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brain-rot-central · 2 months

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Sonnet of the Lone Cardinal, Ch. 3

A/N: Thank you all for your patience. She's finally here.

Word count: 3.5k Rating: M (nothing sexual; mostly topics that may be uncomfortable) Pairing: Ascended Astarion/Fem!Tav Warnings: 18+; Mentions of murder, violence, death, blood, gore (very minor), blood drinking, sexual acts. Angst, alcohol consumption.

Summary: Tav and Shadowheart finally reunite for a simple lunch date. Their discussion turns toward Astarion, and a particularly unsettling event.

Chapter track: Cry - Cigarettes After Sex

♥ Previous Chapter ♥ Next Chapter ♥ Link to Ao3

Dawn breaks over the horizon. The subtle stirrings of a city coming to life once more fill the streets. Maids and matrons pat down their mats just beyond their front doors. Street vendors begin setting up their carts. A young boy with a satchel carrying copies of the Gazette goes from home to home delivering the day’s latest print.

Tav kneels before her front window, watching the street below. A few days have passed since her meeting with Jaheira. Astarion hasn't been to see her; the longest stretch of time between visits since they began their ordeal. She fully expected a visit last night. However, he never came. She hates admitting it to herself, but she feels a shallow pit in her stomach beginning to form having gone without him for so long.

Standing up, Tav closes the window and brings herself into the washroom to prepare for the day ahead. An old friend has requested a lunch date; she hasn’t seen Shadowheart for many months, and owes her dearest friend an audience.

Tav pours the carafe of water into the wash basin, dipping a cloth into the water before bringing it to her face. Studying the various soaps and creams she has lined along the shelf, she chooses one of nettlebark, smelling of citrus and pine forests. This scent is one of her favorites, and she’s relieved she can still find comfort within the smell. Scents are still a trigger for her nausea at this stage in her pregnancy. The usually tempting smell of breakfast wafting about the air of the city turns her stomach upright, now. Tav has found that if she holds off eating until mid-morning, she's in the clear.

Yet… odd cravings have begun.

For instance, she's since gone back to the butcher's, profusely apologetic to poor Gideon. Of course, the kind soul that he is, he was nothing but understanding and even offered her a few rations free of charge. Tav politely declined his offer, yet as she stared into the display cases full of various raw meats, she found herself practically bewitched by the sight. Rich, bloody beef; cut straight from the animal. She recalls how intensely saliva pooled within her mouth staring at the provisions. Tasting the metallic twang of the blood on her tongue, swallowing thickly as Gideon returned with her order.

Patting her face dry with a small towel, Tav returns into the main room and begins rummaging through her dresser for the day's outfit. The midnight blue bottle Jaheira gave her sits atop the dresser. Tav considers the potion every morning, but quickly declines as her heart aches at the thought.

She believes the weather to be rather warm today, so she settles on an airy, light blue sundress and a wide brimmed hat. The gray scarf she recently bought matches perfectly as she stands before her mirror, assembling the ensemble.

The ghost of scars catches her eyes as she adjusts the scarf around her neck. They're light enough; most wouldn't notice, though to her, they blare. Permanent gifts from her months-long affair with Astarion during their journey to defeat the Absolute. His bite was always a clean one, never marring her tanned skin. Two faint fang marks are all that remain, Tav taking the index and middle fingers of one hand to press lightly over the imprinted flesh as she lifts her chin.

Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

The rhythmic beating of her heart can be felt beneath her fingertips as she pushes slightly into the artery. Accurate, Tav notes, a shiver running down her spine. She makes quick adjustments to the scarf and grabs her hat off the edge of her bed, placing it atop her head.

Returning to the mirror, Tav smiles approvingly at her reflection as she gives herself a final glance over. The dress is loose enough that it hides the new softness of her body, something she's thankful for. Curiously, she places her hands over her stomach, pushing the fabric of the dress down and under the small swell of her lower abdomen. A pleased laugh escapes her lips while admiring the sight.

Tav turns her body from side to side, tracing the movement with her eyes. Her breasts now fill the top of the garment. The deep plunge of the dress’s neckline displays her new cleavage in a flattering manner. Feeling suddenly bare, Tav unwraps the scarf from around her neck, repositioning it lays across her chest like a bandana. Better. A bit more modest.

The satisfaction doesn’t last very long as she thinks of Shadowheart. How can she tell her? Will she tell her? While Shadowheart has never been anything but supportive, Tav worries how she may respond to news of her pregnancy. Tav is not ready for the backlash and potential lecture her best friend would give her, hearing Shadowheart's scolding voice echo within her mind.

You cried over him for months! Tav envisions clearly, sour facial expressions and all. How many times did you come to me distraught in the middle of the night? Only to end up like this?

If the conversation doesn’t occur naturally, Tav decides on not discussing it. Not yet.

Swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, Tav grabs her satchel from behind her main door, throwing it over her shoulder and across her chest. She inspects the contents quickly to ensure everything is present. Slipping her feet into brown sandals, she makes her way down the stairs to face the day ahead.

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

The morning is spent strolling around the park not far from her apartment. Tav recalls an altercation with Bhaal’s followers in this very park so many months ago. Today though, people are enjoying the sun and the company of one another. Lovers lay out on the grass, hands interlaced as they speak freely of their devotion to one another. A book club gathers in the middle of the park to discuss their latest obsession. Tav overhears bits and pieces of mixed conversations, finding comfort in the fact that life is slowly returning to normal for the citizens of Baldur's Gate.

The midmorning quickly slips into afternoon, and Tav begins her trek over toward the Elfsong to meet with Shadowheart. A few people nod in recognition as she passes by. “That's our hero!” they shout. “The savior of the city!” Tav smiles and bows graciously toward them, never quite comfortable with everyone suddenly knowing of her existence. Still, she is thankful for their praise and support.

Upon entering the Elfsong, Tav scans the tavern and quickly finds Shadowheart seated at a booth along the wall. Their eyes meet, Shadowheart waving her over with a warm smile on her face. “There you are!” she exclaims as Tav draws closer. “My goodness, I feel as if it's been ages!” The two women exchange a quick embrace, planting chaste kisses upon eachother's cheek.

“Good to see you again, Shadowheart,” Tav says as she settles into the booth. She removes her hat and scarf, placing both items on the cushion to her left.

Shadowheart soon joins her, taking a sip from her glass of wine. “Shall I ask for another glass?” she proposes, nodding to hers. “We could just order a bottle,” she quickly adds with a smirk.

“Oh, no, I'm quite fine,” Tav declines, a sharp twist in her abdomen forms at the thought. “Truth be told, I haven't had the best stomach, as of late.” Bile begins to rise in the back of her throat as a quick wave of nausea passes over her. She quickly swallows it back down.

Taking another sip from her glass, Shadowheart cocks her head to the side. “Truly? Why haven't you been to see me yet?”

“Not to worry,” waving a hand in reassurance. “I've been to a healer. All is well,” Tav replies with a liar’s smile.

All is not well. None of this is well.

Fortunately, Shadowheart takes the bait and quickly switches subjects. Waiting for service, they begin a pleasant conversation about resettling back into their lives. They speak of their new jobs and all other mundane activities of day-to-day life, sharing a few laughs between remarks as they pursue the menus in front of them.

The waitress takes their orders – Shadowheart keeps it light, ordering salad with grilled chicken; Tav orders a rare steak with potatoes and a side of vegetables. “Rare?” Shadowheart comments as soon as the waitress is out of earshot. “You hate all meat, unless it’s well done.”

She's right. Any hint of pink in Tav’s portion would go right back into the fire. “I-I've been trying new things lately,” Tav explains, rubbing her neck coyly. The cravings only seem to grow as the days pass, and she briefly wonders if it's a consequence of having a half-vampiric pregnancy.

Shadowheart raises a brow again, but fortunately does not pry further. The women then delve into a discussion regarding their old companions as they wait for their meals. Tav talks of her efforts to bolster the city watch with Wyll, now the Duke after his father's unfortunate death. Shadowheart speaks of Gale, who she notes has since opened a school of wizardry back in Waterdeep. Neither has heard much regarding the others, though they agree that they're most likely doing well.

Shadowheart wastes little time once their meals arrive, forking salad into her mouth. “So, have you heard from Astarion at all?” she asks casually after swallowing.

A shudder passes over Tav as she begins slicing into her steak. “No,” she feigns with eyes cast downward, “I-I have not.”

Gesturing toward Tav with her fork as she chews, Shadowheart swallows. “I read something interesting in the Gazette a few days ago,” she suggests.

“About him?” Tav questions, bringing a potato wedge to her mouth.

Shadowheart shakes her head in disapproval around a sip of wine. “Not in particular,” she clarifies. “They don't name him explicitly, though it made me think of him.”

Silence befalls the table as Tav awaits her companion to continue. She doesn't trust her voice enough at this point to offer more to their conversation now that Astarion is the topic at hand. Playing idly with the vegetables on her plate, she chooses a small piece of broccoli to bring up to her mouth. The heavy pull of dread is beginning to creep in, her chest tightening.

“They… mentioned an incident that occurred in the sewers but a tenday ago,” explains Shadowheart, a sour expression befitting her face. “Some sort of deal gone wrong.”

Tav looks up to meet Shadowheart's gaze, puzzled. “How exactly does that involve him?” she inquires.

“Well, that's just the thing,” Shadowheart continues, “those first on the scene mentioned five victims in total, all young males.” She interrupts herself to feed another forkful of salad into her mouth, swallowing before resuming, “They were all reported as being exsanguinated, though only three had their throats slashed.”

Tav swallows hard around another piece of steak, silently savoring the rare flavor washing over her tongue as she focuses her attention on Shadowheart. “And the other two?”

Shadowheart looks sheepishly around the bar, discomfort evident. She dips her head. “Tav, I know of your history with Astarion. I don't wish to speak ill of him out of respect for you.”

Tav's fist tightens around the knife in her left hand. The tightness in her chest has traveled up to her throat. Her heart pounds rapidly as she drinks from the glass of water within her right hand. “What of the others?” Tav insists, placing the glass back down on the table with force.

Eyes falling closed, Shadowheart sighs heavily. “The other two…” she begins, voice trailing off. She pulls in a deep breath. “Well, they're reported as having two pin marks on their necks.” She gestures to Tav's throat with a soft nod of her head. “...Not unlike the scars you bear.”

A prickling heat spreads across Tav’s face. A tenday ago? she speaks within her mind. Rather close to when she'd last seen Astarion. Tav recalls again how miffed he'd been that night; impatient and direct, wasting little time coaxing her down onto the bed.

She pushes around a chunk of potato on her plate, anxiety mounting. “What makes you think it was Astarion? It could have been a kobold, or a spider, or-”

“They were gone the next day,” interrupts Shadowheart, bluntly.

Tav’s heart nearly freezes. She locks eyes with Shadowheart. “Gone? What do you mean gone?” she asks frantically, furrowing her brow.

“Gone,” Shadowheart reiterates, raising the wine glass to her lips again. “When the investigators returned the following day alongside the medical examiner, only the three with the knife wounds remained.” She pulls a long drink from the glass. “The other two were nowhere to be found. As if they'd simply gotten up and walked away.”

Tav shivers, entire body twitching with the thought. “T-that doesn't mean it's Astarion, Shadowheart. It could be-”

“Could be what? Another vampire?” suggests Shadowheart, sarcastically. “I don't think Astarion would take kindly to someone else moving into his territory.” She sighs, clicking her tongue. “I'm sorry to say it, Tav, but it sounds an awful lot like him.”

The sounds of the tavern flood Tav’s ears. Her vision narrows to a single pinpoint, the edges of her vision growing fuzzy. She leans back in her seat and closes her eyes. “We don't know that,” Tav states, trying desperately to calm the wild beating of her heart. “We don't know what happened.” She shakes her head, slowly opening her eyes. “We won't know until the case is settled.”

“Why do you still defend him?” asks Shadowheart bluntly, mouth pulling into a displeased pout. “Surely you remember how badly he hurt you. Why continue to defend him at all?”

The question echoes in her mind. Why does she defend him? The man is a monster; an abomination, as Jaheira had called his child. Tav knows not who he’s become. Small glimpses of the man he once was shine through now and again, mostly when they argue. The stubborn selfishness of him reveals itself, inevitably bleeding into raw passion once she works at him enough. It almost makes her feel at home in his arms, albeit for a few hours.

“He wouldn't, Shadowheart. It's not like him…” Tav says, quietly. She's unsure if she believes it or if she's lying in an effort to convince herself that it's true. She's suddenly lost her appetite, pushing the plate of food away from her.

Shadowheart is quiet for some time, eyes cast down at the table. “Well,” she says, cutting through the silence, “let's hope he's as innocent as you say.”

Silence stretches across the table before the two women agree to shift the conversation elsewhere. They inevitably tie up their gathering, sharing an embrace and chaste kisses to the cheeks once again. They vow to meet the following week, and head out on their way.

Walking back toward her apartment, Tav's stomach begins to sour as she thinks over her conversation with Shadowheart. Vivid images of Astarion sinking his fangs into the necks of the alleged victims flood her mind's eye. She feels a tingling sensation over her own scars as she imagined how they must have felt. Could he have really done such a thing? The sounds of the city are almost absent from her ears as she ponders the question.

“Wait a minute,” she speaks aloud, freezing in place. Her eyes are cast down to the cobblestone street below as her heart fills with horror. Her mouth dries quickly, choking as she tries to breathe.

The last night she'd seen Astarion coincides almost exactly with the timeline of the murders within the sewers. If the report is true, then Astarion's enthusiasm that night wasn't solely due to want, necessarily. Tav dips into a small alley between two buildings, leaning against the brick wall as her knees grow weak.

No, his insistence was not due to missing her. It was attributed to blood-fueled lust, a state Tav has seen him in a number of times. She clasps a hand over her mouth as a sob suddenly racks her chest. Her whole body shakes as the horrific realization sinks deep into her bones. The puzzle aligns near perfectly as the thought continues to blossom.

Astarion had come to her bed after draining two people dry. He didn't spend time on their typical foreplay because he couldn't. Tav knows the power mortal blood has over him, and she doubts the ascension has changed that. She recalls how it all but possesses his thoughts, his feelings, and his body, enslaved by the sheer power of unbridled desire running through him.

Lurching forward, she begins to dry heave; a million thoughts race across her mind. He couldn't have done this on purpose, could he? He wouldn't. There's simply no way he would. Denial clouds her thoughts as saliva drips freely from her open mouth, gathering it together to spit upon the floor. Holding a hand to her stomach she rises, leaning her temple against the cool brick of the wall next to her. She closes her eyes, trying to calm her excitement with slow, deep breaths.

“No innocents; you have my word.”

Astarion's past promise to her rings loudly in her ears. It was from this promise their almost nightly affair to keep him well-fed began. Tav tries desperately to block out the memories of what would transpire after their sessions; how could she have not noticed? All the signs were there.

Because he didn't drink from me.

Her stomach churns again and she rubs her hand in a circular motion above her navel. Her chest burns as she chokes back tears. What to do, now? Does she wait until his next visit to confront him? When will that be? The anticipation will burn a hole through her soul, she knows. But, what other option does she have?

A small voice wrestles from within as she wipes her mouth with the back of a hand.

…Do I go to him?

The decision is made before the logical side of her mind can argue a rational point, her feet carrying her toward the Crimson Palace. She second guesses the choice; from some place within, a voice yells for her to reconsider.

He'll tell me the truth, surely, she argues against her doubt.

Right?

Aware that she's potentially putting herself in a grave position, Tav cannot rest until he tells her otherwise. She needs to hear from Astarion's own mouth that he didn't murder five people only to share her bed mere hours later. She needs to hear from him that he wouldn't do this, that he still abides by his promise to her, that her blood is all he's ever known.

“Why do I care so much?” Tav questions aloud to herself, practically running now toward the monastery. She shakes her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts; he will eventually drink the blood of others. If he is to create an army of spawn as he'd so claimed after the ritual, that would be the only way to do so.

They're no longer lovers; no longer deeply acquainted. They just sleep together, and she fell pregnant as a result.

Why does she care so much?

Before long, Tav stands before the immaculate palace. Grand mahogany doors stand proudly at the building's entrance, adorned with intricate carvings along the wood. Black metal knockers depicting the faces of gargoyles signal a way in. Tav’s hand reaches instinctively around the bell of one, pulling up.

Before she can complete the knock, the door creaks open. A faint glow from a distant light source cracks through the opening of the door and Tav releases the handle, stepping back. She freezes in place, fully expecting the door to continue opening. Yet, it halts, remaining only slightly ajar. Stale air greets her nostrils and a shiver passes through her.

Silence suddenly engulfs her, the sounds of the city falling dormant. As she surveys the area around her, Tav notes no other presence out on the street for as far as the eye can see. Her ears pick up the soft sound of someone humming, and she determines its origin lies within the palace.

An assimon carved into the middle of the marble trim along the heavy doors catches her attention as she looks up. Tav turns her head as she studies the figure; a young woman with long hair, eyes closed and wings outstretched as she holds a lance within one hand.

The humming from within the building turns into a tune and cuts through Tav’s daydream. She shakes her head briefly, regrouping. She can turn away now and forget this entire thing. Forget that this was even a thought that crossed her mind, leave, and no one would ever know she was here.

A quick flash of Astarion’s fangs piercing into skin flits across Tav’s vision. She winces. I simply must know, she reassures herself. Drawing in a deep breath, she steps forward.

Resting the flat of her palm against the door, Tav slowly pushes it open. The old metal and wood fuss loudly as the door gives way under the force of her hand. The faint glow of the light from within now pours out, illuminating the street behind her. With some hesitation, Tav steps over the threshold, disappearing into the palace.

#astarion #ascended astarion #bg3 astarion #fanfiction #astarion ancunin #astarion angst #astarion smut #astarion x female tav #astarion x tav #bg3

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underdark-dreams · 7 months

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Not sure if anyone is still following this oneshot, but I ended up writing a second chapter. Turns out I couldn't stop thinking about giving them a happier ending. (Rated M now 👀)

Rolan x Fem!Tav (Unnamed)

Good Night For Company - ch. 2

Tags: Mild Angst, Sexual Content

Word Count: 4,794 [Read on AO3]

Rolan had spent many hours cursing his timidity that night.

He’d lain sleepless at his camp as the sky lightened outside the Emerald Grove, replaying each moment in his mind. The look in her eye when she asked to kiss him—her hand tugging him toward her tent—the lovely way she collapsed against him when his lips found her soft neck.

He'd escaped the very fires of Avernus itself with his whole family miraculously alive and in tow. Yet confronted with the puzzle of her hands drawing him down to her bedroll, his mind had seized up in uncertainty. How much easier could she have made it for him?

Although, he allowed himself, he had made some sense that night. For one who daydreamed of her face as often as Rolan, the strain in her features was instantly noticeable by campfire light. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and shadowed with dark, tired circles. Even her skin seemed drained of its usual color. She needed a good night’s sleep more than anything.

But as they said their goodbyes that night outside his campsite, Rolan's hands still holding her shoulders, he could have sworn she wanted him just as badly as he did her.

Rolan shut his eyes with a groan—her face only swam behind his eyelids, that same invitation drawing him into her gaze. He pressed palms to his eye sockets until she burst apart into popping stars.

When he opened them, he was back in the torchlight of Last Light Inn and sitting in his grim new reality. There was empty silence on either side of him where Cal and Lia should have stood chattering.

Rolan dragged his tankard back towards him across the bar, until he peered down and saw the bottom.

"You two," he snapped at the little Tieflings behind the bar. The boys' conspiratorial giggles hushed immediately as they both looked at him. "Are you tending bar or not?" He waved his empty mug toward them.

"I don't know," Ide said, brows lowering in a skeptical line. Rolan tutted at him.

"It's not difficult. Bottle," he pointed at the open dry red behind the bar. "Cup," he continued, waving a hand in front of him.

"Mistress Jaheira said not to over-pour," Umi piped up, clearly not knowing the term but understanding the sentiment behind it.

"Mistress Jaheira didn't save both your hides from the Shadow Curse, did she?" Rolan snapped. He badly needed another drink; unwelcome lucidity threatened to close in. "If it weren't for me, who knows whether you two would still be out there right now."

“Stop it, mister Rolan,” Ide insisted. Rolan was opening his mouth to chastise him before he caught sight of Umi’s lip trembling.

The child was already a timid thing. Through the recent memories of too many kin lying on the road, Rolan recalled Asharak, the childrens’ fighting instructor from the Grove. He’d been cut down before their young eyes just days ago. Umi seemed especially affected by the loss. No doubt the man’s body still lay spread-eagle on the path up the hill; the urgency of survival had left no time to bury their dead.

Rolan gave a heavy sigh as he watched the child’s forlorn face. Yet again, he felt like a monster. “Go. I swear I’ll practice moderation. And if Jaheira asks, tell her I ordered you off.”

The two of them scampered away without a response, clearly eager to get away from Rolan at the first chance. If only he could escape his own unpleasant company just as easily.

But that, Rolan reminded himself, was what all this wine was for. He lurched across the bar for the bottle and tipped the rest of its contents into his tankard. Its heat down his throat welcomed him back toward oblivion.

If he still lived, their errant paladin had everything to answer for. Whether he’d lost his senses to the curse or just lost his mind entirely, Rolan cursed Zevlor for the umpteenth time for fucking off with the cultists and landing him in this unwelcome position of authority.

Rolan was no leader…at best a very, very uninspiring one. The yoke should have fallen to someone brave and selfless. Someone like broad-shouldered Ikaron. But Ikaron was now another empty body lying along the Risen Road, to be slowly consumed by the shadows.

Rolan knew he was no beacon of encouragement. He’d done his best to herd the other panicked survivors onward, however, using every last bit of evocation knowledge he had to keep them surrounded with light and flame.

He also knew it was sheer good fortune that saved them in the end. If they hadn’t found the sanctuary of Last Light Inn when they did, they’d all be shambling undead by now.

Yet somehow in the days since the ambush, he found all the children hovering around him with frightened eyes, asking him questions he barely knew the answers to himself. How were they going to save the ones who’d been taken by the cult?

Perhaps his unpleasant habit of ordering others about was finally coming around to bite him in the ass.

Nevertheless, Rolan felt vexed and inconvenienced by the unasked responsibility. Weren't his siblings enough of a weight on his shoulders already? Saving everyone would be a miracle; all he could privately hope for was Cal and Lia returned to him.

If they’re still alive. Those were the thoughts that drove him to drink, and drink he did, tipping back the pewter vessel with abandon. In between bouts of liquor, however, Rolan’s mind was working as hard as it ever had.

Cal and Lia would be at Moonrise Towers. No question. Moonrise was the headquarters of this insane Absolute cult, the one whose small patrol had butchered their numbers on the road. And a fortress of that size had to have a dungeon of some sort on the lower level. Why would they go through the trouble of taking them alive just to kill them? They must have plans for them all—ones Rolan tried not to imagine in detail.

He had to think of a way to slip through unnoticed—possibly by river, if the rumors he’d overheard from the Harpers were right. How far could he get on his own? Asking any of his fellows for help was out of the question.

Rolan glanced across the common room at what pitiful few remained. Alfira sat near the open hearth, fingers going through the motions of tuning her lute strings. Her usually cheerful eyes were blank and distant. Rolan hadn’t heard her play a single note since Lakrissa had been taken with his siblings. He should have thought to comfort her, but that kind of gentleness never seemed to occur to him.

Rolan crossed his arms on the bar and dropped his horns to them. If only he’d thought faster, acted sooner, left the others to fend for themselves in order to grab hold of his brother and sister before their screams grew distant. His sharp nails dug into his palms as the sound replayed in his mind.

He wished he had anyone besides himself to be angry at. He wished he could be angry at her.

If only she'd never taught Cal and Lia how to hope to fight back or be heroes. If only she'd never taught him how to hope…for anything, he decided. For any single single thing he might wish were possible.

Through his haze of drunken self-pity, his ears pricked at some kind of shouting and commotion out front. No doubt another attack by some new shadow-cursed horror. Rolan heard one of the little ones begin calling his name.

"I’m coming, I’m coming,” Rolan spat, sliding petulantly to his feet as one hand reached for the quarterstaff leaning against the bar. “The damned hells is it this time?" He didn’t care what language the child might hear, but young Mattis was unphased.

“Stow your frown—” Mattis was grinning toothily. “Goblin killer finally made it!”

“What?” But the boy was already gone, bounding away from him through the front doors. Rolan swallowed dry against his fuzzy tongue. He felt fully awake for the first time in days, and he gripped the bar to steady himself before his feet stumbled forward.

Jaheira's enchanted vines were disentangling from her legs just as Rolan entered the courtyard. It was fortunate; he'd grown to respect Jaheira, and it would've been a shame to have to hex her. Rolan jostled through the gathered Harpers without a care in order to push closer.

She and her companions had been waylaid just past the bridge. Harper Lassandra was relaying a report in her defense, it seemed, but all Rolan could concentrate on was her face.

Her cheeks were splattered with dark, shadow-magic blood. One of her sleeves was ripped open at the shoulder, displaying another patch of blood-stained skin at the seam of her leather jerkin. By the dark circles under her eyes, she still hadn't slept properly since the Grove.

She was the most beautiful thing Rolan had seen in weeks.

Her eyes came to rest on his own face then; he watched her blink hard, as if she might be dreaming.

"Rolan?" She croaked out softly.

He had already half-closed the gap by the time she started toward him. They caught each other so hard Rolan felt the air leave his lungs in a huff, but he gathered whatever of her familiar scent he could, tinged with coppery blood though it was.

“I’m so glad you’re—I’m so glad,” she laughed shakily into his shoulder. Rolan wished he could kiss her, but it didn’t feel right in front of so many other eyes. He settled for standing back with his arms circled tight around her middle.

"Where's Lia and Cal?" She glanced around behind him, her smile fading. Rolan should have expected her constant concern for others by now, but could only look at her. Her eyes landed back on his face. "Zevlor?" She added quietly.

“Come inside.” Jaheira’s voice interrupted the silence between them. “We can talk over a drink.”

As the druid directed forces back to their posts, Rolan felt her slip out from under his arms. She approached Gale to ask something—Rolan saw the wizard glance his direction before he replied.

“Come on,” she said, jogging back into his embrace.

“What about Jaheira?”

“Gale can handle it, he’s good at talking.” She notched herself back firm against his side as they walked in. “I’d rather hear from you.”

Rolan tried his best not to stumble up the stairs beside her. He cursed his impulse to reach for the bottle at any sorrow—he must reek of it. If he did, she was kind enough not to say anything.

He led her to the empty room beside the cleric’s and shut the heavy door behind them.

“We were ambushed,” he said in a rush, before she could open her mouth. “Cal and Lia were grabbed up by those monsters on wings. Along with others. They’re being held at Moonrise.”

“We’ll find them.” Her voice was automatic and steely-certain.

Rolan nodded, borrowing what strength he could from her eyes. “We will.”

“I thought…Zevlor was leading you,” she prompted him slowly, as if she might not want to know the answer. He only shook his head at her. How could he explain what he didn’t understand himself?

“We took the same path here that you did,” she admitted to him. Rolan knew what she was saying. He remembered each and every blank, upturned face that shrank to a pinpoint in the darkness as he led the survivors away.

“I’m so sorry, Rolan.” His numbness was broken by her two hands rising to hold his face. “I just—I’m so fucking sorry—”

For some reason, his grief felt more real than it had yet. Rolan looked down at her bloodstained face and folded his fingers around one of her wrists. It would be idiotic to cry in front of her, so he kissed her instead.

His lips shook against hers, from sorrow and from want in equal measure. Rolan didn’t want to think about his dead friends, or his family waiting for rescue in a dark dungeon—just for a moment, he wished he could lose himself in her. She was the one person he could let himself unravel with.

“Rolan, wait—” But she didn’t want him to wait. Rolan heard it in her breathless voice against his lips, felt it in the way her hands clutched at his clothing to pull him closer.

He knew she must taste the alcohol on his breath. Hadn’t he said something to her that night in her tent? Something about wine and sex being a bad mix.

Foolish words of a foolish man who still thought he'd have time to do things properly. Rolan couldn’t remember them, and right now, this seemed like the best thing that could ever happen in such a desolate place.

Was it so wrong to want her? Even now, with the rest of his life crumbling around him?

Only his very real feelings for her could have broken through the haze. With a lurch of effort, Rolan stumbled back from her. The four walls of their room pressed in unbearably quiet without the sounds of hands and lips filling the air. Her eyes shone dark to him in the candlelight, pupils blown wide in a way that his deepest instincts recognized with primal satisfaction. He was certain his eyes blazed with just as much desire.

Rolan licked his lips, gathering his last shreds of control. “Tell me to go,” he rasped. “Say it, and I will.”

He was rooted to the spot to await her judgment. She was silent before him, only a soft pant from between her lips. Rolan stood there for what felt like an agonizing eternity as her eyes traveled over his face.

So slowly it felt like a dream, she raised one arm across to her opposite shoulder. The gesture made no sense to him at first. Until Rolan heard buckles clicking and watched the plates of her leather armor shed from her chest like scales to the floorboards.

Her tunic was next, and before Rolan could ready himself it was up over her head and thrown on top of her armor, her bare breasts covered only by a few stray wisps of her hair.

He swayed where he stood, lightheaded; her darkly shining eyes didn’t break from his for a moment, even as her hands were already moving to the fastenings of her belt.

Rolan felt an ache like loss. Those should be his hands—gently undressing her, taking his time as he slowly unveiled each new and beautiful expanse of her flesh—not the two of them rushing through this first moment of newness that they’d never get back. Because even as the thought occurred, he himself was ripping his own robes off his shoulders without a care for the state of them. They would have time enough some other night.

She was faster, already kicking her pants off her bare feet. She wore nothing underneath—the realization brought a groan from his throat. Once his last garments dropped forgotten to the floor, she practically pounced.

Rolan had just enough reflex to catch her as she threw her body against his. Her bare skin on his was electric, filling his mind with wild want even as he tried to take in every sensation at once. Her taut breasts pressed against his chest—fingers lovingly exploring the ridges on his shoulders and back—the heat between her legs barely grazing against his thigh, yet enough to send his mind reeling. She made him feel real again.

And her lips—how could he have already forgotten how sweet she tasted? He kissed her back with hunger, wishing he might dissolve into her soft warmth for good.

Rolan wasn’t as strong as he wished, and he was tipsy as all hells, but he did his best as he guided their bodies down on top of their clothing. Her hips and shoulders thumped under his weight against the wood boards. Surely it must have hurt her—but then he felt her legs cross behind his bare flanks, rutting their hips together, and every other concern was lost.

Slick wetness pressed against his pelvis as she rolled herself against him. The proof of how much she wanted him, if Rolan had any lingering doubts. He fell braced on his forearms around her.

“I missed you so much,” she gasped against his lips. Rolan paused everything as his eyes opened to meet hers, almost too close to focus. “Rolan, I wish we—I should have—” Her face shone with more yearning than he could bear.

"I know, dearest, I know—" The endearment fell with shocking ease from his lips. Though he might share them, tonight was not for regrets. There were enough of those going around to last a lifetime.

Rolan stopped them with his mouth, licking and tasting her as deeply as she would let him, one hand splaying under her thigh to angle her hips deeper against his own.

With anyone else, Rolan might have felt self-conscious about how hard he’d been since the moment she undressed for him. With her, what would be the point? She'd confessed more with her body and her words than he'd ever expected.

His ridged length pressed between them, his underside slickening with each rocking motion she made against him. He broke from her slightly.

"Tell me." The words came out husky. Rolan didn't mean them to tease her, only wanted her to direct him, but the way she squirmed under him was addictive.

"I want you," she breathed, and he felt fingers clasp behind his neck. "Please, Rolan—"

How could he deny her anything? Rolan grabbed himself to guide and nudge his tip to her folds, spreading her wetness along his length best he could. She deserved so much better than a hard floor in the middle of nowhere. But everything felt too urgent, like they were at the edge of the world’s end. And her face held nothing but eagerness as she watched him.

Gently, slowly, he guided himself just inside her. She was perfect; Rolan's head dropped to her chest as he exhaled with a shudder.

"Oh—" She only let out the little gasp, but her hands hooked under his ears, tilting his head back up so she could press lips to his forehead and eyelids.

"More," she purred against him.

Reflexive, Rolan pushed into her to the hilt and let out a groan at how perfectly she gripped him. She hummed in satisfaction, her legs pressing tighter around his hips to hold him there.

It was somehow tender and frantic all at once. Rolan's hips rolled into her with increasing urgency, even as he cradled her face up toward his with both his forearms, wanting to watch each sensation play out over her face.

When he hit a new angle inside her, her fingers actually gripped one of his horns as her lips gasped open. It sent a shudder reverberating through his core.

"So good," she gasped. "You feel so perfect—"

He would do anything to keep it feeling that way for her. He ducked his mouth to her breast, sliding his tongue over one tight bud and sucking her into his mouth.

"Fuck, Rolan—" Her voice canted up a register, and he felt her walls tremble and grip around him with each thrust. Her fingers clutched sweetly at the ridges over his shoulder blades.

In the back of his mind Rolan wondered whether the whole inn could hear his name on her lips, but he wasn't sure he cared, wasn't sure he didn't fucking love the idea in fact.

Both of them were starved for it, and neither of them could last much longer. Rolan groaned something into the flesh of her breast, words lost to the way her body shook under him just as he unraveled all around her. He collapsed against her soft chest and held her tight with trembling arms.

—---

"What did you say before?"

As he drifted back to reality, Rolan lifted his head from her to rest his chin on her stomach. "Hmm?"

She was looking down at him with shy curiosity. "When you came," she said. He loved hearing words like that casually tumble from her. "You said something, I didn't recognize the language."

Rolan realized with some embarrassment that she was right. "I did, didn't I." He moved to press his lips along her abdomen, as if it might distract her from the topic. But she was far too stubborn for that.

"Going to tell me or not?" He felt his insides melt as she traced her thumb along the lines of one of his pointed ears.

Rolan regretted letting her in on that fact about Tiefling anatomy, and he told her so with a grumble. She only laughed and gave his ear point a teasing tug.

Rolan closed his eyes against the feeling instead. "It's Infernal," he admitted to her. He hadn't spoken the tongue in many years; the fact he remembered any was a surprise even to himself.

"Oh." She didn't sound put off, only curious. "What did it mean?"

He carefully considered how to answer. "There's…not a word in Common that directly translates." Rolan met her eyes as his lips brushed absently near her navel. "A feeling that cleanses like holy fire. 'Love of salvation.'"

She gazed down at him. "That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard," she whispered.

Rolan reached to smooth her hair across her forehead. "Is it? To be cleansed, you have to be corrupted first."

"Is that an offer?" she asked, a grin teasing at the corners of her mouth. “I mean, we’re all pretty corrupted around here. Don’t forget I’ve already got a worm in the head.”

Abruptly, she pushed herself seated upright; Rolan caught himself back against his knees.

"I’m an idiot," she gasped. “Rolan—that’s how I get to the Moonrise dungeons. This tadpole makes me a True Soul. I can walk right through the fucking front door!”

Anxiety gripped him as he watched the excitement unfold on her face. Rolan wasn't sure he could watch her willingly rush into a den of vipers.

"I'm coming with you," he insisted, already knowing she would tell him no. She shook her head at him.

“I wish you could,” she told him, and he believed her. “You're not tadpoled, the guards would know. But I'll take as many of my companions as I can, I swear. We can do this," she added, gripping his forearm.

It was all too fast; Rolan caught her hand before she could rise. "Wait," he implored firmly. “Let me travel with you to the bridge, at least.”

That she agreed to. They dressed quickly—though Rolan couldn't resist grabbing her a few times to kiss what bare flesh was still exposed, absolutely adoring the way she melted under his hands and mouth each time.

When he and her party stood at the bridge to the Tower, Rolan regretted agreeing to this all over again. She only gave him a quick peck on the lips with the soft promise of more later, and headed down the walkway with her companions.

Rolan stayed back in the shadows to watch her speak with the guards. His heart pounded in his throat. There was a short exchange; even his sensitive ears couldn’t catch the words. But then the guards stood down, and she and her friends walked freely through the front doors of Moonrise Towers. He allowed himself to feel a sliver of hope.

Back at the Inn, Rolan paced around the hall for what felt like an eternity. Mol complained he was making her dizzy. In reality, it couldn't have been more than a few hours.

When he heard the soft shout of the patrol below, Rolan rushed through the wide doors and down to the underground port.

Cal and Lia stood alive and well on the wooden docks. Her too, further down the line—she even caught his eye with a smile. Rolan could have laughed in relief, but the guards curtly ordered him back while the Harper on duty checked them over with Jaheira's bottled tadpole.

Rolan deeply wished to aim a cantrip at the man's skull, but he clenched his fists to gather his last remaining shreds of patience.

When they were cleared, all of them dashed together. Rolan gripped Cal and Lia's heads with a hand each, holding them tight against him.

"You absolute fucking idiots—" Rolan was half scolding, half trying not to cry. "Don't you dare stick your necks out like that again, do you hear me?"

"I'll remember that the next time we get kidnapped by murderous lunatics," Lia's voice said into his shoulder, but she was squeezing his ribs tight.

"Sorry," was Cal's only meek response, and Rolan stifled the juvenile urge to rumple his little brother's hair.

"Just get inside," Rolan said as he released them. "When was the last time you both ate?"

They both complained over his continued fussing, but each of them obeyed him in the end. The return of bickering and normality somehow eased a weight from Rolan's heart.

As the Tieflings he knew and the deep gnomes he didn't all made their way up the stairs to the Inn, Rolan linked his arm around her waist beside him.

"I love you," he told her first, low so that only she could hear. Then—"thank you."

"Thank those lot up there," she told him, though he heard through the smile in her voice that she hadn't missed his confession. "They were ready to fight tooth and nail out of there. I just unlocked the bars."

In the dark Rolan placed a swift kiss on the crown of her head, and was rewarded by the feel of her cheek leaning sideways against his shoulder.

Last Light Inn still had an undeniable gloom to it, but it was lightened considerably by the reunions of friends and lovers. To Rolan's eye the hall seemed practically packed compared to a few hours earlier.

His siblings settled back at the bar, removed from the chatter at the hearth. Rolan watched them toast each other with two very well-earned pints. As they both launched into conflicting narratives of their adventure, Rolan felt a deep sense of ease soak into his bones.

"This one's fucking amazing, by the way—" Lia was gesturing her mug to the woman at Rolan's side. "Watched her cut down a Moonrise guard with one swing of a sword. You better have thanked her properly, Rolan," she added.

His sister was clever; Rolan strongly suspected she knew what she was doing. He decided to play dumb for the sake of the dear person beside him, whose cheeks he could practically feel burning from here.

"Believe me, I will," Rolan said. As he spoke, he drew her toward him again with an arm around her middle.

Cal was significantly slower on the uptake. "Eughh." He let out an amused noise of disgust. "Why don't you two just kiss each other alre—"

But Rolan's lips were already on hers, tilting her chin up and back with a hand so he could capture her mouth. His other arm wrapped her shoulders back against his chest, and he felt her fingers grip tight over his forearm. As they gently broke apart, the quiet lasted only for a second.

"Twelve pints at the Elfsong." Lia smacked the bar next to Cal. "That's it, you owe me."

"Taking bets on my fucking love life now?" Rolan began, his indignance slightly undercut by the fact that his love in question was shaking with laughter under his arm, both hands clasped over her face.

In the end, Rolan left his siblings to argue over the details. He was too overwhelmed with embarrassment and the desire to save her from any of the same.

As he drew her back up the stairs, Rolan felt her shoulders shaking with laughter again under his arm. He glanced sideways, wondering what had ruined the mood now.

“What?” he prompted her.

“Nothing, it’s just—” She was positively sparkling as she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Can we use the bed this time?”

With a mortifying jolt, Rolan realized there was indeed a perfectly serviceable bed in the room where he’d unceremoniously taken her on the floor.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

“Plenty of time for that,” she agreed, biting her lip as she drew him with her hand. “Now come on.”

#back to classic rolan pov because i am weak #rolan x tav #bg3 rolan #rolan bg3 #underdark-dreams #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 spoilers #rolan

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soulessjourney · 3 months

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We Fallen Gods Chapter 1

Paring: Astarion x fem!DurgTavReader

Word count: 2.7k

Summary: Three years after the fall of the Elderbrain you and Astarion had finally settled down and made a life for yourselves. After about a year you made it your goal to venture out with Gale to locate the Daylight Ring to allow Astarion to finally have his life in the sun back. Now as you two live in the city, you working along Wyll as a politician and Astarion as a Tailor, your lives make a drastic change as an unexpected surprise flip your worlds upside down.

Warnings: Language, Humor, Violence, Pregnancy, Angst, Hurt and Comfort, Hurt no Comfort, OOC Astarion, Talk of Conceving

Three years have passed since the city fell, and you devoted your days to tirelessly rebuilding it, only to return home to Astarion in the evening. It's been two years since you embarked on a journey with Gale, drawn by a story about the Daylight Ring granting vampires the ability to walk in daylight and be protected from the sun’s rays. Your life together has evolved into a comfortable routine. Astarion manages a tailor shop, bringing the city the finest wears, while you delve deeper into politics, working alongside Wyll to govern Baldur’s Gate and aid in its recovery post-battle. Shadowheart resides just outside the city in a small cabin with Owlbear, whom she adopted at your reunion celebration. She works to assist those who strayed from Shar and face exile.

Lae’zel has had minimal conflict with you and Astarion, particularly after abruptly leaving your group following the battle. All you are aware of is her travels, dealing with politics. Gale rejected the idea of becoming a god after your persuasion, and he now runs a school in Waterdeep, training wizards to excel. Halsin and Jaheira returned to Emerald Grove, contributing to the rebuilding efforts and the restoration of the Blighted Village. You frequently hear from them as Wyll sends you to check on their progress and discuss potential partnerships once the area is rebuilt.

There is one person you dearly miss, a sister figure – Karlach. The memory of her being pulled back to Avernus haunts your dreams, often leading to Astarion holding you tightly to calm your sobs upon waking. You vividly remember him standing behind you as you pleaded with Withers to bring her back. Since that day, you haven't been entirely the same, as that moment left a gaping hole in your chest. Karlach supported you in ways you couldn't explain, understanding the struggle of being seen as a monster. She held your hand, looked you in the eye, and promised to save you. Karlach made a significant impact on your life, and Astarion, being well aware, never pressed the situation – something for which you are thankful.

After much persuasion, you and Astarion finally adopted Scratch. Now, the furry companion lay curled up on the ground beside you while you leaned against Astarion. He read a passage from his book, absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair, brushing against your scalp. Your hands, in turn, found solace in Scratch's white fur. The day had been exhausting with back-to-back meetings and paperwork, leaving you feeling as if you were drowning. It wasn't Wyll's fault; the city had crumbled during your battle with the Elderbrain, necessitating the establishment of order once more. Despite life seemingly returning to normal, there lingered a dark corner within you, itching to claw its way out. Sometimes, during meetings, the Urge would beckon you, urging harm, and the taste of blood in your mouth served as a stark reminder that the darkness from your father never truly vanished. A part of you would always belong to him, and your body would perpetually yearn to witness life leaving someone's eyes.

Your reverie was interrupted when Astarion pulled his hand away from your head, looking down at you. "What's troubling you, Darling?" he asked, his hand gently resting against the side of your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. His eyes held an abundance of love, causing you to melt in his embrace. Astarion was acutely aware of your fears related to your father and the recurring urges. He sensed them returning, as if your past was attempting to pull you back. "Are you thinking about the urges again?" he inquired, hitting the mark, though that wasn't the sole concern on your mind. The topic of children was another matter, a discussion reserved for the moments before bedtime when you both nestled on the couch. You harbored a deep-seated fear of what you might pass on to your offspring, hence your insistence on delaying such plans.

Nodding, you tucked your legs under you, meeting his gaze. "I was, but I'm okay now. Don't worry; I don't feel like standing over you, planning to kill you, while you're in your trance," you teased, leaning up to press your lips against his.

He chuckled against your lips, leaning back to study you. "Tell me about your day, my love. You've been so busy; we haven't had time to discuss our days like usual," he hummed, grabbing your hand to lead you towards the bed. Scratch followed closely as you both settled into your usual spots, with you curled into Astarion and his arm wrapped around you. At the foot of the bed, Scratch settled into his spot, contentedly chewing on the bone Astarion had gifted him earlier that evening.

Humming, you reflect on your day before your eyes light up slightly. "I spoke to Halsin today; it was really nice to see him after some time. The village is starting to gain residents again. They just had a family of Tieflings move into one of the buildings; they're tailors, so they'll bring more business to the village. The Grove is back under his command too, so he's trying to find a way for us to send some military healers to train under him," you say, playing with Astarion's fingers gently. "Oh, and Owlbear is doing great," you continue, catching Scratch's attention. Since Owlbear no longer lived with both of you, he had been a bit lonely, but you have yet to convince Astarion to get him a friend. "Shadowheart stopped by to discuss matters with Wyll pertaining to the followers of Shar. You should've seen how massive she is." Astarion nods along with your words, a large smile on his face as you continue to fill him in about your day.

Astarion adores just how peaceful you look when you talk about your day. You have been working nonstop since you returned to the city with the ring to gift him the freedom to venture outside during the day. There were times when he worried you would work yourself to death, but the worry always tends to melt away when he sees how content and accomplished you look when you manage to form an alliance. This, in his opinion, is the perfect life. Having you in his arms, and the dog taking up any sort of foot space on the bed. Although he has brought up the idea of kids with you on multiple occasions, he would be just as content in this life that he has with you now.

His eyes lock with yours once more, and your sentences begin to trail off just before you reach up, pressing your lips against his. The air shifts between the both of you, the need for one another, the need to feel each other's touch filling your very being. Just as Astarion flips you over onto your back, Scratch lets out an annoyed growl before jumping off the bed and moving out of the room. A giggle sounds from you as he trails his fingers over your sides, causing you both to roll off the bed and onto the ground with a thud. Cradling your head, Astarion presses his lips to yours, pulling you into a night of bliss and passion.

----

As the sunlight filters through the crack in the curtains and bathes your face, you squint before opening your eyes. You find yourself face to face with a fluffy white presence on the floor. Smiling, you glance over your shoulder, noticing the vacant space in your bed. Astarion typically rose before you, but he usually waited for you in bed. Sitting up, the blankets slip from your exposed body and pool beside you. Standing, you walk toward the wardrobe, grabbing the robe hanging on the inside of the door. Gazing at yourself in the mirror, you twist your hair into a bun before leaving the room.

The city-provided home you shared with Astarion was more extensive than initially necessary. Despite your efforts to fill the space, it often felt insufficient. This led to occasional thoughts about having children, though fear always quelled such considerations. Approaching the stairs, muffled voices fill the air. Astarion occasionally invited clients over to address clothing issues, but as you neared, you recognized the speaker: Wyll. What was he doing here so early in the morning?

"I won't let her go and do your bidding, Wyll. I don't care if it's her job, but what you're asking is for her to embark on a suicide mission. We're finally enjoying a comfortable life together where I don't have to worry incessantly about losing her to a tadpole or the urge. Well, that's a lie; it's clawing at her, and I refuse to have her away from me. If, for whatever reason, she gives in and reverts to the state she was in when we were all together. Besides, does she even know our friend here is alive and well?" Fear tinged Astarion's voice as he spoke. Although some interpreted his tone as anger, you knew him better. Whatever Wyll wished of you had him terrified.

Your hand on the door, you freeze at the sound of a voice speaking up—one you've been praying to hear since that fateful day. "No, she doesn't know yet, fangs. I've been trying to figure out how to just reappear in her life. I just didn't expect it to take a year." Hearing those words, your eyes well up with tears. You throw the door open to Astarion's private study, causing it to slam against the wall. The three occupants in the room turn their attention to you, and only one person stands the moment they catch sight of you: Karlach.

"You're alive?" Those were the only words that came to your mind. In that moment, it felt like a surreal vision or an unsettling manifestation of the Urge. She was supposed to be gone, taken back to Avernus, and while you knew she wasn't technically dead, you understood the grim reality of her existence there. It was as if you had forgotten how to breathe or move. A whole year had passed, and only now did you have the chance to see her. Part of you was enraged that she hadn't appeared sooner, but another part acknowledged her fear of your reaction.

Frozen in place, you watched as she moved toward you, finally enveloping you in a tight hug. "Hey there, soldier, I missed you," she whispered, wrapping her arms securely around your trembling form. It was only then that you realized tears were streaming down your face. "Hey now, no crying. Remember what I said about tears," she murmured, wiping them away with a gentle smile. Now you understood why Wyll had insisted on staying in certain wings at the fortress; he was waiting until Karlach felt ready to see you again.

Pulling away from the embrace, tension lingered in the room. Glancing over her shoulder, you noticed Astarion and Wyll glaring at each other, engaged in a silent battle. Wiping your cheeks, you looked around and sniffled, catching Astarion's attention. "Excuse me. If I had known we were going to have guests, I would have dressed appropriately. Give me a second to change, and then we can discuss what matter has you both on edge," you said, glancing between the two men. Turning on your heel to make your way back to the room to change, you added, "And Karlach, it's good to have you back."

---

It didn't take long for you to change into more appropriate attire. Sitting next to Karlach, you faced the two tense men in front of you. "So, care to tell me what caused the argument between you two? It must be something significant, considering Astarion looked like he was about to blow a fuse when I walked in earlier." Astarion shifted slightly, turning away from Wyll, his body radiating anger. His tense demeanor confirmed his suspicions: Wyll was indeed about to present you with a suicide mission.

Wyll glanced at Karlach, who nodded reassuringly before gently taking your hand. "There have been sightings of Gortash and Orin in the Underdark. Some claim to have spotted them at one of the temples, but that's not why I'm here. It's more about their followers," he explained, searching your face for any reaction. The mention of Orin made sense, as her return would explain the resurgence of the urges clawing at you. But Gortash... he was supposed to be dead. You had witnessed the Elderbrain kill him before your very eyes.

Rubbing your hands on your knees, you cleared your throat. "But Gortash was dead. We all saw it happen," you said, locking eyes with him. "Forget Orin; I know I can take care of her again. I mean, I beat her in a duel. But how in the nine hells is Gortash still alive?" Astarion sensed the urgency in your question, the desperation rather than hope. Quickly standing, he moved to sit on the other side of you, rubbing small circles on your back, a gesture he knew brought you comfort.

Wyll nods along with your words, understanding your confusion. “I know, but considering Orin is back, I would have to say something else is at play here. Now, in terms of what angered Astarion, I need you and a few others to travel back to the Shadow-cursed lands. I’ve had scouts report something happening at Moonrise Towers. I know you prefer not to step foot in there again, especially after everything that happened, but you’re the only person I trust to get the job done,” he says, keeping his eyes locked on yours.

“You’re right. I don’t want to go back there, not after what I went through, especially when it came to the urges,” you start, keeping your eyes focused on the ground in front of you. Astarion lets out a sigh of relief just as you lift your head. “But I need to make sure Orin or Gortash can’t climb back up from whatever circle of hell they were in. If going back to Moonrise is how I can do that, then so be it,” you say, jumping slightly as Astarion quickly stands, throwing his hands in the air.

“It’s a suicide mission, Tav. How are you even supposed to get back into Moonrise? You know they’re going to be on the lookout for you, especially if Orin is back. She’s going to be out for blood, and I refuse to get word that I lost you simply because Wyll wanted to send you on that mission,” he growls, placing his hands on his hips as he paces the room.

Your eyes follow him before you let out a sigh. “Wyll knows the urges are back, meaning Bhaal is trying to claim me as his champion again. I went against Orin, and now that she’s back, I’m sure he was unable to find another champion and he’s desperate. They’re going to let me in because of who I was. Her followers fear me more than ever now, especially since I killed her in a duel. I killed her Star, I killed her without the Slayer form, and I can do it again,” you say, watching as Astarion’s shoulders drop in defeat.

“I’m sure Wyll is going to want me to infiltrate, meaning I’m just gathering information. That’s my job besides just going to meetings and doing paperwork. We have ways I can disguise myself, and I promise I’ll be careful, Star. The moment things seem like they’re going to go south, I’ll come back, and I’ll refuse any further missions having to do with Moonrise. If Gortash and Orin are truly back, it means we need to prep the city in case they decide to attack,” you murmur, grabbing his hands gently. “I promise.”

Astarion hesitates before nodding. Turning towards Wyll, you watch as he stands taller. “If anything happens to her, and I mean anything, I will drain you dry,” he spits, before turning on his heel to leave the room. Falling back onto the couch, you look toward the wall before turning your gaze back to Wyll.

“When do I leave, and who’s all coming?”

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galedekarios · 3 months

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#bg3edit #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #tav x gale #gamingedit #dailygaming #otp: a soul that steels my own #ch: gale dekarios #ch: altonaufein #ch: jaheira #vg: baldur's gate 3 #series: baldur's gate #gif: mybg3

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anderstrevelyan · 3 months

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Haunted One

Rating: M / The Dark Urge/Enver Gortash, The Dark Urge & Jaheira, The Dark Urge & Gorion's Ward / Ch. 1 of 4

It’s fic day! Here’s the first chapter of my Dark-Urge-as-the-son-of-Gorion’s-Ward origin story. There’s durgetash to come, but today’s chapter is Jaheira’s.

Grabbing the summary from AO3 (and please mind the tags there if you click over):

He glances through the window, where Valas is surely sitting in the garden. “What if I passed it on to him?” Jaheira could answer with logic: how he’d given away the dark essence in his soul when they destroyed Bhaal’s throne, how there should have been nothing left of the murder lord in him when Valas was conceived. She could answer with the truth: how she couldn’t begin to guess how divine blood flows through family lines. She could even answer with what he wants to hear: of course you haven’t, you’d know by now, just look at his sweet heart, the understanding in his eyes. But she answers with what matters. “If you did, it won’t be stronger than what you’ve chosen to pass on. The same way it was for you, everything you gained from Gorion’s heart.”

He’s Bhaal’s second chance. He’ll kill more, than the one who came before, kill better, carve his devotion into the world’s flesh. He'll lead his temple, share his dream, shake bloody hands with the rest of the Dead Three.

His name is Valas DeVir, and he’ll become death itself.

Read on AO3.

#the dark urge #jaheira #gorion's ward #durgetash #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #my writing #valas devir #viconia devir

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snikt111 · 4 months

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(chanting about the bg3 companions) make them fat! make them fat! make them fat!

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #mordie speaks #astarion ancunin #karlach cliffgate #gale dekarios #wyll ravengard #shadowheart #lae'zel #halsin silverbough #jaheira #minsc #literally who else is there okg #ch: bloodlust #ch: weave

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pinkfey · 9 months

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i don’t think jaheira deserves to be mom-ified by fans more than she already has but i do think at some point ursula catches herself inexplicably trying to impress her or feeling weirdly pleased when she commends her for something and is just like

#i think at that point she hadn’t really….. spent such significant time in the company of women more mature than her??#ever since her m*ther she kind of. avoided them.#but here’s someone who respects her and views her as an equal and she’s like *tucks hair behind ear* oh me? ☺️#and then she’s like wtf. what is this shit. what is wrong with me. am i soft? the fuck.#she has a sane and normal relationship with the approval of older women (i’m projecting)#evre was probably the closest she'd come but that relationship was honestly quite subservient/deferential on her part #she wasn't desperate to please her but there was a power dynamic. and evre wasn't old enough to fall into a mother figure category #there was love care respect etc but ursula WAS her dog honestly. her enforcer. her butcher. her right hand.#so jaheira is the first older woman she's worked with so closely like. ever. and she's thrown for a fuckin loop because of it #anyways.txt #ch: ursula #bg3 posting

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m3rricat · 3 months

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You Do Not Have To Be Good - Ch. 1

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

Chapter Masterlist

Pairing: Astarion x female Tav

Chapter Content Warnings: mild gore, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 4974

Read on AO3

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did it go so wrong?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ve met before. Haven’t we?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You—you undid Szarr’s curse?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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pengychan · 1 month

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[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 6

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: M Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Anyone who's ever played Neverwinter can probably guess where this is going. ***

Durge was no stranger to unpleasant welcomes.

There were many things they still couldn’t recall of their life as Bhaal’s Chosen, but it seemed quite likely that their arrival would be seldom welcomed by his victims. Then, of course, there had been more recent events that they remembered well; being caught in Jaheira’s vines right there at Last Light Inn was still, in their opinion, the worst welcome by far.

Until they opened the door to Raphael’s room to be greeted by a firebolt to the face.

“Ignis!”

Sonofabi--

Wyll was quicker to react than any of them; an instant before the firebolt made contact, before Durge could even move to counter, he’d grabbed their robes and pulled them down. The firebolt went right over their head, close enough it may have singed hair if they had any, and crashed against the opposite wall, causing several people downstairs to yell in alarm and more than a few to grab their weapons.

Well, look at that. The bastard could cast, after all. But he wasn’t getting a chance to do it again.

“Dolor!”

Wyll’s blast shot forward in a beam of crackling energy, and Raphael had no time to even try moving out of the way, or conjure up any kind of defense. The blast struck him and it would have knocked him back several feet, had he not been leaning against the wall. Instead, it just knocked back his head. Into the wall.

Hard.

Halsin stepped forward, lifting a hand to cast, but paused when Raphael promptly crumpled on the floor. He frowned and slowly lowered his hand, while Wyll leaned over the rails to let the people downstairs know that everything was in hand.

“... He’s in no state to take on anyone in a fight,” Halsin muttered. “What got into him?”

“Not a clue,” Durge muttered, and stepped in, crouching next to Raphael’s still form. That he could cast was not overly surprising, but he thought the devil more clever than that, picking a fight he had absolutely no chance to win. He could be rash, yes, and overconfident, but never stupid… and this had been an astoundingly stupid decision. “If he wanted to try something, I’d have expected him to bide his ti--”

“Hello, love. I was awakened by the sound of-- oh, hi Wyll-- the sound of chaos, but it seems I missed all the fun. Seriously, did you keep him alive all this time only to end him without me?” Astarion sighed, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m hurt.”

“He’s not dead,” Durge pointed out, turning Raphael on his back and cradling the back of his head in their hand. There didn’t seem to be skull fractures, at least, and he was breathing, if raggedly. That single firebolt must have taken a lot out of him; he probably couldn’t have cast another even without Wyll’s intervention.

“I suspect that’s going to change,” Astarion commented. “I bet someone went to fetch Aylin. You’ll need to be very convincing if you want him to keep that head attached to his neck for much longer.”

Ah, right. She was unlikely to take kindly to the fact he’d attacked them, and that he may very well have tried to attack Isobel if she’d been the one to step in. That was going to require some diplomacy, and definitely a compromise. It looked like Raphael would have to wave that cushy room goodbye.

“... I’ll take him to one of the cells. Halsin, can you help me carry him downstairs? We lock him in, and then you heal him.”

“It sounds like a plan,” Halsin said, and stepped in to help, leaving Wyll to fill in Astarion on what exactly he was doing there.

***

It’s cold.

Cold cold cold and it hates the cold, it’s shrouded in fire and somehow it’s still cold. The walls are made of ice but that’s not what bothers it. Something is cold inside, worse than ice, beneath the hellfire. A hole where something was, a lack of heat that’s unbearable and is never going away. Something is-- missing -- wrong and it hates and hates and hates and doesn’t know why.

It hates it there. It doesn’t know where there is, only that it hates it and has to guard it, or else the cold will turn to pain and it hates that, too. It hates whoever put it there.

It doesn’t know who put him there.

It doesn’t know where it was before. What it was before. There was something. Someone. He was someone, they were someone and it’s all gone now. He is gone and it is all that remains, stalking hallways and rooms beneath vaulted ceilings.

There are beings around, small and skittish, and it hates them and wants them gone, but it cannot harm them. Not unless they touch something they should not. They’re there to serve, same as it is, and if it kills one without reason or permission someone-- Barbas bastard oily bastard I’ll kill you -- will make it hurt.

It doesn’t realize it’s making a noise, a growl deep in its chest and chittering in the back of three skulls, but it does see the small souls working about the place turn, sees them back away, move to keep on their work at the farthest possible corner of the room. They disappear behind thick columns, behind doors.

Only one remains, unmoving before the flames. It has seen this soul before. Almost tore into it. But it did not because… because…

She steps forward, slowly. It can smell her fear, but she takes another step. “Israfel,” she speaks, quietly. “You know that name. He named you that. Did he keep you? Raise you?”

There is a stab of something in the back of its skulls, and one of its jaws clacks once, twice. Israfel. The sound of it, it’s heard it before. It doesn’t know when. But it heard it many times and there is the smell of a new book, the warmth of embers in a hearth, the clack of pieces placed on a lanceboard, the strings of a lyre, the taste of something-- almonds, always liked those almond sweets -- in its mouths. It’s warm as everything else is cold. It’s solace. It hurts. It wants it to stop. It wants more. But it’s gone and it can’t have it back, because-- your Lord father summons you, little duke -- it hurts-- time to join your kind -- and hurts and HURTS-- you’re loved here, promise your Nan you’ll remember that -- make it stop make it stop-- you’re but one of many whelps, the Lord of the Eighth shall see you when he wishes to -- make it STOP HURTING RIGHT NOW.

It steps back, chittering, shaking its heads, the flames within dimming, its knees bending. The soul who spoke the name pauses, staring, then steps closer, slowly. A hand reaches up and almost, almost touches its fused skulls. Almost.

She doesn’t. None may touch it, not if they value their life, and she steps away quickly, before anyone can see, leaving it alone in the middle of the room, shaking and growling, still so cold, a shriek coiling in its throat. It cannot let it out. It will hurt if it screams.

On another Plane, the missing half of its soul screams loud enough for both of them.

***

“Silvanus preserve us--”

“What the fuck .”

Durge wasn’t sure what they had expected Raphael to do once Halsin cast a healing spell on him and he regained consciousness; the fireball earlier had shown he was probably not in his best state of mind. They had sort of expected him to be unhappy about his current predicament, to strain against the robe binding his wrists. However, they had not expected him to scream and scream and scream, wordlessly, loud enough it must be tearing something in his throat. They and Halsin watched, taken aback, and he screamed again and twisted, eyes bloodshot, damn near foaming at the mouth, trying to throw himself at them.

Did I look like this, when the Urge came and I almost killed Astarion?

The memory of that night was churning ice in their gut, and Durge chased it from their mind. Instead they lifted a hand and, with a quick gesture, cast to detect Raphael’s thoughts. They usually came in the form of words, but not always - Wulbren Bongle’s mind for one had shown only a column of fire reaching up into the skies - and this time, too, there were only images.

Walls of ice, priceless artifacts protected by ancient magic-- Mephistopheles’ vaults, they were there there once, when they took the crown --and debtors at work cleaning, the smell of fear overpowering and yet dwarfed by hatred, all-encompassing, fueled by a continuous agony burning cold somewhere at the core of the being through whose eyes they are now looking. Multiple eyes, spaced unevenly, and all focused on a small figure. A word is uttered, a name; the empty coldness within turns into a void, pulling in all light, and everything explodes into pain. Of course it does. Two halves of the same soul will always cry out for one another.

“Get out of my head! Get out get out get out! ”

Raphael screamed again, and Durge was quick to sever the connection. They blinked, head spinning, to see that Raphael had slumped against the damp stone of the wall, trembling, breath coming in ragged gasps through clenched teeth. Halsin knelt beside him, and cast another healing spell; one more shaky breath and some of the tension seemed to leave Raphael’s body.

“Lay down,” Halsin spoke, voice even. “You’re safe here.”

Raphael made a choking noise that Durge could barely identify as a laugh. He opened his eyes, found Durge’s gaze, and sneered. “Why am I still alive, bhaalspawn?”

“There was no reason to kill you--”

“Keeping me for Mizora’s pet to finish, aren’t you?”

Durge looked at Halsin. Halsin looked at Durge. Both turned back to Raphael.

“... What?”

It was almost amazing, really, how quickly Raphael could revert to looking at them so haughtily, like he wasn’t a trembling mess only seconds earlier, screaming his lungs out. “You’re not as clever as you believe you are. You brought Wyll Ravengard to my room so he could end me himself. Tell me, what has my father promised him, or Mizora, in exchange for my head?”

Durge stared. “... Hold up. You think Wyll is here to kill you? Is that why you attacked?”

A glare. “I may be injured in body, but very much unlike yours, my mind is perfectly intact,” Raphael snapped. “I heard him thank you for your help with my own ears.”

Ah. Of course. Durge sighed, rubbing their forehead. “You imbecile," they groaned. “He wasn’t talking about you.”

Somehow, the insult seemed to cut deeper than the notion they had may be trying to kill him. “Don’t you dare mock me! I heard--”

“If we’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead. And against my better judgment, you still breathe.”

“What other devil would he come here expecting your help to ki--”

“Zariel.” Wyll’s voice rang out in the cellar, cutting him off, and Raphael blinked.

They all turned to the entrance, where Wyll stood. He smiled weakly. “Hope you don't mind me joining you. Astarion stayed upstairs to smooth things over,” he said, and looked back at Raphael. From his part, Raphael was silent a moment or two before speaking again.

“Zariel,” he repeated, as though trying out a foreign word on his tongue.

“Yes. Mizora said--”

“Mizora gave you the order to kill the archdevil of Avernus.”

“That’s the only Zariel I am aware of.”

Another pause, and finally a chuckle. Raphael shifted to sit more upright against the wall, and laughed. “What have you done,” he asked, the unpleasant smile still on his lips, “for Mizora to come up with such a delightfully creative way to sentence you to a most painful death?”

Well. That was not encouraging. “It is a mission I am bound to complete, or die trying,” was all Wyll replied, arms crossed over his chest. “Her reasons are irrelevant. I have to kill Zariel.”

“You truly hope you have the faintest chance to succeed?” Raphael chuckled again, like the thought alone was hilarious. “Haven’t you learned yet that hope is the greatest lie of all? Zariel will sup with your soul, Wyll Ravengard, and perhaps sample your liver on the side.”

All right, time to put an end to that. “You were keen to sup on our souls as well, and yet we defeated you,” Durge pointed out, only a touch pleased by the obvious annoyance that twisted Raphael’s features. “If we could beat you, certainly we have decent chances to defeat her. Or is she that much more powerful than you?”

A scowl. “Your puerile baiting will not change the facts,” Raphael bit out. “All the power I had I clawed for myself, you contemptible rat. She has been given command over forces beyond your measly comprehension by Asmodeus himself. You may have beaten me, but I almost had you, with naught but a few foot soldiers at my beck and call. She has legions to call upon. She has been fighting the Blood War far longer than you've lived. If you fight her, you shall perish. Of that, you can be certain.”

“That’s why I asked to speak with you as soon as they told me you were here,” Wyll spoke up, and approached the cell. “If there is a way to better our chances - anything to help us succeed - surely, you must know.”

A scoff. “And…?”

Halsin sighed. “I suppose there is little chance you’ll tell us out of the kindness of your heart.”

Raphael tilted his head. “I am glad to see I don’t need to explain the obvious to you. I suppose the next thing you’ll do is threaten to take my life for my refusal - very well. I will die here before I help you. But by all means, go ahead and try, all of you, to destroy Zariel.” He smiled. “Get yourselves killed, lose your souls to the archdevil of Avernus. I hope you’ll scream loudly, rat,” he added, the smile widening as he met Durge’s eyes. “So that even I can hear the melody of it, wherever I’ll be.”

Durge met his gaze and smiled back, all fangs. “I won’t kill you, Raphael. I’ll let the flow of time do it, day after day to the end of this mortal life. After that, I don’t know if there is a place anywhere for the mere half of a soul, but I suppose that’s for you to find out,” they said, and to their satisfaction, Raphael’s smile wavered. They stood. “... Or perhaps we will let Mizora know where to find you, to collect a reward for delivering you to your esteemed father. Either way, we are done here. Good luck and all that. Wyll, we’re ready to leave when--”

“Wait.”

Raphael’s voice rang out a moment before Durge closed the cell’s door behind them. They turned to look at him over their shoulder. They were not surprised: matters of pride were always quick to turn into matters of price when no other options were left. Dealing with devils - this one devil in particular - had taught them that much.

“I believe,” they said, barely holding back a grin, “that this is the part where you make an offer.”

It was.

***

“So, I see you’ve been, uh… reading?”

“Oh, yes. A lot of books here - most of them evil, and I mean, evil evil. But I’m hoping to find out where my sister’s soul went.”

There was the slightest waver in Hope’s voice that would have made Karlach’s heart clench, if it hadn’t been a clinky machine running on oil and sheer spite in her chest cavity. Even so, there was a knot in her stomach. She did her best to ignore it and turned back to what had been Raphael’s archive. Most of the objects on display were gone, but the books and scrolls were still there - many scattered across a long table.

“I see,” Karlach finally said, choosing not to remark on the fact Korrilla had been all right with Hope being held prisoner and subjected to endless nightmares for… Hells knew how long. She had brought it up once, and the look Hope had given her had kept her up at night.

“She’s my sister,” she had said. “And she loved me, once. Love doesn’t just go away, does it? I don’t think it does. I must hope it doesn’t.”

There was nothing Karlach could say to that because well, had she not survived ten years in Avernus thanks to just that? The hope that she could escape someday? So in the end she bit her tongue, and asked something else.

“Did you find out anything?”

Hope sighed, shaking her head. “No. Well, not yet. You see, she was bound to Raphael, right? Meaning her soul was his, once she-- once-- well, after she died. But then Raphael died before he could properly collect it and that doesn’t usually happen, you know. What happens to the souls belonging to a devil when the devil is gone before he can claim them?”

That was definitely not something Karlach had ever wondered. “That’s… a good question.”

“I find that out, and I find my sister. I think. I hope.” Hope gestured towards the scattered books. “So I’ve been trying to find out. The souls have been very nice. I asked them to please not come here so I can read, and they’re keeping out.”

“... I see,” Karlach muttered. Personally, she might have set the entire place on fire herself in Hope’s shoes, destroying everything her tormentor had ever owned, but the slim chance to find her sister again clearly meant too much to her, and she didn’t bring it up. But gods, she was bored. Wyll had been gone for days, and she’d had no news yet.

“Oh! Maybe we’ll find something that could help you defeat Zariel, too?”

… All right, that was a better plan than ‘set everything on fire and laugh over the smoldering remains’. It was a bit of a long shot, but it made at least some sense. Devils were a bunch of scheming bastards, always looking to stab one another in the back or at least someplace painful. They collected information about each other the way one would collect Talis cards, cataloging each and every weak point. If Raphael ever had information they could use against Zariel, then surely this was where she could find it.

Karlach had never been big on reading, but it wasn’t like she had anything else to do until Wyll returned with reinforcements. “That’s a great idea, really. Let’s get to it.”

“If I see something about Zariel, I yell. If you see anything on unclaimed souls, you yell. Deal?”

“Eugh, don’t use that word,” Karlach laughed, and turned to the closest shelves. Unlike many others, now empty, they were still filled with rows of books. “What about those? Have you looked there?”

Hope made a face. “Those are not books. They’re Raphael’s diaries going back a long time. But I’m not touching those.”

Considering the absolute bullshit she’d seen in the boudoir, Karlach could definitely understand why. Still - no pain, no gains. Or something like that. “Guess I’ll have to, then. At worst, I’ll get some extra mocking material about the dead bastard,” she muttered, and grabbed the closest diary.

***

“The Sword of Zariel?”

Sitting on the floor against the wall of a cell, hands tied behind his back and forced to look up at that gaggle of loathsome vagabonds, Raphael nodded. That was not precisely how he usually conducted negotiations, but he could bear it if it got him what he wanted. Then, of course, he’d kill each and every one of them.

“Exactly. If there is anything in the Nine Hells of Baator that can kill her, other than Asmodeus himself, it’s that sword.”

“Oh, of course. It sounds so very convenient.” The vampire spawn - when had he come downstairs? - scoffed, leaning against the bars. “A sword that can kill her, so very fittingly named after her.”

Really now? “Did the tadpole take a bite out of your brain before it was vaporized? It is named Sword of Zariel because it was Zariel’s sword, back when she was still a celestial. A Solar, to be exact, until her fall, when she lost it along with the hand that had been holding it. She is as powerful as an archdevil as she was then, but that sword? It can end her. I am certain of it.”

“And you just so happen to know where it is?” Wyll Ravengard asked, doubt etched in his features. Raphael met his gaze, lips curling.

“Isn’t it a happy coincidence? The sword was taken by a Hellrider general and a hollyphant--”

“If you know where it is now, why haven’t you taken such a weapon for yourself?” The bhaalspawn crouched to look him in the eye. “Why hasn’t Zariel? Or your father, ever the collector?”

Ravengard blinked. “His father?”

“Mephistopheles,” the vampire spawn clarified.

“... Huh. And here I thought I had to deal with a cumbersome family relation.”

Raphael elected to ignore them both, and met the bhaalspawn’s gaze. “There is power to that sword, one that protects it from devils - not that devils would manage to wield it even if they got to it. The sword is sentient, and will reject those it deems unworthy. Infernal beings are… unlikely to make the cut.”

“So even if we find it, there is no guarantee we may be able to wield it.”

“I agreed to tell you what can kill Zariel, and I can take you to where it is. Everything else is up to you. I’m not the one sworn to kill an archdevil - or die trying lest I become a lemure.”

Ravengard frowned. “Point taken, thank you,” he said, in a tone that indicated he was not thankful in the slightest. Raphael ignored him, like he ignored the vampling and the lumbering druid at the back. He kept his gaze fixed on the bhaalspawn, who finally, slowly, nodded.

“Very well. That is fair enough,” they said, and stood. “We have an agreement. As soon as you’re able to travel, we’ll be off to Avernus.”

Astarion cleared his throat. “And, ah, how do we know he won’t turn on us the second we’re there? Because that's what I would do if I were a devil.”

“That’s what you would do regardless,” the druid pointed out, gaining himself a shrug.

“My point stands.”

Raphael scoffed, making a mental note to kill the vampling first, possibly before the bhaalspawn’s eyes. “One could argue I’m the one taking the risk, considering your abysmal actions last time I offered you a perfectly good deal. I won’t pretend I wouldn’t love to slit your throats, but it would very much go against my interests. I want something in return if I’m to help you destroy Zariel, and you cannot give me a thing if you’re dead.”

“... The other half of your soul,” the rat spoke. “That’s your price, isn’t it?”

Raphael shrugged. “I wouldn’t say no to Mephistopheles’ head on a silver platter, if we truly get as far as killing one archdevil,” he said. “But first, yes. The other half of my soul.” Then, your lives. “Do we have a deal?”

They did.

***

“So, we’re all going to Hell. In the most literal sense, this time. It’s going to be an interesting experience, I’m sure. And I won’t have to worry about the sun, so that’s definitely a plus.”

“None of you is obliged to do this. I understand it is a lot to ask--”

“Wyll, darling, don’t be absurd. This idiot has already pledged their help and they are, quite regrettably, my idiot. I have to come along. They wouldn’t survive a day without me.”

“I am coming as well, if you’ll have me.”

“Halsin, this place needs you. And the children--”

“This place would still be cursed, and these children would be dead, if not for you. I could not live with myself if I didn’t help you now. They have Isobel and Dame Aylin to look after them in my absence, and-- you might just need a healer, after all.”

A sigh, and Wyll lifted his gaze from his ale to look back at them. “I’m more grateful than I can put into words. I would not have involved anybody else in what is my mission, if not for--”

“Karlach.”

“Yes. This is the best chance yet to win her freedom. I couldn’t live with myself if I failed her.”

“You won’t live at all if you fail, but let’s say I understand the sentiment. So, uh. Have you two, you know…?” Astarion leaned forward on the table, peering closely at Wyll’s face, grinning much too wide. From his part, Wyll pulled back, clearing his throat.

“We have been fighting our way through Avernus-- and as she told you, we have made progress when it comes to her engine--”

“Oh, come now. Even you can’t be that pure of heart.”

“I… well… she is amazing, the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, but…” Wyll looked at the others, as though hoping one of them would bail him out of the conversation, only to be met with looks of very obvious interest. He groaned. “Listen, we’re fighting devils and demons and whatnot day in and day out. We’re covered in steaming blood and guts more often than not--”

“Sounds dreamy,” Astarion muttered, only half-jesting, gaining himself a snort.

“It’s not precisely the picture of romance, is it? No time for-- you know, a courtly dance, or--”

Durge chuckled. “That’s sweet, but she never struck me as someone for courtly dances.”

“Because she never got to try it,” Wyll said, leaning back against his seat. For some reason, he was utterly certain that everybody would love a slow dance if they ever gave it a try. “There are too many things she never got to experience, and I want to give her that chance. Even if she never looks at me that way.”

“You went to Hell with her. Seems plenty romantic to me.”

“That was the only right thing to do. I don’t want to use that to-- I don’t want her to think she owes me something for it. And--” he paused, and cleared his throat. “I, uh. I believe we’re getting sidetracked. We were discussing the mission.”

As much as they’d have loved to prod Wyll a bit further - Astarion, they could tell, was itching to do so - Durge could agree it was time they turned back to more pressing matters. “Very well. If Karlach is safe from Zariel as long as she’s in the House of Hope, I believe a detour to Baldur’s Gate is due before heading to Avernus. The Devil’s Fee was still standing, last we checked, and if there’s any place where we can find supplies to help us survive the Hells, that’s where we should look. The gods know we need all the supplies we can get.”

“And some reliable advice from Helsik, I suppose.”

Halsin laughed. “I assume we’re not trusting Raphael to be our only guide, then?” he asked, only to be met with variations of ‘Gods, no’ and ‘I can throw him farther than I can trust him’. There was some laughter, and a brief silence. In the end, it was Astarion who broke it.

“... All right, since no one else is asking, I’ll bite - figuratively. Do you actually plan to help him take back the missing half of his soul?”

Durge shrugged. “If he holds his half of the bargain...”

“You’re aware that there is no infernal contract this time, yes? Just our word, mortals to mortal. Not having to face another archdevil for his soul after we do in Zariel would be rather nice. We can just… pretend to play along, and then ditch him. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“We could,” Durge conceded. “And I have.”

“And…?”

“I suppose we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Until then,” they added, picking up their mug and looking down at the dark ale inside, “I’m rather curious to see what happens once the human half of his soul has had a chance to stretch its legs.”

***

“Ugh, what I’d give to kill that creep a couple more times!”

Karlach made a face, dropping yet another diary that was full of stupid long words, shitty poetry, shameless boasting, self-celebratory bullshit and endless lists of people Raphael had cheated out of their souls. All that, and no mention of anything she could use against Zariel.

Of course, the dead bastard couldn’t be useful for once. Karlach made a face, and pulled the last armful of diaries off the shelf in one swoop - causing something to clatter on the floor.

“Huh?” Karlach paused, and looked down. Shoved at the back of the shelf, behind what looked like the oldest diaries, there had been a wooden box. She picked it up, frowning, and blew some dust from it. It looked old, but was richly decorated with a motif she had never seen before. Some kind of… spire? Yes, it looked like a spire, reaching up in the skies to pierce a star. Weird. “Hope, come take a look!”

She did come take a look, popping out from behind a stupid tall pile of books she had been sorting through, but she stilled when her gaze fell on the box. She frowned and, to Karlach’s surprise, she took a step back. “... I don’t think I want to touch it,” she muttered.

Karlach blinked. The box looked harmless enough, but… well, it belonged to a devil. And nothing connected to devils was ever harmless. Maybe something awful would jump out of it if she opened it. “Why? Does this feel evil evil, too?”

Hope frowned, and shook her head. “No. Not that. It’s the least evil thing in here, I think.”

“Oh,” Karlach said, almost disappointed. She was so bored, she’d have welcomed some kind of abomination to smack around. “Then what’s the issue?”

A shrug. “Sad,” was all she said. “It feels sad. I like it best when I’m not sad myself. But I don’t think it’s dangerous, if you want to open it.”

“Huh. I mean-- yeah, thanks for telling me,” Karlach muttered, and just to be on the safe side she took the box to the other side of the room before she opened it. As Hope had said, nothing evil came out of it, no abomination to smack around. Inside was a pendant with the same spire-and-star motif as the box, a book in a language she didn’t understand but was clearly not Infernal, a letter written in what seemed the same foreign language, the black King from a lanceboard set, and… a lyre? A weird assortment, that. Why had it been shoved back there, out of sight?

It feels sad, Hope had said, but Karlach couldn’t say she felt anything about it. She put the box down on the table, and picked up the pendant. She had only meant to look, but the thing opened with a click, revealing a miniature portrait inside. A human woman, it looked like. Dark hair, tan skin, dark eyes - something about the shape of those eyes, and the cheekbones…

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Karlach muttered, but of course once it clicked she couldn’t unsee it. There she was, the human woman who’d forfeited her life to bring a fucking devil into the world. Baby’s first kill, in the most literal sense of the word. Karlach sighed. Whatever she got in return, it can’t have been worth her life - or the evil she unleashed. The price of dealing with devils would always be too high.

“... Sorry, sis, but it was a bad trade if there ever was one,” she muttered, and let the pendant drop back into the box.

***

[Back to Chapter 5]

[On to Chapter 7]

[Back to Start]

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #raphael bg3 #the dark urge #astarion ancunin #wyll ravengard #karlach bg3 #hope bg3 #halsin bg3 #hell to pay

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anchirayce · 6 months

Text

To Behold the Golden Sun Ch. 6

This takes place after the events of BG3. Basically, a smol adventure about Tav and Astarion arriving at Tav's childhood city to search for a way to have Astarion walk in the sun again! Drama ensues!

Rating: T - Strong language,

Warnings/Tags: Tiefling racism, alcohol use (responsible, suggestion of misuse), suggestion of non-con, suggestion of child abuse, typical canon violence, slight angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn(I mean it, it's slow), Astarion might be ooc, but hopefully not!

Tav couldn't always run away from his past. He knew this from the moment he started to help Astarion find a way to walk in the sun again. He wanted to stay away, but spurred by another failure, a memory of eld came to him. A whisper of something said, something promising. Hopefully, this little spark of hope was what he and Astarion were looking for.

Chapter One: Here

“Tav!” My shout bled with fear as I dove to pick him up. He had stopped screaming, but he was gone, his eyes darkened with loss of life. I looked back at his Deva, the angelic being closed its eyes, and shattered into nothingness. "Gale! I need your scrolls! Now!”

“Yes, I know, Astarion!” He replied, kneeling as he dug through his pack.

"Then you know how you need to hurry the fuck up, wizard!"

"I cannot revive him with you screaming!" I clenched my fangs back. Suddenly sobbing as Tav's body lay still.

It was the blood, it caused a new arm to be made from the flesh of the dragon. I hoped it wouldn’t harm him, but here he was. Gone from me. It was just temporary, I knew it was, but I hated seeing it even more now that he vowed to stay beside me.

I closed my eyes, shaking as my grip slipped on the blood. It was too much, too heavy, it made me nauseous. I hid my face against Tav's neck as I tried to force air into my lungs. I knew to trust Gale. I knew it was going to be okay. But the terror…

"Astarion!" Gale exclaimed, his rough pull on my shoulder wrenched me back. "He's alive…" I pulled away and his colour and breath had returned. I rushed to put my ear to his chest and released my exhausting tension.

"Thank you." I whispered. Gripping at the soaked fabric.

"Always, Astarion." He reassured me with a shaky pat.

“Come here. We will rest for now.” Jaheira tutted, shifting into an owlbear.

“We have to leave.” I hissed. The new appendage was bleeding. I tore at my suit and wrapped it. Hiding the bloodied golden arm, I could smell the blessing upon his blood, it mixed with his scent, it wasn't bad. But it scared me. I should have stopped him.

“We can’t, not with Tav like this. We should wait for him to wake.” Gale soothed, I looked at Jaheira as she curled around us. I began to move away but she stopped me. Encouraging me to hold him. I leaned against her massive form, a low purr calmed the unbearable suffocating tremor in my unbeating heart.

I kept glancing down the hall, expecting people to come. I could pick up the faint scent of a massacre. My wonderful selfless idiot must have held on for as long as he could. I felt the pull of exhaustion grow heavier, and eventually fell asleep.

I woke when Tav shuffled, I opened my eyes to look at him expectantly, hopeful. Terrified. Most of his right half shimmered with patterned scales. He opened his mouth. And reached in to prick his fingers against the sharpness of his longer fangs.

His long black hair was now peppered with golden streaks, the green dye had faded long ago. His right eye was an orb of golden magic, lacking an iris and pupil. I studied him and raised my hand to cup his cheek so he could face me.

“Astarion?” He gasped. “What happened?” He raised his right arm. Studying his fingers.

“I don’t know…” I lied. “But gods…look at you.”

“Is it bad?” He patted down his body.

“No! You’re golden. Specks in your horns, your hair, your eye.” I thumbed the lower lid.

“I must look…not great.” He scoffed curling into himself.

"Stop it." I huffed.

“I'm unsure about that, you look pretty fantastic to me! And you did it for a selfish reason for once! Good on you Tav!” Gale exclaimed, he was high on the pile of treasure. Searching for something.

“But I didn’t want to be selfish! I wanted--” He tried to find an excuse. "The dragon’s power--"

“You wanted to be with me.” I smiled and pulled his gaze back to me. I leaned to kiss him and he pulled me close.

He pushed me to the ground and with an exclamation Jaheira morphed back. “Cub, I would appreciate that you do not fuck your husband next to me.” Tav laughed loudly and got off with a lingering kiss. I stood with him, balancing him when he staggered. Jaheira went to the base of the pile picking through the treasure as well.

“Tav. How do you feel?” Gale called from the mountain.

He stared at the golden bones before us. “Alive.” It was his voice but he said it with such conviction, like he was trapped before.

“The dragon has given me its soul.” He smiled. “I can feel it. I think it'll protect us.”

“Gale, darling.” I cleared my throat. Trying to distract myself. “What are you looking for?”

“A Wish spell, for our dear Karlach.” Tav immediately ran forward.

“Do you think it will be here?” He exclaimed. I ran after him, pulling him back.

"You need to rest!" I hissed.

"I'm okay." He cupped my hand.

“The dragon, Tav. Gave me a box, to lock away the Netherese Orb. Of course there will be a Wish spell!” I huffed as the two began to dig around. Bantering about where to search, I stumbled back.

“Are you okay, Astarion?” Jaheira whispered.

“I…don’t know.” I clutched at the item I was given. It felt so heavy.

“Are you scared?” I didn't let on that I was utterly terrified.

“This is a cure for vampirism. How can I be scared? I'm utterly ecstatic."

“You don’t want to change, do you?” I looked at Jaheria, hoping that I didn't seem startled. I knew it was something to help me walk in the sun. It wasn't a cure.

“I-I don’t…" I sighed. “I’ve become so accustomed to it--”

She stopped me. “You know he will understand.”

“Yes, I know.” I walked away from her and helped the search.

“What does it look like?” Tav exclaimed.

“It’s hard to describe!” Gale returned. “Just look for something that looks like a star has fallen upon paper!” I began to dig through the hoard.

“You’d think he would at least organise it.” Tav muttered.

We searched, and searched. My hands throbbed from scrapping the heavy metal. I scoped through chests upon chests of…everything. Gold, silks, scrolls, none of which were what we were looking for.

“How has this man accumulated such a mass amount of wealth?” I huffed.

“I have no idea.” Tav replied. “But we should send some of it back to Baldur’s Gate.”

“We are not giving corrupt politicians authority over this vast amount of legendary treasure.” I tutted.

“Oh by Selune! No!” Tav gasped, “just some gold!”

“Ha! I found another pocket dimension!” Gale exclaimed. We continued to search, but I took a break, and threw coins at Tav until he turned and whipped me with his tail.

“You’re going to pay for that.” He teased.

“Oh, bite me, I already have.”

“Maybe I will. Because you had an interest accumulating." He slid down to me and snarled playfully. He looked so tired, and he shook as he held me. A fever had taken him.

"Tav, my heart, please rest." I begged.

He grinned and leaned against me, sighing against my coolness. "I'm okay. Just running hot, I feel fine."

"Okay, but you're pushing yourself again. Please Tav. The hoard isn't going anywhere." I whispered.

"I'll rest when we find the scroll." I tutted, not hiding my frustration.

"Fine. But if there is any inkling of you fainting. Then I will have Jaheira take charge with pinning you down." He nodded and pulled away.

“Tavalin!” We turned to Rowen calling him, and I let him go.

“Down here!” He called as I continued to search.

“Holy…” She gasped. “There’s a massacre outside of this room that people are too scared to go near. Now there’s a dead dragon! I can’t believe it!" She shouted. She then cried loudly from shock. "Tavalin what did you do to yourself?”

“I was granted a wish.” He replied, a small grin peaking through.

“Don’t worry this isn’t the worst thing he’s done.” I sneered.

“How is it not?”

“He’s drunk from a tankard of…questionable substances offered by an undead bartender!” Gale regaled her loudly.

“And licked a spider…” I cringed.

“That was funny.” Tav snickered, nudging me.

"What the fuck…" She huffed, we returned to the pile and took our time to scatter it about.

“What are you doing?” Rowen shouted, Jaheira replied to her as we pulled away the gold.

“Join us if you can.” Tav mentioned. “An extra pair of hands would be lovely.” She hesitated and looked towards Gale and I.

“Come now, darling. We won’t bite. Well, Gale won’t.” I slid down the pile and offered it to her. I dug beside her, explaining what we were looking for.

“So…” She cleared her throat. “How did you two meet?”

“Tav and I?” I asked.

“Aye.”

“It wasn’t on the best of terms, we were fresh off the nautiloid. I tried to kill and the wonderful bastard headbutted me.” I chuckled, surprised by my honesty.

“Has he opened up to you about his past?” She whispered.

“He has.” There was a pause.

“Astarion, I’m going to tell you something. It’s up to you whether you tell Tavalin.” She picked up a chalice and placed it down next to her. “Tavalin wasn’t born here.”

I stared at her from the corner of my eye. She seemed to be telling the truth. “What happened for him to fall into The Hollow?”

“His parents were chosen as sacrifices.”

“He mentioned something like that--people disappear at this mansion.” She nodded.

“The Lord of the Land forced nobles and the wealthy to contribute to spare their lives. But then he would just kill them anyway. We don’t know what exactly happened, but Tavalin was exiled into The Hollow after his parents were chosen. Then the bastard went willingly back after Lin died.” She rubbed her face with frustration. “The Enclave has tried to overtake this town. But no one has been powerful enough to kill the dragon. Until your little merry group.”

“Why tell me this?”

“Father Garret told me to. And...you're very close to Tavalin. If it came from me he wouldn’t listen.”

“I wouldn't be so sure. Tavalin has listened to the worst feebly explain their actions.” An ironic grin fell upon my lips. “He is far more patient then you might remember too, darling.”

She swallowed and stared at him. “I'd rather you talk to him.” She continued to dig, and before I left to search another area she added. “Thank you for looking out for him.”

I grinned and looked back at him as he slipped on the gold. Tav gave an exasperated growl and scrambled back up. But stopped halfway.

“Holy shit! Holy shit!” He laughed, “Gale! I think I found it!” I crawled up to him and began to dig with him. A pale piece of parchment was buried deeply. It shimmered like the night sky.

We managed to dig it out, and triumphantly Tav held it up. Gale studied it and with a beaming nod he said. “It’s a Wish spell!”

Tav turned to me. “Quickly love, we need to keep this safe.” I nodded and grabbed our bag of holding from the dimension.

“No, no. Pocket dimension, please.” I nodded again and we placed it inside.

“Rowen take as much as you can carry!” Tav said as he grabbed a box and began to fill it.

“Are you certain?” She asked hesitantly.

“We’re going to fill Gale’s pocket dimension with gold and give it to Baldur’s Gate to help rebuild. You’ve helped us and you should be able to travel with Father Garret now.”

“But what of this city?” Tav lost his smile.

“Let it burn.” He growled. “It doesn’t deserve anything but ire.”

“I-I understand.” Rowen nodded. We fell into a silence as we filled what we could. There was still a massive amount of gold.

“What should we do?” Gale asked, pocketing his little dimension.

“Destroy the entrance. We plundered what we could, if someone finds it. Let them.” The wizard nodded in understanding of our leader's words. And as everyone left he flicked his wrist at the pillars. The sound rang through my ears painfully. We took to a sprint, and I saw the carnage around me. Tav didn’t return my glance, his eyes clouded with focus.

There was another explosion and the great hall of the vault began to shatter and crumble. We ran up the flight of stairs. Tav struggled to keep up, cradling his arm against himself. I slowed and pulled my arm around him to keep him steady.

Until all of us burst from the collapsing arch. “Astarion its day!” Tav stopped and pushed me back from a ray piercing through the cracked roof. The foundation of the mansion shook again.

“Pocket dimension!” I took it out and rubbed the surface. Tav clutched it to his chest and I was subjected to a stare at his golden hand.

With a moment's rest I slowly curled against a stack of pillows I pulled from our bag of holding. And peered at the item the dragon gave me. It was a brilliant yellow crystal with whispers of white cracking through. Morphed in the shape of a sun. I placed it in my hand and it melted and changed into an elegant chain bracelet. It was plain and beautiful.

“Nothing better than a changing piece of jewellery.” I chuckled to myself.

“Sorry love. Did you say something?” Tav panted, pulling up the brooch to show his face.

“I’ll tell you when we’re out of the sun, my treasure!” I place my hand against the mirror. I heard shouting, muffled by Tav’s exertion. My chest hurt with guilt as I stepped away from the walls, the sun was fully bathing the area. And the artefact I carried might not even work.

I lowered myself to the floor, sighing with exhaustion. I continued to listen to commands and more cries from our enemies. I was missing all of the drama, but fighting that dragon really took it out of me. So I selfishly waited.

“Astarion?” Tav’s voice echoed.

“Yes dear?” I stood.

“It’s safe.” I rubbed the wall and shuddered as the magic left my body. We all stood in a dark and simple hovel. I hid the bracelet against my torn clothes and observed the group. We were all tired. And even with the light trance I felt my body yearn for a soft bed with Tav beside me.

“Welcome everyone.” Father Garret announced. “Plunder well?” He grinned.

“Very.” Tav replied. “We destroyed the entrance to the vault. If there is a way back I hope it remains hidden.”

“There is.” Father Garret said, “that secret will remain between Rowen and I though.”

“Good.” Tav sank to the floor, sighing audibly. He raised his arm again and clenched his fist. I sat next to him, grabbing the soft scaled hand. He was still unconditionally warm. And I relished in it.

He pulled away when it was his turn to bathe. I went after he had finished and settled next to Gale on the floor when I had thoroughly washed the blood from everywhere.

"Where is Tav?"

"Unsure." He mentioned as he read through the thick book. I worried the stone with my thumb, and waited for him. Jaheira gave me a reassuring nod as she and Rowen talked. Eventually I curled into myself and took a trance.

“Astarion?” Tav whispered in my ear. I blinked awake and looked at him.

“Come.” He pulled me up and out of the house, his tail flicking excitedly. He pulled me into a clearing of snow. Our tent was set up, inviting and warm. Tav wore his summer clothes. It seemed like the cold didn’t bother him anymore, hardly did before.

He closed the flap and spoke. “Ready to become mortal?” He said as he settled onto the furs and crossed his legs. His tail tapped eagerly behind him.

“Yes, right.” I sighed and shuffled. I tried to find the words. I knew Tav would be disappointed with my choice. But a part of me always felt like he wanted me to be mortal. It would have been nice, but it's not what I truly cared for.

“Tav, I-I don't really want to become mortal.” He listened to me carefully, his expression was hard to read, his tail stopped as well. I pulled out the stone currently morphed into a small glistening globe. “I’m-I’m scared to have my body changed again. I know it’s been so long, and Gods, to have every ability of a mortal again…” I swallowed. “I just--this fear--” He closed my hand around the stone.

“Is this what you want?” He asked me.

I took a shaky breath. “Yes." I felt tears brimming my eyes. Frustrated, I pushed them away. Hating how emotional it made me.

“Then I will support you.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Astarion, why would I be?” He smiled, a scoff of disbelief puffing from his throat. “I just want to live a life with you. Whether we continue on the road or find a sweet nook where we do whatever. I want to be with you until our forever ends.” I kissed him, pushing my tongue through his lips to taste the dragon's blood. It was tinged with magic, an odd but not horrible taste.

"Can I drink from you?" Tav hesitated.

“I think it should be okay.”

“Your blood smells the opposite of toxic. If that's what you're worried about.” I soothed, he nodded and leaned back, taking off his shirt. He grabbed my waist as I moved his hair. His neck was still soft and warm. And when his blood filled my mouth I found myself lost in the taste.

It was pure, absolute, power. Tav's blood was sweeter, richer, bolder. I always adored the taste before, it was comparable to a cup of refreshing rose water. But now it was addictive. I nearly lost myself, growling low and greedily as I took.

“Astarion?” I immediately sat back, taking the last mouthful down.

"Your taste is different. It's good…" I had trouble shaking the primal urge.

"I didn't before?" He scoffed.

"Oh, no you were a bouquet. Now, you're a whole field." I returned to taste the drops from the small wound.

"Hm, romantic." Tav chuckled as he healed the wound and scratched at his arm.

"Does it bother you?" He shook his head, but then shrugged. And between us he raised the new appendage. The tear was smoothed with scales and flesh. Like it never happened. "Does it feel different?"

"Yes?" He was unsure. "I think it's the scales. Touch seems muted yet, it sparks." I took it and kissed his knuckles. It still smelled like him, only sharper. "Do I look bad?"

"No," I replied immediately. "You're still beautiful Tav. And I can't wait to see what new secrets you're hiding, my treasure." I said and laid beside him, resting on my elbow. His tails had wrapped around my shin, the tip lazily tapped itself against my ankle.

"Are you scared?" He nodded, still observing the new appendage and black talons.

"It's so new…" He sighed. "What if I made a mistake?"

"Then we will deal with it together." I reassured him, he joined me, staring up at the tent roof.

"Gods we really are the oddest couple in all of Faerun." He huffed.

"We are the most beautiful though." I took his new hand and weaved my fingers through.

"I'm glad we found something for you…" He began to mumble.

"Me too." I took in the silence, and with a soft huff managed to gather my words. “Tav, Rowen told me something you should know.” I turned to face him, he was asleep. With a sigh I pulled up the thin silk blanket and kissed his forehead. I settled beside him and allowed myself a well needed rest.

Astarion moved come morning. I sat up with him as he stared at the sunlight dappling through the flap. I reassured him with a gentle squeeze to his shoulder and leaned against him.

He reached for the sun, the crystal shimmering with magic. His hand filled with the cold rays. I almost couldn't bear to watch. But he laughed. Relief echoing across his body.

"Finally…" He whispered as I smiled and kissed his shoulder.

I stepped out first, Astarion followed but held himself taught. I couldn't imagine the unbearable pain of burning alive. So I gave him my patience as he adjusted and inched out carefully.

Luckily, nothing happened. He closed his eyes against the gentle caress of cold and warmth. I took down our tent as he basked for the first time in nearly two years.

"Gods, you're gorgeous." I came up behind him, moving his white curls so I could kiss his neck and he turned to hold me. Signing with content against my warmth and heartbeat. We stayed like this until we heard the others shouting for us. With a frustrated tut Astarion let me go and we made our way to the safe house.

There was an eagerness about the small group. And we all chatted excitedly as we gathered all the supplies we could and hitched a wagon onto Jaheira, the old druid insisted she pull her weight. And chided at me when I offered to walk with her.

“Where is everyone heading?” I asked as Astarion followed Gale onto the wagon. He kept worrying at the stone now clasped onto the shell of his ear.

Rowen glanced at Father Garret. “I suppose we might head to Baldur’s Gate. We might find some work helping rebuild.” Rowen said.

“Good, good! Same direction is nice." I smiled and moved to let her board. I stopped Father Garret with a hand and guilty whisper.

"What did you do with The Hollow?"

"It's already been taken care of. They are forever resting in the Moonmaiden's Embrace." I squeezed his shoulder in thanks and followed him onto the open wagon.

"What of you? Heading back to rest?" Rowen asked as I sat next to Astarion.

"No, no. We’re in need of a diabolist.”

“Why’s that?” She continued. As we settled down, Jaheira began to move.

“We’re stopping by Avernus. To show a devil what it means to piss us off.”

#astarion #astarion x male tav #bg3 #bg3 tav #established relationship #slight angst #slow burn #spawn astarion #astarion x mc #astarion x tav

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