't want to think what is it exactly they're busy with," she wrinkles her pretty nose. "Everything concerning these two is bad news."

Wyll can't not agree with that.

They swiftly move to get closer to the portrait, but before they reach it, the small door behind the corner creaks open.

They freeze.

"Who is here?" A shrill voice of an older woman demands and then the woman herself appears, dressed in a cheap nightgown with a shawl draping over her shoulders. "Who is it who dares to break into my house?"

There's something familiar in the crook of her nose, in the shape of her eyes; but Wyll can't for the life of his figure out what.

"Wyll," Shadowheart whispers, suddenly tense. "Can you feel it? This woman, she is..."

Wyll closes his eyes and concentrates on his surroundings, and indeed he can. The pull, not unlike the ones he has felt before, in the presence of so called True Souls.

"She has a tadpole," he whispers back. They could just...navigate conversation though their unusual link granted by tadpoles in their heads, but neither Wyll not Shadowheart like doing that. They have been stripped of personal space for long enough, he thinks, no need to break that little what remains of the inner walls.

"She does," Shadowheart agrees. "And it almost like...Like something fights it, tries to push the worm away, but to no avail."

"Her real mind perhaps, part of it not controlled by the tadpole?"

"Perhaps," she agrees. "I will try to reach out to it."

And, before he manages to stop her, she does.

The revelation it brings them both is worse than they could have expected.

***

Wyll pulls back at the sound of the steps above, interrupting the woman's inner pleas.

His mother. This woman, Sally Flymm, is Enver Gortash’s mother.

Worse, she sold her son - the spiteful ungrateful brat as she called him - to a warlock.

Worst of all, the tadpole in her brain is her son's doing.

The loud voice of said son interrupts his line of thoughts.

"We need to go," Gortash tells someone, irritation clear in his voice. "Let go of my forearm, if you may."

"But my boy," a man's voice replies. "You only just returned home, surely you will stay-"

"This is not my home," the lord cuts off sharply. "And I'm not staying. Come on," he nods at Wyll. "I have all we need, there's no reason to stay in this wretched place any longer."

"Enver," Sally Flymm, or rather the tadpole operating her body, speaks. "You won't rob us of your presence so quickly, will you? Please, I beg of you, at least stay for a tea. I can make some sweet to go by. Not a feast worthy of archduke, but-"

"No," he cuts off. Wyll can't help but notice the tension in his shoulders, the sharp edge in his voice. Enver Gortash has orchestrated this concerto, yet hates to participate.

For the first time since ever Wyll can't fault him for that. His father has his flaws and he did banish Wyll from his home - for a good reason -, but Ulder Ravengard would never do something like the cruel deed of the Flymms.

Nemo trails behind his companion, quiet for a change, eyes shrewd and thoughtful. Wyll knows Nemo is a noisy person and he bets the bhaalspawn reached for the man's mind the same way Shadowheart reached for Sally's. He wonders what Nemo found there.

They leave as quickly as they came, and just as quietly. The portrait on the wall doesn't leave Wyll's mind. It's expensive and well-made presence clashes with the environment, making him suspect how the portrait appeared there in the first place.

They sold him into slavery, he thinks, and his heart aches for the little boy Enver Flymm used to be. And in return he locked them inside their minds and made repeat the words of admiration.

Somehow it rings even worse than if Gortash had simply killed them. Somehow it tells more of the deep unhealed wound on the tyrant's soul.

It sure as hell does not excuse a thing, but at least gives some explanations to why.

"So," Nemo starts as they almost reach their hideout. Renting rooms in Elfsong was out of question, that with sparse recourses they have and being haunted by the law. By Elder Brain using the law for a tool, Wyll mentally corrects himself. So abandoned house close to the docks was pretty much their only option. That or the sewers, and Wyll really didn't want to camp in there. "Nice place. I like what you did to it."

There's an undeniable undertone to his words Gortash catches on almost immediately. He whips his head to the spawn, staring him down. Nemo only smiles languidly, clearly pleased with- himself? Situation they found themselves in? What Enver Gortash did to his parents?

The last one, Wyll decides. It would be the kind of thing Nemo appreciates.

Nemo seems to have a personal vendetta against parents all around the world, an echo of his existence as a child of a cruel god.

After a moment of scrutinizing inspection in which Gortash stared into Nemo's face as if looking for a trick and Nemo stared right back, relaxed under such pressing attention, the lord's posture slightly eases.

"Thank you," he lets out, turning away. "I knew you would get it."

There's strange, ominous kind of silence that falls between them.

Wyll can feel Nemo's mind buzz with elation and dark satisfaction. Not only he approves of Gortash's treatment of his parents, but the mere fact of said treatment makes him...not exactly happy, but cheerful, like a child who got the candy.

Wyll once again grieves for a boy Nemo never was, for a life created for a single, awful purpose.

He swears to break the chains tying his friend to the god of Murder.

***

"You need to break out of Bhaal's hold," Shadowheart states as they close the door to their hideout, Gortash quick to leave them behind and stroll for the room he claimed as his. Nemo turns around, curious.

"I do not exactly disagree with that statement," he hums. "But why bring it now?"

The woman reaches out, raising her hand, then letting it drop before it touches the spawn.

"It's just a thought I had," she replies, visibly closing off. Wyll sighs and wraps his arms each around one of his companions, feeling them both tense.

Children of the cults, playthings of the evil gods.

He will not leave them to it.

"Because you owe nothing to the evil who claims to be your god," he replies instead.

Nemo snorts.

"I'm pretty sure I owe him my own existence. Made of the god's flesh, remember?"

"Did you ask to be made?" that shuts the half-elf down. "That's what I thought. No child should bear the weight of their parent's expectations the way you do, not even a child of a god."

"Especially not a child of a god," Shadowheart chimes in. "And...I just had a curious thought. Parents sure are the first gods we ever worship, aren't they?"

Wyll contemplates it for a moment, but has to agree. Once upon a time Ulder Ravengard was his everything: his father, his hero, the symbol of everything Wyll strived to be.

Now he is but a tired warrior in a fight bigger than his life. Now he looks mortal.

This, Wyll thinks, is what growing up feels like.

"Are we going to address what we saw in that shop?" He asks quietly and is sure his friends understand the meaning.

"Depends," Nemo hums. "Do you want to get a bolt in the lungs? Kidney if you're lucky."

Shadowheart laughs, quietly as if she isn't sure she is allowed to.

Wyll wonders how hard it is to kill a goddess; Shar has it coming anyway, after the Shadow curse and all the grief it brought.

"I'll pass," he comments instead, hugging his friends closer.

"Oh, a group hug," Astarion's voice reaches them before the vampire does. "Why are you having a group hug without us?"

"Because they're evil," Karlach comments. "Very evil. No fun. No hugs for me either, it seems. Despite, you know, me being the best hugger in the world."

Shadowheart laughs again, brighter this time, her cheeks warm. Wyll doesn't miss the way cleric brightens up in the presence of their fiery friend.

"That's true," Nemo comments, snaking out of Wyll's embrace. "I indeed am the worst person you'll ever meet. Now, if you excuse me, my evil deeds await," and he goes for the stairs, slightly wary around Karlach as he passes her by.

Wyll hates it, he hates the tension what has grown out between them ever since Nemo's confession and even more - after Gortash unexpectedly joining in. It's like they're drawing lines in the sand, with Nemo being steadily on one side with Gortash, and them - on the other.

He had thought they have built alliances, what they've grown closer, became friends, but the blunt way Nemo keeps choosing tyrant over them puts it in question.

Astarion seems to gravitate to where Nemo is, almost subconsciously, Wyll isn't even sure the spawn knows he does it.

Gale is staying aside for now, not willing to pick a side and not ready to condemn anyone.

Jaheira, surprisingly, is much warmer to Nemo than anyone would expect her to be.

It has to be the way Nemo denies his father; the way the struggle is clear on his face as Lord Bhaal calls for his wayward son; the way half-elf demands answers for how to defeat him from the harper: "How did Abdel Adrian did it? How did he free himself from the Dread Lord's bloody hold? How, how, how? Help me defy him, help me deny him. He will not have me, I am his puppet no more."

Halsin stays on some distance from Nemo, taking a stance similar to Gale's. He doesn't exactly like Nemo, that much is clear, but he also cannot deny his part of breaking the Shadow curse. Why Nemo even helped with that is a question Wyll still battles with. He hopes it is because, despite everything, there is a part of his friend that seeks light, what wishes to do good. What it's not just the lack of former power what makes Nemo form alliances and rescue refugees. Wyll believes there's goodness in him.

He hopes he isn't wrong.

He also hopes he won't have to fight Nemo, what he will not cross the line, does not breach the point of no return.

There's an awful thought what the point of no return has been crossed long before that. Fifty years of servitude to Bhaal is a long time. A long reign of blood and terror.

"What deeds?" Karlach calls out, almost grasping Nemo by the wrist, the man dancing out of the touch at the last moment.

"I already said: evil."

"Nemo."

Nemo sighs.

"Fine, fine, I'll answer," he became less cooperative since Gortash. A lot of things changed for worse since that. "I want to try and track assassins operating through the city. Some of them should've kept their brains in their heads and know what's good for them."

"And what's good for them?" Wyll isn't sure he likes where it's going.

"Me, obviously. Not my dreadful father and definitely not Orin, tadpoled or not."

"We need to find Minsc before you decide to deal with your family business," Jaheira interferes, appearing as if out of the thin air.

"I know," half-elf nods. "I have already contacted some of Ninefingers' run-arounds. I believe we will be allowed to enter her little den, but can't promise she will cooperate."

Jaheira's eyebrows climb up.

"You two know each other?"

"We do," Nemo sighs. "We had a truce of sorts after our organizations clashed badly. Same sewers, you know. People would run into each other sooner or later."

"I find it hard to believe she would agree to a truce so easily."

"I didn't say it was easy. It was a pain in the ass, actually. And I'm pretty sure the truce doesn't stand anymore, Orin would ruin all my hard work the moment she had the chance."

"I can't believe you've been a cult leader for thirty years," Karlach comments. "What did you even do? No, don't say it, I know, e-"

"Evil things," Nemo replies, a shit-eating grin pulling the corners of his lips up.

Karlach sighs loudly and rather dramatically.

"There is more in the world than evil things, you know?"

"Hm," Nemo hums. "Let me think about it. I'm sure I've heard something about things other than evil, but can't exactly point out to where..."

"Alright, smartass, I give up."

"Already?" Another sharp smile. "That was-" words die on his lips out of sudden, along with the smile. It slides off as if poorly drawn picture being washed away. His muscles tense, a telltale of the pain to come.

Shit. Not again, not so soon.

"Nemo?" Karlach tries warily.

"Get the fucking chains," Nemo manages to croak. "I- his face contorts in a painful spasm. "-hate this par-" he chocks on his words, biting into his own tongue. A thin trail of blood appears on his chin.

"Hold on, darling," Astarion seems to be that particular kind of fool who does not fear Nemo even when he should be. Even then it's the sane thing to do. Instead he steps closer, hands reaching to Nemo's.

"No!" He bhaalspawn gasps. "Chains-"

Karlach rushes back into the room, and when did she leave? She drops a long chain over Nemo's shoulders and starts fixing the locks.

"I hate everything about it," Wyll comments as his hands already move to cast the spell. He does hate every part of it.

"Shh," Astarion, almost obvious to the ruckus around, cups Nemo's cheeks in his palms. "I got you."

"Get away from me," Nemo tries to order, his voice breaking into a roar at the end. "Astarion, please, just get away-" his body convulses as power beyond man's control takes a hold, breaking bones and tendrils alike. It never goes the full way, the transformation Bhaal inflicts on his son, but it's no less horrifying for that.

"What's up with you lot this time?" Gortash descends the steps in a hurried annoyance, brought back by the noise. He freezes midway at the sight. "Again? The last time was just-"

"Father doesn't exactly care for the timing," it has to be a sheer need to have the last word what pushes words through Nemo's lungs. He chocks on the air then, trashing in the chains holding him down. Shadowheart joins her spell to Wyll's, amplifying it, as Jaheira's vine creeps about the spawns body, locking it in it's hold.

There's not a shadow of a smug expression on Gortash's face. Instead there's a look of someone staring straight into the abyss and not being able to look away.

"Stop-" Nemo croaks. "Staring...Creep."

Astarion laughs, a shrill and pained sound it is.

"You have an awful taste in men," he comments, smoothing the creases on the bhaalspawn’s shirt.

"Astarion, get out of there," Jaheira commands. "He isn't safe to be around now."

"I know that," the spawn huffs in annoyance. And yet he moves nowhere, a hand circling in smooth motion over Nemo's heart now. Nemo tries to claw at him, but the vines and the chains hold him down. Then he snaps his teeth dangerously close to Astarion's face.

"Well, now," the elf comments, entirely unbothered. "We ask before we bite."

"Since...then?"

"Since we learned we're more than just rabid beasts driven by hunger. Now," Astarion glances back at Shadowheart already casting the spell. "Rest, darling."

The sleeping spell hits Nemo in the head and gets to work immediately. The bhaalspawn struggles, before succumbing to it and sliding to the floor in a heap of limbs.

Everyone breathes out.

"Well, then," Wyll concludes. "It's another night of watching over our friend. Who takes the first shift?"

#bg3 #gortash x durge #durgetash #dark urge: nemo #empty prayers au #hinted astarion x durge #a lot of thinking and reminiscing on Wyll's part. idk if I managed to capture his character but I Tried #i keep feeling this is very ooc but also do i care?#au: everything went differently after the Moonrise Towers #au: dark urge remembers everything #the mental gymnastics I have to perform in order to make Nemo the scum he is and also keep him friends with the team is...uh #A Lot #Unbetad unproofread idc #tadpole got to me #1000 voices in my head tell me I forgot how to write #1001 voice asks: of but who gives a fuck?#not the 1001th voice clearly

29 notes · View notes

darthbloodorange · 2 months

Text

Getting Ready

Rating: Gen Universe: Baldur's Gate 3 Pairings: Tav/Wyll Ravengard, Gale Dekarios & Karlach Cliffgate & Wyll Ravengard Characters: Wyll Ravengard, Karlach Cliffgate, Gale Dekarios Warnings: None Major Tags: Fluff, Very light Hurt/Comfort, First Dates, Devil Wyll Ravengard, Unnamed Tav, Tav's gender isn't brought up, POV Wyll Ravengard Word count: 100 - Drabble

Summery: Karlach and Gale help Wyll get ready for Tav.

For the: ✦ WyllWeek2024 Day 1 prompt: “Date”

(I only just discovered this event. Hours before it's end. AHhhhhhHhhhH!!! But I love Wyll. Not enough time to do art, but time enough for some drabbles? I hope I'm not too late. Regardless, I can't say I regret writing a few drabbles for Wyll.)

Read below or on AO3 -HERE-

"Keep still, soldier!" Karlach admonishes lightly, swatting his shoulder with the cloth she'd been using to polish his horns.

Wyll holds up his hands in surrender with a small laugh. "Sorry."

"No. You're not," Gale says, opening up a jar of something glossy and sparkly.

"No," he admits, feeling his face heat, "I'm not." He hasn't smiled this much for a long time. His cheeks were beginning to hurt.

With careful fingers, Gale applied the gel to his face.

"Tav's gonna love you," Karlach says proudly.

For the first time in weeks, Wyll looks into the mirror... feeling good. Happy.

THE END

#wyllweek2024 #DND #BG3 #Wyll Ravengard #Karlach Cliffgate #Gale Dekarios #TavWyll #BG3 Tav #Devil Wyll Ravengard #Wyllmance #Fluff #Hurt/Comfort #First Dates #Unnamed Tav #POV Wyll Ravengard #DarthBloodOrange #DarthBloodOrangeWrites #Drabble

9 notes · View notes

m3rricat · 2 months

Text

You Do Not Have To Be Good - Ch. 1

Story summary: Four months after the defeat of the Netherbrain, Astarion finds himself stuck in the mire of his past and all the anger and despair that comes with it. While wrestling with her traveling-companion-turned-lover’s misery, Cat makes an impulsive decision that sets off their first falling-out. This post-game short story is told alongside the full in-game story of the evolving relationship between Cat (the not-a-bard) and Astarion (needs no introduction) which varies from canon. Told from both POVs.

Chapter Masterlist

Pairing: Astarion x female Tav

Chapter Content Warnings: mild gore, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 4974

Read on AO3

The cobbles under Astarion’s boots are slick with rain from the day. It makes the night pungent: the stench of rotting garbage in the streets and sewage from a thousand chamber pots flowing toward the harbor is so overwhelming he is practically swimming in it. But it doesn’t matter, because the anger pulsing through his veins is a hot relief. Even as it galls him, it cuts through the haze of creeping misery, and for the first time in weeks he feels sharp. Feels as alive as one undead can.

He had smelled it on her skirts. Faded and stale, but there all the same. The mildew in Cazador’s dungeon must have been its own strain, for he had smelled it nowhere else until he had on Cat, minutes ago.

Astarion had woken that evening and found it was to be a night where his mind was fitful, see-sawing back and forth from the present to the past which inevitably overlaid every street and every alley here in his old stalking grounds. It was a poor time for his broken brain to betray him. He had a hunt tonight. More properly, a bounty hunt, or state-sanctioned feeding as he had called it in the hearing of the newly-minted Grand Duke Ravengard. Astarion had gone to him weeks back for leave to get a license. His delightful joke had earned a grimace but no outright rebuke from darling Wyll. Cat had also rolled her eyes, but her lips quirked in amusement he knew she could not help. Not with him. That had been a good day. One of the few this past month.

On his way out that night, his path had crossed with Cat’s in the airy, earth-smelling main hall of Jaheira’s house, who had graciously agreed to put them up for a while when they returned to the city. Thinking back, Cat had been distracted. Her smile hadn’t quite reached her eyes. Though maybe that was because he had been… trying to deal with lately. But either way, he had dutifully stepped into her embrace, accepted her loving admonishment to be careful, will you? Most times he thought it awfully adorable given that he was back up to his full vampiric strength and speed that the tadpole had taken from him. But this night, just as she said it, that smell reached his nose. And all hell broke loose.

The stench jolts him out of his body. Even as he watches himself round on Cat, he is back there writhing on the stone in the dark, his throat raw from screaming as Godey goes in for another nail with his pliers. He sees her trying not to cry, trying to calmly answer his demands of why in the hells did she go there, go there without telling him? That wretched place where she has no business, where she must be prying or plotting or hiding something from him. Betraying him. Picking at his wounds. Her apology is choked but painfully sincere. She should have told him, should have told him right off. She squeezes her eyes shut as she tries to explain. She barely knows herself. Him struggling with the past, and his memories that are in her own mind. She wanted to—she doesn’t know. Put them down there, nail them to where they were made. Wanted to loosen their grip on her mind—and, and—

Nevermind her insane prattling. Her strangeness that he cannot stand, gods damn it. It is the most untrue thing he says to her. He sweeps out the door with his burning anger before Cat’s tears can smother it.

How did it go so wrong?

That little charmed interlude after their victory over the Netherbrain was gone like a dream. Those first three months he and Cat had caroused along the Sword Coast: by night, searching for leads to let him walk in the sun, and by day, holing up in whatever cozy crypt or cave or cellar and searching each other’s bodies for other sorts of leads. They were wildly, disgustingly in love and it so completely consumed him he thought the feeling would never end. But then, of course, the day he felt most deep in contentment was the day he realized what he had tried to run from had already slithered back into its old well-worn burrows. Had molded over his bright new happiness.

Because how could Astarion be happy? Him, the corpse that had been little more than a puppet for 200 years, had been beaten and flayed and burned and penetrated every which way by a thousand strangers, taken from himself so thoroughly. How could so degraded a vessel contain happiness? Around that three-month mark, while still out on the road, these thoughts start to skirt through his mind like shadows, there and gone in a blink. But then the shadows start to gather. Start to linger. Some days they shade everything he sees. Everything Cat says.

He begins to see her with double vision. Part of him still sees naked, unabashed love in her eyes. But the sharp and cold part of his mind that has kept him in one piece these past centuries begins to know the truth. It begins to whisper. Now and then, it will suddenly reveal the disgust in her glances, the disgust any reasonable person would have for one like him. He sees the weight he is on her, the dead body drowning in itself that she must carry, must cajole and comfort and leave alone when he snaps at her for solitude, when she has done nothing in particular to deserve it. Because he is hateful, pathetic. A burden, a tangled mass of them, who can’t do such a simple thing as be here and now.

They had always planned to return to the Gate after some months to rest, to raise up funds again for the search. But when Cat mentions turning around, all Astarion hears is her defeat in the face of him. He cannot blame her. He does his best to swallow his venom, but he is tight-lipped and sullen, trailing after her unfailingly patient back all the way to the city. He manages, from time to time, to break the surface of his self-loathing, reaches out with all the affection he can muster, mutters apologies, and she holds him, and for a moment he believes again. But then she must let go, and he sinks back down, trying to keep the memory of her love in his dead lungs.

She does not say a cutting word against him through all his moods. Cat has always been a master at keeping her own counsel. It was one of the first things he learned about her in those early days of their acquaintance, and he did not much care for it then.

It is six months ago, and Astarion is standing over her while their merry worm-brained band make camp on a cliff overlooking the fleshy wreck of the Nautiloid. She is the oddest one out, he thinks: an armored cleric, a subpar wizard, a delightfully terrifying alien warrior—and then there is Cat. A human-elf mutt of some mixture, pretty in a plain way, with her crooked nose and brown freckled face. So common that it’s oddly familiar. She looks like a serving wench that has been flung down from the sky and rolled in some dirt because that is exactly what she is. It is one of the few things anyone is able to pry out of her early on. The most she has said to him was at their introduction the day before, where she had promised to shove the knife he pointed at her down his throat. He somehow still wound up included in her little group, but had gotten little more than unreadable looks from her since.

“Rather dour for a bar maid, aren’t you?” he ventures as she arranges the firewood. She replies with the new longest string of words she has ever said to him, blandly suggesting that he slosh some beer on her and grab her ass and maybe that would get her in the right mindset. And then she turns back to tending the firewood.

Despite Cat’s few words, she seizes the reins of their little troop early on. Astarion pinpoints her ascension to the night when the glum cleric brought back a rabbit she had caught for dinner, but neither she nor the wizard knew how to prepare it. The Gith was useless as she would have just eaten it raw. They stared down pathetically at the tiny carcass until Cat sighed, picked it up, and took it away to drain and dress.

Cat being vaulted to the leadership position is also due to the quiet firmness about her that Astarion cannot square. She can squeeze out only some basic spells. She is barely competent with a crossbow. Shouldn’t she be utterly out of her element, with a worm gnawing on her brain and other monstrosities trying to kill them daily? It makes Astarion suspicious. There is only room for one con artist in this group, and he has already claimed that spot.

In those first few days, countless times he decides to abandon these ingrates and strike out on his own. But doubt stops him, even after they get leads for possible solutions. That Gith crèche is one. But he would need their resident Gith for that. Perhaps she could be persuaded to go off with him… but he doubted it. She had deferred to Cat like a kicked dog when Cat intervened in her interrogation of that blubbering tiefling. The only other apparent option was the head druid, but hundreds of goblins swarmed between him and Astarion.

And then there was his particular predicament—this thing writhing in his skull had granted him a species of freedom. How could Astarion possibly thread the needle and keep it, control the worm and not destroy it like everyone else intended should happen? So he goes in maddening circles, each time finding himself back in camp.

If he is a tad honest with himself, Astarion’s crippling indecision is also due to the fact that he is afraid. Incredibly, mind-numbingly afraid, and he has no idea what he should do. He has been forcibly taken from his master, but that will not save him when he is found again. His dream of Cazador that first night only reinforces the rationality of his all-encompassing terror, and his ire toward his lickspittle companions who seem content to casually stroll toward the general direction of a solution, taking in the sights along the way.

Astarion’s anger peaks in the dank chambers of the Emerald Grove when Cat betrays how weak she is. She tells the dwarf healer everything, blabbering on about the worms and the ship and the mind-merging—everything, to a perfect stranger. And Cat gets exactly what she deserves: no cure, and a threat of bodily harm if she does not promise to kill herself at the first sign of a cold sweat. Instead of chucking the bottle of wyvern poison back in the dwarf’s face as she should have done, she accepts he theoretical suicide graciously and pockets it. Astarion tries to wrestle the scowl off his face until they are out of the warrens full of wary druids.

He must do something. Leave, or stage a coup, or somehow convince the half-elf wench to grow a spine since she has everyone’s ear already.

As they set up camp on a ridge overlooking the Sacred Grove, Astarion makes up his mind to try the least drastic option first. He goes in search of Cat, but finds her occupied with yet another distraction. A crying tiefling—what is with all these crying tieflings?—is sat on a rock just down the ridge clutching a lute, and Cat is crouched beside her, talking low, her hands far more expressive than Astarion has ever seen them.

The tiefling sniffles and plays a phrase; Cat stops her, talks and gestures, and then the tiefling tries again. Over and over this repeats. Several minutes later the girl manages to eke out something passable, her voice cracking as she tries to sing along. Cat stands and after a brief word turns to leave, but the girl grabs her arm, and Astarion can hear her thanking Cat profusely, telling her she has a gift in return. She totters over to her packs, pulls out a long-ish wooden case, and hands it to Cat.

Astarion can see the stiffness in Cat’s arms as she holds the box. She’s staring down at the thing like it might bite. The tiefling is expounding again. Cat mutters something without look up and marches off up the path toward the camp, tucking the case under her arm.

From his vantage point in the shadow of a tent, Astarion watches Cat veer away from the camp at the last second, stop at a stump just off the path, and put the case down on it. She stares at it as the sun goes down, hands on her hips. It feels like an age before she sighs, unlatches it, and with a smooth movement removes a glossy violin and bow and brings it to her shoulder.

Shit.

She deftly begins to tune it, face furrowed in concentration. Her arms seem suddenly graceful, holding it all in a frame that is both solid and easy. Practiced. Because she is practiced, as Astarion knows. Because now he realizes he has seen her before.

Two times it was. Seven—no, eight years ago now. The first time, she is practically swaggering into Cazador’s upper city offices after hours in her gown straight from a private performance at patriar so-and-so’s. Her eyes slide over Astarion who is posted outside the door, her mind clearly preoccupied. Cazador had pulled him from the hunt that night, needing someone to play the manservant at this meeting.

Cat—she did not just go by 'Cat' back then, surely?—is Cazador’s fixation of the month. Cazador always considered himself a poet, and relatedly, a patron of the fine arts. He usually had some musician or painter or other under his thumb to fulfill his demented artistic whims, and when they tried to wiggle out from under, he sucked them dry more literally.

Cat has caught Cazador’s eye for the same reasons why she has become the general darling of the upper city arts circles. She is a violin prodigy with both incredible technical expertise and astonishingly inventive composition. But more than that, she can play the Weave as easily as her instrument. Most sinisterly, she can also twist the emotions of her audience with terrifying precision. A typical bard might sow a general fear with their songs, but Cat can coax out your specific worst childhood memory, or the delicious pangs of your first love. It is like catnip to the rich and powerful, this beauty with the potential for pain.

Cazador must have her. First he muses about turning her, claiming her talents forever, but he quickly discards the notion as Cat would be unlikely to retain her skills. The dead, even animated, have duller senses of touch than the warm-blooded and are far less dexterous without effort: it took Astarion a good decade to become even middling with a sewing needle. No, patronage it would be.

Except, apparently, it would not. Astarion can barely make out the words through the solid oak door, but the progression of tone makes it clear that things are going south between his master and this woman. She is saying no, rather bluntly. This would be a first. A tendril of pleasure curls in his stomach. Oh, she is doomed. But she has rankled Cazador, and that is what Astarion lives for.

The second time comes several days later. Cazador has pulled him for servant duty again, this time to escort him at a concert. The concert of the season, in fact, which features Cat as a soloist. Cazador has not said a word about any plans. But Astarion knows he has one. Knows that this will be the woman’s last happy evening, one way or another.

He is sat behind his master. As ever, his eyes are drawn to Cazador, the fire of his hatred always burning in his belly, even when it is banked low. He tries to make his eyes wander the audience, the orchestra, the lavish hall, to steal something beautiful to tuck away in his mind, but inevitably they snap back to the arbiter of his world.

At the end of the evening, Cat strides onto the stage with that same swagger as when he first saw her, beaming at the audience’s roar of approval. Astarion does not feel bad for her, per se. She is just another unlucky wretch in his master’s way. He watches events unfold with detached interest, like watching a carriage crash.

She looks radiant as the orchestra strikes up the triumphant third movement of the concerto. She comes in on her cue, gets several notes in, and falters. With a game face, she tries to dive back in, but her bow squawks against the strings instead. Astarion cannot hear Cazador, but he can very nearly feel the vibrations as his master incants whatever curse or hex is settling over her, strangling her well-tread neural pathways. Cat’s face is pinched with fear now. She stares out at the audience wildly, unseeing—and then Astarion sees the moment her eyes lock on Cazador. She knows it is him. But she is caught, and she cannot stop it. The din of the orchestra garbles and then crumbles as Cat runs off stage.

Astarion expects his master to order him to track down the woman in a few months’ time to drag her back to the palace for her final comeuppance when she is well out of the spotlight, but the order never comes. Cazador seems to have forgotten her, as has the rest of the Gate’s high society.

But here she has come crawling out again, probably from inside of a bottle drowning her sorrows since. Astarion had known Cat was hiding something. Perhaps she speaks little because does not want to exhume her past. Maybe she does not want her fall from grace revealed.

Astarion then wonders if she has recognized him—if she thinks he had anything to do with what happened that night. Astarion grits his teeth as he continues to watch her tune the fiddle. This made things more complicated—except, no, he decides forcibly. It is straightforward. Cat is a broken person, and he has proof now. He had intended to approach with flattery, but now he knows he must probe the wound, find out how deep it is. If he cannot convince her to be more ruthless, then she must go, or he.

Just as he is about to corner Cat, Shadowheart calls the group to supper. Cat stops her tuning abruptly and shoves the instrument back in its case. She carries it over to the tents and dumps it unceremoniously inside her own before joining.

Astarion almost misses Cat the next morning. He is perched on a rock outcropping to watch the sun come up, the one thing he has found that makes him happy in this mess, when Cat darts out of her tent. He did not expect her to rise this early as she had never done so before. It is not until she has already set off on a path to the far side of the ridge with her violin case under her arm that he spots her and begins following her at a distance through the scrubby underbrush.

The Chionthar flows on the other side, looking molten in the early morning light. Cat sets down her case on a flat rock wedged into the sandy bank. Just as she snaps it open, Astarion steps out of the shadows.

“We’ve met before. Haven’t we?”

Cat spins around, startled. The bow is clutched in her right hand. She looks slightly wild. Her mousy hair, normally braided and bound up, is drooping in a messy bun and she doesn’t have a jacket on over her stays. Her stare is severe for a second, but to Astarion’s surprise, it eases slightly. She regards him carefully.

“’Seen,’ maybe. I know I never said a word to you,” she says in her slight drawl that Astarion hasn’t yet been able to place.

“So you do remember. But you never said a thing.” Astarion strolls toward her. "I didn’t even recognize you until you picked up that fiddle yesterday. How the mighty have fallen.”

Cat casually leans back on the rock, folding her arms. Her tone is cool as she says, “You want to take a dig at me? Go on. I didn’t think you cared much for what your patriar boss did, though.”

“Oh?” Astarion frowns. “And what would you know about that?”

Cat smiles slightly. “I saw how you looked at him. You were staring at the back of his head the whole night like you wished it would explode.” She picks at the top of the bow with her finger. “I wanted to shake your damn hand then. Everyone told me he was eccentric but—eugh,” she shudders. “I felt like—like a pretty bug he wanted to put a pin in when he was talking at me in his office. And I know it was him that scrambled my brain.” She looks back up at him, serious. “What did he do to me?”

Astarion is honest. “I haven’t the faintest.”

Cat sighs. Shrugs. “Figured. You still working for him?”

“Uh—” Astarion stutters. He is thoroughly thrown off his plan now. She seems far from broken, or even ruffled. “No. I—that is, no. Ancient history.”

“Good for you,” says Cat feelingly. “He must be hell to work for.”

Visions of Cazador’s eyes glowing with command burn through Astarion’s brain. “Yes,” he says, distantly. “He left…much to be desired.”

The silence stretches as Astarion fights through the sudden wave of intrusive thoughts. Cat peers at him, her face tinged with concern. “What did he do to you?”

“My past is not your business,” Astarion snaps as echoes of what Cazador did to him rattle through his body. The anger wakes him back up to his purpose. “But what is of everyone’s concern—you leading us to our deaths.”

Cat blinks, straightening up. “What in the hells are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about all the entanglements you’ve led us into in this blasted grove—but mainly I’m talking about that suicide pact you made. What were you thinking?”

Cat frowns. “Suicide? Oh, you mean taking that poison from Nettie? Well…” Her eyes scan his face. Measuring. “…I lied. Not like she’s going to follow me around to make sure I do.”

Astarion sags slightly at the sudden lack of resistance. It’s not like the thought hadn’t occurred to him. But he had no reason to think she hadn’t been earnest with all her other do-gooder deeds so far. “Then why haven’t you said a thing to anyone? You rather like not saying anything about anything, don’t you?”

“And if I did come right out and say that I’m not killing myself at the first sign, what do you think the others would do? Lae’zel would just chop me down right there,” Cat retorts. “They don’t need to know. Won’t hurt them.”

Astarion has to concede she had a point. But these revelations still put him on edge. When would he be the one she strategically declined to tell her true intentions? His view of her had gotten both better and worse.

For now, he should just try to make her feel aligned with him, he decides. “Glad I’m not the only sane one here.” He plasters on a smile. “Ceremorphosis has already been delayed unnaturally long. I say we can stand to dance on the edge a bit.”

“A bit. Sure. Figure until our teeth start getting loose.”

Astarion suddenly shrinks his smile, to make sure his own teeth aren’t too apparent. “Very well. If your teeth start rattling around in your skull, I’ll be happy to provide the coup de grâce. Any preferences?”

“Preferences?” she smiles, perplexed. “For how you’ll kill me?”

Astarion opens his arms generously. “Of course. It’s the least I can do for our fearless leader.”

Cat rolls her eyes. “Leader, my foot.” But to his surprise, she ponders the question. “You’re good with a knife. Bet you could get it between my ribs easy, straight to the heart.”

He bows. “As you wish, darling. A good stabbing it is.”

“So kind. But really, whatever you can manage,” Cat replies in mock-graciousness. Then absently she rubs her neck. “Just not strangulation. Please.” Before Astarion can probe into that little aside, Cat continues— “And how about you?”

“What?”

“How do you want me to kill you?” Her face is disarmingly earnest.

“Oh, my dear,” he laughs. “I’d like to see y—”

And that’s when he hears it. Suddenly the most beautiful, heartrending music Astarion has ever heard floats in on the breeze from the river. It is singing, but wordless. It didn’t need words. He could live on it, sustained by it forever—

“Cover your ears!” Cat yells suddenly, rudely cutting through the heavenly sound. But the jolt makes Astarion realize something is wrong. He has unconsciously taken a few steps toward the river bank. Trembling, he raises his hands to his ears.

Beside him, Cat is gritting her teeth and putting the violin to her shoulder. She looks out on the river. Astarion follows her gaze, still feeling hazy. A woman crouches on a sandbar several yards out into the current. At least—he thinks it is a woman. But as it shifts, he sees the wings, the stunted body crouching on claws. A harpy. She is singing full-throated.

Beside him, Cat stares at her strings grimly and slowly begins to pick out the harpy’s melody. His attention is caught by a drop of blood at the corner of her mouth—her tongue. She bit it to keep her head, he thinks absently, against the flow of the harpy’s luring call in his brain.

Louder and louder Cat plays, with each pass drowning out the harpy’s voice more and more, until Astarion feels the hold of its song dissipate completely.

But Cat isn’t done. Without warning, a guttural groan suddenly sounds from the fiddle, eliciting a screech from the harpy. Cat is staring at the thing murderously. Again she saws at the strings, this time bringing out a high whine that trembles, and then falls to a scraping moan again. And the harpy lurches. It moves toward them not on its feet, but tumbling forward, as if the horrid sounds coming from Cat’s instrument have lodged like a hook in its throat.

The thing claws for purchase at the sand, at the stones under the water, but it is no use. Cat begins to play in some sort of disjointed rhythm, a bloodcurdling march that reels in the beast until, at last, it lies twitching in a heap at their feet. In no hurry, Cat sets down the violin, unsheathes a dagger from the belt on her dress, yanks the harpy’s head back, and slits its neck from ear to ear, sending spurts of blood into the wet sand as it gurgles its life away.

Coolly, Cat hauls it up by its hair, looking into its twitching face. Then she suddenly grimaces, turning her head to spit a gob of delicious-smelling blood into the pool forming under the harpy. Astarion feels delirious—the blood (oh, the blood), the lingering sounds of the harpy’s song in his brain. But more than that, the curdling screams Cat pulled out of the violin cradled against her throat.

Cat lets the harpy’s corpse drop in a heap and stands up, stretching her back. “I can still do it,” she mutters. “I just can’t do it pretty anymore.”

“You—you undid Szarr’s curse?”

Cat shakes her head. “No. It’s still there, whatever he did. Took me a long time to play at all again. But I’ll never be able to play the Weave like I did. I didn’t want to anyone to see, but—” Cat sighs. “I have to try to be at least halfway useful, seeing as how this found me all the way out here.” She hefts the violin in her hand. “Before, playing the weave was like a math problem. Plain and elegant. But now… it’s like I’m digging around in the dirt for it.”

Astarion has no clue what she means. “Yes, but—you can still do it.” he huffs a laugh. “Kill me any way but that, darling.”

“Oh, no worries there,” Cat says, moving back toward the case perched on the rock. “I grew up with harpies lurking around. I know them inside and out. Most things I’ll never be able manipulate physically like that. And I certainly don’t know enough about you yet to snag you.”

Her gaze then snags on his for a moment before she turns back around. Astarion watches her unassuming figure warily. A thirty-something woman in a tattered dress and tattered stays and grubby stockings she needs to burn at this point. She gently lays the violin in the case. Then she goes to rinse off the bloody knife. Sheaths it. Her tawny eyes, usually brown but gleaming elven-gold in this light, snag on his again.

“Come on. Her sisters will smell this soon enough, and I don’t fancy taking all of them.”

#bg3 fanfic #astarion fanfic #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x female tav #astarion x female oc #baldur's gate 3

11 notes · View notes

odessa-castle · 22 days

Note

'bad end bonanza' and 'all this has happened before' are both calling my name...

all of this has happened before is...I think the only one of my BG3 WIPs that isn't Wyll- or wyllstarion-focused. what can I say, I have my biases. I doubt I'm going to finish it. I wrote/outlined it as more of a character study thing for my durge; the idea was that they'd briefly encountered (most of) the companions at some point before BG3 proper, and you could kind of glimpse the story of their struggle with, and ultimate embrace of, the Urge through those encounters. This is from one of the sections I wrote from their PoV:

In the wracked wreckage of their mind, a scrap of memory: Their hands, lithe and nimble, chaining together a crown of daisies. They set it atop the tousled curls of one of their companions, a human boy with warm amber skin.

bad end bonanza is, uh. It's basically a branching point from the scene in Chapter 12 of NLTS where Ulder goes to see Astarion at the Jasmine Garden, and by "branching point" I mean "if NLTS were a visual novel this would be an early Bad End." Because in this timeline, Astarion doesn't tell Ulder to back off, and well...

“You still think to lecture me about my son?” Ravengard asks. His grip doesn’t tighten, doesn’t shift. “Presumptuous.” Ravengard’s hardly the first person to tell Astarion as much. “Is it more presumptuous than bedding your son’s favorite courtesan in a fit of pique or less, do you think?”

"Odessa," you might say, "how is this the bad end after what happens to Astarion in the main story?" Well, imagine what happens when seventeen-year-old Wyll finds out what his father did, particularly when Astarion tells Wyll that he had no choice in the matter (which, you know, true). On one hand, this would finally get Wyll to cuss out his dad for real. On the other hand, oh boy is Wyll going to get himself killed, and if he doesn't get himself killed, it's probably because he's managed to team up with Gortash, which carries its own set of consequences.

#the ask and the answer #stainedglassthreads #nothing like the sun

13 notes · View notes

ofwraithsandwords · 15 days

Text

Anyway I will write a fic that explores that entry from Duke Ulder Ravengard’s journal when Wyll saw a mermaid from his POV at some point or my name isn’t Smitty Warbenjagermanjensen.

#bg3 #wyll ravengard #ulder ravengard #fanfiction #it might take some time….a long time idk #but it’ll happen!!!!!#mark my words

10 notes · View notes

some-thrilling-heroics · 2 months

Text

Expectations

by yellow_craion

Summary:

A few days after joining Tav and their party of adventurers and sparing Karlach's life, Wyll gets a fever. He's surprised when others are serious about taking care of him.

Chapter 1: fill for Wyllstravaganza 2024 prompt 10 - Burden (Wyll & Tav)

Chapter 2: fill for Wyllstravaganza 2024 prompt 22 - Friendship (Wyll & Halsin)

Chapter 3: fill for Wyllstravaganza 2024 prompt 19 - Bond (Wyll & Gale & Karlach)

NOW COMPLETE! ✌🥰 snippet here

Tags under the cut

Sickfic

Fever

Angst

Team as Family

POV Wyll (Baldur's Gate)

Wyll Needs a Hug (Baldur's Gate)

Nonbinary Tav (Baldur's Gate)

Ulder Ravengard's A+ Parenting

Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Body Image

Self-Conscious Wyll

couple instances of slimy possessive mizora

Non-Consensual Touching (Mizora)

Protective Halsin (Baldur's Gate)

Bathing/Washing

Massage

Touch-Starved

Explicit Consent

Soft Halsin (Baldur's Gate)

Developing Friendships

Non-Sexual Intimacy

Tenderness

Soft Gale (Baldur's Gate)

Gale's Netherese Orb (Baldur's Gate)

Touch-Starved Karlach (Baldur's Gate)

Touch-Starved Gale (Baldur's Gate)

Holding Hands

Cuddling & Snuggling

Head On Lap

Karlach Needs a Hug (Baldur's Gate)

unconventional use of cantrips

Chronic Pain

Protective Gale (Baldur's Gate)

Past Gale (Baldur's Gate)/Mystra (Dungeons & Dragons)

#wyllstravaganza2024 #wyll ravengard #baldur's gate 3 #behold i wrote a thing #mine

7 notes · View notes

mz-elysium · 7 months

Text

wyll ravengard has such main character energy

currently writing an epic retelling of bg3 and he has so much pov. im so happy i get to love him and treat him right in my private google doc. he deserves everything.

17 charisma, born leader; the only adventurer with experience, so natural leader (w/o tav)

karlach hunt

turned into a devil

warlock angst

raphael angst, bc the only reason wyll isn't tempted by soul coins or a pact with the disney villain is bc larian cut it out.

zevlor and The Descent(tm)-traumatized tiefs dont trust the devilboy

re-installing the ea backstory about the goblins bc that shit rocked, so; goblins at the blighted village AND the camp

our boi hates a gobbo

and guess what the big villain of act 1 is??

secretly the duke's son; waukeen's rest

duke kidnapping

MIZORA kidnapping

astarion romance; karlach bffs

OBVIOUSLY will be doing dirty political alliance w.gortash bc who else has any learnings in politics? who has the cha? who has the rizz and strength that gortash would respect?

and ofc being DISHONOURABLE and breaking his vow to gortash bc he's a devil, a warlock, and got daddy problems

#bg3 spoilers #bg3

11 notes · View notes

vagabondfandoms · 2 months

Text

Falls on Me

Day Four: Afternoon

Rating: Mature (Just in case)

Previous Chapters: Chapter One , Chapter Two , Chapter Three , Chapter Four , Chapter Five

Characters: Gale Dekarios, Karlach, F!Tav: Copper, Wyll Ravengard, Astarion, Lae'zel, and Shadowheart.

Warning: Gale POV, Gale x Female Tav, slight mention of female nudity, sexual innuendos, teasing, bullying, fighting/arguing between many people.

The team is divided about the best way to approach the Goblin Camp. Gale and Karlach look for Copper who was missing from the heated discussion.

---

Day 4- Afternoon

When the scouting team came back, they reported only a minor skirmish at the gate because of a feces incident between a goblin and Astarion. Otherwise, Wyll said they were allowed to waltz right into the ravaged temple where the Goblin Leaders resided. Since all the goblins were easily swayed by the powers of the tadpole.

Hearing the news, Gale thought this would be an easy rescue mission. Walk through the drunken goblin party, find the worg pens, retrieve the druid Halsin, and sneak back out.

Gale didn't want to think too much about the unease he felt in the pit of his stomach at the thought of the poor tieflings trying to survive the road to Baulder's Gate. But their team couldn't agree on the best course of action.

Wyll and Karlach were all for killing the goblin leaders. But Astarion and Shadowheart wanted to be more practical and focus on finding the druid so he could heal them of their tadpoles. Lae'zel wanted to skip the whole goblin camp and head towards the Githyanki Creche in the mountains.

Gale was surprised the young warrior wasn't heading out on her own but she must have had more loyalty to their tadpole troupe than he thought. Or at the very least Lae’zel didn't want more mind flyers floating around if her (forced) companions failed at finding a cure.

Gale notices halfway through the heated discussion that he wasn't hearing Copper chiming in. She surely would side with Wyll and Karlach about protecting the tieflings but the monk was nowhere to be found.

After tempers subsided, everybody agreed to find Halsin first and go from there. Karlach pulls Gale in for a talk. “Hey, I wonder where our soldier went? I wanted her around to help argue our point for protecting the refugees.”

Gale doesn't know why Karlach calls Copper "soldier" but he chalks it up to one of the fiery tiefling’s charming oddities. “It's been over an hour since I last saw Copper. I think we should go find her just in case something foul falls upon our charming monk.”

“Agree!” Karlach says enthusiastically. “We’ll be leaving soon for the goblin camp and we'll need Copper to bash in some heads if we get into a fight.”

“Well, the whole point of that argument just now was that we wouldn't get into an altercation with the goblins.” Gale frowns.

“Come on man!” Karlach huffs out in frustration, “I know you don't feel right leaving those tieflings to fend for themselves on the road if we don’t kill the goblin leaders.”

Gale slows down his pace. He doesn't feel right about this decision. But there's a chance if they rescue Halsin he could stop Kagha from completing the Ritual of Thorns, giving the tieflings more time in the grove, and curing them of their tadpole.

Before he could respond, Karlach put a hand out to fully stop Gale in his tracks.

“Whoa, there,” Karlach says in a hushed tone that still carries over the sound of the waterfall that feeds the stream they camped next to. “We found her.”

Gale looks around and spots Copper sitting under the waterfall, her auburn hair barely visible under the gush of falling water. He could only speculate that the monk was completing some sort of meditation because it didn't make any sense to bathe right before entering a filthy goblin camp.

Karlach walks forward and calls towards Copper to get her attention. The woman must have heard the tiefling because soon she starts to move and wades through the water towards them.

Gale notices right away that the thin white shirt Copper is wearing is soaked through and not leaving anything to the imagination about the state of her, umm… ample chest. Gale feels the heat of embarrassment flood his face and he quickly turns his head away. Trying with all his might to will away the arousal that was spreading through his body.

“Such a silly thing to get excited about. I’ve seen hundreds of breasts before.” Gale internally mocks himself but doesn’t acknowledge his thoughts didn’t go as far as to include most of those breasts were illustrations in books.

“Whoa, that water must have been cold.” Karlach laughs. “You're going to poke somebody's eyes out with those things.” She gestures towards Copper's nipples, peeking through the wet shirt. The monk only gives a quick glance down before letting out a small laugh of her own.

“Hey, they aren't that bad!” Copper grins, water droplets running down her face before the smile falters as she notices Gale’s embarrassment.

“Sorry.” Copper says, fidgeting with the wet neckline of her shirt, hoping for some way to cover herself in front of the wizard but failing. “I’m not used to having much privacy in the barracks, sometimes I forget other people aren't comfortable with nudity.”

“Nooo, it's quite alright!” Gale nervously glances at Copper but tries his hardest to keep his gaze up at her face instead of her chest. “But I do think it's breast. Umm, I mean best if you get dressed. We’ll be heading out shortly for the goblin camp.”

Karlach gives out a loud snort of laughter while Gale just wants to sink into a hole and disappear.

“Urgh!” It always feels like he's fumbling his words around Copper lately and Gale doesn't want to investigate the reason why. Especially not now while the woman is pulling up a pair of pants in front of him.

Besides, the orb in his chest and the tadpole in his head cut short any sort of romantic attraction his body might be feeling for his monk companion.

In his desperate attempt to be a gentleman and ignore the half-naked woman in front of him, Gale almost misses Karlach's question. “Hey soldier, why were you sitting under that waterfall anyway? Feeling too hot in this summer heat?”

Fully dressed and wringing out her hair of excess liquid, Copper looks up, her grey eyes drifting in a far-off direction before focusing back on the tiefling.

“I was…purifying my body for the fight ahead.” Copper answers slowly as if she is deliberating on something before deciding to confide in her companions. “I am getting a strange feeling in my gut that there's something in the goblin camp I have to deal with.”

“While you were ummm, busy purifying yourself.” Gale fumbles out, still trying to recover from his earlier embarrassment. “The team decided to avoid confrontation with the goblins and go straight to rescuing the druid Halsin.”

“That's a bullshit idea, Gale, and you know it!” Karlach fumes out. “If we don't take out the goblin leaders those tieflings in the grove are as good as dead.”

“Don't mistake my practicality for cold-heartedness,” Gale passionately retorts. “I do not wish any harm to come to those refugees. But there are too many variables for us to consider when charging into an enemy base. Proverbial magic missiles ablazing. For that to happen, all of us need to be on the same page.” Gale pauses before adding. “Which we are not.”

Copper frowns in thought but otherwise stays quiet. Before either of the women could add to the argument. Gale wants to remind them of the bigger picture.

“First and foremost we need to get rid of these little parasites squirming in our heads. Rescuing the druid could be the fastest way to do so and is currently the only plan Astarion, Lae'zel, and Shadowheart agree to.”

“Urgh, wizards!” Karlach mutters, clearly not liking the logical steps Gale outlined for her. While Copper didn’t show any outward signs of disagreeing. Gale had a sneaking suspicion, even without using the tadpole to pry, that the monk also didn’t like this course of action either.

The walk back to the main part of the camp was quiet. Gale felt he already said enough and he didn’t want to further irritate his companions so he just followed after the two women. If he learned one thing from growing up with a household of women (his mother, an occasional aunt, and even Tara) it was how to hold his tongue.

Copper drifts off to hang up her wet clothing while Gale and Karlach finish packing their day bags. Gale does not want to eat or drink anything found in the goblin camp so he packs an extra water bottle, a loaf of bread, and some walnuts he found in an old crate, surprisingly still fresh.

By the time Copper came out of her tent, the whole group was ready to head out.

“Well, let’s get going, shall we?” Astarion calls out to everyone. “The sooner we find that druid, the sooner we’ll be free of these tadpoles and we all can go our merry way.”

“Aye, let’s get this charade done,” Wyll mutters, frustration appearing on his brows as his head dips forward from the weight of his new horns.

Astarion gives him a mischievous glare and is about to take a jab at the warlock when Copper steps in between the two men. “OK, let’s head out. No point in starting a fight when we are trying to avoid one.”

“Oh, darling,” Astarion says mockingly. “You misunderstand me. I was only going to offer to rub Wyll’s back. He still seems sore about our earlier decision...”

“Enough, Astarion!” Wyll growls. “You got your way, so drop it.”

Feeling a bit miffed about the unnecessary teasing, especially with Wyll being the target since he was a good kid. Gale decides to rile up the pale elf in return. “Astarion, how old are you exactly? From your frown lines it looks like you're beyond the age to act like a schoolboy who only knows how to tease a crush.”

Gale smirks at the stunned look the elf gives him. After the initial shock, a blush of embarrassment rises on Astarion’s pale cheeks. He’s about to open his mouth to unleash a string of curses at the wizard when Shadowheart steps in.

“This whole discussion is wasting time!” The Cleric says sternly, clearly getting tired of the boys’ actions. “We could be halfway to saving Halsin right now and getting rid of these damn parasites.”

The other three women agree with the statement and give disapproving stares at the men, daring them to say anything more. Gale for one doesn’t want to irritate the women further so he keeps his mouth closed.

“Fine, fine. I was just trying to have some fun and liven up this party a little.” Astarion complains and swigs his pack onto his shoulders.

Taking that as a cue to push forward, everybody hitches up their day bags and heads out to the enemy stronghold. Pleased they can move forward without another fight.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #gale x tav #bg3 fanfiction #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 tav #oc: copper #karlach #wyll ravengard #astarion #shadowheart #lae'zel

26 notes · View notes