#Will i ever draw her with Shadowheart? who's to say?? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thevesuvianchronicles · 2 months

Text

Burnt Amber

I was reading something the other night about the fact that in the dark the cones in our eyes legit can't respond to light like, at all. considering my recent bg3 binge that obviously got me thinking abt a certain sassy vampire and thus... this piece. (I've also been told there's a scene that could go along with this but I legit just got to act 3) enjoy!

spoilers for vague bg3 things

If he had to explain it - which he never would- the world lost its color. Many people looked back upon childhood so happily, everything had been brighter, the world bigger, love was so easy and quickly fleeting. A babe’s eyes opened to blurry yet vivid shades, pastels, and tints. Yet the first thing Astarion’s crimson eyes had seen was only the darkness of his own coffin. Color meant nothing to a vampire who’s first vivid memories consisted of clawing his way through six feet of funerary dirt.

Though his vampiric vision allowed him to make out the different threads on a rich man’s lapel, he only ever saw it in moonlight. Only a reflection, a fraction of the beauty the sun would give the fabric. Where there had been pastels there was now muted tones, tinted colors became gray, and shades became nothing but more inky darkness.

Centuries of this and he slowly began to forget the true colors the world had to offer. Was purple always so deep that one couldn’t discern where a sleeve ended and the night air began? Had yellow always seemed so dull? And red… had red always been so greedy? Soaking up and glaring back the same sick color he saw in Cazador’s eyes.

That’s all his vampiric life had been, that was all it ever would be.

Yet there he stood, watching the last of the sun’s rays dip below the horizon

Despite his suave demeanor and sweetened words, he knew how to woo someone, lure them into his bed with his body and honeyed words, and later back to his master. Yet no words could describe the sun now. It burned his irises, his eyes ached for him to blink, turn away, and do anything but stare into the sun. He simply couldn’t stop; it would take away his breath if he needed to breathe.

His first realization that color was far better within the sun was, rather unfortunately, Gale. Upon falling on his ass, Gale had done the wizardly thing and began rambling. However, Astarion wasn’t paying attention at all. His eyes were on Gale’s robe. He couldn’t remember a purple ever being so vibrant, so cocky almost, as if requiring you to look at it. It fit Gale as Astarion would come to learn. Then he saw purple everywhere. Balsam blooms carried but seemed a warmer tint of Gale’s robe. Shadowheart’s armor was even darker, matching that which Astarion saw late at night in the alleys of Bauldur’s Gate. He hadn’t really thought about it but he rather thought purple and red clashed. Leave it to that wizard from Waterdeep to be a walking fashion faux pas.

Yet despite the fashion error, Astarion couldn’t stop thinking about purple, the many different shades he had seen in a matter of days. The sun making the slightest variations more obvious to his crimson eyes.

He first realized that light is what made the colors so polluted, as if the colors were waiting to leach into his eyes when he couldn’t help but stare at the color yellow. It was, by far, not his favorite color, drawing too much attention of a rouge like himself.

Yet the golden glow of the divine seemed to suit Shadowheart. The brilliance of a guiding bolt whizzing past his ear, bathing a goblin in light, setting it ablaze. The disgusting color had saved his skin to many times to count by now. All thanks to the devotee’s hands.

The vampire couldn’t say he understood Shadowheart’s devotion. But the sheer power her belief brought the color yellow, made him quirk a brow. Such polluting brillance made him wonder if light was able to redeem every color.

The color followed him after that battle. Yellow licked at Karlach’s flames, light reflected off the golden threads of Halsin’s armor, it even sparked every time Lae’zel sharpened her sword.

Yet there was nothing that could redeem the color red. No amount of light or dark could make crimson look any better. In darkness it looked like a cesspool of all things evil, an open maw waiting to swallow whatever it could. In the light of day, it reminded him of nothing but lost souls, glowing red eyes, and a sickly grin.

It was the color Cazador liked most on him, both his clothes and his skin. It was the color his life had been reduced to. Living off such crimson ichor, so much so that it stained him, stained even his eyes from what he had gathered about vampiric looks. It was the only color that he would be happy to forget, but never could.

“You know if you stare at the sun long enough… you could go blind.” The voice came from behind him, his pointed ears finally picking up on the crunch of gravel beneath feet. His eyes did feel a bit dry as he blinked, black and swirling colors hindering his vision as he looked back over his shoulder.

The leader of their little group was… interesting to say the least. So focused on the tadpole and their companion's journeys that Astarion hadn’t learned much about their own personal goals, if any. He should work on that.

“I always love to look at beautiful things, not unlike yourself darling.” Astarion let the words lilt off his tongue, but didn’t turn away from the setting sun.

He heard a small hum from you as you settled beside him, standing close enough for him to tell that you had refreshed yourself from today’s adventuring.

Neither said anything for a while, the gentle rustle of trees and soft calls of animals in the underbrush the only noise. He had been so lost in his musings that he hadn’t realized how far the sun had set, a barely visible sliver of yellow still visible surrounded by orange and red.

“Well… now that the lovely colors are gone I do believe I’ll turn in for the night. A book and a glass of red do seem to be calling my name.” Astarion sighs, as if it would be a hassle to get up and walk the few steps to his tent. It is a hassle, to leave the presence of their leader has become more and more of a hassle on his heart than he’s willing to accept.

“Don’t go now, it’s just started to change.” Your voice was soft, softer than he has ever heard it and a glance tells him that your eyes are still on the setting sun.

“No thank you darling, I do think I’ve seen enough shades of red for a thousand lifetimes.” There is a twist of pain in his voice, one that makes him wrinkle his nose. He was getting too easy, a slip like that with Cazador and he would have been reminded how much he hates red.

“But the sky is beautiful-“

He cuts you off with a flippant wave of his hand and a scoff. A change of subject was all they needed, easier territory. “It’s just red. You know they say a red sky at night means-“

“It’s not just red Astarion.” You cut him short this time, tone sharp. He didn’t understand why you would defend such a color. Of all things to fight for, a color. They saw red spilled every day, every day their leader fought, for teiflings, for druids, for their companions. Each day that color ruined everything it touched.

“Oh? Do tell darling, what is oh so special about that distasteful mix of colors. A muddled mess of all things awful-“

“I rather think red is beautiful.” Astarion snaps his eyes up, disgust curling his lips, a flaunting jab just ready on the tip of his tongue when your eyes stop him.

At some point, he wasn’t sure when, you had turned to look at him. Eyes just as soft as your voice had been. There is a sweet tilt to your lips as he turns, as if finally seeing what they had been after.

He sees the minute shift of you eyes, as if darting back and forth. He can hear the uptick in your heartbeat, the tension releasing from your shoulders. As if the sight of him was what you were after, as if waiting to catch his eye.

Then he remembered. Remembered exactly what color his eyes now were.

“I happen to like that color.” You grinned, eyes steady on his. His mind was blank, no haughty taunt or seductive words. He could do nothing but blink as a grin spread wide on your lips and you turned back towards the sun.

“When the sun hits just right… it’s beautiful, a burst of burnt amber. I think it’s the prettiest color I’ve ever seen.” Astarion knew they were definitely not talking about the sunset anymore. He couldn’t help but stare at you. The curve of your nose, the way your smile seemed so giddy, the way the sun reflected in your own eyes.

Red was the color of the flowers Karlach had tried to pick for all of them. It was the color the jewels in Lae’zel’s armor, the color the hem of Gale’s awful robe. And it was the color of the blood you so willingly gave him. Had offered as soon as he had explained himself that night, without asking for anything in return. You were so different than what he expected.

He tutted, realizing he had been staring and turns back towards the sunset, listening closely as you go to sit on the ground. The bright yellow of the sun diffused into a russet orange that slowly eased into a vibrant, dazzled red. He sighed, slowly settling himself beside you, far closer than before.

“Yes darling, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I could grow to love it.”

#bg3 astarion #bg3 #astarion x durge #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion #astarion ancunin #bg3 fanfiction #baulders gate 3 #baulders gate astarion

48 notes · View notes

shannaraisles · 3 months

Text

Still Yours - for @50sjello

For @50sjello, who has been incredibly patient - this has been sitting in my finished folder for almost a month, due to various of my own issues, but finally, here it is! Thank you so much, lovely!

Still Yours

The mood in the camp was ... awkward this morning, to say the least. It isn’t every night you wake up flooded with physical ecstasy, only to discover it isn’t actually yours, and you’re feeling it secondhand from the nominal leader of your group as they couple with a mindflayer in their shared dreamscape. Sylvana was fairly sure none of the party was ever going to look at them the same way again.

“Well, that was quite the wet dream we all shared last night, wasn’t it?” Astarion declared in a surprisingly innocent display of avuncular good humour. “I do hope it doesn’t become a regular thing. I prefer my intimacies ... intimate.”

The look that flickered in the direction of a certain purple tent spoke volumes of both judgement and unexpected concern, underscored by the faintest hint of a smirking smile as Karlach took up the theme.

“Gods, I never want to look at another octopus ever again,” she said, shuddering as her flames intensified for a moment. “That was ... no. Nope, I am not thinking about it.”

“It was a very stimulating evening,” Shadowheart interjected, straightening from her morning stretch. “Who would have thought the Emperor would have such creativity when it came to such an unconventional coupling?”

Face flaming red, Sylvana focused on fastening their bedroll, trying to ignore the spirited debate now being undertaken by three members of their party, all of whom were dying in equally creative ways in the secret, hidden pathways of their mind. A prickle of fur brushed their calf, drawing their attention to the sharp eyes of a tressym standing entirely too close for comfort. Nothing can judge you for decisions made in the heat of the moment quite like a feline with a bone to pick.

“Good night, was it?” Tara asked, and Sylvana only just suppressed the flinch at the ice in the tressym’s tone.

The young rogue steeled themselves, setting down the bedroll to turn and face the closest thing to a mother Gale of Waterdeep had handy. Tara’s yellow eyes were hard in the morning stillness, more than a little resentment stirring within the magical feline for the harm done to her young Mr Dekarios in the night. Sylvana swallowed, taking a moment to clear their thoughts and their throat before addressing the acid remark.

“I know I have made a terrible mistake,” they informed Tara. “I know it’s worse because everyone is aware of it. But the shockwaves of that mistake are between myself and Gale, and while I appreciate that you love him and want only to protect him, he is a grown man and we should be able to discuss this like adults, without others inserting themselves into our dynamic.”

The tressym considered them for an excruciating moment, that sharpness in that gaze almost enough to draw blood. Then she ruffled her feathers, her tail rippling from straight to just slightly curved.

“Then I suggest you begin this adult discussion of yours,” she said primly. “Mr Dekarios is a great man, but when it comes to matters of the heart, he is a teenaged nightmare with all the social skills of an erotically charged goblin. Good luck to you.”

Even as Sylvana raised their brows at this rather brutal description of the man they loved, the two of them heard a choked objection abruptly cut off from within the tent. Ah. Well, that made sense of Tara’s comment on his emotional maturity in this matter. Apparently hiding in his tent and listening to everyone else was Gale’s idea of dealing with this. Sylvana could not entirely blame him. He must have decided he was being set aside yet again by the beloved of his heart, something he had still not truly come to terms with when it came to Mystra.

With Tara flicking her tail and heading toward the campfire to ply her wiles on Wyll for breakfast, Sylvana straightened their shoulders and ducked through the thick purple fabric. Their eyes found Gale near instantly, stumbling back from the curtain they had just stepped through as though he had not expected them to make their entrance so soon after speaking with Tara. His eyes were red, betraying tears he would no doubt be horrified to know were so easily discerned in his weary face; his gaze pinned to Sylvana’s face with wide-eyed trepidation.

Yet before Sylvana could so much as open their mouth, he held up a hand to still any words that might be said.

“If this is to be the end of us, then land the blade sharply, I beg you,” he said, each word ringing with a certainty that could only have come from practice since he had woken. “No excuses, no softening of the blow. Tell me, once and for all, if this truly is the end of the love I have come to trust so wholly since we met.”

Sylvana narrowed their eyes slightly at these last words, not particularly liking the attempt at emotional manipulation but understanding that, as Tara said, he was emotionally an angsty teenager still.

“It’s the last thing I want, Gale,” they said, voice trembling just a little now they were faced with the consequences of their curious interlude the night before. “But if we are to continue, we need to talk about what happened last night.”

“You chose to betray my trust with a mindflayer,” he snapped. “In a way that broadcast my humiliation to the entire camp, to these people who have become our - my - friends. People who know my history have seen me cast aside a second time, for what? For sport?” His gaze hardened as he stared at her, brows furrowing in pain. “Tell me it meant nothing.”

“I can’t do that.”

The answer was honest. And in all honesty, they could not blame him for the faint cry of misery that left his lips, the way his knees seemed to buckle and toss him down upon the makeshift bed he had not yet packed away. Sylvana forced themselves to step closer, to crouch, to kneel at his side, not daring to offer a touch in consolation. They only had words, but it was a language that this man certainly understood.

“Let me tell you why,” they said, each word soft but firm in the pain-filled silence of the tent. “And when I am done, if you still wish nothing more to do with me, then I will accept that. I have wronged you, but not with malicious intent.”

Knees drawn to his chest, hands clasped and twisting anxiously together, Gale drew in a staggered breath, seeming to force away fresh tears as he nodded. Whatever else happened now, he needed to know. Taking the invitation, Sylvana twisted themselves to sit beside him on the padded bedroll, staring at the star-filled constellation of Mystra they had never once asked him to remove from his sleeping place.

“I don’t know everything about you,” they began, careful to keep their tone light, conversational. No blame or implication of guilt; nothing to provoke an emotional reaction from him. “I don’t know every fleeting thought that pulses through your mind; every impulse you restrain, every judgement you make on those we pass by or interact with. I only see what you choose to show me, and I love every part of that man, even the parts you are perhaps ashamed of.”

They felt him shudder beside them, felt the unspoken acknowledgement that no mortal truly knew another in the way they were describing. Felt the realisation of where this was going even before they continued to explain.

“The Emperor knows everything about me,” they told him. “All of it. Not just what I choose to show, but everything I intentionally hide. Every unkind thought, every urge toward pain and destruction, everything that I know would sour the affection of the people I love toward me ... it knows all of it. Can you truly blame me for doing as I did, at a moment when I felt seen in a way no one has ever seen me before? For just those few moments, I could finally understand why you remain so devoted, so loyal, so tender toward Mystra. She knows you, the way he knows me. And yes, perhaps I wanted to even the score in that regard. Perhaps I knew it would hurt you, the way it hurts me each time you say her name with such fondness. The way it hurts to have to see her celestial face each time I come to you in privacy. But am I so unforgivable?”

There was a long silence, still wracked with pain but now peppered with understanding, the words he loved and needed so much guiding him down the path to truly understanding the why of what had gone before.

“It felt ... clinical, to me,” he said finally, his tone calm, almost detached. “I could feel your curiosity, your physical pleasure. Where was your heart, Sylvana?”

“In your hands. Always.”

They felt him suck in a breath, a sudden change in the turmoil radiating from him softening to their words as this commitment was made. A moment later, his fingers found theirs, hesitant but warm, daring to cross the divide between them.

“Had it been me in your place,” he said, each word tremulous but firm, “I do not think I could have gone through with it. Not that the temptation would not have been great, but ... I have been set aside by those I adore too often to willingly do it to another. To you.”

For the first time since waking, Sylvana felt the shard of pain they had been holding at bay slice deep. They knew this, of course they did. Some things could not be retracted or forgotten. But perhaps they could be forgiven?

Gale’s fingers tightened about theirs, drawing their palm to rest over his heart.

“My heart is yours,” he said, whispering painfully into the stillness. “Still yours. Always yours.”

Sylvana tilted their head toward him, finally finding his eyes on them with the by now familiar adoration back where it had always been. An adoration that was now just a touch guarded, but still there.

“Can we come back from this?” they asked, eyes burning with the urge for tears they did not feel they had earned the right to shed. “Can you forgive me my weakness?”

His brow pressed to theirs, and they shuddered together, each one fighting back those tears, knowing that such a display here and now would do neither of them any good. Hands gripped hands, breath mingled in staggering gusts, both wizard and rogue breathing together to eradicate the harsh reality of their painful morning.

“If you can forgive me for mine,” Gale said finally, lifting his eyes to theirs. “I have held onto the memory of her affection when I should have given you all of my focus. I swear this to you, my beloved heart, I will let her go. And when the time comes that the Emperor has no further need of us, I will stand by your side as you let him go.”

The relief was palpable - audible, even, as they heard Astarion suddenly declare that the fun he had been expecting wasn’t even going to start now. Sylvana let out a rueful laugh, joined by a wry chuckle from Gale as they wrapped themselves in each other’s arms, squeezing close to chase away the last of the uncertainty the morning had wrought.

“As long as you are mine, I could face anything at your side,” Gale murmured, at last pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

“I’m yours,” was their answer, heartfelt and unshakeable. “I’m still yours.”

#50sjello #fanfiction #niamh does commissions #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #gale dekarios #oc - sylvana #gale x sylvana #angst #hurt/comfort #sfw #emotions #tara the tressym #astarion #karlach #shadowheart #group dynamics #the morning after the night before

24 notes · View notes

atsadi-shenanigans · 23 days

Text

Feeding Alligators 57 - Let the Bodies Hit the Floor

What to do with a boatload of goblins?

On AO3.

There are a shit ton of goblins. Goblins shrieking. Goblins belching. Goblins taking a piss in the corner. Goblins chanting, and goblins drinking and throwing bones at each other and two of them fistfighting. It reeks of sour sweat, rot, and alcohol. You regret every, single choice you ever made in your life that brought you to this point.

Until you spot the owlbear cub. At least, you think it’s the same cub. It cowers in a corner with three goblins around it. The lead one offers you a bet in a game she calls “chicken chasing.” And you ain’t one to knock on other folk’s games—your White side plays corn hole for fuck’s sake—but you draw a hard fucking line when it involves cruelty.

You decline her request as polite as you can. Which means letting her insult you. The others give you looks (Lae’zel seems especially disappointed in you), but you ignore that and ask Gale for a talking-to-animals potion.

It is the same cub. And he’s scared to hell. You offer your camp to him, but one of the goblins looks over and his little ear tufts fold back and he scurries off.

You survey the courtyard. Used to be a temple to a goddess named Selune. Shadowheart seems real pettily amused about the recent remodel. Calls it fitting. There’s maybe twenty goblins out here.

You look to Wyll. “Can you check the left side of the courtyard? Get a head count and general location of everybody over here?”

He nods. Karlach bounces all hopeful, so you ask her to go with him.

There’s a section above, and you spot movement up there. Look over the crew. You need somebody nimble, and somebody with good judgment.

“Shadowheart, would you mind taking Astarion up there to do the same?” you say.

Her flat expression smooths to Kansas levels.

“Please?” you add.

“Just counting?” she says. And oh. There’s something hidden in there, ain’t it?

No point in trying to sugarcoat it. “If the druid is alive, we’re gonna have to break him out. Don’t know what kinda condition he might be in, and if we can, I’d like a clear exit.”

Her head tilts back. Astarion’s eyes go all half-lidded and a smirk twitches on the corners of his lips.

Cause yeah. You’re planning murder. Your fingers find that horn in your bag.

You’re planning a lot of murder.

Lae’zel makes a short, soft sound. She watches you all cool. Has been since the spider fight. Still ain’t dragging you to her workout, but it’s the first time she’s responded to you with something that wasn’t a sneer.

“On it,” Shadowheart says.

Astarion meets your gaze, that malicious smarm all over him. He gives you a kind of flippy hand salute, and heads after her.

“You really intend to do this?” Gale says. Holds up a hand before you can do more than turn to him. “There’s a lot of goblins. I only worry we may be calling more trouble to ourselves than necessary.”

“That’s why we’re scouting around first,” you say.

Gale frowns thoughtfully. Or maybe it ain’t thoughtful, as the owlbear cub runs trilling in desperation with two goblins on his ass. “It may not be necessary to do what I suspect you’re planning. We might find a different way in, find the druid, and spirit ourselves out without calling attention to ourselves.”

You think of them tieflings. The bodies all over the place. Kahga tried to do that shit with the idol because she was scared (and also a despot well on her way to authoritarianism). And if that fuck-bitch who hit your brain is what’s causing all this…if she’s real. If this is a militarized group of fanatics…

You’re stuck here. Probably forever. You got skin in this fucking game, now. You know shit like this don’t stop once it starts moving. And that’s only when it’s being driven by one power-hungry asshole and his dipshit of a wife. But they throw in a mind-whammying goddess?

Goblins drink and tear into half-cooked meat. One of them is a human foot. They’re people—they got customs and dress, language and rules and games. But these particular ones are a threat to you and your crew and that whole grove and anybody they come across. Whatever shit they start next, they ain’t gonna stop until somebody makes them stop.

“We see what we’re dealing with here,” you say. “Ain’t got no other plans until then.”

Gale nods and turns as shrill hooting starts. A goblin leads a man in the most foppish hat you ever seen out onto a crude stage. He looks kinda familiar.

“Isn’t that Volo?” Gale says.

You notice most of the goblins is drinking from mugs. You also notice they’re refilling from a single barrel across the courtyard.

***

There’s one of them man-wolf guys running around—called “bugbears” for whatever reason. A crowd of goblins cluster around another with feathers in his hair as he boasts about killing somebody. There’s a naked dead guy at his feet.

This place reeks.

Y’all keep your distance.

The others meet back in the main courtyard. There’s red at Astarion’s neckline and Shadowheart’s nose is wrinkled.

You almost don’t ask. But you need info.

“There were five above, one of them was a bugbear,” Shadowheart says.

Astarion picks a tuft of fur outta his teeth. Flicks it away with a grimace.

“Past tense?” you say.

“It’s clear,” the cleric says. “There’s also a weak spot in the wall. I think Karlach could handle it, should we want to avoid the main door.”

“Some sort of obstacle course over there,” Wyll says. “Deserted, but I’ve spotted an alarming amount of goblin burrow holes. I don’t think the doors will matter much should a general alarm sound.”

So. A way in and out above, the path cleared. An ogre stands at the main doors, a bugbear to the right, and about twenty goblins in the courtyard, give or take.

That’s a lot of people.

But if you leave this, even if you get the druid out, the tieflings can’t stay where they are (you wouldn’t want to, either). And as long as this encampment is here, they’re in danger. You look to the big spit turning over the fire where a cut of ribs you highly doubt are pork sizzle.

This is your problem. And you know there’s no such thing as a fair fight. There’s winning. And there’s losing. And you been at the mercy of winners before.

None of the party-goers pays any attention to you as the bard warbles something about door rags. None of them notice you pull something outta your bag.

“That’s,” Shadowheart starts. Something flashes in her eyes. It looks a lot like…approval.

You catch Karlach’s questioning look (and it is a question, not any kinda concern, they don’t know shit about you).

“Wyvern poison,” you say.

“The one you said you’d drink should the tentacles start sprouting,” Astarion says. He shifts his weight to his back foot as his head cocks to the side.

“That’s called lying.”

His eyes narrow. Then he snorts. That almost looks like a smile.

“Poison?” Karlach says.

You don’t look at her. She’s good people. Violent as fuck—she ripped Harvey Dent’s head clean off like a Thanksgiving turkey drumstick—but she’s got a good heart.

“A coward’s weapon,” Lae’zel says, because of course she does, the woman oozes judgment.

“You wanna win, or you wanna die?” you say. “Or do you wanna just fuck around all honorably until your skin splits off and you throw up your own guts?”

She snarls silently.

And you make a decision.

This is an army. Whoever them goblins are as individuals, as a people, this band is an army and will kill everyone in their path.

Lae’zel hates this, both Wyll and Karlach are too good for this world, and the others…no. No, you need a sneaky bastard.

“Astarion,” you say. He’s a member of this crew. Y’all are working together to keep y’all’s faces intact. Whatever happened (whatever coulda happened) you gotta bury it and move on. “You’re good at sneaking. Can you get over to that barrel with this without getting caught?”

He examines you, expression buttoned down tight. Then comes to a decision of his own. His smile oozes bad intentions. “Rather easily, darling.”

You hand the poison off. He looks it over, nods, and sort of disappears it with a gesture.

The Volo guy from the grove is still prattling on, though a couple of goblins have started to hiss. One throws a bottle that misses him by a good four feet.

There’s your distraction.

Not all the goblins are sloshed. But it’s a good number of them. And what’s left…your fingers dip into your pack again and find the cool enamel of the war horn.

“Let’s go,” you say.

***

It takes maybe thirty minutes. Astarion disappears, only to reappear next to one of the ringleaders as she proposes a toast. You ain’t sure if poison does anything to vampires? But you do catch a subtle wrist flick from Astarion, and you know without asking the man just found a way to toss the contents of his cup.

As that’s going down, y’all join in on the harassment of Volo. And then goblins start dying. And that, naturally, pulls attention to all y’all.

There’s a good dozen goblins left, with others pouring in from the right side. So you pull out that horn, bring it to your lips, and blow.

It goes to fuck shit carnage after that. Them ogres ain’t kidding around. They tear through camp like an industrial corn thresher. At some point—you think it’s McClubby—dual-wields two goblins to swat other goblins in the most fucked up game of put-put golf you ever seen in your life.

Y’all barely have to do anything. There’s a couple of archers, and that ogre by the door, but an arrow from Astarion and a fireball from Gale, and both the archer and big boy go down right in front of them main doors, blocking them from opening.

Then it’s over. The Volo guy ducks out (says something retrieving his dog??) and promises to meet y’all back at the grove. The owlbear cub made himself scarce the second them ogres smashed through the front gate, and you hope he got away.

Leaves y’all standing in a field of carnage full of corpses as Mr. Eloquent and his, uh, lads get busy…eating.

Horf.

“I can see why you gentlemen are in such high demand,” you say, voice trembling with the urge to vomit.

Mr. Eloquent grins as he slurps up an arm still holding a mug. It crunches between his teeth and something squelches.

You swallow.

“It was a pleasure doing business,” he says.

He still got them piggy eyes. Time for y’all to get the fuck away.

“Damn,” Karlach says, brows raised. “I’ve seen some one-sided battles, but damn. D’you see them throw that guy?”

At another, fleeing goblin, yes. They both went down with broken bones and broken wails.

And this is just the courtyard.

Time to head in and see if any of this was worth it.

#feeding alligators fic #these two shitheads #astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #slow burn #demisexual tav #plus size tav #isekai #the disclosure arc #goblin put-put!

15 notes · View notes

cactusnymph · 7 months

Note

For the prompts: Touching and 35. "kissing their bruises and scars" with Aylin and Isobel (and Shadowheart if you feel like it! all moon wlw welcome) pretty please! This is fun and your writing is beautiful ^^

Isobel still can't believe that she not only got her life back but also her Aylin. Twice blessed by Selûne is what she would normally say, but the gods work their magic in strange ways and when she thinks too much about it—about how Myrkul was the one to give her a second chance at life and how a Chosen of Shar is the one who freed her Aylin—her head starts spinning.

Instead she focuses on the here and now as best as she can, grounding herself in the feeling of Aylin's warm body next to her. Her fingers gently follow the golden cracks along her love's skin—a testament to her strength and resolution.

Aylin sighs as Isobel follows the lines down her chest, over her belly and across her hips and thighs before pressing her lips against a dark bruise on Aylin's shoulder, darting her tongue out to taste it.

Aylin's breath hitches and Isobel smiles.

"Again?", she teases lovingly and Aylin turns her head to look at Isobel.

"I've been imprisoned for centuries without a gentle touch or the sight of my beautiful Isobel. You will forgive me if I have much to catch up on", she says and Isobel hums before continuing her journey down Aylin's body, her fingers traveling ahead of her lips as she finds every scar and every bruise.

"I have a question", Isobsel mumbles into Aylin's skin before licking one of her love's scars, right over her hipbone. She knows that this one was made by a drider. The one on her left thigh, just above the knee, by a dark justiciar. Isobel knows the stories behind all of Aylin's scars.

"If you wish to have a coherent discussion, maybe you should stop touching me for a moment", Aylin whispers, her breath coming quicker already as she squirms under Isobel's gentle administrations. Isobel chuckles.

"No", she says and revels in Aylin's laughter—breathy and happy.

"Well then. Ask and I will do my best to answer despite the dire circumstances", she says with half a smirk and Isobel laughs, gently nudging Aylin's thighs apart to settle between them.

"You've spend some time with our Sharran friend", Isobel says and gently bites the inside of Aylin's thigh. Aylin gasps and arches her back, her fingers digging into the blanket below her.

"That is not a question", Aylin teases.

"How do you feel about her?", Isobel wants to know and dips her head back down to nibble on Aylin's hipbones while her hands draw along the contours of Aylin's ribs.

Aylin seems to be too distracted to answer, chasing the feeling of Isobel's touch, pushing her hips up and spreading her legs a little further. Isobel isn't made of stone and Aylin is beautiful like this, but she also wants to know.

Her mind has been wandering every time she watches Aylin and Shadowheart sitting by the fire or in front of Shadowheart's tent. Ever the insightful one Aylin can see attraction when she sees it and Shadowheart is drawn to Aylin. Isobel understands.

Aylin is beautiful, courageous, fierce and endearingly blunt. Isobel knows what it's like to get caught up in her bright aura. But she also notices Shadowheart looking at her. They didn't meet on the best of terms but Isobel has come to respect Shadowheart. Has maybe even started to like her. And Shadowheart is trying not to enjoy their presence.

Isobel can tell.

"I might be—", a gasp as Isobel's head dips lower. "Intrigued."

"Intrigued?", Isobel asks with a smirk and bites at Aylin's hipbone again.

"There's much to discover", Aylin admits and Isobel has to agree. Thinking about Shadowheart while she has Aylin like this, naked and spread out on a soft blanket, breathing heavily just from Isobel kissing her scars... it makes her skin tingle with excitement.

"Do you want to invite her? Next time?", Isobel asks and Aylin sucks in a breath, looking up at Isobel through heavy-lidded eyes.

"Would you want that, my love?", she wants to know, her gaze piercing.

Isobel smiles.

"Yes. Yes, I think I would."

feel free to send me more of these <3

#dame aylin #isobel thorm #aylin x isobel #bg3 #baldur's gate iii #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fic #mi writes #this turned out way hornier than i intended but...... well. they deserve it and so do i :'D #thank you anon for enabling me!!!

36 notes · View notes

thisaccountisagainstmywill · 4 months

Text

Get To Know Your Tav!

I was tagged by @my-favourite-zhent , so I'll put my Ruganfucker Tav.

This is Luce Locke (she/her), Wood Half-Elf, College of Lore Bard. My failgirl who has risen to the occasion.

What is Your Tav's...

Favorite Weapon?

Wits first and foremost. But physical weapons: Rapier now that she's slightly less of a failure. Pre-tadpole, daggers because they were conveniently discrete (and cheap). Luce begins her adventure with almost no combat skills at all but slowly learns to spar with Wyll.

Style of Combat? In short: evasive maneuvers. In long: what I like to describe as "If they can't catch you, the consequences of what you just said can't hurt you."

Deepest Desire? To belong.

Guilty Pleasure? Pub Quizzes. Trivia. Little tiny useless facts. Fucking loves them. It's the whole reason she became a 'bard' in the first place. No one gives you a second glance if you're at the pub too often if you're a bard. "Lass, why do you know all of this stuff?" "I'm uh...College of...Lore?" "I don't know enough about bards to argue with that."

Best-Kept Secret? She's very deeply in debt to multiple pubs across the city and banned from most of them. But has been consistently swapping identities for the last three decades so they haven't yet pieced together that they've all been screwed by the same woman. Fatal Flaw? Flighty. Staying in one place makes her nervous. The need to keep moving so consequences don't catch up with you is too deeply ingrained for her to ever move past it. (Also the regrettable neck tattoo. It gave her a defining feature and made the pub-hopping a little more difficult.) Favorite Scent?

Cloves. She associates it with winter feasting and happy drunks.

Favorite Spell/Cantrip(s)? Vicious Mockery -- she learned that one almost entirely on accident. Speak to Animals -- she didn't learn it until her adventure. But she can't help but consider how useful it could've been pre-tadpole. She's not above eating food procured by a friendly rat. Pet Peeve? Stereotypical bards. Their stupid little outfits. Their flouncy word choice. The flashy colors. Everything about them is grating. It may be envy, it may be some internal self-hatred. It may be me projecting. But she fucking hates Volo and Alfira. Regardless, she's made sure they get their best endings...just far away from her. It also makes Milil a delight to meet. He's so salty. Bad Habit? Keeps running her fucking mouth and ending up in situations.

She didn't, but the sheer implications of this screencap were too good. Hidden Talent? Can sleep anywhere at any time, no matter what. Blinks too long during Raphael monologues to get a nap in. Semi-eidetic memory, but usually for the most seemingly unimportant things. Leisure Activity? Casual breaking and entering. "Oh, I'm so sorry...wrong house." Favorite Drink? Anything that's free. Tends towards spiced drinks. Comfort Food? Scones. Despite the incident.* Favorite Person(s)? Romantically: Halsin and Shadowheart Platonically: Karlach and Wyll Favored Display of Affection?

Touch. Alone and transient for too long, you end up starved for it.

Fondest Childhood Memory? Getting to visit the city for the first time. It was so deeply foreign to the life with an Elf Ranger mother that it was enthralling. It's why she settled in the Gate when she left home. Anything Else You'd Like to Share?

She is a pre-canon Ruganfucker. I realize now I called her a Ruganfucker early on and then never brought him up again. They were not continual or long-term.

Luce Drawings: Current Day Luce Casual Hangout

Outfits Answered Asks: Favorite Items

*Favorite Memory

Ideal Home

I can't remember who's been tagged, but tag yourself and say I did it if you want. uwu

#tag game #my tav #bg3 #tav #oc: Luce Locke

13 notes · View notes

pythoria · 8 months

Text

something about bg3 i find fascinating is just How Many characters are good and compelling. Usually with most media, be it games or tv shows or movies you have one or 2 characters you get attached to, but with baldur's gate i love almost every single character in their own way.

Astarion is instantly charming and witty, he's the sassy vampire who most people find themselves drawn to, but he's not the only compelling character by far. Gale takes some time to grow on you, but after you actually see how his story unfolds and maybe even romance him, you start understanding that he's just as hurt and sad as any of the other characters, groomed from a young age and misunderstood because of it. Astarion sees himself as just a body to be used, but Gale also thinks he's worthless deep down, especially after losing the bulk of his magic. He's passively suicidal and thinks his abuser is worth sacrificing everything for, and needs the whole camp to yell at him for being stupid to realise he might deserve to live and even, get this, find happiness.

Shadowheart's story and ending isn't talked about a lot, but it is HEARTBREAKING, and both endings for her are the only ones that actually brought tears to my eyes. In a similar way to other characters, her bad ending gives away a lot about her character, almost more than her good ending, and without spoiling it, i'll just say: it's impossible to make her character evil. she will always be governed by a sense of good and justice, and the only thing that goes wrong for her is being misguided and unable to turn back. Whatever she does, she does it because she thinks it's good and just.

I can't go in depth about every character, although they are all incredible, but honourable mentions for me are literally all the villains. Gortash is instantly compelling, and how could he not be with a voice actor like That. Him and Orin are also incredibly visually interesting, as well as their personalities being so magnetic. Ketheric is deeply tragic in his own way, act 2 is practically dedicated to his shattered family and it's so fascinating to see the shards of a broken man scattered across a broken, cursed land.

Raphael has the best theme song by far, he's overflowing with charisma, he speaks in riddles and verse, he's the perfect devil. He draws you in, you almost start to like him, and then you arrive at the House of Hope and the illusion both shatters and builds even further, because his lair is by far the best map in the entire game. You find out he only ever wants to sleep with himself, but that he's terrible in bed according to his succubus. You see people's lost souls pop in and out of existence, and you can only watch them beg for reprieve, but cannot interact. You see debtors crawling around rabidly on all fours, or worshipping his toilet, or sitting in front of his budoir, endlessly bound to watch him and his succubus through the peep hole but never allowed to join. And then there's the final fight, with its incredible song that everyone should experience for the first time in game.

So many compelling characters and i could write an essay about each one. i've barely scratched the surface, and i haven't even mentioned all the origin characters. it's just insane to me how detailed every story is, how they all have their own individual arcs and motivations and they're all fully fleshed out, and feel so god damn REAL. Yeah, bg3 should get GOTY, but honestly that's not even enough. The voice actors need oscars, the composer needs a grammy, and so on and so forth. what a game.

#pythoria.txt #bg3 #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 gale #bg3 spoilers

39 notes · View notes

i-was-bored-so-this-happened · 4 months

Text

Greensleeves Chapter Ten: Dream A Little Dream Of Me

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Wordcount: 4.5k Warnings: Canon-typical violence

The party has bought entrance to the goblin camp, but find themselves unable to complete their mission. Something greater is at work

Read on AO3 Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The goblin camp is in sight. The party had permitted themselves a short break to regroup and try to establish a plan. While Lae’zel and Astarion are in favour of going in blades shining, Gale makes a solid argument for diplomacy allowing for a quicker and more precise extraction of the druid Halsin. Wyll, however, warns that they shouldn’t over-plan and Xaph and Shadowheart have to agree. The stab-happy Astarion and Lae’zel are outvoted, and she starts complaining about their reluctance to go to the gith creche until she’s assured that it’s their next priority once they know the tiefling refugees will be safe. There’s an outpost before the camp proper, guarded by goblins and a pair of worgs as well as a scout up high on cragged rocks that Astarion points out to the others. Xaph has been shuttled to the front of the group again, rather unexpectedly. There’s nothing to track.

“A war drum,” Lae’zel points to the thing, “One of those can summon warriors far and wide. Should we fight, we must destroy it.”

“Lookit, Klaw! Supper’s here!” They’ve been noticed. Xaph draws nearer and nearer until the worg starts to growl. Absentmindedly, she holds her fingers out to let her smell them. She won’t attack until ordered. The goblin who had spoken, bringing everyone else’s attention to the party, looks up at Xaph. Is that admiration in his eye, that she’s not scared of the worg? If it is, it’s replaced quickly with disgust. “Unless you’ve got another reason to be here, feck-shite.” The worg’s tongue, hot but not rough, licks up the arm of Xaph’s leather armour,

“Good coat on this animal. Healthy shine,” she remarks, sliding a hand up the creature’s head to reach that place between its ears she knows would make its tail thump if it was sitting on the ground, “From the nordiland worgata family?”

“How’d you know?” the goblin asks, “Dumb as a rock, but world-class at tearin’ out the throats of wee ones, she is. Rest of her litter’s inside, in the pens,” Worg pens. What other animals are in there? A bear, perhaps. “Beautiful beasts.”

“I’ve never seen a pack up close,” Xaph admits, “Always wanted to. They have an unfortunate reputation, these beasts.” No, she’s not a smooth talker or a good liar but she can talk about animals for days, “Battle-tested, I assume, to be trusted to guard the gates?”

“‘Course. Ripped out three bellies on our last raid alone. Be a shame if you came all this way without havin’ a look…” the trainer says. Diplomacy. Bonding over animals. This is working, “But I can’t let you pass just like that. Celebratin’ a raid we are,” he pats the worg’s side, “This one’s first outing. You’ll have to wear our war colours.” He indicates a particularly stinky pile of worg dung that sits at his feet. That’s the catch.

“Any designs in mind?” Xaph asks mildly, and the goblin cackles.

“Whatever calls to you.”

“Whatever calls to me…” Xaph acts as though she’s deliberating over the choice when really she’s trying to wrangle her worm. Images are easier than words, and she pushes an image of her scooping up a fistful of the dung and flinging it in the goblin’s face into her companion’s minds. Her tail curls up to her handaxe secure in the loop of her pack.

“Oh, yes, Xaph, darling,” Astarion smiles, “We must join the celebrations.” That’s approval if ever she’s heard it. She follows through with her projection and even as the goblin howls curses and the other sentries beat their shields with the pommels of their swords, Xaph passes her axe from her tail to her hand and buries it in the worg’s ribcage. She whispers a goodbye to the animal, a would-be-blessing. The beast is too surprised by the betrayal to keep Xaph from knocking her over and dragging the axe to her hind legs before pulling it out. Chaos has broken out around her. With guttural warcries, Lae’zel has plunged into the heat of the battle, finally allowed to draw blood. Astarion, ever the bright-eye, sends a bolt of flame into the rickety frame of a wooden structure that collapses on top of one goblin and brings the two who had been standing on top of the structure tumbling to the ground. None of the three of them move again after that. Gale-

An arrow catches Xaph’s side, just under her arm, and the force makes her twist and fall off the worg’s body. They’d forgotten about the archer on the rocks. Shadowheart changes directions and slides onto her knees at Xaph’s side, slamming her shield between them and another arrow as it sails towards them.

“Come on. Up you get.” Shadowheart says, mumbling a healing word as she hauls Xaph upright. Warmth rushes through the tiefling, not only from the healing but from the affection Shadowheart is showing. She warms even more so when the cleric sends a scorching bolt of yellow light at the scout and he falls from the rock, burning. A second worg, smaller than the first, is barrelling towards them. Xaph nocks an arrow, breathes, and speaks a single word. Laqueum. When she hits the creature, thorny vines sprout directly from the shaft of the arrow and ensnare it, bringing it to the ground. The rush of magic is even more relieving than that of healing. She’d been worried that she wouldn’t be able to perform any spells. She wasn’t exactly a wizard before the nautiloid, her grasp on the Weave shaky, but she’d felt the loss as keenly as a sting. It feels the same as it had when she’d first fired an arrow again. Magic. Gale. He’d frozen last time. Surprised, or inexperienced.

Turns out, he’s not difficult to find. Wyll races away from him in hopes of intercepting a goblin’s path to the war drum, and pulls Xaph’s eye to the wizard. She holds the image of the trapped worg in her mind and darts towards her friend but…but…he claps his hands together, and as he separates them the sound reverberates until it’s something far deeper. A clap of thunder. Detono. A wave of air kicks up dust and knocks a handful of goblins over before they’re close enough to hit him. Astarion weaves between them once they’ve fallen, stabbing with wild abandon, and Gale’s attention is turned elsewhere. This is the Wizard of Waterdeep, cradling a miniature storm in his hands as easily as he breathes. Wyll is the Blade of Frontiers, delivering well-practiced flippant lines as eldritch-red energy cracks goblin bones. Xaph is the Sunset Ranger, her arrows finding home in eyes and ears and hearts before her targets even know she’s there. Lae’zel ploughs through opponents like a scythe through grass, Shadowheart picks up the pieces with bright yellow flames and Astarion darts between the warlock and the wizard to make their kills a little bit bloodier.

Still panting for breath and some of them spattered with blood a few minutes later, the party advance on the goblin camp. A trio of drunken guards had been easy to take out after the battle at the gates, and now bottles of wine clink in Astarion’s pack and Gale holds a locket Xaph had found.

“So much for diplomacy.” Lae’zel comments.

“We can’t say we didn’t try to be civilized about it,” Gale says, “They were the ones who…well-”

“Wanted Xaph to smear shit on her face.” Wyll finishes the sentence for him

“I’m not quite that feral,” Xaph assures them, “Pity, though. They were well cared for animals.”

All that stands between them and the goblin camp now is a bridge, spiked barricades leaving a zig-zag path. The party pauses momentarily, sharing looks. They’re ready. They think. Xaph steps foot on the stone bridge and falls. Her skull vibrates, and she swears she can hear her tadpole squeaking with joy. Is this it? Are tentacles about to burst forth from her jaw? Pain blooms in her kneecaps as she hits the bridge, and her tail pinches as someone behind her lands on it, but the greatest pain of all is in her head. She brings her hands to her temples, to her ears, to her horns, pressing in and in and in to try and relieve the pain, to squeeze the tadpole out, anything. Judging by that pinch in her tail, the groans and screams behind her, her companions are experiencing a similar pain. Xaph can’t stop the screech that’s building in her throat. Maybe if she’s loud enough it will stop. Maybe if she’s loud enough she won’t feel it any more.

Hear my voice. Obey my command.

***

They are not ready. The Absolute has spoken to them. The strange box in Shadowheart’s possession that Xaph had entirely forgotten about had…protected them? All bravado has shrunk to simply courage, and that is not enough. Camp is set up, hidden among some trees. Just a short rest, they say. Just a little break. But the sun is beginning to set. Xaph snaps the fire into existence when hunger starts to rumble in her stomach. She sits with her knees pulled to her chest and her chin resting on them. Her eyes are pinned to Gale’s fingers. It’s calming, to watch someone who looks like he knows what he’s doing. They’re perpendicular to one another, Gale’s legs behind Xaph’s back as she faces the fire.

“I really don't,” his voice is almost startling, almost. People haven’t been talking much, “Know what I’m doing, that is.” Xaph lifts her head up and frowns at him. Gale taps the side of his head with the butt of the knife he’s using and gives her that wry smile, she recognises it from their first night at camp.

“The wee one.” She whispers, repeating his words from that exact conversation, and his smile warms. It rivals the fire, the way it burns itself into Xaph’s memory.

“Oh, I know my way around a carrot alright, but this?” he gestures towards the glow of light that indicates the goblin camp. “Out of the frying pan into the fire, so to speak.”

“You’re not used to combat, are you?” Xaph asks, letting her chin touch her knees again. It occurs to her a moment later that this is a rude question to ask, but he doesn’t seem to take it as such,

“Not my forte, as you might have noticed.” Gale says sheepishly.

“You did well today. Thunderwave is an impressive spell in the right hands.” She says the word and her eyes jump from his face to his wrists. Those strangely purple veins.

“I’m out of practice.” He protests.

“Not many goblin camps to ransack in Waterdeep.” Xaph reminds him. Hair falls in his face and he blows a puff of air upwards to try and get it out of the way but when that fails he uses the back of his hand to push the stray strands back.

“Well, I-”

“Take the compliment, wizard,” Xaph cuts in. He has a habit of doing that. Deflecting positive words. Sometimes Shadowheart will take them for her own when he bounces them away. Xaph rocks forward onto her knees and reaches out to tuck another errant piece of hair behind his ear. She’s careful to curl her fingers and use her knuckles rather than risk catching his skin with her nails. His skin is warm against hers. His eyes are doing that honeypot thing. Honey, spiced by the flames reflected in his pupils. “You did good.” She holds his gaze. She needs him to know she means it. His face crumples just a little bit, but she misinterprets it and pulls back and it’s effort to not lean into the absence of her hand. “Does it hurt?”

“It always hurts.” He tells her. It’s true. The pain is always there, usually wrapped around his ribs and his vertebrae and it often pushes in on his knees. Today its focus is on his shoulders and it doesn’t matter how often he rolls them and stretches his arms. The arcane hunger is still there. The sending stone Xaph had given him is buried at the bottom of his pack, in his tent, far enough away that he can’t be tempted by it. He can’t accept it, but he hasn’t got the conviction to give it back to her. Every time he casts a spell, bile rises in his throat and his lungs burn. Xaph’s concern brings cool comfort. A little.

“Did that locket help?” Xaph asks, her fingers leaving him to go to the chain around her own neck. It’s the locket Arabella’s mother had given her. It’s what allowed her to cast dancing lights, and he knows that if she was so quick to give up her mother’s ring she would give him this too without question. Gale pulls the necklace she’d given him earlier from his pocket. It’s still intact. “Hells, Gale, why haven’t you used it?” She wants to push the metal into his collarbone, where that tattoo forms a target, but she doesn’t. That would be crossing a line, surely, a line she doesn’t have permission to approach. He holds her gaze, but Xaph doesn’t back down.

“It won’t be pleasant to watch.” He tells her. Xaph doesn’t move, except to take the carrot and knife from his hand. She slices into the vegetable without looking at it, trying to instil a sense of normalcy and prevent the others from wandering over and whining about food. Gale lifts the silver chain until the crescent moon locket dangles in between them. He pulls it to his chest. To where his heart sits. As Xaph watches, his entire body reacts to the magic within the metal. What Xaph had thought was a tattoo, that circle with the spindly lines that reach up his neck and over his jaw, they shine. Bright violet, almost white. His back arches and his jaw clenches and the grimace on his face pulls the skin of his throat taut. His name falls from Xaph’s lips and she has to resist the urge to reach out and hold him in some way, any way. This is painful, that much is clear. That bright violet light lifts from the circle drawn in his skin and purple energy pulsates around him, a miniature cyclone that encloses him and Xaph. In the next moment, the purple stuff is pulled back into his body. And he breathes. Eyes closed. Still tensed. Xaph’s hand falls to his knee, the closest part of him, and the point of contact is enough to bring him back to earth. His hand is still pressed to his chest, rubbing the flat of his breastbone.

“Gale?”

“It’s working,” he tells her, “The magic is like a lullaby that sings to sleep the demon inside. A metaphorical demon, I hasten to point out,” he says quickly, “Unlike in your…unfortunate case. But I’m afraid it’s no less dangerous - and no less bound to wake up again to continue its ravages,” he hasn’t quite managed to slip back into his regular eloquent cadence, and his breathing is still heavy, “Such is the nature of all monsters.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling…better.” Xaph is hesitant to use that word.

“On the plus side, my tower in Waterdeep has never been so free of clutter.”

“Let me rephrase,” Xaph proposes, “I’m glad you’re letting me help you. Admitting yourself to aid is bravery in itself.” Gale’s glad that she looks down at her own hands because the warmth of her words hits him directly in the face and he knows he’s a terrible blush. She’s unendingly kind to him, and he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve such softness from this woman. It’s the same softness she shows beasts three times her size. All of them strays, as Astarion had said.

“I know I ask a lot from you with few answers in return, but in time all will be told. I promise.” Promise? He can’t promise that. She deserves truth, but not that much truth. He can’t promise her this. It’s too much. She’s cupped her hands and brought them to her mouth, whispering words in a language he doesn’t understand. Magic blooms between her fingers, he can feel it, the thing in his chest lurching towards it even though it’s just been fed. The worm squirms in response, and he can sense hers moving in tandem. Still connected. The words are clearer in his mind, though he still doesn’t recognise them. Dearc fearrad. Yellow-green magic coats the tieflings hands. Chartreuse. Tendrils of it push out from between her fingers and form thin fern-like leaves, bringing light notes of fennel to the air. Matha súbh. Druidic magic, surely. Druidic language. Fás slán measan. When she opens her hands, they’re full of glowing golden berries. Gale opens his hands below hers to catch what she drops.

“Eat. They’ll help.” He obeys. It’s shaped like a raspberry, but it tastes nothing like one. It tastes like her, he realises. Or at least, it tastes like how she smells beneath sweat and mud and blood. Ginger. Saffron. Cherries, right at the end. A single strand of her magic buries itself in his chest and catches on his every breath, a string of green light arcing across the orb. The burning ache in his shoulders is cooled, just a little, and he can straighten his back without as much complaint as before. Goodberries. He’d read about these. A transmutation, taking threads of the Weave and sewing them into reality. To heal, to help. He eats another because he doesn’t know what to say, and because of a twinge in his chest behind where his hand still sits that has nothing to do with his condition. “I know we haven’t known each other long, Mr of Waterdeep, but you are my friend. You have kept my secret, and I keep yours. I care about you too much to watch you stumble around in pain. ” Friend. She cannot get further attached than that. She can’t. This is an adrenaline-allyship, fated by the worms in their heads and coincidence. Nothing more. Nothing good comes from trying to further a connection made through adventuring. A good shag, maybe, but now is not the time to think of baser wants over needs. He is her friend. She can’t keep looking at him, watching him eat. Xaph moves to put the other berries in a nearby bowl, but they go flying when Astarion plonks himself down next to her and bumps her elbow.

“Oh, sorry,” he says, with not an ounce of an apology in his voice. Before Xaph is forced to crawl around in the dirt to pick up her treasures, Gale waves a hand that lifts each and every one of them through the air and into the bowl. Astarion either doesn’t see this or doesn’t care, because he cuts directly to the chase, “Darling, Wyll’s bleeding and someone needs to take care of it before I do.”

“Fuck’s sake.” Xaph sighs, pushing up onto her feet. When she bends over to pick up her alchemy pouch, then the bowl, the open sides of her shirt fall forward to show the slight curve of her stomach and the red band of her small clothes bound around her chest. A mostly healed scratch sits on the side of her ribcage where she’d been hit earlier today. Once she’s collected her supplies she whisks off in the direction of Wyll’s tent. She taps a pole with her foot as a way of knocking on the door, then ducks inside. The tell-tale orange of her dancing lights makes the green fabric of the tent glow from within more than the oil lamp Wyll had set up. Gale pushes a third berry into his mouth and looks at Astarion, who’s looking at him as though he knows something and doesn’t like it.

“What?” the wizard asks, cherry aftertaste on his tongue.

“Don’t act so naive,” Astarion drawls. He reaches out as though to pluck dust from the shoulder seam of Gale’s robe, “I can hear it, you know, the way your heart goes pitter-patter-pit,” slender fingers tap dance on Gale’s shoulder, “Every time she calls you a good boy.”

“Excuse me?” Astarion is always forward, but this is shockingly so, “I’m not sure I understand what you’re implying-”

“Oh, yes, you do-” Yes, he does.

“She’s never said that.”

“No, not in those exact words, but that’s what it feels like she’s saying, isn’t it?” There’s stolen wine clutched in his hand. Is he drunk? Can vampires even get drunk? No, he’s not, Gale’s making excuses for him. Astarion pushes his whole weight onto Gale’s shoulder - bringing back the pain Xaph had just smoothed away - and stretches himself up to his full height, “Just bed her already, friend. If only to make her realise she has better options.”

***

Wyll and Lae’zel are on first watch, but the air isn’t cold enough to chill Xaph into her tent so she stays with them for a short while. They’ve hidden themselves in a copse of maple trees, which have proven to be common in this part of the world. Seeds twirl down around them on occasion, like shooting stars. Eleasis is drawing to a close. It won’t be warm enough to sleep outside for much longer. Xaph ensures Wyll’s arm is securely bandaged and will be kept clean until the cleric rises in the morning. Lae’zel stares up at the moon - if they didn’t know better they’d say she was misty-eyed - and shares her ambitions of becoming kith’rak, of battling among the stars, in the Astral Plane. Her voice is less grating now Xaph knows it, her heavy consonants mingling with the rustle of the trees and pausing for Wyll’s gentle requests for translation of gith words. Xaph is slowly drawn into sleep. A smile burns behind her eyelids.

She dreams. She hasn’t dreamt since the tadpole had taken her. It’s one of those dreams that tricks her into thinking she’s waking up, but her surroundings are entirely different. She lies on hard rock, blue grass brushing at her nose. White pinpricks in an endless lavender void above her, blocked by a face. Not Astarion’s, as had happened the other night. Another tiefling. Perhaps the most beautiful woman Xaph has ever seen. Her forehead is high and clear, and thick braids of hair are piled on her head in tiers. Her horns twist straight up, wrapped in silver ornamentation. Her eyes glow blue. She is familiar, and yet totally alien.

“I came just in time. You are transforming.” That voice. Xaph knows that voice, knows the way it echoes through space. This voice had spoken to her on the nautiloid. Xaph finds that she can move, that she’s in control of her body, and lifts herself onto her elbows and scoots backwards. She’s too close. Xaph can’t speak. She can form words but no sound comes out. “I saved you before.”

Before Xaph can even try to ask when, she’s falling. Falling from the nautiloid, but the wind doesn’t roar, her clothes don’t sting when they whip against her skin. She can’t smell anything. A scream builds in her throat again as she tumbles towards the beach…but she stops. Suspended upside down a few feet above the sand, the sky reverting back to that strange cool-toned void. The woman walks towards her, upright, and draws level with Xaph.

“And I’m here to save you again.”

Hadn’t Xaph wondered why the fall didn’t kill her? Hadn’t she been surprised by her lack of injuries? Can this be true, or something conjured by her mind to explain the phenomenon? Surely it can’t be divine interference - the gods wouldn’t touch her but to smite her - and it’s unlikely a devil would interfere with another’s investment or put on so pretty a show. The image of the beach recedes, the world turned until Xaph is the right way up. She sees a stone bench, wooden latticework with trailing ivy and unknown purple flowers.

“You will not become a mind flayer. Not while I’m around. I’ll protect you,” the woman stands. Offers Xaph a hand. It’s just a dream, there’s no reason not to accept it. Her grip is strong, the metal of her gauntlet should bite into Xaph’s skin but it doesn’t, “We haven’t much time, so listen closely,” she strolls casually towards the edge of the rock they stand on, indigo tail swaying. Xaph twists to look behind her and finds her environment has changed from a peaceful garden to something more like a temple. When she follows the mystery tiefling she sees little more than the same lavender colour, interspersed with bright spots, as far as the eye can strain, “There is great potential within you. It comes from that parasite. Your instinct is to resist the power it gives, but you must accept it. Nurture it. I will keep it from consuming you but for the sake of both of us, you must learn to wield it.” With a wide sweep of her arm, the rocks obscuring Xaph’s view clear. She has very few words to describe what she is shown. Another mass of rock, huge, that takes a bit of imagination to see the skull shape it forms. It is broken into shards, the empty gaps covered by turquoise and yellow energy. Shields. Flaming projections of people fly around it as the panes of energy pulse. “A fight for the fate of Faerun. A fight we are losing. For now. You can change that, but only if you embrace your potential.” There’s a moment’s pause. “I have to go. The enemy is closing in. I will be back.

Xaph wakes, really wakes, in camp. She’s lying on her stomach, her nose tucked into the crook of her elbow. She can smell the soil, her sweat, the leftover smoke of the fire. There’s a blanket over her shoulders. Thick, dark grey with crimson stitching around the edge. Wyll’s. He’s lying down. Lae’zel is curled in a ball next to him. Xaph crawls to them more than walks, leaving the blanket behind, needing to make sure they are asleep and not dead. No one is on watch. She grips Wyll’s shoulder and shakes him.

“Wyll. Wyll.” She didn’t know she’d miss her own voice so much. The warlock rolls over with a deep frown and hunched shoulders, but he wakes easily enough.

“Xaph? What happened?” his voice carries none of the signs of sleep. He hadn’t been out long, “We were…then…We were just talking, and then I was…dreaming.”

“Dreaming? Wyll, what did you dream?”

“I haven’t dreamed since our little cruise,” Wyll tells her. His frown remains, though out of confusion rather than irritation at being woken up, “I saw a man. A tiefling. He said he saved me, from the nautiloid.”

“That’s what mine said too.”

“What?”

“I had a dream. About a tiefling. Who said she’d saved my life before-”

“-and he would save me again. If we…”

“If we…” “If we open ourselves to further ghaik infection,” Lae’zel’s voice startles them both, Xaph’s tail whipping to the side. The githyanki is a light sleeper, it seems. That tracks, “It is a projection put forth by the tadpole. I have never heard of such a thing…but it must be. It must be.”

#rae's writing #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 oc #baldur's gate 3 oc #xaph [tav]#greensleeves #wyll ravengard #lae'zel #astarion #astarion ancunin #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #shadowheart

12 notes · View notes

blackjackkent · 9 days

Text

For a moment she thinks it's another dream. The piles of dead bodies that surround her are very like those that appear in the depths of her blackest beast-driven nightmares. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.

She will wake in a moment, and go to the edge of camp and sit and watch the dark shadows lighten ever-so-slightly with the coming day, and Wyll will come and sit beside her and take her hand as he has started to do, and rub his thumb along her knuckles, and she will be calm again, for a little while.

Except she doesn't wake.

Or rather, she already is awake, and this is no dream. The creature in the walls pulled them down and down and down into this pit of corpses.

"What the hells is this place?" she croaks out, staggering unsteadily to her feet.

"An illithid oubliette," whispers the guardian in her mind. "Right beneath the Towers. A colony must be close. That must be where the tadpoles are coming from."

She nods slowly. Right. The tadpoles, and whatever that monster was that dragged her here - they're illithid. So this is an illithid nest, or part of one, sitting beneath the Towers like a trap waiting to spring.

The rotting flesh sucks at her boots as she turns to see the others sprawled behind her, also getting to their feet. Wyll looks terribly shaken and she is struck by the strange urge to reach out and hold him, or to be held perhaps, to find some point of stability in this world that seems to be rocking itself on its axis. But she doesn't, and neither does he, perhaps both of them knowing that there is no room to let their guard down here, even for a moment.

Lae'zel and Shadowheart both look grim, but Shadowheart manages a faint, very sardonic grin as Rakha looks at her. "Suddenly I'm wishing you had left me in camp with my boots off," she quips dryly.

Rakha snorts softly, but the moment of black humor doesn't last. "We need to get out of here," she mutters. "That thing... it knows me. It wants me..."

The memory flashes between them through the tadpole connection, everything she saw, everything the Absolute said to her. Wyll's lips draw into a tight line. "Well, it can't have you," he says firmly. "And that's that."

"I know," Rakha says. And yet as they trudge out through the corpses, struggling their way up through a tiny tunnel that leads back out into the prison, she can't help but remember that voice. It felt warm, it felt joyful and furious and alien and strange and terrifying.

It saw her and it knew who she was and it was glad.

She has never felt that before.

#bjk plays bg3 durge #rakha the dark urge #leaving it there for tonight but auuuuuugh #i'm having feelings #so excited to explore the rest of moonrise tomorrow

8 notes · View notes

yellowstonewolves · 5 months

Text

Wyllstarion server weekly challenge (In which Withers matchmakes)

WITHERS

Ah, there you are. I have been searching for you.

WYLL

Your quest draws to a fortuitous end. You’ve found me. What’s on your mind? Nothing dire, I hope.

WITHERS

Walk with me, young Ravenguard.

(Wyll offers his arm, and the two stroll up a hill, just beyond the perimeter of their camp,.)

WYLL

So…nice weather we’ve been having, no? Shame we’ll be headed off to the underdark afore too long.

WITHERS

The matter I wish to discuss with you. It concerns Astarion.

WYLL

Oh. Him.

(Withers gestures to a log up on the hill , Wyll sits on it, WITHERS beside him. They have a view of the camp below. ASTARION is in the middle of camp, practicing knife tricks while reading.)

WITHERS

When you first sampled each other’s bodies, I was not enthused. I thought it would be a distraction from your mission, indulging as you did in the pleasures of the flesh.

WYLL

I…you were spying on me?

WITHERS

I did not need to. I was not the only one who heard you, at the party. The two of you were quite theatrical in calling out how much you enjoyed each other’s anatomies.

WYLL

This is a nightmare I’m having isn’t it? My teeth are going to start falling out any second. I’m going to realize that I’m late for lessons.

WITHERS

No.

WYLL

I’m sorry to have disturbed you then. I can assure you, it won’t happen again.

WITHERS

As much as it pains me to say it, I think it should.

WYLL

What?

(ASTARION reads something in his book that makes him gasp and press a hand to his mouth. The knife falls and stabs him in the leg. He screams.

WYLL stands up,ready to go to him. WITHERS clears his throat. WYLL sits back down.)

WITHERS

If I thought you were distracted before, it is nothing compared to what has come over you now. You stare, you pointedly ignore, you find excuses to talk to him, you find excuses to avoid him. A man in conflict with his own heart. Or perhaps with his other organs. It matters not.”

(ASTARION is arguing with Shadowheart about whether or not his leg wound is “his own fault” and whether he’s “so, so stupid.”)

WYLL

That night was a mistake. I was half-drunk and fully miserable and well…he is as lovely to look at as he is disturbing to speak to. I’ll admit to having had fun, in the moment…But when I woke up and realized that I’d stolen the joy of an unspoiled first time together, from my fated love…

(ASTARION is still arguing with SHADOWHEART. He pulls out the knife to gesture with it and starts gushing blood. She rolls her eyes.)

WITHERS

“You say you believe you have a fated love. Yet you seem determined to avoid leaving it up to fate. Desperately clinging to plans made—when? As a child?”

WYLL

I take what I’m given in this life, Withers. I do what I must. I put myself on the line again and again for the good of the people of this world,

(With sudden venom)

Who have been all but abandoned, I might add by their so-called gods.

(WITHERS does not visibly react to this slight.)

But I will not kill this one thing. This extravagant dream I have, of a love that’s good and pure and true, words which hardly describe our friend Astarion. I won’t do it. For you, or anyone.

WITHERS

You’re entitled of course, to this dream of yours. But you may ask yourself, does it serve you? Or do you serve it?

(ASTARION is finally getting healed. He gives SHADOWHEART a sweet little smile. She says something that starts them arguing again.)

WYLL

Good night, Withers.

WITHERS

The wheel of fate turns ever to the dark :/

#wyllstarion

15 notes · View notes

rodolfoparras · 3 months

Note

Right?!?? Calling it predatory is beyond awful and it just reeks of vilifying queer people. We aren't safe from it in every day life and now we aren't safe in our online spaces too?? Particularly in a space we curated for us because we want to write and discuss our queer fics?? And the sheer irony of (presumably) straight woman saying we are acting like a woman in gay bar like.....GIRL- GIRL ARE YOU HEARING YOURSELF-

And the twitter situation omg I have to briefly rant. Someone I follow commented on (albeit 2 years old) post of this straight girlie who was whining about the fact that character she likes was confirmed gay and how she wanted to keep drawing him in straight ship with her female self insert but people were mad at her for doing so. Like no shit 😭 she kept doing it for months after and I think she eventually stopped but like erasing character's sexuality like that when he canonically struggled with being gay too is just gross.

And my gods- girlies acting like Astarion is straight and guys acting like Shadowheart is straight is bane of my existence when all companions are canonically queer!!

As for games, Imma finally be able to properly play all of my favourite games because my laptop is so fucking old that it takes forever to play Sims 4 (admittedly I do have billion mods) let alone something else. I only played BG3 on my bestie's PC and I'll finally be able to do it properly 😭 I swear the only game I don't have any problems with playing on current laptop is Monster Prom. I tried playing Resident Evil 4 (another big hyperfixation) and it was so ungodly slow.

-🔮

Right?! And it’s literally on the verge of painting us as PREDATORS for writing fics? Like come on love both me and you know you aren’t that stupid to think what I do is predatory 💀

Also yes!! Like I said a privilege take to make by a straight woman 😭 like the self insert community isn’t a sacred straight space and fanfiction as a whole is not even a straight space 😭

Some ppl will never stop fascinating me bc I don’t understand this obsession straight people have with canonically queer characters. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an exclusively lesbian character and gone “let me make a male insert fic for her” like there is a whole lot of entitlement there. Not to mention how these little self inserts they make are always catered to white women. There was a Valentine’s Day cod post and i believe all characters except for gaz’s partner were white they will literally do anything to ensure there’s content for them

Also I can imagine how slow sims must’ve been my friend who has a good game set up still has issues with the game and I cant even imagine your situation also resident evil sounds like sm fun to play! I’ve only watched play through but I’ve loved every one of them!

#alec answers #🔮 anon

7 notes · View notes

iensrobens · 6 months

Text

A wrap-up for this blog for a hiatus

Just realised I posted 15 sets of drawings during the past 20 days. This is the craziest thing I ever did and such a relief of all my obsession with the game and Shadowheart since August. First time in my life creating fan content and picking up drawing again in 10 years was absolutely fun. (and of course learning to use these sns apps is also interesting, I know I sound like an ape first seeing human technology but I’m really ancient in this sense.)

I’m no artist and drawing isn’t even a hobby, just that I happen to have an iPad with Sketchbook installed.(and I only got to know how to rerank layers with it 2 pics ago so sorry for the quality for my first few drawings.) I just want to draw all the scenes I depicted in my head and very personal ideas towards the story as I tried writing and had to toss everything in trash can because I struggled making up comprehensive sentences.

I was quite anxious and felt so panicked that if my personal taste is weird and my drawings are bad (as you can tell, I don’t know how to do color) but I’m glad and surprised to see ppl like those. The numbers I’ve seen in my notification tab is far more large than the number of ppl I met in real life. (and it is very relieving to press on the blue dots.)

I really appreciate all your likes and comments and even followings-totally unprepared for this. I read every comments you made and those warms my heart and I jumped around the room when I see you got the references and hints I buried. (although I’m not sure what is the correct courtesy to reply your reposts and comments.)

I can’t recall if I ever obsessed with another character to the same extent like Shadowheart-the only one I actually started to do fan art by myself.

(As I mentioned I’m bad at writing so the next part may be very unorganised because my thoughts are flying in my mind.)

I played as her for my first playthrough. I had a quite traumatised experience for this-knew her background and past story, saved aylin but killed parents as I thought it is what THEY want, but I don’t know what HER wants; romance laezel as the dynamic was so intriguing and so good, saved her prince and let her fly away as I though she belongs to the sky and it was best for her-of course the one who becomes a squid is then Shadowheart-and I just straightaway stabbed myself at the dock. Everyone got their good ending except shad herself, and it was so grieving-all she wanted were actually all gone in that playthrough-family, lover and herself; past, present and no future. I just felt I did my girl so dirty.

Then with the customised character playthrough I actually get to know her more completely-with amazing voice acting, the interactions and all the hidden dialogues around the world-like the childhood memories dialogue which are a condition for letting her save her parents-I feel that is the preferable way as all the needed is done and she made her own decision. (But is the origin playthrough now added these narratives? I was thinking Allister Marley was Astarion’s real name.)And then the evil Durge route for her Shar path to see an alternative timeline, though I prefer the selunite route as the cycle has to end, we are better than this but that gives so many story telling ideas.

I tried to type something like character study but I can’t make it expressive enough even for myself to understand. I just hope then all I wanted to see and say is conveyed in the drawings. God knows I tried.

And thus I have exhausted all my ideas (and my annual leaves) for it. Now I have to remind myself to really focus on my real life work. Until next time my friends on Internet, perhaps I’ll pop up again when DLC or definitive edition drops.

#placeholder tag

17 notes · View notes

nellyofthevalley · 6 months

Text

truths, ch.4

astarion x fem!tav rating: explicit

content: piv sex, fingering, biting/blood drinking, emotionally repressed losers who can't communicate, angst

summary: this fic is mostly an excuse to write a bunch of dialogue bouncing around in my head. astarion is a sad little idiot who turns his fears into a self-fulfilling prophecy because he never learned how to love. it may or may not turn into a tragedy

“Say you’re sorry,” she demands, still facing away. “Sorry,” he says, plainly, so notably unlike him. There’s no hint of sarcasm in his voice, no lead-up to a joke or shameless flirting. A simple apology. She can hardly grasp the fact that he’d given her what she asked for so easily.

chapters: ch.1 | ch.2 | ch.3 | ch.4 | ch.5 | ch.6 | ch.7 | ch.8

read it on ao3 or below the cut

Their time here at the Last Light Inn is limited, but not a second is taken for granted. The trek through the shadow-cursed lands demoralized and wore the party down. It’s exhausting, how the shadows lurk in every corner, watching their every move, waiting for someone to step out of line or lose their light. Though the party isn’t unaccustomed to dangerous territory, none of the journey behind them compares to this. Here, every dead tree, every rock and every cliff hunts you.

Raphael hunted them, too, following through the darkness and worming his way into a game of chess at the inn. Tav fantasized of killing him right then; nothing about him could be trusted and his grating wordplay made her want to cut out his throat. But he’d caught her by making his deal with Astarion. Fresh as her hurt may be, they are still in this together.

Upstairs, away from the chaos, she sheds her clothes and draws a much needed bath. The scalding water feels like a blessing on her icy skin as she steps in, submerging herself up to her ears. Her hair flows free, let down from her usual braids, absorbing soap and water like a sponge. Taking the time to relax and massage her scalp is a feeling almost sweet enough for her to forget the rest of the world.

“Tav?” Shadowheart’s voice calls from behind the door, barely reaching her ears under the water.

“Come in,” Tav answers, turning over and resting her chin on the edge of the bath.

“I’ve half a mind to join you,” Shadowheart comments, heavily sighing as she sits in a chair beside the tub, body weary and in need of rest.

“There’s room.” Tav shrugs. She’s felt so alone lately, in her own head, and even Gale was keeping his distance. Perhaps they thrived better in the chaos. It made for good conversation, at least. “I’ll turn away if it’s any help.”

It’s a pleasure to be in the company of a friend.

The offer is tempting, and before long, Shadowheart’s stripping her clothes and getting in, too. It’s easy between them, to be comfortable. They’d been through so much already, and their spirits complement one another well.

“I don’t know what I’m doing down there,” Shadowheart says, working to let her own hair down. It’s a test of patience; her hair’s the longest Tav has ever laid eyes on. It’s impressive, really. Beautiful. She can’t help but be a little jealous, having dreamt of having such long hair when she was young.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing, really, I just—I don’t belong.” Shadowheart’s tone is uncertain in a manner Tav hasn’t heard her speak before. A tone not unlike the one she’d taken when confessing her duty that she’d gone so far as to cleanse her memories in service of.

This isn’t about making friends and smalltalk, it’s a harsher feeling of the world almost stopping and not having a place in it. The inn is a place of temporary respite lost in a landscape inflicted with permanent nightfall; a curse brought on by her chosen deity who she pledged her life to.

“No one knows,” Tav says as she catches on, though wary to say the wrong thing. “And you didn’t do this.”

“You said you’re from the city. Do you have family waiting for you? Friends?”

“Mmm. No. My parents died when I was very young.” Tav starts to work cleanser through her hair, feeling the urge to give her fidgety hands something to do. “I have a brother, but he hasn’t spoken to me for many years. And I was never one to make friends.”

“I find that hard to believe. You get along well with people. What happened?” The surprise in Shadowheart’s voice brings her relief—she doesn’t know her, doesn’t know what she’s really like. It’s nice to have reassurance that she’s been… a more moral person. Ever since the tadpole happened, things have been different. “You don’t have to share.”

“I’d like to,” Tav answers. “He was my best friend. My only friend, until now. He raised me and took care of me after our parents died, did his best to keep the roof over our heads. But there was never enough money. I turned to petty theft—food, little shiny things I wanted, whatever I could get… that’s how it started.”

She looks away, losing the nerve to speak, hands furiously scrubbing her scalp. The void left behind by her brother will never be filled, and every time she thinks she’s ready to talk about it, she’s mistaken. Some part of her still holds onto hope that he’ll be there when they get back to the city, waiting, in their old place. But that was unlikely—he left years ago.

What’s left unspoken is known between them. Mizora and Wyll talked enough for a lifetime about the terms of his pact, but Tav never said a word, and she’s sure everyone has wondered. Wyll seemed hurt that she didn’t want to share when he’d finally asked her about it the night they shared a dance together.

“How are things… with you and Astarion?” Shadowheart is an expert at changing the subject to another equally as unfavorable, but Tav can’t fault her for it—it’s nice to know she’s interested, that she cares. Though it’ll take time for Tav to grow accustomed to having others to lean on.

“There’s nothing with us. Not anymore,” Tav says, short and sharp. It was my choice, she reminds herself. It’s for the best.

“You still hold on to his coat,” Shadowheart notes, eyes darting to the chair Tav had slung the coat over.

She has a point. Not one Tav cares to think about or admit to, yet she finds herself wondering, does he still think of me? Does he regret sending me away?

“How is he?”

When they travel together, things always feel off, and he’s maybe a bit less talkative, but he still seems to be… himself?

“Quiet,” answers Shadowheart. “It’s different when you aren’t around. It’s odd.”

Only for a moment, Tav feels a strange sort of guilt for a reason she can’t understand. What has she done that she should feel bad over? Still, it pains her heart to know that it’s noticeable to everyone else, too. And not only that, he’s even quieter when she’s not around.

It’s what’s left unspoken that bothers her most.

Tav finds him outside, sitting at the edge of the land behind the inn, watching the water. The brilliance of the moon’s reflection on the water is its own lovely little beacon of hope in such otherwise grim scenery, even beautiful where it’s faded beyond Isobel’s shield of protection.

“Astarion,” she says, voice low and apprehensive as she questions whether she’s ready to talk to him at all. “I brought your coat back.”

“You should keep it.”

“Ah. But you’ve put so much work into it.” She turns and looks it over in her hands, following the threads he’s embroidered. “I couldn’t. I see your hard work in it. The holes you’ve patched, the words you’ve sewn into it.”

So she’s been examining it. With little options for how to spend his free time, he’d honed this craft; two centuries of pokes, threaded needles, and many late nights patching holes. Up close, she can tell which threads are old and which are new and reads their patterns like stories. Some are more clumsily stitched and irregularly spaced, others are precise and refined, with the thread still shiny and new.

Tav sits beside him on the rocks, handing over the coat. It stings in her hands to do it, but she has to, she can’t hold onto it forever.

“I’ll miss seeing you in it. You breathe such life into it.”

“Just let me down easy, Astarion, alright?”

“‘Let you down’? You made it clear whatever was going on, isn’t anymore.” Astarion shrugs, though in truth, he hadn’t expected her to challenge him on it. It’s only natural for him to flirt with her—with anyone, really, and unlearning this would be a process he doesn’t know how to start.

“I did,” she says. “I didn’t want to, you know.” She pauses to breathe before continuing, letting all the pent up anger and sadness rule her. “You may remember, you called me cruel for not laying with you, back at the grove. Then you won me over with your infuriating and inexplicable way with words. I let you have me, and you just left. Do you know how embarrassing that was? I scrambled to put my clothes on and regain any minuscule shred of dignity I may have had left.”

“Tav—”

“No! This matters. Listen to me.” Against her words, she waits to give him an opening to change his mind about this and object or walk away, but it doesn’t come. He stays. He listens. “Despite that, I came back to you. You had it right, I was left wanting. By you. And you told me to leave. Thatwas cruel. You’re not the first lover to hurt me and you won’t be the last. I’m a dumb, foolish girl who never learns her lesson.”

“Tav,” he repeats with a soft tone; not of objection, but a gentle appeal.

“Don’t. I think I might hate you.”

“As you should,” he says. “Now turn around. Give me your arm.”

Tav obeys, feeling that same foolish girl, allowing him to do what he wants with her yet another time. She turns her back and lets him guide her through the armholes of his coat, catching her in his web once again. It would be a lie to say the coat didn’t bring her comfort, she’d grown used to wearing it after so many weeks, but it’s her own lack of authority that pesters her.

“Say you’re sorry,” she demands, still facing away.

“Sorry,” he says, plainly, so notably unlike him. There’s no hint of sarcasm in his voice, no lead-up to a joke or shameless flirting. A simple apology. She can hardly grasp the fact that he’d given her what she asked for so easily.

“Fine,” Tav replies with a scoff, turning back around and watching the water gently stir. She wanted more than a sorry, but he’d caved near instantly, and that’s worth a lot on its own. For as long as they’d been traveling together, he wasn’t one to relent without a fight about anything.

Astarion looks at her—really looks at her—and her hair is down, dripping wet; it’s an intoxicating sight. She so rarely wears it free that it’s a treat to see it like this. He finds himself oddly mesmerized by the little drops of water beading at the strands’ ends, watching them collect and drip to the ground.

“I left you wanting?” he prods, not taking his eyes off her. He breathes in all of her features; he notices how long her hair has grown, how the light blue of the moon reflects on her nose, how her eyebrows slump together and make her expression look so, so sad all by themselves.

He’s more than aware of the effect he has on her, she can’t cover up how her body reacts to him if she tried. And is it really a surprise? He’s always known his own beauty and spent 200 years charming people. She’s only different because she rejects his trained motions and phrases, and keeps coming back for more. She wants to be treated like she’s special.

Astarion’s long since admitted to himself she is, but what is there to do about it? What is it he’s trying to glean from her, poking her about what she said, when he already decided he couldn’t lay with her? That’s all he knows and has ever known. Life before Cazador is a black hole where the memories should be.

Tav can feel the heat of his stare searing through her, flustered. How he makes her question her every thought and movement, reverting her demeanor to that of an awkward adolescent. Her resolve falters and she turns to gaze back at him, surprised by what she sees. In place of his typical impossible to read face, he almost looks somber.

“You did,” she answers, killing the silence, though neither of them can muster up more conversation. “I think… I think I’m going to bed. Have a good evening, Astarion.”

It’s a relief, her walking away this time by her own accord, and not fueled with fire. She saw more of him just then than he wants anyone to; possibly more than even he has seen.

#astarion #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #tav x astarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fanfic #my fanfic

7 notes · View notes