#dark one's own luck / wyll. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

feyascorner · 5 months

Text

1 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. “I would say good luck out there, but honestly? I hope you die screaming.”

Intimacy is not something you like to indulge in after your last lover nearly strangled you to death. Sometimes, you wonder if letting him ascend would mean he would still be here, by your side, rather than lurking the shadows of Baldur's Gate.

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. very excited about this!!!! I have a lot of ideas on what to do w this plot!!! ALSO there is some material (pressuring??) in this specific chapter that may be a bit uncomfortable for some readers it's very brief, but it is there so please take care of yourself!

As dark spots blur your vision, you realize you can no longer breathe.

His hands–the slender pale fingers you’ve grown to love more than your own–wrap desperately around your throat, digging crescent-shaped indents into your skin. You’d always thought that if he were ever to realize you weren’t as precious to him as he believed you to be, your neck would be the one part of yourself he’d continued to cherish. The softness in which he brushed his fangs against the most vulnerable areas of your throat had led you to believe so.

But as you stare up at him with wide eyes meeting a murderous glare, you understand that you are wrong.

His crimson eyes gleam with an emotion you’ve seen plenty on his pretty face, but never toward a friend. Never to you. You’re going to die, you think. And it wouldn’t have seemed so bad to die at his hands if it were not for the hatred reaching his eyes.

You’re not sure who–maybe Karlach or Wyll–but someone tears him away from you. Your chest dares to tighten from the loss of contact, yet you desperately grasp at the air, hands flying to the tender flesh of your neck while Shadowheart rushes to your side in an instant with her eyes narrowed dangerously at the very man who’d made the dark blemishes.

They’re yelling. Everyone is. At you, out of panic, or at Astarion, you’re not sure, but you just stare at the vampire spawn who’s now unwillingly locked into a life cast into the shadows of the city. He doesn’t look at anyone else, either.

He says something and a few more muffled voices spit back before he throws the dagger you’d given him to the ground, turning to leave. Your hearing clears just in time to hear his parting words.

“I would say good luck out there, but honestly? I hope you die screaming.”

A pair of hands shake you awake, and you quickly remember the poor consequences to your back of falling asleep on the empty, narrow street beside the Elfsong tavern. You look up wearily, eyes in a daze as Shadowheart sighs irritably, brows furrowed in a way that tells you to ready yourself for a scolding. “Honestly, at this point, I’m just surprised you haven’t gotten robbed during the night yet.”

You force yourself onto your feet, leaning against the walls as you rub at the crust forming under your eyes. “I have nothing of value anyway. They’re better off stealing from some other poor bard who actually bothers to write songs.”

She raises a brow at this, scanning over your appearance. “Where is your lyre?”

“Sold it,” you shrug, dusting off the muck garnered at the sides of your pants. “Wasn’t much use to me anymore. Better off adding to the funds to rebuild the city, don’t you think?”

Shadowheart frowns, and it makes you look away shamefully. Thankfully, she quickly shakes her head and then paces past you. “Speaking of which, are you in any condition to help today? Gale’s promptly exhausted trying to cast mage hand at least a dozen times yesterday to rebuild the Blushing Mermaid. That foolish wizard nearly passed out by noon.”

“‘Course,” you offer a pathetic smile. “We’re nearly finished with the Baldur’s Mouth. I’ll catch up with you once I check on everyone there.”

“Very well,” she says. She purses her lips after a slight pause. “You should stop falling asleep on the street. Especially since there’s been quite a few murders recently around the city,” she checks to see if you haven’t dazed off, “I expect you to come home tonight–We’re making stew.”

“I will. Don’t think my back can stand much more of this anyway.”

Her shoulders relax the slightest bit, and she finally manages to catch your darting eyes. “Is it the nightmares again? They’re getting worse, aren’t they?”

Your throat goes dry, and you can feel your knees grasping at its remaining strength as you search your mind for a way to respond. You’re tempted to lie through your gritted teeth, knowing she’s fully aware regardless of what pathetic answer you offer her, but you opt to seal your mouth shut, shrugging.

The flash of disappointment in her eyes is enough to make you feel the knots tighten in your stomach. With a curt note, she turns to walk away, glancing back for one last time. “Don’t give him the privilege of occupying a part of your mind for so long. He doesn’t deserve even the dirty filth you have all over yourself.”

For the first time after he nearly killed you and you defeated the Elder Brain four months ago, you think she might be right about him.

Intimacy is not something you like to indulge in after your last lover nearly strangled you to death. Though after the pitiful look your companions gave you when you arrived back at camp and the aching truth in Shadowheart’s words, you find yourself feeling bolder than the last time you dared to call Lae’zel’s cooking inedible (which it was, quite frankly).

He’s handsome. A reasonably tall elf with pale blue eyes glinting with attraction as he stares at you across the tavern. Sharp jawline, long eyelashes, and long hair brushed back and away from his face. You only notice everything else after the silvery shade of his hair–not entirely white, but fairly close, or as close as you could get to it while still being blond. You were sure he was approaching you for your title–the famed hero of Baldur’s Gate–rather than for pure physical attraction, but you weren’t in any position to nitpick at the moment.

You just wanted to feel skin other than the unsettling feeling of your own.

“Seems to have taken a liking to you,” Shadowheart sips at her drink.

Lae’zel glances at you. “He’s tolerable to the eye. Not quite attractive by githyanki standards, but tolerable.”

You stifle a smile at their attempts to urge you forward and put down your drink. “You sure you two won’t be lonely without me?...Or kill each other.”

“You can leave them to me,” Gale smiles, pacing toward your table with his drink. “I’m sure a Hold cast or two would settle them down.”

Lae’zel snatches the cup from his hand. “You act as if you aren’t fresh out of cast slots, wizard.”

Shadowheart shakes her head, nudging you forward. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

“I won’t be long. Certainly won’t be overnight,” you assure her. “I can’t miss the stew, anyway.”

She smiles, and Lae’zel scoffs in the other direction. “Hurry, he looks almost demented waiting for your graces.”

You snort and offer a clumsy glance to the elf across the tavern before striding out the door.

Behind the tavern, he’s quick to press a desperate kiss to your lips, lacking the usual tenderness you experienced with Astarion. Or had it been tender at all? Even now, you’re unsure what parts of him had been to manipulate you and what parts of him had been his raw feelings. At the time, you’d embraced either with open arms–you’d embraced him.

The elf bites at your lip, which snaps you back into the waking world. And while you curse yourself for comparing the moment to him, you find that it’s impossible as you observe that this elf is slightly shorter than he’d been. And instead of his hands wandering to your hip or waist, they graze your behind, pushing you into him in a way that feels nearly suffocating.

And most glaringly, his lips are warm. Not the cold, yet soft lips of an undead being.

You’re grateful that he keeps his eyes closed because you can simply stare at his pale hair, longing for something you vowed to forget.

It doesn’t feel right. Not at all, and you hate yourself for it.

You shove him away, face falling as you realize you want to wipe his touch away from your mouth like it’s filth, and you do. Understandably, he appears puzzled, brows furrowing as you push yourself away from the wall, shaking your head. “Sorry, I don’t think I can do this.”

But as you try to walk away, his fingers close around your wrist like a death grip, sending shivers up your spine as you find that you hate the feeling of his skin. You hate the feel of your own skin, too. Why, you’re not sure, but he leans close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheeks and yank you out of your daze. “What’s gotten into you? I didn’t do jack shit.”

“I just can’t do this,” you hiss, tugging at your hand. You could just knock him out, but the hero of Baldur’s Gate punching people as they pleased wouldn’t look too good on your end. “Let go.”

“Well, you have to give me at least an explanation,” he snaps, grip tightening. It hurts. “Don’t pretend you haven’t been sending me looks all night.”

His words seem to snap the remaining patience inside you because you elbow his stomach, shoving him backward onto his ass before pressing your dagger that seemed to appear from thin air into his neck. You haven’t had to use the knife in a while, considering how your biggest recent foe was the stinginess of patrons when it came time to pay their tabs at the tavern. Though it belongs to you, it feels foreign in your hands because, for a time, it had a different owner.

One who used this very blade against you. The same one who taught you how to elbow someone hard enough to make them reel.

“P-Please, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to hurt you.” You’d forgotten he was there. “Just let me go, please; I won’t bother you again.”

You drop your head, sighing loudly as you sheathe your dagger once more. You think you must really be losing your mind—threatening to slice open a civilian’s throat despite the significant power imbalance between the two of you. You’re sure the greatest threat he’s faced in his life is from petty theft or something along those lines while you—well, you’re you. It’d be equivalent to a full grown owlbear attacking a goblin with a half broken club.

So, as much as you want to make him bleed just a bit, you opt to step away. “Do that again to anyone—not just me, and I won’t be so forgiving next time. Understand?”

The tremble in his irises tells you enough. You sigh again, turning to leave.

You curse your luck. Of course you would have to attract the foulest person in the tavern on a night where nothing seemed to be going correctly. Or rather, the past four months that haven’t been going as you anticipated.

Getting rid of the tadpole meant you should’ve been free from the chains of someone else—and it had, but at the cost of losing something else. And that ‘something else’ was one you weren’t sure you were ever ready to sacrifice. It should have made you happy to see the Elder Brain fall, and to rid of the squirming feeling in your skull, but all you could remember was the churning in your stomach as you realized the last string tying you to him had been snapped.

You’d gone to every tavern, every bar, playing a tune at each one until the skin at your fingers split open, because he knew you’d be there. He’d known what your lyre meant to you. Yet among the sea of faces, not once had you seen the one you wanted.

As you walk around the corner, you wrap your arms around yourself. Though Summer’s quickly approaching, there’s still a chill in the air this late at night. You pull out your dagger once more, lifting it to the sky to examine its hilt against the moonlight, which glistens with what was once your pride and love. Now, it just looks dull, and faint.

You back feels too light, now lacking the lyre. You suppose you’ll have less of a hassle moving around now, since you don’t have to worry about the strings snapping, but it doesn’t soothe you. Still, you’d sold it for good reason.

An instrument is nothing without a player who can use it, after all.

So you turn your attention back to your dagger, the last crumb he’s left for you to hold dearly to your heart, and then to the trash can perched beside a nearby wall.

You’ve tried a million times before, and you’re not sure what makes you think you’ll be successive this time, but you swallow hard in determination to rid of the thing entirely. But just as you’re about to take your first step toward it, you hear a loud, halting screech muffled instantly.

It’s from the direction you came from.

You’re breaking into a silent sprint, the weapon in your hand ready to be used. You stop before you turn the corner, readying yourself for the worst. A murder? There’ve been more than a few occurring around the city, but you’d thought the Flaming Fist were investigating that already…You can hear your blood rushing in your head, but a crunch of bone and the silence that follows afterward is all you can focus on as your grip on the hilt tightens desperately.

Cautiously, you peer at the moonlit alleyway, poised to attack.

You nearly drop the blade.

Draped in the moonlight with his face hidden by a hood, he nearly glows, though you’re not sure if it’s just your mind playing tricks on you. His fangs are buried viciously into the man’s neck, whose legs and arms lie limply at his side while the life in his eyes slips away as if it were never there. And while you don’t dare to breathe, you stare with wide eyes, drinking in his appearance as if it would be the last. A part of you thinks it may be.

But as quickly as your heart begins to race, it calms. A drop of your stomach tells you it’s not him. You’re not sure if you’re relieved or how you know, but you can just tell.

The man finally drops the now lifeless body onto the ground with a thud, wiping at his mouth with the back of his dark sleeve. He turns, and you finally see one of Astarion’s brothers–the one who’d been at the flophouse, confirming your suspicions. Regardless, your guard stays up. “I thought you guys left for the Underdark.”

He snaps his head toward your voice, eyes wide. He looks a lot better than you’d last truly seen his face after Astarion nearly burned him against the sunlight in the flophouse. What had been his name, you try to recall? Pallet? Peter? It doesn’t matter, much. “You were at the flophouse.”

He cringes at the memory but nods. “Petras. You’re the one who stopped Astarion from killing us all, aren’t you?”

Your throat goes dry at that. You’d never thought about it in such a–vulgar way, and it makes your stomach churn, but he doesn’t give you time to respond.

“Dalyria, Leon, and I have decided to stay for the sake of the spawn hiding in the city sewers,” he explains curtly. “My other siblings are in the Underdark with most of the spawn, as you expect them to be.”

You stare at the corpse on the ground, expression twitching as you meet his eyes. “Why’d you kill him?”

He licks his lips, stained with the man’s blood. “I didn’t. Someone did the work for me. I just didn’t let his precious blood go to waste.” He pauses. “I’d put a few rats on betting that it’s Astarion.”

Your eyes go wide, your armed hands dropping to your side. “Astarion? He was here?”

You’d been here mere moments ago. Had he seen you? Was he watching you?

“Maybe. Judging from how quickly he ran away from the scene when he saw me, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Shoving your dagger into its rightful place on your back, you immediately turn to search for your former companion. He couldn’t have gone far. You’d been talking to the dead man mere minutes ago, and if the death occurred between now and then, he couldn’t have possibly gone more than a few buildings away–

“I never got to thank you.”

Petras looks at you anxiously, and as much as you’d like to cut the conversation short, the way he shifts nervously can’t help but keep you in place.

“There’s no need,” you reply, stopping to shake your head. You hadn’t done it for him or any of his siblings, for that matter, anyway. Not even for Astarion. Your choice to stop had been for yourself, to keep him by your side. Your brows furrow at the selfishness draping your thoughts—that you were willing to sacrifice 7000 innocent souls for the sake of protecting the one you loved. It was a lapse of judgement. Naivety. “It’s just how things turned out.”

He tilts his head but doesn’t push it any further. “Have you seen him recently? Astarion?”

“...No. He left after we—I killed Cazador.”

His eyes flicker with disappointment, and you wonder if he’s forgiven Astarion for what he tried to do in Cazador’s dungeon. “He’s always been good at hiding. Seems some things never change.”

You nod numbly. “I’ll let you know if I do see him.”

Though you doubt you ever will. Not after how things ended. But if there’s a slight chance, even the smallest of hopes, that you can bring closure to the sleepless nights you spend on the streets, staring up at a sky that no longer brightens the way it used to, you’re willing to wait until you’re shriveled up and old, while he remains beautiful.

“I don’t think he wants to see you right now.”

The painful clench in your heart doesn’t go ignored. “Have you spoken with him?”

“Once,” he says. “But it seems he doesn’t want to speak with us anymore either. You see, our conversation didn’t quite end in a happy family reunion. We did manage to ask him a few things—like asking if he was to be staying with you.”

“And?” You’re afraid to hear the answer, but your voice is far too hopeful.

Petras gives you a look of pity, and you understand.

You understand that no matter how long you wait or how long you search for him, Astarion will not be seen when he does not want to be.

“I don’t think he wants to see you right now.”

For the rest of the night, you weep. You weep in the comforts of nobody but your own arms and nobody to hear you but the moon above.

Baldur’s Gate is by no means a city that sleeps. The past four months have been a restless cycle of rebuilding the city, and while you’ve done your part, no matter how much you do, it never seems enough.

“Oh, welcome, dear. Your friends have been a wonderful help for my house as of late,” the lady of the Highberry’s Home, Cora Highberry, ushers you into her house, still missing a roof and half the windows but appearing in better shape than most other structures in the city. She offers you a wine glass. “Do you have a preference?”

“Anything’s fine,” you smile, but just as you reach for the glass, it’s snatched away by a familiar wizard’s hand.

Gale extends Cora a gentle nod and that charming grin of his as he hands her back the wine. “While we greatly appreciate your hospitality, I’m afraid my friend here is in no condition to drink as of now.”

The playful roll of your eyes makes Cora laugh. “Ah, of course. But do know I’m so grateful for all your help. I didn’t imagine we would be building the home back for the orphans so quickly!”

“It’s the least we could do,” Gale beams. “Now then, my dear friend and I will continue working on the second floor, so just give us a holler if you need us.”

He whisks you away toward the stairs before you can wave goodbye to the woman. While you’d expect him to initiate conversation, he doesn’t say anything until you arrive upstairs, where you’re mostly alone beside the few other volunteers in the other room. You tilt your head when he finally paces past you toward one of the broken windows. “Gale Dekarios keeping his mouth shut for more than a few moments? The city truly must be falling apart.”

He cracks a smile at this, dusting off a few glass shards from the windowsill. “I’m glad to see you still have your sense of charm.”

“When have I ever lacked my charm?”

He doesn’t lift his head, pulling out his spellbook and flipping through a few pages while you survey the state of the room. “You didn’t return last night.”

You tense.

“It would be wise to be grateful Karlach’s still in Avernus with Wyll, because I’m certain she would’ve given you quite the scolding for daring to miss my world-famous Wizard’s Stew,” he says lightly, his tone morphing into something more serious when he shifts his gaze in your direction. “We’re worried about you, you know. Especially Shadowheart, even if that woman doesn’t know what gentle means in every possible level of hell.”

He’s silently asking you for an explanation, and your heart breaks at how gently he prods at your walls, giving you an opportunity to slip away again. But with how his eyes plead at you, you can’t imagine that would be possible anyway. Slowly, you perch yourself on the windowsill, looking down at the bustling crowd working together to rebuild the Highberry’s porch. They’re laughing—some face red with wine, while others scold them for it. You see a bard playing a tune you haven’t heard before, but it’s effective in lifting the mood regardless, and you finally glance at Gale.

“I met one of Astarion’s brothers yesterday.”

His face is grim. “I didn’t realize they were still in the city.”

“Me neither,” you sigh. “Some of them stayed. From what I could tell, they're mostly in the sewers, but they’re definitely here.”

“Did he seem…hostile?”

“No. He just asked me about Astarion.” You leave out the part about the dead body.

Gale’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t say anything, only silently urging you to continue. And you do.

“He doesn’t want to see me. Not ever, I think.”

There it is. The same gaze everyone seems to give you lately: pity.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” you hop off the windowsill, pacing across to the other side of the room. “If he doesn’t want to see me, I won’t. If he doesn’t want to talk to me, I won’t. I’m tired of waiting for him, Gale. I’m tired of waiting for someone who won’t ever come.”

And despite the puffiness of your eyes last night, and despite the way your eyes gloss over even now, you offer him a crooked smile. “I want to focus on the city now, for better or worse.”

Gale appears the happiest he’s been since returning a few months ago with the news that Mystra has healed him of his orb. “You thought well, dear friend. You should know how glad we are to have you back. We could certainly use more hands in the kitchen, as well, considering—well, you know how the rest of our companions are with cooking.”

Just as you open your mouth, there’s an ear-shattering scream from downstairs. The two of you meet wide eyes briefly before hurrying downstairs.

Only a few feet from the patio of the Highberry home, there’s a crowd gathering with hushed whispers and the weeping of a woman. And when you manage to push through the mountain of people, you finally see the corpse.

Cora Highberry sobs over what remains of her bloody husband, who, without a doubt, has the markings of two fangs punctured through his throat.

#astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 x reader #fluff #angst with a happy ending #angst #bg3 x tav #bg3 tav #bg3 spoilers

877 notes · View notes

istoleyoursk1n · 4 months

Note

How would the companions react to a Tiefling!Tav who, after the first meeting with everyone's favorite cambion, reveals that Raphael is their father?

•❅───────────✧❅✦❅✧───────────❅•

How would they react to a Tiefling!Tav who’s actually the child of Raphael

(Note that their kind of written in a way where in this is how I think they might initially react to such a confession. If you want one where the Tav don't associate themselves at all with Raphael or even despises their father then do tell me cause they’d have an entirely different reaction.)

: ̗̀➛ ASTARION

“Let’s get this straight, Shadowheart’s a Sharran, Gale is a ticking time bomb, Wyll has ties with a literal devil, and by the gods- you're a damn child of one! Are there any other secrets I should know about in this bloody party?!”

Genuinely shocked at first but perhaps he should have seen it coming knowing that everyone in their weirdo batch always seems to be hiding some dark secret.

Would have probably assumed that you must have the same demonic abilities as your father! Why exhaust everyone when you exist? Can't you just ‘mAgiC’ the enemies away?

No, it doesn't work like that? Well shit.

Truth be told, he isn't actually bothered by it. As long as you are on his side and you aren't planning on burning him to a crisp then why should he care that your father’s Raphael?

Just as long as you aren't as obnoxiously theatrical as the damn bastard. His patience is always being tested each time that damn devil talks in rhymes.

Perhaps he may even ask for your assistance rather than Raphael’s in regards to his scars as he’d trust you over that man any day.

He doesn't even have to make some sketchy deal with you. You’re just a kind enough soul to offer your aid despite how darkened your heart may or may not be.

Though truly, he would never judge you for being affiliated with such a man. Whether you want to associate yourself with your father or not is entirely up to you, he’d support you either way.

: ̗̀➛ GALE

“You?! The child of Raphael?! Why, I never thought such a histrionic fiend would even consider having an offspring. No offense to you, of course. Besides, I’m certain you’re better than that conniving devil if I do say so myself.”

Utterly baffled.

He knew that Tiefling’s had ancestral origins leading all the way to devils but he never thought that it was inherently possible for a tiefling in this day and age to be a child of one!

Good luck because this man now has hundreds of different questions, half of which you probably don't know the answer too either.

Though he will be a tad bit skeptical of you for a while, especially if he doesn't know you all too well. Being associated with the devil is a big deal and who knows what type of cunning scheme you may be plotting.

Soon enough, his own growing curiosity will overtake his skepticism. He’d rather understand and learn more about you then completely shun you away.

“How did you come to be?” or “What are the various powers you have inherited?” are some of the many questions he’d be throwing at you. Note that some anatomical questions may grow a tad bit awkward if you don't tell him.

He’d grow far more enamored by you the more he gets to learn about you and devil culture as darkening as such knowledge could be. Suddenly he has one person who could tell him all about the hells!

He’d have a newfound understanding of devils and people of your kind, his heart no longer caring any form of judgment towards you as long as you prove to be kind at heart.

: ̗̀➛ WYLL

“By balduran’s bones, you’re a devil?! One of them?! I should have seen this sooner. All this time I’ve been traveling with one of their children?! And to think I’ve let my blade go unsheathed around you.”

Unfortunately, the most distrustful one amongst the party the moment he finds out.

He's already having such a hard time with Mizora on his shoulder, what more if another devil joins the damn party? But to be fair, he’s been proven wrong time and time again.

Even so, you can tell that he's been avoiding you. Keeping his distance as he tries to process such information.

He doesn't even know how he can bring himself to trust you after what he's been through. He doesn't want to find himself being used as nothing more than a devil’s dog once more.

But after what happened to Karlach and soon enough his own transformation, he slowly begins to open himself up again. Albeit he is still quite wary.

It’ll start with him first asking others about you, trying to get a gist of whether or not you seem like a trustworthy person before finally confronting you with both a proper conversation and surprisingly an apology.

The world seems to be changing around him and if either of you is ever going to overcome this whole tadpole mess together then he should be able to place his past mindset aside in favor of forging stronger bonds.

Besides, who better than to help him overcome his own mild dysphoria with his new-found devil traits than a half-devil themselves?

: ̗̀➛ KARLACH

“He’s your dad?! Fucking hell, out of all the damned people that could have been your pops it just had to be that bloody bastard. Please tell me if you’re not like that pompous motherfucker? I like you too much to hate you.”

She’s surprised and confused. It's honestly just a mess for her.

She wants to distrust you for being the child of a devil seeing as she's been tormented by them for such a long time but at the same time- you’re a friend.

She can't just cast aside everything you two built up together despite knowing this information.

Yet still, it's hard for her. Every time she sees you, she’ll think about those dreadful moments she’s spent in Avernus, fighting in the front lines of the blood wars against her will.

But she needs to be the bigger person. She can't immediately associate you with those heartless fiends who forced her to do terrible things. If anything she wants to believe you aren't like that at all.

She’ll give you a chance despite her reluctance, doing her damn best to not shun you despite how your mere presence does trigger some things for her.

Regardless, she moves on from her weariness soon enough in favor of treating you like an actual friend. A friend whom she wishes to make happy memories with.

Perhaps both of you are just misunderstood in your own ways, and if that's the case then she’d be more than willing to support you and cheer you on whenever the hell she can.

: ̗̀➛ SHADOWHEART

“And just when I thought this ‘unique’ little group of ours couldn't get more interesting. The child of a devil? I can't help but wonder what more you could be hiding. After all, apparently, this entire camp is known for locking away such sensitive little secrets.”

Startled but intrigued.

It seems that everyone in this damnable group has some sort of hidden secret. Though, she wouldn't have expected this.

You can tell she's weary around you now but she hardly brings it up. Why would she when the very words she speaks could be used against her?

She's already having a hard time trusting people, what more if the person she was slowly beginning to trust was in fact the child of a devil?

It's like starting all the way back at square one again, except at least you both know some information about each other.

She’d be trying to balance out the both good and bad about you in her head. Thinking of that one time you saved her but also the fact that you may just be doing that to manipulate her later on.

Her mind is utterly in shambles right now but perhaps remaining distant and reserved won't get you both anywhere. Even she can understand that she’d rather see you as an asset than a disturbance.

I’d like to believe that in the end, she does eventually move past her distrust against you. Especially after everything you've done for her. She welcomes your demonic origins with a smile and even teases you about it a little by asking to make a deal or two.

: ̗̀➛ LAE’ZEL

“Chk. I will not be so foolish again to ever give an ounce of my time to your kind. You should have fled whilst you had the chance less you truly wish for my blade to dig right into your flesh.”

She just flat-out doesn't trust you. She even says it to your face.

She hardly even knew much about Tiefling's but knowing that you're a child of a devil? Now she just has more of a reason to not put her faith in you.

Probably even suggested eradicating you before you turned your back on everyone.

From what knowledge she has gathered, she sees devils as condescending, evil, manipulative, and cunning in both words and actions. She could only assume that such traits would pass on to their offspring.

It would take a lot for her to ever trust you again after that, if she even trusted you to begin with. She hasn't slept easy since.

Perhaps she even went to Karlach for assistance as to how one could possibly kill a child of a devil but surprisingly enough, Karlach wasn't on board with it.

If you can prove yourself once again to be worthy of her respect and trust, then she’ll finally begin to treat you with reverence.

Being more than what devils were made out to be and rising up as a far more honorable warrior than most would be just enough to finally get her back on your good side.

: ̗̀➛ HALSIN

“That was quite the surprise. The child of Raphael himself in our midst and yet you appear to be no more than another one of the tiefling refugees. I truly hope that you aren't as sinister as most devils tend to be. I’d hate to see such a vibrant flower wilt from its own corruption.”

He’d be just as startled as the rest but he’s lived too long to start judging people by their origins.

He hasn't quite met someone, particularly of your kind (being that of a devil’s child.) but perhaps he has encountered people similar to such.

His weariness would hardly last seeing as he’d rather understand you as a person before immediately jumping to conclusions.

Besides, he doubts he’d be foolish enough to be led on by a devil, especially with the amount of experience he has. He’ll put his morality above his skepticism but know that once you show the few signs of true betrayal then he will act accordingly.

Nevertheless, he's actually the one who's trying to get others to understand you, even vouching for you at times when others are against you.

Who you are related to by blood should not define who you truly are as a person, devil or not. It's simply up to you to decide whether or not you want to be associated with such a diabolical lineage.

Regardless, he’d do his best not the judge you. He’ll see you as just another Tiefling more so than the child of a literal devil.

If the looming reminder of being the child of such a devil ever haunts you or disturbs you too badly, he’d always be there to be a shoulder to lean on. You’ll always be accepted by him.

•❅───────────✧❅✦❅✧───────────❅•

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 headcanons #bg3 headcanon #bg3 x reader #bg3 astarion #bg3 gale #bg3 wyll #bg3 karlach #bg3 shadowheart #bg3 lae’zel #bg3 halsin #astarion #wyll #gale #karlach #shadowheart #lae’zel #halsin

234 notes · View notes

wyllzel · 3 months

Text

🔗 Link to Google Doc.

This is how I built Wyll in my Origin Wyll playthrough. This keeps Wyll in his canon Warlock class, while also ensuring he’s handy with his trusty rapier.

The vibe of this Warlock is a spellcaster (Eldritch Blast, AOE, and Enchantment spells) with good melee action. (Very gishy! 👽) The goal is to build up both Arcane Synergy and Arcane Acuity.

Leveling up is fairly flexible, so the focus for this guide is on gear interaction. Key pieces of gear include the Ring of Arcane Synergy (Act 1), Helmet of Arcane Acuity (Act 2), and Band of the Mystic Scoundrel (Act 3).

Overall, this is a fairly standard Fiend Bladelock build, and is not so much an “end all, be all” as it is a basic (but strategic!) approach.

(Fair warning: Possible spoilers ahead!)

Leveling

Please note that this guide is really just my personal preference! I recommend fully reading through the Wiki page on BG3’s Warlock so you get a good idea of what this class can do. In this guide, I’ve added a star (⭐) next to each of the class features or spells that I especially like.

To start with, this is my Wyll’s base stats:

Since Pact of the Blade Warlock’s “Bind Pact Weapon” feature scales weapon Attack Rolls and Damage Rolls off your spellcasting modifier, I recommend heavily prioritizing Charisma. The Warlock class becomes very SAD (Single Ability Dependent) with Charisma which is very convenient.

I prioritized Dexterity after Charisma because your Dexterity modifier affects your Initiative – and the higher your Initiative, the easier it is to get a leg up in combat. Additionally, your Dexterity modifier is added to your AC (when wearing Robes or Light Armor, which this build will be utilizing).

The next prioritized stat is Constitution, which is good for maintaining Concentration spells as well as boosting your total HP.

Level 1

One Level 1 Warlock Spell slot

Select:

Subclass: The Fiend

Two Cantrips: ELDRITCH BLAST 💥, Minor Illusion ⭐

Two Warlock spells (Level 1): Hellish Rebuke, Command

The Fiend subclass gives you:

Dark One’s Blessing (Temporary bonus HP when you kill a hostile creature)

Access to the Spells: Burning Hands, Command

Eldritch Blast genuinely solves any and all problems. (Force Damage is especially good in BG3, where 99% of your enemies do not have Force Resistance.) And Minor Illusion is a really good utility spell – especially if you’re into barrelmancy and need a safe and reliable method to cluster enemies.

The added HP from Dark One’s Blessing is really good, especially in earlier levels (Act 1) when your party is extremely squishy.

Level 2

Two Level 1 Warlock Spell slots

Select:

Eldritch Invocations: Agonizing Blast, Repelling Blast ⭐

One Warlock Spell (Level 1): Armour of Agathys

Replace a Spell: N/A

Level 3

Improved Warlock Spell Slots: Warlock Spells are now Level 2

Select:

Pact Boon: Pact of the Blade

One Warlock Spell (Level 2): Cloud of Daggers

Replace a Spell: Armour of Agathys → Hold Person

Level 4

Select:

Feat: Ability Improvement (ASI) = +1 CHA, +1 DEX ⭐

One Cantrip: Mage Hand

One Warlock Spell (Level 2): Shatter

Replace a Spell: N/A

Level 5

Deepened Pact: Pact of the Blade → Gain an Extra Attack with your weapon ⭐

Scaling Cantrips (ie., Eldritch Blast fires an additional beam) ⭐

Improved Warlock Spell Slots: Warlock Spells are now Level 3

Select:

One Eldritch Invocation: Devil’s Sight ⭐

One Warlock Spell (Level 3): Hunger of Hadar ⭐

Replace a Spell: Hellish Rebuke → Counterspell

The Fiend subclass gives you:

Access to the Spells: Fireball, Stinking Cloud

Level 6

Select:

One Warlock Spell (Level 3): Fireball

Replace a Spell: N/A

The Fiend subclass gives you:

Dark One’s Own Luck: Add +1d10 to an Ability Check once per Short Rest

Level 7

Improved Warlock Spell Slots: Warlock Spells are now Level 4

Select:

One Warlock Spell (Level 4): Banishment

Replace a Spell: Cloud of Daggers → Wall of Fire

Eldritch Invocation: Armour of Shadows ⭐

Armor of Shadows is excellent if you’re wearing robes. Because you’ll probably be wearing the Potent Robe at this point (early Act 2), this Invocation is particularly useful.

Level 8

Select:

Feat: ASI +2 to Charisma

One Warlock Spell (Level 4): Fear

Replace a Spell: N/A

Alternative Feats:

You may want to consider Alert to get the jump on enemies, especially when playing in Honor Mode.

War Caster is a good idea if you plan to lean heavily on Concentration Spells such as Hunger of Hadar or Wall of Fire.

Another good Feat for Concentration Spells is Resilient, which you’d take for Constitution. However, your initial Ability Score numbers would probably look different than how I have mine set up!

Spell Sniper is fun if you plan to lean heavily on Attack Roll spells – like Eldritch Blasts!

Level 9

Improved Warlock Spell Slots: Warlock Spells are now Level 5

Select:

One Warlock Spell (Level 5): Hold Monster ⭐

Replace a Spell: N/A

Eldritch Invocation: Life Drinker ⭐

Hold Monster is extremely useful in Act 3, where a lot of the major bosses you face (Orin in her Slayer form, Raphael, etc.) are Monsters.

Level 10

Scaling Cantrips (ie., Eldritch Blast fires an additional beam) ⭐

Select:

One Warlock Spell (Level 5): Flame Strike

Replace a Spell: N/A

The Fiend subclass gives you:

Fiendish Resilience: Once per Short Rest, choose a Damage Type to become Resistant to

Level 11

Gain an additional Warlock Spell slot (for a total of 3 Warlock Spell slots)

Select:

One Warlock Spell (Level 5): Cone of Cold

Mystic Arcanum: Eyebite

Any of the Mystic Arcanum spells are good, though! I just find that Arcane Gate, Circle of Death, and Flesh to Stone are only useful situationally. Create Undead is good for summons-focused teams.

Level 12

Select:

Feat: ASI +2 to Dexterity, or see Level 8.

One Warlock Spell (Level 5): Blight

Replace a Spell: N/A

Eldritch Invocation: One With Shadows

Final Composition

By Level 12, Wyll can have the following notable qualities:

Three Level 5 Warlock Spell slots

One Level 6 Warlock Spell that can be used once per Long Rest

Three Damage die on Damaging Warlock cantrips – AKA three bolts of Eldritch Blast for 3d10+5 Damage (the +5 applies to each Blast bolt)

An Extra Attack (Weapon) from Pact of the Blade

Spells List and Invocations

Note: Scaling Cantrips (Level 5, Level 10) is based on your overall caster level rather than your Warlock level. As such, if you multiclass Wyll with a class like Bard or Paladin, he’ll still get the fully scaled three bolts per Eldritch Blast at Level 10.

Gear

The goal of this gear selection is to maximize the effectiveness of Wyll’s spells – particularly Enchantment spells. With the Band of the Mystic Scoundrel, Enchantment spells can be cast as a Bonus Action. Without this Band, Wyll generally won't be doing much with his Bonus Action as a Warlock – so let's fix that!

To align with his backstory, Wyll should be a formidable swordsman as well as spellcaster. As such, the weaponry in this build enhances his spellcasting, and ensures that his spellcasting enhances his sword fighting as well. (Synergizing!!!)

Headwear: Helmet of Arcane Acuity

Battle Acuity: Whenever you deal damage with a weapon attack, you gain Arcane Acuity (+1 to Spell Attack Rolls and Spell Save DC) for 2 turns.

+1 to Dexterity Saving Throws

Armor: Elegant Studded Leather

14 AC + Dexterity Modifier (18 AC)

+2 to Initiative Rolls

Can cast Shield once per Short Rest

Alternatively, you can use the Potent Robe and cast Armour of Shadows to bump your AC. However, you cannot wear the Helmet of Arcane Acuity if you do so (the helmet qualifies as Light Armor, meaning it cannot be used simultaneously with Armour of Shadows). If you’d like to use the Potent Robe instead, an alternative headwear is the Diadem of Arcane Synergy.

However, I wouldn't recommend the Potent Robe for a Fiend Warlock once you get the Elegant Studded Leather or an equivalent Light Armor. This is because the Potent Robe's added temporary HP (equal to your Warlock's Charisma Modifier) overrides the Dark One's Blessing, which will grant your Warlock temporary HP equal to your Warlock's Charisma Modifier plus your Warlock's Level.

Cloak: Cloak of the Weave

Arcane Enchantment: Gain a +1 bonus to Spell Save DC and Spell Attack Rolls.

Absorb Elements: Absorb elemental damage once per Short Rest. Take half damage from the next elemental attack targeting you, and deal an additional 1d6 of that element type on your next attack.

Alternatively, if you expect Wyll to regularly be in melee range, I’d recommend the Cloak of Protection (defensive, +1 to AC) or Thunderskin Cloak (offensive, pairs well with the Spineshudder Amulet).

The Nymph Cloak pairs well with the Band of the Mystic Scoundrel.

Handwear: Daredevil Gloves

+1 to Spell Attack Rolls

Daredevil Proximity: Can make Ranged Spell Attack Rolls as Melee Spell Attack Rolls

For boosting the effectiveness of Eldritch Blasting! Alternatively, the Gloves of Battlemage’s Power would be perfect for this build, but apparently they’re currently bugged (as of Feb. 20, 2024, Hotfix #18).

The Spellmight Gloves, Quickspell Gloves, Gemini Gloves, and Helldusk Gloves are also interesting options.

Footwear: Helldusk Boots

Ignores Difficult Terrain

Cannot be forcibly moved by spells or actions

Use a reaction to succeed on a Saving Throw

Hellcrawler: Teleport to an area and deal 2d8 Fire Damage upon landing in a 3m/10ft zone

Utilizing infernal gear is very synergetic with Wyll’s story. However, these boots are good for characters who want to move into melee range. Alternative teleportation boots include the Disintegrating Night Walkers or the Spaceshunt Boots.

Additionally, the Boots of Stormy Clamour pair well with the Spineshudder Amulet.

Amulet: Spineshudder Amulet

Inflict Reverberation when you deal Damage with a Ranged Spell Attack

Eldritch Blasts are Ranged Spell Attacks. :)

Ring A: Ring of Arcane Synergy

Synergetic Cantrip: When you deal damage with a Cantrip, you gain Arcane Synergy for 2 turns

When you have Arcane Synergy, your Weapon Attacks deal additional damage equal to your Spell Casting Ability Modifier. This makes a lot of sense since Wyll’s highest stat should be Charisma (aka his Spell Casting Ability Modifier), and because Wyll will probably be Eldritch Blasting (Cantrip) a lot.

Ring B: Band of the Mystic Scoundrel

Illusion Quickening: After hitting a creature with a Weapon Attack, you can cast Illusion or Enchantment spells as a Bonus Action

This item is why this build prioritizes Enchantment spells! Otherwise, the only thing Wyll can really do with his Bonus Action in combat is chug a potion (or teleport), haha.

Melee Main Hand: Infernal Rapier

High Spellcasting: +1 to Spell Save DC

Planar Ally: Cambion (Summon a Cambion as an ally)

However, being able to Bind Pact Weapon via Pact of the Blade means Wyll can wield any weapon in the game! So this slot is very flexible depending on the encounter. I favor the Infernal Rapier for the +1 to Spell Save DC and the RP value.

Melee Off Hand: Viconia’s Walking Fortress

Rebuke of the Mighty: When a foe hits you with a melee attack, you can use a Reaction to deal 2-8 Force damage and possibly knock them Prone

Spellguard: You have Advantage on Saving Throws against spells; Spell Attack Rolls against you have Disadvantage

Swires’ Sledboard is also interesting for potential Force damage. Ketheric’s Shield is good for casters in general (+1 Spell Save DC and +1 to Spell Attack Rolls), although I usually have this shield on my party’s Wizard (Gale).

Ranged Main Hand: Darkfire Shortbow

Grants Resistance to both Fire and Cold Damage

Can cast Haste as a Level 3 spell once per Long Rest

This weapon slot is less important since Wyll will be Eldritch Blasting if he needs to make a single-target Ranged Attack. The only reason he might be using a Ranged Weapon is if he’s Silenced.

As such, it’s nice to just benefit from this bow’s passives. With Fiendish Resilience, Wyll can potentially have four Resistances at once in (very late) Act 2 – Fire and Cold from the Darkfire Shortbow, Necrotic from Selûne’s Blessing, and another from Fiendish Resilience.

Additionally, an emergency Haste is great to have on the backburner.

The Bow of Awareness is another such bow that grants a useful passive (+1 to Initiative).

Ranged Off Hand: N/A

Number Crunching

If you’ve followed the above gearing, you should have 20 AC on Wyll. Hooray!

The following table should give you an idea of how Wyll performs on the battlefield as a result of his gear synergy.

Because this Warlock build has a lot of flexibility in what it can do (#gishy 👽), it’s hard to say how much damage Wyll can regularly dole out. However, in an ideal world, Wyll can take the following actions to get the most out of his gear:

Combat Round #1

Cast Eldritch Blast on three separate enemies, inflicting Reverberation on each and gaining Arcane Synergy.

Combat Round #2

Land a Weapon Attack (which uses Arcane Synergy) on an enemy, gaining Arcane Acuity.

Use Bonus Action to cast Hold Person or Hold Monster.

Land a Weapon Attack (which uses Arcane Synergy) on the held enemy; this Attack is automatically a Critical Hit.

Conclusion

Of course, this is just one way to class Wyll (or a general Warlock)! I prioritized thematic gearing over pure Damage output, so there are definitely ways to get this build even more powerful. For example, Wyll would probably be ethically opposed to using the Bhaalist Armor even though it would greatly enhance his rapier attacks.

As an aside, there’s a funny bug with Warlock’s Pact of the Blade Extra Attack – in Explorer, Balanced, and Tactician, this Extra Attack adds to (instead of overlaps with) any Extra Attack you get from another class.

So instead of having an Attack and Extra Attack like most other martial classes, the Lockadin gets an Attack, an Extra Attack, and an extra Extra Attack, for three Attacks total, LOL. (This bug is unfortunately resolved in Honor Mode.) Subsequently, the Pact of the Blade is a great multiclass with martial classes, but especially a Paladin (5 Warlock / 7 Paladin). 😁

Additionally, a lot of this gear is also excellent on a College of Swords Bard (another Charisma-based gish type). To that end, it may not be a good idea to have both a Bard and Warlock on the same team, as they’ll be fighting for the gear listed here.

Thanks for reading, and hope this gave you some ideas for your Warlock builds! :)

#chelle.txt #ch.build #wyll ravengard #hooray!!!!!!!#oops i need to sleep LOL

79 notes · View notes

y-rhywbeth2 · 4 months

Text

The party's opinions on immortality (taken from the conversations with Jaheira, who is considering it)

I would be eternal if it meant keeping my people free from ghaik slavery. REALLY_LAEZEL - [Selunite] Shadowheart: I wallowed in darkness for too long. If I could extend the time I have left in the light, I think I'd take it. I'd be curious to hit four figures, but it might get a little dull after that. REALLY_SHADOWHEART - Astarion: Immortality is only as good as the life you're living. An eternity of luxury sounds a lot better than an eternity of struggle. - I'd consider it. I could achieve great things with another lifetime or ten... REALLY_GALE - Wyll: I'd cling to life forever if it means I could keep Baldur's Gate safe. - I'd take every drop of life I could get - especially for the sake of Baldur's Gate. REALLY_KARLACH - Nightwarden Minthara: To accept death is to surrender.

The majority of them are on board for living forever. Astarion is a little vague, and puts in the caveat that he's having a good time, seeing as his immortality has thus far been a living hell. Jaheira's response makes it seem like he's in favour of it, to me. I think: "I'd have thought time would dull either, but I suppose I should know better than to argue with an immortal."

And Shadowheart's up for it as long as it doesn't get boring.

Minthara, as always, has the best opinions. (Good luck passing judgement on this soul, Kelemvor.)

But you know what? I'm absolutely on board for taking these idiots questing so that they can have as long a lifespan as they desire, having fun and living a life that's theirs and the opposite of the misery they've been put through. I think Wyll and Lae'zel could do with a smidgeon less duty and a bit more "me me me" for their own health though.

I also support the endeavours of our future Eternal Valsharess Minthara, who will undoubtedly put her endless lifespan to use conquering the world as is her right; B'luthyrr p'los dosst valsharess!

Then there's Halsin, being the odd one out, and Dark Justiciar Shadowheart who is... well, a Sharran who thinks life is a horrible curse as per the doctrine:

Halsin: To wish to live is natural, but so too is to let go, when the moment arrives. - Shadowheart: The darkness will prevail in the end, Jaheira. You're clinging on just to wage an unwinnable war.

#Minthara does not need Wish she will simply refuse to die #babbling

56 notes · View notes

pengychan · 3 months

Text

[Baldur's Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 5

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

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.

*** Wyll's bad luck continues as he comes looking for help and finds a headache instead. At least this one is not tadpole-related. Small mercies and all that. ***

“Oh Gods, you were right! I could kiss you - without teeth, I mean. And I will in a minute, fear not. Now keep still, I’ll be gentle…”

“... Am I interrupting something?”

Durge’s baffled words - what were the odds they’d walk into someone having a moment twice in a row? - caused two faces to lift up and look at them. One being that of a very familiar cave bear, the other being Astarion’s, his chin smeared with blood the way it usually only got when he was really enjoying the meal. He grinned.

“Love! Halsin just had a bloody brilliant idea!”

“Bloody’s the word I was thinking of, yes.”

“Don’t underestimate the brilliant part of it. You know what I told you, how the blood of thinking creatures is far more nutritious and better tasting than animal blood? But there’s only so much blood you can drain from a human - or a dragonborn, or an elf - before things go south. So I thought--”

A snort.

“Right, yes, no need to raise your hackles. Halsin thought, what about a creature that is a thinking being, but in the form of a large animal with lots of blood to part from?”

“Ah, that is a good idea. Going by the look of your face, it worked.”

“That’s why I said it’s a bloody brilliant idea, did you miss that bit? Halsin, think I can have juuust a little more? A cup’s worth, maybe?”

A huffing sound that they had learned to take for a chuckle, and Halsin simply leaned back his head to expose the neck. True to his word, Astarion only took a few more gulps before pulling away, wiping his chin. “Ah, that’s so much better. Thank you kindly,” he said, and gave Halsin a brief scratch between the ears. A soft huff, and Halsin yawned, clearly ready to rest while his ursine form recovered fully from the blood loss. Astarion stood and went to the door, a spring in his step.

“I’ll take down more than a deer tonight, that’s for sure. I’m thinking of a couple of boars, so we can have a proper feast. Are you coming with me?”

Truth be told, Durge suspected they’d be of absolutely no use on the hunt. Since their arrival Astarion had been up in the evenings and then of course through the night; Durge had tried to spend as much time as possible with him, but between checking on Raphael, fulfilling his promise to Halsin to tell some stories to the cartloads of orphans he’d taken in, and generally spending time with old allies, they were awake much of the day too. Which made them very, very sleep deprived.

‘Maybe I should sleep’ was probably the correct thing to say, but they couldn’t bring themself to. So they took their crossbow, downed an Elixir of Darkvision, and off they went.

With somewhat predictable results.

“Hah! A perfect shot if I say so myself! One down, one more to-- did you just fall asleep on your feet?”

“Bwuh?”

“On second thought, no need to answer.”

Durge groaned, rubbing their forehead and blinking their eyes open. They had technically fallen asleep leaning against a tree, but didn’t remark on that. Their sleep pattern had been really fucked up lately. It was much easier when it was just the two of them, traveling at night and sleeping through the day. “Sorry,” they mumbled instead, following Astarion to the prey.

A chuckle. “For missing my absolutely flawless shot? Of course you should be, but it’s no big deal. The night is young, and you may very well get another chance to see it. I’d appreciate some cheering if that happens.” Astarion let out a hum, pulling the arrow out of the boar’s neck. As he’d boasted, it was a perfectly placed shot.

“No, not just for that.”

“For not noticing my new doublet?”

“Not, not for-- you have a new doublet?”

“Hmph. You never notice a thing, do you. Good thing I didn’t waste gold on that really nice underwear I saw the other day.”

“I still fail to see the point of it.”

“Of course you do.”

“If we get far enough for me to see it, odds are it won’t stay on much longer.”

“My dear, the finer arts of seduction are wasted on you,” Astarion declared, as though that wasn’t precisely what had thrown him off when he’d first tried to seduce them, and what he’d grown to appreciate later. He shrugged, and put the arrow back in the quiver. “So, what are you apologizing for?”

“This was supposed to be a quick visit. And instead, we’ve been quite sidetracked.”

“Well, neither of us expected a devil on the doorstep. And besides, it’s only been a week. It’s not like we'd decided on a destination yet, so there is no rush to go anywhere. Would you mind gutting this beast? I forgot to change shirts, and I rather like this one.”

Most would consider asking a bhaalspawn whether they’d mind gutting a kill was the rhetorical question to end all rhetorical questions, but Durge still appreciated being asked. A sharp enough dagger did short work of the boar’s skin and muscles and they began to remove the organs, quickly but methodically.

“Still, we shouldn’t need to remain much longer. Raphael, or the half of him that made it to the Material Plane, is a devil no longer. Once we’re sure he poses no threat, we go our way.” And maybe Gale will have news for us, they thought, but didn’t say as much. The boar’s stomach joined its intestines on the forest ground. “I promised we’d find a way to let you walk into the sun again,” they added. “I intend to keep that promise.”

“Aw, you are adorable like this.”

Durge looked over, both hands in the boar’s chest cavity. “While forearm-deep in viscera?”

“Well-- that too. But mostly when you’re making promises you absolutely do mean.” Astarion crouched across them, and looked at them in the eye. “I’m starting to think you’re getting more fixated on this quest for daylight than I am.”

A pause, a sigh. “I saw you looking outside the windows. And that conversation with Aylin--”

“It was nothing I couldn’t handle. Believe me, I’ve had worse--”

“And you can have better. You miss the sun.”

“... Yes, I do miss the sun. And I miss seeing my reflection, and being able to savor the taste of anything other than blood, and breaking into people’s homes without being invited. Most of these things are lost to me. It does make one cranky. But I’m happy. You know I mean that.”

Ah. Durge paused, and looked over. A smile. “Yes. I know.”

“Good. So leave the unnecessary fretting to Halsin, will you? I can handle life without sunlight, but not having to deal with two mother hens,” he added, and grinned. “Besides, I am really curious to see what’s going on with Raphael. And I think you are, too.”

A soft scoff as they finished gutting the boar. “He’s not in an enviable position, that’s for sure. At least Bhaal has no hold left over me. Mephistopheles may still hold half of his soul, if it hasn’t been downright destroyed.”

“And he probably didn’t exactly let this half go.” Astarion tilted his head, perceptive as always. “That’s a concern, too. That he may find out the wayward spawn survived, and send someone to end him - or worse yet, bring him back.” He did not name Cazador, but he may as well have; his gaze only darkened that way when thoughts of his former master entered his mind. ”And if they do find him, everyone else around him will be collateral damage.”

“That has also been weighing on my mind, yes. His continued presence at the inn could put people in it in danger. They have Isobel and Aylin, but they could use a few more blades if it comes to it.”

“Or we could just kill him.”

“... Or we could just kill him.”

“But you don’t want to.”

Well, no point in denying the obvious. Durge nodded and took out a length of rope to string the boar to a tree and drain some of the blood. Astarion usually took care of that quite efficiently, but he’d had his fill from Halsin for the night. “I will admit that his current standing with his esteemed father feels uncomfortably familiar.”

“Heh. I knew it. Not very surprised, either. Remember when I told you that if Cazador ever found me, he may come and butcher everyone at camp to claim me back? Well, I was half expecting you to throw me out. With the damn parasite and the Absolute and everything else to deal with, I knew no one needed to watch their back for a vampire lord, too. But you didn’t.” A pause, and he smirked, gesturing at his face. “If you’d do that for an exceedingly handsome vampire, I’m not surprised you’d do the same for a… passably good looking devil.”

Durge laughed, and headed to the nearby stream to wash off some blood. “I am not sure,” they said, “if you’re thinking of drinking his blood or trying to seduce him.”

“Gods, no! I’d gladly sample his blood, but I have no intention to seduce him. Not least because even I probably cannot compare to a personal incubus, I suspect.”

“Mh.”

“... This is the part where you tell me I am a far better lay than the incubus.”

Durge replied without looking up, getting blood off their hands and forearms. “You’re a far better anything than any incubus. And according to the incubus in question, Raphael himself is nothing to write home about.”

“Talk about giving devils a bad name,” Astarion sighed, and Durge laughed again. When they stood, wiping their hands over their shirt, they felt Astarion’s arms around them, head leaning against their back.

“Maybe,” he said, “we can call it a night for the hunt. I got us a large beast, after all.”

“Ah, and you’d deny me the chance to see yet another flawless shot?”

A light bite through the shirt, delicate, teeth barely scraping against scales. “I have other flawless skills to put to use, if you’re so inclined.”

They were.

***

While not unheard of, becoming intoxicated on any kind of substance was highly frowned upon in Baator; few self-respecting devils would do such a thing, or at least not before witnesses. That never stopped anyone from indulging in wine, however, since no devil would ever become intoxicated with something that mild.

Even through the pounding headache and sense of nausea, Raphael knew this. Yet another reminder that he was currently no devil. It did precisely nothing to make him feel better.

“Uuugh.”

Squeezing his eyes shut against the light coming in through the curtains, Raphael forced himself to sit up and lean back against the bedpost. It made his head spin, but after a few deep breaths it was… better. Slightly better. Maybe he could spare himself the indignity of emptying the contents of his stomach over himself, at least. Slowly, the room ceased to spin. And there it was, right where he had thrown it the previous night - that damned book.

Pounding head and all, he could now tell that throwing the book against the wall had been a dire mistake. The rat would walk in and they would know they had succeeded in getting under his skin. They’d found a sore spot he didn’t know he had, and he’d made as much painfully obvious.

For a moment he thought of trying to stand and pick up the ruined book, try to put it back together, but he had barely tried to move when his head swam, and he had to lean back again. He turned, and looked at the lanceboard on the nightstand. A simple thing, made of painted wood; then he blinked and before him there was a far more elaborated one, made of ivory and black marble. In the back of his mind echoed a voice he hadn’t heard in a long, long time.

“You’re more intelligent than you know, but only half as clever as you think you are.”

The words may have been harsh, but the voice was calm; his-- stepfather? -- mother’s widower never raised his voice, not once. Still, it did not lessen the sting of defeat as he moved a piece, and the game was over.

A Theskan Double-Counter Gambit, but Israfel would only learn the name of that move later on. For now, he just scowled at the lanceboard, at the pieces’ shadows dancing in the light of the fireplace.

“Ugh. How did you--”

“You were too quick to get on the defense. Retreat begets regret. Remember that.”

“But I had to defend, or else you would have--”

“I wouldn’t have. I hadn’t noticed the opening. You brought it to my attention in your haste to cover it up, and opened up another weak point I could exploit.”

“... Oh.”

“You’ll need to be more decisive than that, and make your intentions far less obvious. The way you’re playing, you may as well send me a messenger pigeon to warn me of each move beforehand.” A pause, then he reached across the small table to tilt up his chin, to make Israfel look him in the eye. He only ever did that when he wanted him to really listen, so he did listen.

“You won’t always have the upper hand. Sooner or later, you’ll find yourself on your back foot. And when that happens, don’t assume your opponent knows they have an edge on you. They may very well not be aware, and you must not make them aware.”

“But if they know--”

“If they suspect they have something on you, you must not turn that suspicion into certainty. That’s inviting them to strike. Do you understand?”

“... Yes, sir.”

Almost two millennia later, a long way from Tethyr, Raphael let out a bitter chuckle. Of course he only thought he’d understood, then, but he hadn’t. A boy of twelve, still a year away from being taken to Cania to meet his father, he’d believed he was getting a lesson on how to play lanceboard. Only later would he understand what it was that the man had been doing in his limited, flawed, mortal way. He wasn’t teaching him how to play lanceboard: he was trying to prepare him for the Hells, prepare him to deal with his own kin and come out of it alive.

And it had worked, all things considered. He’d learned the lessons and put them to use, then improved upon them; it had kept him safe, and thriving, for a long time. Longer than most spawn of Mephistopheles got to live, as it turned out, until the rat had decided to be too clever by half and Raphael had attacked too rashly, in his own home, too certain of victory to consider what being slain in Baator would entail. Clearly, that one time, he should have prioritized defense after all.

And now he’d let the rat know he had an edge on him, too. He’d die before admitting it, but the ruined book would tell the tale in his stead loud and clear.

And when they stepped in, a bowl of something in their hands, it certainly did. Their gaze found the book immediately, and they raised the scaly ridge that served as their left eyebrow. Raphael had never wished to tear off pieces of someone’s face more. “If you have complaints about the quality of the books I give you, you have but to speak up,” they muttered. If they noticed Raphael’s sorry state, or the empty decanter on the nightstand, they made no mention of it.

Any plans Raphael may have had to try and save face promptly went out of the window. What would be the point? They knew. He’d shown his hand. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction to see him shy away from it. “And if you had questions,” he snapped, putting as much venom in his voice as he possibly could, “you had but to ask.”

A pause, and the rat looked at him in silence for a few moments. “... Yes, this was perhaps unnecessarily underhanded,” they conceded. The apologetic note in their voice was not exactly unwelcome - if anything, Raphael would have appreciated to see them take it a few steps further by crawling on their knees begging for forgiveness that would not come - but something about it made him scowl all the same.

“Spare that tone for your pet vampire and his tales of woe. Are you expecting to hear of a great tragedy? Of devil spawn barely surviving the Material Plane until his unholy father saw it fit to welcome him in his home?” He scoffed. It was a common story to most cambions, save those whose mortal mothers were brought to the Hells prior to their birth, but it was not his. It had never been. “You’ll be sorely disappointed. I wanted for nothing.”

“You were luckier than most.” The bhaalspawn picked up the book, or what remained of it.

Raphael scoffed. “May I inquire where you even found that book?”

“In a box, inside a cave. You’ll find a disconcerting amount of things in boxes inside caves.”

“I am far from the only cambion sired by an archdevil. What made you think--”

“Lanceboard.”

“I beg your pardon?” Raphael said, in a tone that made it plain he was not begging for anyone’s pardon.

“This was about a cambion sired by an archdevil in Tethyr, just as it broke free from the Calimshan Empire. It reminded me of lanceboard. I saw you play it with Mol, and I have been looking at it now,” they added, gesturing at the lanceboard on the nightstand. “You play by Calimshan rules, ancient ones. Hardly anybody does anymore, even in its former nations.”

“Hardly anybody can play a proper game of lanceboard anymore, is what you mean,” Raphael muttered. “A true art form, lost to time. Was that all you based your guess on?”

“More or less.” A shrug, and the breakfast was set down by the lanceboard. “It was just an intuition.”

One that I made a certainty, with the worst amateur mistake, Raphael thought, and could taste bile in the back of his throat. He waited for the rat to continue, to mock him or at least hint at what they wanted out of the knowledge, but they said nothing of the sort.

“Isobel will come to have a look at your injuries shortly,” was all they said, and they were leaving, taking the book with them. Raphael glared at their retreating back, then glared at the closed door for several minutes for good measure. Finally, entirely ignoring the bowl of food, he drew in a deep breath and lifted his hands.

“Vis medicatrix,” he all but growled.

The healing spell rolled over him, and he breathed out in relief. He tried to move his legs beneath the blankets, bracing himself for pain. It did come, of course it did, but not as unbearable as he expected, and both legs answered to his commands. He could move them without searing agony; he estimated it would be a matter of days, maybe even less than a week, before they could hold his weight and he could walk again. And once he did, he would proceed with the next stage of his plan.

As soon as he worked one out.

***

“What-- in the Hells-- was that!”

Dalah’s voice was strangled, as though trying to force out words through a throat as narrow as a reed. Lounging on their bed - lounging was about the only way they knew how to rest on a surface - Haarlep clicked their tongue.

“It sounds like a forced ascension. Raphael could usually-- mostly-- control his Ascended form before, but that was with his soul in one piece. It seems that only half of it isn’t handling it as well.” A pause. “That, or Mephistopheles went ahead with some experiments. Wouldn’t put it past him. Or it’s both. Either way, I can’t imagine it’s pleasant. Raphael always hated having to resort to it. Getting himself back under control was difficult and I’m pretty sure the transformation itself hurt like-- well. Hell.”

“I’d never seen anything like it. And I’ve been here--” A pause, a grimace. She didn’t know, Haarlep could tell, just how many centuries she’d been there. Given how old Raphael was, it had to be around eighteen centuries, give or take a few decades. “... A long time.”

“Yes, that specific little trick is beyond most devils. He is the spawn of an archdevil, after all, and it comes with heritage. It’s part the reason why so many here hated him, his less than lovely personality aside. It was an insult of sorts, that a half-fiend would have such power. Mephistopheles just got himself an excellent guardian for his vault.”

“A monster, that’s what he got himself.” A shaky laugh. “That’s what I gave him. That thing could tear through most souls and devils in Cania like nothing, if not for Barbas’ hold on it.”

“All the more reason to keep him on a tight leash.” Haarlep leaned in, taking a good look at her. The somewhat startling resemblance to her son’s human form aside - how Raphael had not seen it, they had no idea - there was nothing remarkable about her, which was remarkable in itself. “For someone who came so close to him,” they pointed out, “you’re surprisingly free of horrid burns, or scarring, or melted eyeballs. And surprisingly alive, if one can call yours a life.”

“It almost got me. I don’t know what stopped it,” Dalah said, a little too quickly to be entirely believable. Holding something back, wasn’t she? That wouldn’t do. She could hold back all she wanted from them, but she answered to someone else who just wouldn’t be denied.

“If there is indeed a way to tame the new guardian of Mephistopheles’ vault, there is someone who would certainly like to be informed.”

A pause, and she looked out of the window for several long moments, eyes fixed on the icy mountains in the distance. “... I spoke his name. The one I chose, not the one Mephistopheles saw fit to bestow upon him the day he had him brought to Mephistar.”

“Ah, yes. Mephistopheles does tend to do that. He likes to choose how to name his things. He and Raphael have that in common.”

The remark made her hesitate, and turn to look at Haarlep. “What was your name? Before?”

“I didn’t have one. I don’t especially mind, don’t go worrying that mortal mind of yours. Haarlep grew on me.” A grin. “Any name will grow on me, once I hear it moaned with wanton abandon enough times. And believe me, I never failed to make it happen.”

She made a face. “I don’t know why I still ask questions,” she muttered, and turned to leave.

Haarlep, on the other hand, had a question of their own. “You know, I was wondering,” they said, sitting back on the bed. “All this time, did you think of him as Israfel or as Raphael?”

A pause, her back tense. She didn’t turn, but they could hear her scowl when she spoke. “I didn’t think of him at all, and I was better off for it,” she snapped, and stormed out before Haarlep could ask anything more. They sighed, leaning back with a click of their tongue.

“Eighteen centuries in Cania, and still trying to lie to a devil,” they muttered, and looked outside, across the courtyard, to the window leading to the outer portals.

Perhaps, one of those days, they may just set out to see how their little brat was faring in the Material Plane.

***

“Hey! Look!”

“Look over there!”

As a gaggle of children abruptly ended their playing around a tree, Wyll found himself wishing he’d traveled at night. Halsin’s charges had been through Hell as it was - figuratively and, for several tiefling orphans, quite literally as well - and he should have known better than showing up like this, horns and all, a devil of all things.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Have they not seen enough horrors as is?

He stopped some distance away, heart dropping, and immediately held up his palms to try and show he meant no harm.

“Well met. I mean-- I have no intention to hurt any of you. I’m looking for Hals--”

A shriek cut him off, but it held no terror. Several children broke off from the group to start running, but not away - towards him.

“That’s the Blade of Avernus!”

“It’s him!”

“Daddy Halsin told us all about you!”

“Remember me? We met at the grove! When you were the Blade of Frontiers! You showed me how to swing the sword!”

Wyll blinked, taken aback, but surprise melted into elation when he met the eyes of a boy who looked very familiar indeed. “Umi! Oh Gods, I’m so happy to see you again!” he crouched, forgetting all about his hellish appearance. “Ah, you’re getting tall! I was certain you'd get through it all. You just had to buy enough time to run, remember?”

“It was Rolan who saved us-- but, I’ll learn how to fight well! Like you!”

“Ah, I’m sure you will. Though I believe Halsin’s fondest hope is that you’ll never need to fight.”

“I’ll only do it if I must. To keep us safe. Can I call myself the Blade of Frontiers when I’m big?”

Wyll laughed. “Of course. Name’s up for grabs now, I guess.”

He tried to stand, but several small hands grabbed at his clothes to pull him back.

“Are you really fighting devils in Avernus?”

“You and the big lady with the heart on fire?”

“What is it like?”

“How do you do it?”

“Tell us everything!”

Well, what choice did he even have, Wyll reasoned, but to satisfy the request of such eager fans? He laughed, and stood. “Very well, I’ll tell you all that’s happened in the past half year.” Or… maybe not quite all of it. “I do need to see Halsin, though. Could you take me to him while I tell you everything?”

“Yes!”

“He’s at the inn!”

“He’s spending a lot of time at the inn. With the other heroes.”

“The other-- is someone else from my party here, too?”

“Hu-uh. The dragonborn sorcerer and the vampire spawn.”

Oh, Wyll thought, thank the gods. Luck had been in short supply up to that point, and he very much welcomed such a stroke of it, finding three of their companions in the same place. If they accepted to help in what was probably a suicide mission, then the five of them could perhaps hope to succeed.

“What about the lady with the burning heart? Can she come visit us too?” a girl asked.

The thought of Karlach stuck waiting in Avernus, even in the relative safety in the House of Hope - ‘I’ll just eat dirt or whatever!’ - dampened Wyll’s smile, but only for a moment. “All going well,” he said, “she’ll be happy to visit you very, very soon.”

***

“All right, I think it’s enough.”

“No, it isn’t.” Raphael ground his teeth and took two more steps. Even with most of his weight on the crutches, his legs ached and trembled from the effort. By the door, the most insufferable cleric to have ever graced Selûne’s ranks crossed her arms.

“There’s no reason to put so much strain on your legs. You’re doing well, and impatience is not your ally. Don’t undo the progress--”

Whatever she said next was lost to Raphael, as he put another foot down and pain shot up his spine. He turned with a scowl, arms trembling from the effort of keeping himself upright. “Don’t presume you may tell me what I may or may not do, mortal!”

Isobel Thorm’s eyes narrowed. “I am sorry, could you repeat? I think I just heard you say you want me to break your legs again, but I may have misheard. Did I?”

Raphael ground his teeth, and he almost dropped one of the crutches to throw the fireball he’d been aching to throw for the past several days. Except that it was unlikely to do her any harm she couldn’t counter, and he’d drop to the floor the second he let go of the crutch. And it would likely bring a bloodthirsty vampire, an even more bloodthirsty aasimar, and the former Chosen of Bhaal upon him like a pack of wolves. Plus a bear, probably; Raphael had not faced the druid directly, but he knew he could deal significant damage of his own.

Overall, there was an overwhelming amount of evidence pointing to the conclusion that attacking Isobel Thorm would be most unwise.

No matter. I’ll make them all suffer at a later time. I’ll make sure it lasts, savor the symphony of their scream to the last note before I end them and then bring them back to do it all over again. They will die painfully for each time they wronged me.

“... If you’re done killing me in your head, would you grace me with a response?”

Her death, Raphael decided, would be particularly slow.

“Fine,” he muttered instead, trying and failing not to sound like he’d swallowed a lemon. At least she didn’t further humiliate him by trying to help, and let him get back on the bed on his own. The pain lessened and he breathed out, saying nothing as she cast a healing spell.

The relief was immediate; without agony shooting up his spine, he could tell that at least one thing she was correct. Impatience was not his ally, and bursts of temper would get him nowhere in terms of getting them to lower their guard. The thought made the next words that left his mouth easier to force out. Not that he let his tone betray the fact they left an acrid taste on his tongue. “... That was uncalled for,” he said, leaning back. “My apologies.”

“Apology accepted.” Isobel Thorm’s voice was dry, but no further threats followed. The crutches were taken, and placed against a wall away from his reach. “Progress is slow, but steady. You’ll be able to walk again in days, if you don’t push yourself too hard.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Raphael replied, and watched her leave in silence. He heard the key turn in the lock, and listened just long enough to hear her footsteps on the stairs before he sat up again. A quick healing spell on himself, and he made another attempt at standing, a hand braced against the wall. His knees almost buckled, but held; Raphael ground his teeth against the pain, and forced himself to move towards the crutches.

Impatience was not his ally, but neither was idleness. He was able to walk without searing agony, leaning heavily on the crutches, and wasn’t even short of breath when he got to the window. It was open, but two guards keeping watch beneath it ensured it wouldn’t be a viable way out even if he could go anywhere in his current state. Raphael had never been particularly fond of quaint corners in the middle of nowhere, but looking outside was better than staring at the walls or playing yet another game of lanceboard against himself.

Until he noticed the gaggle of chattering children marching up to the inn, of course; how much Raphael loathed chattering children couldn’t be overstated. He wrinkled his nose and almost moved away from the window - until he spotted the man walking among them as a few ran ahead into the inn. Or to be more accurate a devil, with a familiar set of horns and an even more familiar sending stone in place of his right eye.

Well, look at that. Wyll Ravengard, self-styled Blade of Avernus - what was he doing there?

Why would Mizora’s attack dog be here, if not for me?

Something stirred in the pit of Raphael’s stomach, a very unwelcomed stab of concern that came much too close to fear for his taste, but he forced himself to ignore it. Why would he be there for him? Had the rat called upon the warlock to slay him? No, surely no. Loath as he was to admit it, no great power or skill would be needed to overpower him as he was now. The bhaalspawn, the vampire, the druid, the cleric, the aasimar - each of them could easily kill him on their own.

He may have been sent by the Hells, of course, to kill him or bring him back. But why? Wyll Ravengard answered to Mizora, and Raphael had no quarrel with her. She was under Zariel’s authority, true, but the archduchess of Avernus was not known to meddle with the business of other archdevils. If his esteemed father knew he lived, he had plenty of forces of his own to send after him.

Unless he promised a reward, and Ravengard just so happened to know where to find me.

Raphael swallowed, stomach clenching, and moved to the side so that the curtain would hide him. He could hear voices - no longer just children’s, although their obnoxious chattering made it difficult for Raphael to catch what the rat and the druid were saying.

“Wyll! We didn’t expect--”

“-- always a pleasure--”

“-- please children, he’ll tell you more stories later--”

“-- did Mizora tell you who your target--”

More words were exchanged, but Raphael couldn’t catch them. He peered out of the window to see most of the children dispersing at last, while the rats headed back inside. He finally heard the bhaalspawn speak only moments before they disappeared through the arches leading into the inn.

“He’s upstairs. I’ll take you there now,” they were saying, and Raphael heard the warlock sigh.

“Ah, thank you. I knew we could count on you to kill a devil.”

Then the door closed, as deafening as thunderclap, leaving Raphael motionless at the window, mouth dry as the Calimshan desert. Something gripped his stomach, icier than the glaciers of Cania, as he heard the familiar creaks and thumps of steps up the stairs. Through the terror, he almost laughed. Of course Mephistopheles knew he’d escaped; of course he’d put a contract out on him. Who knew, maybe he’d even been the one to plan his escape so that he could send his dogs after him, for the thrill of the hunt. The rat must have been planning to help his friend collect his head from the moment they’d seen him.

Why else would they keep him alive? He should have seen, should have known. He hadn’t questioned their intentions enough. An amateur mistake - the last mistake he’d ever make.

But that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for them.

Raphael turned to face the door fully, leaning against the wall, and dared let go of a crutch to lift his right hand. Between his fingers air sizzled, heat building up as he focused, drawing from any scrap of power he’d left. Not the final act he’d planned for anything, let alone for himself, but it would have to do. It was still better than waiting for the fatal blow in the neck like a beast to slaughter, he thought as the key turned into the lock.

The devilish spawn came forth into our world in blood and flames, the book read. He found some solace in that, at least. There was a sort of poetry to it, leaving the Material Plane just as he’d entered it. The thought made Raphael sneer as the door handle was pushed down.

“And that, love, was that,” he growled, and fire burst forth from his palm just as the door opened.

***

[Back to Chapter 4]

[On to Chapter 6]

[Back to Start]

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

9 notes · View notes

etherishome · 6 months

Text

Luck & Vain: Bait

Chapter 1 of Luck & Vain, a very indulgent Astarion POV rewrite of some Tav & Astarion scenes that will, eventually, lead to smut, ferally protective Astarion, emotional hurt/comfort, and battlefield intimacy. Tav is a girlfail, Astarion is a loser.

Wordcount: 2k

Content Warnings: sexual references, manipulation, mild gore, spoilers for The Pale Elf quest in BG3

He'd hoped this would be, at most, a problem for a week. By the end of that, he'd either be a tentacled beast or setting up a new life far, far away from Baldur's Gate and the events of the last few hundred years.

Instead, several nights of camping and feasting on small forest animals later, he's still here camping and feasting on small forest animals. The collection of campers had solidified into a handful of freaks and their wriggly tadpoles.

And freaks barely began to cover it. The Blade of Frontiers turned into a devil overnight. The devil-killer was going to melt soon. The wizard ate a very nice pair of pants. The brooding dark girl had an unhealable wound and worshipped suffering itself. The gith--well, actually, in comparison to the others, the gith was rather normal. Astarion liked her.

At the head of them all was Tav.

Tav did most of the speaking, whenever they had to go somewhere in a group. It was Tav who got them out of the ship and wreckage. It was Tav who led them into the grove. It was Tav who decided, quite without anyone else's input, that they were going to to the goblin camp, either to have Gut deworm them or to slay everyone there on behalf of those useless wretched Tieflings.

Fucking idiot.

Why waste what precious time they had before ceremorphosis on what was an endless, unpreventable cycle of small genocides in the world? Save the Tieflings and then you'll find some halflings being bullied by the local badger population or orcs being prevented from voting in local elections or the rest of Elturel's refugees unable to cross a river or something.

But they did need that worm removed. And those goblins did betray them almost the instant Tav, and consequently the others, let up their guards. And slaying an entire fortress of goblins was fun. So Astarion let it go. Partly.

"Baldur's Gate, I'll remind you, is the other direction," he says.

The little band that infiltrated the goblin fortress had paused by a river to wash away the blood and viscera, but he could tell they were headed back in the direction of the grove.

"To tell the Tieflings now is their chance to run," Tav says. Stupid, selfless Tav.

"And perhaps get the others back at camp," Shadowheart says. "You really thought we were just going to march off on our own?"

Yes, Astarion thinks. I rather did. They'd finished off the goblins. And the best of them are right here. Who needs the wizard whose firebolts hardly ever hit anyways? And Wyll is certainly going to make his way to Baldur's Gate with or without the other's permission, eventually. Really, the others don't need this level of babysitting.

"Still no reason to go all the way to the grove," Astarion says. "That wood elf isn't going to be any help in removing our parasites. Best move in new directions. The longer we dick around on dead-ends, the more likely it becomes we have to consort with the devil."

He looks up from peeling goblin-skin from under his nails. Tav is doing that thing again, the one where she crosses her arms and tilts her head, one eyebrow almost raised, eyes tilted with compassion.

Gods, he's never going to solve his problems with her throwing their efforts at every sadsack around. He also won't win any popularity contests hurling venom at that stupid, kind face.

He needs control of what they do. He needs power. Her power, whatever odd control she exerts over these people here to convince them to drop everything and "do the right thing." He needs to take that and put all that effort towards getting to the bottom of these worms.

He raises his hands in defeat, for the moment.

"Fine, fine, we can tell the Tieflings we've saved their lives. But I swear to the gods, if any of them try to thank me for it, I'll drain them dry."

"Don't worry, you can skulk in the shadows while everyone else gets their hero's welcome," Karlach says. Astarion flinches, waiting for her to try heartily clapping him on the back again. Not only had it singed his vest the first time, but the force all but threw him to the dirt.

"Thank you for the consideration," Astarion says, giving her a half-bow of his head and drying his hands on his pants.

Gods, he needs to be in the city.

Satisfied, Tav slings on her pack and picks up her spear, heading back East, the setting sun lighting up her back as she goes. The others follow, too worn for the same chatter they'd shared on the way here.

Astarion is shocked he hadn't tried this already. Maybe, in the gluttony of his first few days free of Cazador, he'd thought he would put his old tricks behind him forever. Laughable concept, he realizes. Tools are tools, no matter who gave them to you. Even more laughable is be how easy it's going to be. Kind, gullible Tav, instantly forgiving of vampires and devils. Only someone who craves the love of others would be able to extend that kind of grace. She drips with desperation for intimacy. Astarion remembers her gentle flinch when gave that first, consented-to bite. The way her body curled just a little around his knees. The way she pressed a little more into his mouth than she did try to squirm away. She needs to be liked, she has to be loved. The harder to gain, the sweeter the prize. He can offer the challenge and the treasure. She'll be his.

Then Astarion will decide who they help and where they go. At least, more than he gets to now. Which is a start.

Unfortunately, the Tieflings do think of them as heroes and decide to throw a whole party about it. He hears party and thinks of candlelit rooms with red carpets and drapes, and wondering if they're red by dye or the blood of a few thousand Baldurians. Parties, he remembers as he watches Tieflings drag kegs and fireworks into the camp, used to be something fun. Drinking and dancing and mingling.

He sneaks a bottle of Blingdenstone Blush and skulked in the shadows of his tent, just as Karlach suggested.

Drinking, dancing, mingling. He hadn't seen the others outside the context of camping or fighting yet. Curious to watch how Wyll spun his Tiefling partners in delicate courtly dances with the same patience as he showed their children how to weild a sword when they'd first met. Funny to watch Gale, his constitution already greatly weakened by his hungry orb, be reduced to a stumbling bumbling moron by just a few sips. Even funnier to watch Lae'zel win every wrestling match.

A little sad to see Karlach sitting and standing alone no matter where she went, a generous berth given no matter who she spoke to.

A little annoying to see Shadowheart also skulking in the darkness. She didn't have to be so godsdamned dreary all the time.

Mostly, though, he watched Tav. She made her way around the party, talking to this or that Tiefling and each of the party members by turn. They all liked her so damn much. Or they were playing her, same as Astarion was about to. But he'd had several centuries of practice on that front, so he wasn't very worried when he saw Wyll invite Tav to dance or Karlach's puppy-dog eyes follow her where she went.

She might do all the talking for their group, but gods maybe she shouldn't. He watches her try to coax some quiet Tiefling into the party, and instead he stamps off in a fury and Tav slinks away, face red with the embarrassment of failure. She also manages to say something that sent Lae'zel's chin flying into the air in disdain. Whatever could that be?

Tav isn't all failures. She brightens up that bard girl's face, and spends a long moment in what looks to be a very serious conversation with the wood elf . Gods, what was in that man's food? Halsin absolutely dwarfs her. Astarion watches as the massive druid's demeanor shifts, sliding from a stoic Oak Father impression to something a little more mortal. He even laughs.

Her rounds finally brings Tav to him.

"You know, I never pictured myself as a hero," Astarion says as she approaches. "Never thought I'd be the one they toast for saving so many lives. And now that I'm here..."

She does that thing again. Arms crossed, head tilted, eyes searching. Astarion calculates. He can't pretend to be like her. She'll be satisfied. He has to give her a challenge. He has to make him her project. She needs to want to fix him. He has to make her desperate.

"I hate it. This is awful." He takes a swig of his wine. Rakish delinquent, tempted by the light. Tempted by her.

"It's not that bad. Think of all the goblins you killed," she says. Her eyes crinkle in a laugh waiting to happen.

"True," Astarion muses. "That was fun. Still, I would've liked more for my trouble than a pat on the head and vinegar for wine."

"True, the goblins would have thrown a wilder party." Her eyes keep falling to his neck, as though wondering what he found so appealing about them. Or perhaps she just doesn't know how to be coy.

"I'm just looking for a little more excitement," Astarion says with a whine. "Is that so much to ask?"

He watches her eyes closely, waiting for her to bite, to take the bait, to accept that closeness with other people she must want so desperately.

"That had better not mean 'I want to kill something,'" Tav says.

Gods, he can't risk subtlety at all, can he? She's actually too dumb for it, poor thing. Or maybe she's just never been pursued before. It's only fair, in a poetic sense, for them each to be a sort of first for one another, he thinks.

"By the Hells, sex, my dear. A night of passion."

Shock steals Tav's face. Yes, Astarion decides, that will make him her first, in just a few hours. She can't hide an emotion to save her life, could she?

Astarion steps a little closer, cocking his head and looking down into her face. "Let's wait until things quieten down. Once the others are asleep, we'll find each other."

She doesn't respond immediately. For the first time, Astarion realizes she could conceivably turn him down. That would be embarrassing.

Tav settles, the shock sliding off her face, her shoulders relaxing. But there's an air of hesitancy still. Does she not trust the offer? Is it virginal nervousness?

Does she not want him?

"Alright," she says. "I'll see you later."

There we go. Just as usual.

"Indeed you will, my love," Astarion says, putting all the honeyed liquor into his voice he can. "Indeed you will."

She doesn't walk away immediately, soft eyes searching his face. Gods knows if she could make anything out on it at all. It seems rather hit or miss what she picks up on, and he's had so much practice hiding. Everyone knows he's a charlatan, but so long as they can never put their finger on what precisely he's lying about, Astarion still has the upper hand.

"You're eager, aren't you?" Astarion purrs. "But we need to wait a little longer." He gestures to the party around them with his wine bottle.

Tav turns, watching the party. Astarion steps forward again, just close enough that he feels the heat from her back radiate against his corpse-cold chest, dropping his face to whisper beside her neck.

"Once everyone's in their bedrolls, we'll slip out of ours," he said, taking that moment to slip his wine bottle into her hands. "And find each other."

yeah its a slow start but i have to get to know my take on ppl before i plunge in. couldn't find exactly what i wanted so i had to go write it. ugh wish me luck i haven't done this in so long. anyways, tav is a Girlfail because not all of are good at video games and every time i read a fic about how cool and suave and perfect tav is i'm like well that can't be me and MY girl. also astarion is NOT shocked and surprised when a Tav only wants to cuddle him without sex because i 3000% believe cazadork also would have had astarion bring him gentle sexless lovesick girls who fantasized about soft cuddly moments too. intimacy itself in any form is traumaloaded for him. i believe this to my core. <3 thanks wanted to keep Tav kind of neutral as far as physical description. i think that's fine. i like to assume people have more or less blended together visually for astarion at this point. i do want to have her be a melee fighter of some sort though for yummy battlefield intimacy reasons. also, astarion is an assassin rogue bc fuck arcane trickster.

#astarion #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #bg3 #bg3 tav #female tav #femme tav #astarion x f!tav #astarion x female tav #baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #astarion is a loser #tav is a girlfail #i stand by that #luck & vain

4 notes · View notes

blackjackkent · 6 months

Text

Apparently everyone's been crushing on Hector and he had no idea.

He finds Wyll in camp late one night, presumably off rather in a corner away from the others...dancing.

Lithe movements - the first real sign Hector has scene of the nobleman's son he was before he became the Blade of Frontiers. There is some melody playing in his head that Hector cannot hear, because his movements are swift, rhythmic, eminently steady.

Then he spots Hector watching him, and the movements stutter to an abrupt halt.

"Oh! Sorry. I didn't see you standing there." He smiles sheepishly. "Lost in the steps, truth be told." A slight pause, and then he squares his shoulders as if coming to some internal decision. "I need them to be just right. I wouldn't want to fail my new partner."

Hector blinks. "A new partner?" he asks. "And who might that be?"

Wyll's smile deepens. "As luck would have it...he just arrived." He takes a step forward and extends a hand in Hector's direction. "May I have this dance?"

Oh boy. :P

Hector, as we've established, is bad at conversational navigation, and this feels like another scenario (like Gale offering to show him magic) where the implication goes over his head a little bit. His friend wants to dance, and that's fine. Gods know they could use anything that brings them a bit of happiness out here.

So he just looks sort of bemused. "Dance?" he says. "But there's no music."

Wyll gives him a steady, surprisingly intense look. "Our hearts can keep time."

The penny drops. Hector blinks. Oh. I see.

Wyll's timing here really could not be any worse, given that Hector has only just acknowledged to himself that he has feelings for Karlach. Poor guy. Hector would have danced with him (despite his own complete lack of skill in the area) if it were about just relaxing, brightening this dark mess of a situation...but even he can't quite miss the subtext at this point.

He likes Wyll and doesn't want to hurt him, but he can barely navigate his own feelings right now, out here in the real world, let alone other people's.

"I...think we should just call it a day," he says unsteadily.

Wyll's face falls sharply, and he lets go of Hector's hand and draws back a step. "Oh," he says, and Hector is surprised to see the depth of disappointment in his eyes. How long has Wyll been feeling this way?

He opens his mouth to speak, to...apologize, to try and understand what is going on in his friend's mind, but Wyll shakes his head hastily and backs away. "I mean - yes, of course. The sun only rests for so long."

He hesitates, tips his head forward slightly towards Hector's, then draws back again sharply and steps away towards his bedroll.

Hector watches him go and then runs a hand down his face wearily. Damn, he thinks.

He has very little experience with love. Beyond a few schoolboy crushes in his teenage years at the monastery, he has occupied himself with more cerebral things. So far his primary knowledge of the emotion lies in the bewildering swirl of feelings that is conjured up when he thinks of Karlach, the unending heat preventing him from touching her, the unspoken longing. And of course, Lae'zel's strange, violent expressions of desire that bewilder him more than they inspire him. And now that kicked-dog look of exhausted regret in Wyll's eyes as he backs away.

If this is what love is, he thinks sadly, it carries a sharp blade.

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #:( this is upsetting #poor wyll

6 notes · View notes

lewvithur · 10 days

Text

OC: Brynnrae Crescentwing

it's May 6th, which means one thing and one thing only. it’s been four years since i’ve designed this half-elf wizard who has become one of my oldest current OCs.

meet Brynnrae!

for today, i figured i’d go into detail and explain how i made her her.

around this time in 2020, i was running my own little DnD campaign. yep, during the pandemic and everything. we had to have at least three sessions done and recorded over Google Hangout. anyway, around this time, the party was bound to run into a city overrun by wizards that i do not remember the name of.

the other thing that happened during this time was i found about some anime, HaruChika. i’ve only seen one episode of it, and it’s the episode where this character showed up.

her name is Makoto. obviously, her main deal is that she looks like Snufkin from the Moomin series. she even plays a melodica. but the thing that interested me about this detail was that she was food-focused. she starts a music duel just so the loser can buy her food. she’s often seen with bread in her hand. so i took that detail and decided, “hey, my next character should be a perky little brat who is always hungry.”

that’s when Brynnrae came in.

here's the first time i drew her about 4 years ago!

so that was her niche. she was 1. made to be a guide to help the party throughout the town so they could fulfill their objective within the walls of the gated wizard city, and 2. there to be a food-obsessed gregarious wizard who was out of place among her peers. and of course there was a joke wherein she ordered food for the table and then asked the party what they would like to order. there had to be.

ever since then, i kind of had her in the back of my mind, developing her bit by bit so she isn’t just a joke character. there were some things i knew about her from the very start that wouldn’t change, mainly that she is a trans lesbian. also the fact that her mother is a sun elf and her father is, of course, human.

anyway, i kind of had her in the background for a while until a little game called Baldur’s Gate 3 came out. in the midst of creating a character, i had a few ideas of just, “hey, let’s make a human bard who’s down on his luck” or “let’s make a tiefling sorcerer, maybe?” but after a few of these thoughts, i went, “screw it. i’ll make Brynnrae.”

there are some things that are different between her in-game appearance and how i draw her (which is how i imagine her looking personally). in-game, her hair is straight and reddy, whereas in actuality it’s dark brown with a touch of auburn and there’s quite a bit of volume in it. there’s also features i imagine her having like the shape of her nose and the fullness of her lips that i can’t really tell if the game captured that well.

keeping her lesbianism in line with how i was designing her, i ended up using her to romance Karlach. and through that, i decided a few more things about her character. in addition to being a bit of an oddball who isn’t particularly skilled at wizardry and as much as she studies, her mind is elsewhere (guess i gave her ADHD and probably some autism too for good measure), i added that she really loves romance books. that could give her something to connect with Wyll over (who is basically her best friend at this point).

at the same time, it got me thinking about how she would approach things like romance and sex. having barely experienced either, she learns these things with Karlach. she learns what it means to ache for someone. she experiences things the smuttiest of her books could only dare to dream about. she changes her preconceptions about what it means to be in a romantic and sexual relationship. she brushes up against characters like Astarion (who she learns to tolerate) and his issues with these things, only to be reassured by him after some coercion leads to her giving up bits and pieces of her and even swearing her body to someone else.

the main conflict of Brynnrae’s character, especially where this run is concerned, is how her naivete and her too trusting nature lead her to trust bad people, and how she struggles to stop cutting herself up for people. this probably also explains why she and Wyll get along so well. they’re both very soft-hearted to a detriment. and while in the run i did she didn’t end up taking the astral tadpole, i think i should have had her take it to make her story a bit more interesting and give her a point where she knows she’s gone too far in trying to appease others, and now it’s time for her to fight for her autonomy again.

and so i imagine the best ending being where Brynnrae fights and saves herself. where she helps Wyll save himself. where the two of them look out for Karlach and save each other. things go well for them in the end. they deserve it.

on another note, while i don’t imagine Brynnrae being polyamorous, she would be open to the idea of Karlach dating Wyll as well. because frankly i think these two should be together no matter who the other is also dating.

so that’s how my darling Brynnrae changed from a joke character i wrote for a campaign to (hopefully) a multi-faceted question on autonomy and trust and more.

thank you for reading have a cute smooch

#my art #oc: brynnrae #bg3 #bg3 tav #my ocs #dnd #half elf #wizard

0 notes

feyascorner · 5 months

Text

Preview | The Fangs Between Us

summary. “I would say good luck out there, but honestly? I hope you die screaming.”

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. 0, TBA

a/n. This is just a preview of the multi-chapter fic I thought of :)) I'm not sure if I'll be able to continue writing it yet, but I'll definitely try lol. It takes place after the game!!!

As dark spots blur your vision, you realize you can no longer breathe.

But as you stare up at him with wide eyes meeting a murderous glare, you understand that you are wrong.

He says something and a few more muffled voices spit back before he throws the dagger you’d given him to the ground, turning to leave. Your hearing clears just in time to hear his parting words.

“I would say good luck out there, but honestly? I hope you die screaming.”

She raises a brow at this, scanning over your appearance. “Where is your lyre?”

“Sold it,” you shrug, dusting off the muck garnered at the sides of your pants. “Wasn’t much use to me anymore. Better off adding to the funds to rebuild the city, don’t you think?”

Shadowheart frowns, and it makes you look away shamefully. Thankfully, she quickly shakes her head and then paces past you. “Speaking of which, are you in any condition to help out today? Gale’s promptly exhausted trying to cast mage hand at least a dozen times yesterday to rebuild the Blushing Mermaid. That foolish wizard nearly passed out by noon.”

“‘Course,” you offer a pathetic smile. “We’re nearly finished with the Baldur’s Mouth. I’ll catch up with you once I check up on everyone there.”

“I will. Don’t think my back can stand much more of this anyway.”

Her shoulders relax the slightest bit, and she finally manages to catch your darting eyes. “Is it the nightmares again? They’re getting worse, aren’t they?”

For the first time after he nearly killed you and you defeated the Elder Brain four months ago, you think she might be right about him.

#astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion #bg3 x reader #fluff #angst

173 notes · View notes

the-masked-ram · 1 month

Text

Flawed Hope- Chapter Two

CW: NSFW, Fem OC, Slow Burn, Isekai, Vampirism (do I even need to warn this), Canon Divergent, enemies to lovers, mental health issues, spoilers for BG3

--- Chapter Two: When It’s Not a Dream

Brit honestly got along with almost everyone in the party so far; Wyll, Gale, Lae’zel- though she would admit there was some uncomfortable tension there- and Shadowheart. She knew Karlach and her would probably be just fine as well. Yet Astarion… was it normal for a favorite character to rub someone so wrong once they were face to face with them?

They’d finally bedded down for the night in the Grove and Brit was so exhausted. Things she’d learned: she apparently had her character’s physical abilities and things that required muscle memory like some of her fighting skills. Yet, the knowledge, the charisma, and the intelligence required to do certain things was nowhere to be found.

It made fighting actually very hard. Honestly, Brit wondered if this was just some joke of a dream where she would wake up right before she died. But… she looked down at the injuries she had received despite how small they were. The knicks and scrapes, the purpling bruises, it all felt so real. It hurt, and each time the worm in her mind reacted to one of the others’ it was even more painful. Like it was burrowing so violently into her skull that it was taking chunks of her grey matter with it.

She was a ranger, just like Ritlyn, she was supposed to use a bow, she was supposed to use swords or daggers and have a myriad of spells at her beck and call, and right now she could barely take sight with her short bow in hand. Despite knowing how to string it, despite knowing how to knock it, and how to pull it tight enough, she couldn’t release it right, she couldn’t take aim. How was she supposed to survive? How was she supposed to keep the party alive?

“Where are you going?” Shadowheart asked as Brit stood and walked down toward the center of the druid’s and tiefling’s encampment.

Brit froze for a moment, swallowing. She was dreaming, yet… she was worried about dying. Did it make sense? No. Shouldn’t she be worried about sleeping and then waking up in the real world? That seemed like the most likely scenario this whole thing would take. Yet, something inside her, something that felt distinctly like another entity, something situated deep in her bones and not where the worm squirmed in her mind, said to ‘survive’.

Survival hinged on fighting prowess in this place. Which meant, Brit looked down at the bow in her hands. She needed to get better. She needed to figure this shit out.

In a set of drow hands that were pale from vitiligo on the palms and all the way up her forearms. She remembered catching a glimpse of her face in the water. She looked like a drow, she looked like Ritlyn, white birthmarks spread across her face. It splotched over her eyes and crept like thin fog over one side of her face, trailing across her cheekbones and cradling her lips. Until it grew faint and disappeared into the dark purple of her skin. She’d shed her shirt to wash blood from it and just like she expected it also covered half her ribs, swirling over her sternum in gentle cloud-like patterns. She sported half the Lolth priestess tattoo, the red spider webs that spread out in thick whirling pattens across her right temple and jaw. She had the teal hair with brown low lights, and she had those icy purple eyes.

Did that mean she also had Ritlyn’s past too? Did that mean drow in the Underdark knew her as a noble who’d fallen from grace? All because she’d had shit luck at the genetic lottery. A drow who’d taken on a different religious mantle, a drow who changed to a ranger instead of a cleric because it was easier to survive alone in the Underdark that way, and a drow who’d hunted priestesses of her own city with a vengeance.

That same part of her that screamed ‘survival’ also twisted with hate and scorn as the thought of Ritlyn’s history came up. Brit wrinkled her nose. What did all this mean?

“Are you intentionally ignoring me?” Shadowheart asked, waving her hand in front of Brit’s face.

Brit blinked and shook her head, smiling awkwardly, “Sorry. No. Just need… wanted to shoot a bit. It helps clear my mind.”

Such a fucking liar, her thoughts hissed poisonously.

Shadowheart narrowed her eyes and regarded the bow in Brit’s grasp, “Right, just don’t irritate any of the guard. We cannot afford that.

She looked at Brit closely one more time, suspicion in her slitted eyes.

“And make sure to get some sleep tonight.”

“O-of course,” Brit nodded and scurried off.

Before she knew it Brit found herself on the training grounds. Thankfully in her dream it seemed the tieflings had a more realistic schedule than the game. It was nearing sunset and the children had all started off to bed. So, the training arena was empty.

The first thing she did was string her bow. She wouldn’t deny, it did give her some sense of relaxation, some sense of stability, doing this part. Yet, as she stood pulling the string taught and anchoring it still, she realized there was so much wrong.

She had pulled it too tight, so much so she was shaking too much to take good aim. She hadn’t taken in the target right; her sightline was too far to the left. All these things accumulated one after the other and she failed to hit her targets again and again.

“Are you sure you’re a ranger, darling?” a lilting voice teased, a voice Brit knew too well.

Her shoulders slumped and shame burned hot in her stomach, painfully. Everything twisted inside her. She wasn’t a ranger, she wasn’t meant to be here, and thank god it was time to turn in for the night judging by the looks of the sky.

“Leave me alone, Astarion,” she said, clenching her fingers tight around her bow.

He laughed, that light and airy sound that wrapped her in sharp thorns and squeezed tight. She looked up at him, through hair that wasn’t her own, and she hated him in that moment. She knew this was just who he was. It was the reason she’d fallen in love with his character. There were things she knew about him, things she’d seen from her past runs through Baldur’s Gate Three that had given her sneak peeks into the depth of who he was and why he did things. Though since she’d never romanced him, she was certain she was missing out on things. Still, loving jerks in fantasy was completely different than loving them when you were face to face with them. She couldn’t wait for this shit to be over.

“I can always teach you, wouldn’t want you getting us killed out there,” he said smoothly. “Or getting your lovely neck separated from your even lovelier head.”

This was all wrong. All wrong. She shook her head and walked away, not even deigning him with an answer. Yet that didn’t seem to bother him as he giggled behind her, left alone in the shadows like the rogue he was.

She slipped into the camp in hopes everyone else was asleep. But just like the game they stayed awake late; Gale was reading a book, Wyll was practicing some sort of swordsmanship that Brit could only home to emanate in her dreams, Shadowheart was meditating, and Lae’zel was sharpening her broadsword. Brit heard the rustle of dirt and leaves behind her and she looked over her shoulder to see Astarion joining the group without even glancing in her direction. She gripped her bow even tighter, until her nails bit into her skin lightly.

Brit forced herself not to interact with anyone, instead she moved to her own tent, her own bedroll, and she laid down. She just wanted to sleep, she just wanted to get out of this nightmare of a dream where things were too lucid, too real. She didn’t want this worm in her brain, the thing inside her telling her to survive, and she sure as hell didn’t want Astarion looking down his nose at her. She couldn’t even voice her displeasure at him truly, since her anger at him was all about a situation she said was fine already.

So, she rolled over without a second though, covered herself with the heavy blanket and she waited for sleep to claim her.

And did it claim her, with visions of the Astral Plane. A place Brit knew she shouldn’t see yet. She was sitting on the platform the player always did, waiting for her ‘guardian’. He stood just off to the side, a tiefling with a similar vitiligo burst on the opposite side of his face compared to Ritlyn. A scar twisted his cheek, and he towered over her even when she stood and brushed herself off.

“It’s good to see you survive, Ritlyn,” he said. “Or should I call you Brit?”

Everything stopped then, Brit’s heart stuttered before slamming against her ribs, her breath hiccupped before coming in shallow pants, and she was certain all thoughts in her head came to a screeching halt.

“What?” Brit asked dumbly.

“Welcome to the Sword Coast, the Astral Plane. Or as you know it, Baldur’s Gate Three.”

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion x fem oc #astarion #fanfiction

0 notes

ryttu3k · 3 months

Note

Have you thought about an AU with both a Dark Urge and a Tav?

Ooh yes, that's a pretty easy one to work with! The Nautiloid grabs so many people it's honestly just sheer dumb luck that the ones that end up in the party end up a) together and b) in the vicinity of the Prism. It would have been just as likely for, say, Astarion to end up one of the True Souls running the Goblin Camp, or Z'rell to end up finding Shadowheart on the beach and travelling with her, y'know?

So, a situation where both someone with Durge's background, and a random other individual (Tav) ends up encountering the others and joining the group? Easily could happen!

For my own characters, I think Tae and Tavias would get on fine. They're both generally good characters, Tavias just... struggles a little with it, haha. They could bond over being different flavours of magic user (Tae is a druid, Tavias is a draconic bloodline sorcerer), Tae would appreciate how hard Tavias is fighting the Urge, and Tavias would benefit from Tae's general calmness. Ending-wise, Tavias would be happy to know Karlach has both Wyll and Tae to accompany her to Avernus, and Tae would be extremely relieved to know that Astarion and Halsin wouldn't be left on their own.

(I did actually think of a way they can both enter the narrative! Tavias starts off as the player character. Tae is a Grove druid instead of being from further out, met with Wyll on the Nautiloid, and they both went back to the Grove together. Wyll is easily recruited as per the game, Tae is the one who requests that they look for Halsin, and joins the party if they promise to do so. Since wow that's a lot of druids, the player can basically choose between largely wildshape-user (Halsin), mixed user (Jaheira), or largely spellcaster (Tae), so they don't overlap too much!)

Anyway tl;dr, yeah, a scenario with both a Tav and a Durge would work easily! Doesn't that happen with a lot of multiplayer options, anyway?

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #oc: tavias #oc: tae

1 note · View note

thedragonagelesbian · 2 months

Text

@hexblooddruid replied to your post “i have. so many feelings about a wyll killing...”:

I was thinking about this too last night in the context of the mechanics of Dark One’s Blessing, Wyll getting rewarded by Mizora to kill. In a timeline where he’s struggling with realization that Mizora’s targets may not be what they seem, is this how she tries to placate or distract him?

!!!!! omg THAT'S such an interesting mechanical-narrative connection i haven't thought about... for all its hellfire flavor text, a lot of the fiend's subclass abilities are surprisingly like... defensive/protective rather than damage-based? thinking dark one's blessing & fiendish resilience in particular (and even dark one's own luck is utility).

esp if you're working with the headcanon of mizora being more of a supportive maternal mother gothic-esque figure to wyll, it adds a certain Something to the dynamic of their pact to think about dark one's blessing as like. mizora's protection, or even a gross uncomfortable form of affection

#hexblooddruid

1 note · View note

timeforelfnonsense · 3 years

Text

Lost and Found

Astarion x Dafni

Rating: T

Hurt/Comfort

TW for depression mention

Ao3

I’ve been working on this bad boy for a month and it’s done at last!

An important note: There is some reference to the Lolth Sworn drow in this and I feel the need to clear the air and state that I have some issues with the way WotC characterizes the drow as inherently evil. My house rules are that none of the races are inherently evil because the broad strokes in the source material as problematic af. So while the followers of Lolth might be evil I want to make it clear that doesn't equal all drow are bad. Dafni holds all varieties of elves in tender regard. As an eladrin of the fey wilds and a follower of Corellon she understands that fluid and changing nature of all living things. Life is messy and people do not fit into boxes, very few folks are all bad or all god. Not every elf worships the Seldarine and that’s ok. A fundamental part of Corellon is freedom and choice therefore it would be foolish to insist her path is the only right one. Her issue is with Lolth not the drow as a whole.

The Underdark was a horrid and forsaken place. A shudder ran down Dafni’s spine as she rubbed away the gooseflesh cropping up across her arms. Lolth’s influence hung heavy in the stale air. She would have to step lightly. A cleric of Corellon would be a great prize to the followers of the Spider Queen. She missed the warm sun on her face, the feeling of grass beneath her bare feet. She could feel herself wilting under the oppressive darkness that surrounded them.

Anxiety was a strange and forging feeling. The majority of her 160 years had been spent embodying the playful delight of spring. Perhaps it was on account of her relative youth. Or, maybe it was the influence of Corellon Larethian, whose wild and wonderful influence she had felt all her life. He had looked out for her. Cared for her as a father would his child. Truly, Corellon felt as much a parent to her as her mother, Thesmia did. A meek half-smile tugged at the corner of her lips. He had given her a reason to leave home when the wanderlust became far too much for her to contain. If she was to flourish as both an elf and a divine servant, Dafni would need to truly know herself beyond being Thesmia’s shadow. Absentmindedly her fingers reached for the familiar crescent moon that hung from her neck.

Her feet skidded to a halt, her trembling hand pulled away empty. Her blood turned to ice. An agonizing dagger of guilt pierced her heart and she felt as though the ground beneath her would open up and swallow her whole. Part of her wished that it would. She had carried the holy symbol since she was a young girl. Though she knew in her soul it had been her’s even before that. It had served as her connection not just to her god, but her heritage and primal spirit- The very essence of her being.

“I lost it.” Her voice was less than a whisper, stunned and distant. Tears began to well up in her eyes. The world around her was growing colder by the second. “My amulet is gone.” Her breath began to come out in heaves and she began to sob in earnest. “It- It must have gotten lost when the minotaur tossed me!”

Her sharp cry stopped her traveling companions in their tracks. Each of their faces dressed in varying degrees of confusion and concern. Gale began to speak but his words were drowned out but the low ringing in her ears. A dizzy, sickening feeling bloomed in her gut and the edges of her vision began to blur as the darkness she had so feared gripped her soul.

They had doubled back to the old Selûnite fort. The others were still there setting up a temporary camp. Shadowheart hadn’t been able to find anything physically wrong with her aside from the normal bumps and scrapes that were to be expected on an active adventurer.

Astarion felt truly helpless for the first time since he’d escaped Cazador’s clutches. It had been an hour and Dafni had yet to wake. He clasped her hand in his. A soft blue had slowly been spreading over her sage-green skin, creeping its way from the tips of her fingers to the crown of her head. Her locks were shifting at the root from rosy pink to a frosty teal. The flowers that wove through her loose ponytail had all weathered into dust.

He squeezed her hand, “Come on Daffodil…”

Gale had been fairly positive that this was, to some extent normal for the eladrin of the Feywilds. Something about a book he’d read by some notable wizard? Truth be told Astarion hadn’t been paying much attention. He was too busy staring down Lae’zel, who’s paranoia filled gaze had been locked on Dafni’s sleeping form from the moment they’d returned.

He should have been annoyed at her. The loss of some silly costume jewelry had caused her to swoon like a high born lady. He knew she was made of stronger stuff than that. Her little spell had put them all behind and left them without a healer the whole trek back to the fort. Yet, try as he might Astarion couldn’t seem to conjure up the ire he held for those too weak to survive hardship on their own.

He groaned, letting his head hit the wall behind him with a soft thunk. There it was again- That damn sentimentality! By the Hells, he was a vampire, not a nursemaid! What had gotten into him?

“You should rest.” Wyll placed a hand on his shoulder, “I’ll keep an eye on her for a bit.”

His eyes went narrow, a low growl rumbling in his chest. The idea of leaving her while she was vulnerable made his blood boil.

I’ll watch your back and you watch mine…

Her promise echoed through his thoughts. Dafni had held her end of the bargain with unwavering resolve. If he left now it would feel too much like betraying the one person he’d allowed even a fragment of trust in the past two centuries.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t an appropriate reaction.” He muttered while he whisked away an icy tear from her cheek. “I’m just a bit... Out of sorts.”

Wyll nodded, taking a seat on the dusty floor beside him, “Hey, she’s tough. She’ll pull through, whatever this is.” The warlock gave him an almost smug look, “You really care for her don’t you?”

“I hardly see how that’s any of your concern.” He sneered with a wave of his hand, “Besides, my concern is simply a matter of pragmatism. Our little band of misfits can’t afford to lose our best healer-” Astarion hesitated for a moment before adding, “Don’t tell Shadowheart I said that. We need not add my body to the pile- Should things go poorly.”

“If I promise not to sell you out will you take a break?”

For the first time since she had fainted, he noticed the scratchy dryness in his throat. Astarion scowled, there was little in the way of appetizing food that he had seen but he would just have to make due. He was loathed to leave her side but Wyll was a good man, a better one than him in truth. He would keep her safe.

“What’s this? The legendary Blade of the Frontiers, stooping to common blackmail.” He tried to keep his tone flat but he couldn’t help the smile that formed on his lips, “Fine, I’ll take a break. I’m a bit parched anyway. I suppose I’ll try to track something palatable down here. Unless…”

He arched an eyebrow towards Wyll who moved away with an overstated scoot.

“Not a chance, now go!”

Cold.

A crushing, all-consuming chill wrapped its arms around her spirit. Spring had left her. Now she stood alone in the isolating melancholy of winter. She reached out for the familiar warmth of The Protector but here- In this cursed place his influence felt far and foreign. If only she had her holy amulet. It could have served as a compass leading her back to Corellon’s embrace. She would simply have to press on. She had put them behind already and there was no time for sentiment. She wouldn’t be able to cast spells until she found a replacement and the chances of a spare symbol of her god in the Underdark were laughable. Dafni tried to sniff back the tears pricking at the edges of her eyes but it was no use. They rolled down her baby blue cheeks freezing before they could fall to the ground. She glanced up at Astarion, who walked a few paces ahead. While Gale and Wyll had spent the better part of a day coddling her, he had remained distant.

Maybe he didn’t want her like this? Her sadness threatened to consume anyone near her and he had enough grief of his own. He had admitted once that he enjoyed having her near. Whispered in her ear that she was sunlight and happiness made flesh as he took her in a flower patch of her own creation.

The feeling of a gentle hand pulled her from her thoughts. Gale offered her a small smile before speaking, “Are you all right?”

“Oh-” She sniffed, whipping away another frozen tear, “I’ll be alright. I just don’t feel much like myself right now.”

Gale nodded in response, “Yes, I can see that. Perhaps we shouldn’t have brought you here. The Underdark does seem quite at conflict with the very core of your being.”

A mournful laugh escaped her aching chest, “I don’t think we’d have had any better luck with that shadow curse above ground. No, my sorrow isn’t a good enough reason to risk the rest of the group’s safety.” She brought an icy hand to Gale's cheek, causing him to shiver, “I appreciate your concern but really I’ll be alright. We eladrin are ruled by our emotions, a shift of season was inevitable at some point or another. It’s unfortunate for the rest of you it had to be winter. Things are dire enough without my sorrowful presence bringing you all down with me. Perhaps it would be best for all of you to keep your distance.”

She sighed, her eyes falling on Astarion, who lingered just on the edge of the bitter cold her sadness created. While it pained her to say it, she knew he was right to keep away. The others should do the same if they were wise. Gale gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“He’s a funny one, Astarion.” Gale mused, “Wyll told me he had to resort to extortion to pry him from your side while you were out. Yet, today he acts as if you have the plague.”

A small snort of laughter broke past her tears, “Extortion?”

“I believe comments were made comparing Shadowheart’s healing abilities to your own. Wyll offended his silence in exchange for Astarion taking a break.”

“That’s not fair to her.” Dafni sniffed, “She’s not a life cleric, she does her best.”

“You have a good heart, Dafni.” Gale said giving her arm a squeeze, “My point is I think he cares about you, in his own odd way. At the very least he’s far more pleasant when you are around”

“You really think so?”

“I do,” Gale assured, “he’d have to be the biggest fool in Faerûn not to see how wonderful you are.”

Dafni felt a bit of warmth return to her heart. Not enough to thaw her sorrows but it was a start. Gale’s words helped her sort through the chaos of her mind as they had so many times before. He was a loyal and kind friend, as was Wyll. Shadowheart too despite her evasive and secretive nature. Even Lae’zel had warmed to her as best she was able despite their differences. There was a solace to be found in the support of her peers. She wasn’t so alone after all.

The sound of her laugh hit Astartion like a battering ram. She seemed to be in slightly better spirits since arriving in the Myconid Circle. She floated about the fungus folk with an easy familiarity. It seemed being among the vibrant plants and creatures of grotto had offered her some sense of normalcy. He looked over his shoulder to see what had coaxed a giggle from her (no matter how pitiful and melancholy it sounded). A sharp twinge of jealousy ran down his spine as he watched Dafni stroke Gale’s cheek with a somber smile.

He bit the feeling back. It was better for them both if he kept his distance. Gentle kindness was hardly his strong suit. Gods, he was a disaster. How many times had she offered him comfort even when he spurned her? She had given so freely to him, her kindness, the warmth of her bed, the very blood in her veins. And there he was relying on someone else to comfort his lover.

Dafni was a resilient little thing. So optimistic and sweet it made his teeth hurt. It was disorienting to see her so morose. He had learned the boundaries of her emotional aura rather quickly. He had noticed an unfamiliar warm feeling that first night at camp. He found himself lingering near her as often as he could after that. Savoring the tender happiness that radiated from off of her. She had told him it was simply part of her nature. A charming quirk he’d grown to enjoy a great deal. But now he could feel her heavy sorrow as if it were his own and he longed to make her hurt go away.

Damn sentimentality.

He had his own worries. He didn’t need to take on hers as well. She didn’t need him to coddle her. And more importantly, he most certainly was not beholden to her contentment for his own survival despite his halfwit heart’s insistence to the contrary. She was making him soft. It was ridiculous! He was far too old to be fretting over her like a lovelorn sprat.

It must be the tadpole. Her compassion must have wormed its way into his brain somehow. That was the only logical explanation.

He needed to clear his head and get some distance between them so he could feel more himself. He wandered aimlessly about the grotto as he attempted to show away any feelings of softhearted sympathy but it was no use. He rubbed his temples and let out a frustrated huff. He should never have taken that first taste of her. She’d become an irresistible craving from that moment on. It wasn’t just her blood, but every aspect of her that called to him. Inviting him to take refuge in her affections. He could feel himself lowering his guard a little bit more each day despite his efforts to keep her at arm's length. She’d flash him that beguiling little grin, her topaz eyes brimming over with admiration and he would find himself tempted to let her just another inch closer. He’d known she was dangerous from the moment he clapped eyes on her in the wreckage of the crash. He’d prepared himself for a stake to the heart but the infatuation she had inspired in him was infinitely more frightening and possible just as deadly.

He made his way to the alcove where the Society of Brilliance had set up shop. The strange hobgoblin had mentioned something to the party about being a collector of magical items and oddities. Walking had failed to rid him of his frustrations perhaps shopping would.

A glimmer caught his eye as he approached the cluttered stall. There, on the table was a familiar silver amulet. He was going to get it back for her and pray the gesture was enough to curb his need to see her happy. He could swipe it easily enough but he didn’t want to draw trouble to Dafni if she was spotted wearing it. No, charm and a dash of intimidation would be his best shot.

“Excuse me,” He smiled wide allowing for a slight flash of his fangs, “I was hoping you would be willing to part with that necklace.”

“A vampire interested in the acquisition of a holy symbol?”

“Yes, it’s very ironic.” Astarion rolled his eyes. “Now, how much do you want for the damn thing?”

“Well, first time for everything.” the hobgoblin shrugged, “You have a good eye, this is very unique. It’s forged from mithral and inlaId with sylvan moonstones. The holy symbol of Corellon is more commonly depicted as an eight-pointed star these days rather than the crescent moon. Meaning this item is very old indeed! It was brought in just yesterday. I would be hesitant to sell it but my research does require more funding. How does 900 gold sound?”

“I hate to be the one to tell you but ‘very old’ is a relative term when it comes to items of elvish origin.” He kept his tone flat and unimpressed, “Long-lived people do tend to hold onto things.”

“Ah, but you’ll find this is more than your average antique! Judging by the craftsmanship I would say it dates back to the time of the primal elves.”

Shit.

Of course, her necklace had much more than sentimental value. He had hoped for a quick haggle but it seemed he was going to have to work for it. He really didn’t have that much coin on him, nor was he inclined to spend it on something that was not rightfully the hobgoblin’s to sell. He raffled through his mind searching for a thinly veiled threat or convincing argument to lower the price until the perfect mixture of the two dawned on him.

Astarion let out a droll hum as he checked his nails with casual disinterest. He spoke in a low, blasé voice, “You said before you weren’t much for combat? Don’t you think it’s risky, carrying around a holy item of Corellon in the den of the Spider Queen? It would be such a shame if something were to happen to you at the hands of a zealot. Really I’m doing you a favor by purchasing it. I’ve crossed swords with the Lolth sworn before they are merciless and skilled fighters almost as dangerous and bloodthirsty as vampires.”

He let a wicked bark of laughter. A bemused expression flickering across his face. He could smell the fear stirring in the timid merchant. It would seem he hadn’t lost his edge after all.

Blurg swallowed hard before mustering a response, “ Ah- I hadn’t thought about that...”

Dafni sat cross-legged on the ramparts of the fort fletching a new batch of arrows. She’d need more to compensate for her lack of magic for the time being. She’d spent the whole trek back to their camp scanning the ground for her necklace but it had all been for not. She’d just have to accept the fact it was gone no matter how much it broke her heart.

“There you are, darling. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

The sound of Astarion’s voice caused her to jump, tossing her arrow down with a start. Dafni clutched her chest shooting him a sharp look. He only laughed, his infuriating gorgeous face fixed in a grin that reminded her of a satyr who stumbled upon a river of bathing nymphs. He dipped to his knees placing a hungry kiss on her scowling lips. He couldn’t be serious. All-day she had been desperate for his attention and he was completely uninterested but now that he had an itch to scratch he was searching up and down for her. Unbelievable! She shouldn't have been surprised. It wasn’t as if he’d ever promised her his undying love and devotion. Still, she had thought him tactful enough not to proposition her after the hell she’d been through that day.

“I’m not really in the mood right now.” She scolded, “You’ll just have to entertain yourself tonight, you egotistical lecher!”

“That- Isn’t why I sought you out. But, if you truly don’t want my company I’ll leave you be.” He shrugged his tone flippant despite the flash of vulnerability in his ruby eyes.

“I- I’m sorry that was really mean and uncalled for. Please stay.”

Stupid impulsive girl.

She slumped forwards, hiding her face in her knees. She could feel the icy tears threatening to spill over for the hundredth time that day. He’d come to check on her and she’d cut him down because of her own insecurity. The bitterness had gotten the better of her and she had unwittingly discouraged his attempt at compassion.

“If you think the accusation of being a rake is the most heinous insult that’s been hurled at me I’m afraid you’ve missed the mark by quite a lot.”

He sat down beside her, placing a hesitant hand on her back. She could sense his uncertainty. He was nervous and clearly out of his depth but he was trying. His cautious fingertips moved slowly across the expanse of her back, tracing nebulas shapes and patterns as she drew short, shallow breaths. She couldn’t bear to look at him. She just knew he was staring at her with the same wide, gentle eyes he had when she’d offered her neck to him that night in the woods. If she saw him like that the dam would break and she’d be an utter mess.

“I still shouldn’t have said it.” Her voice came out shaky and quiet as she peeked over the top of her knees at him.

“I think I’ll find it in my heart to forgive you.” He leaned in close, whispering in her ear. “I have something for you. Now, stand up and close your eyes.”

She arched a questioning brow but compiled, hopping to her feet. He pushed her ponytail to one side. His touch lingered on her jumping pulse causing a shiver to run down her spine. A warm chuckle falling from his lips in response. The cool feeling of metal draped across her throat, an otherworldly comfort hummed all around her as the delicate weight of a pendant fell against her chest.

“Where did you find it!!” Dafni gasped, “I thought I had lost it forever! You can’t fathom how much this means to me.”

“It’s a gift, to repay you for all the ones you’ve given me.”

It probably seemed a small thing to him but he’d returned a missing piece of herself. Words felt woefully inadequate to express her gratitude. She threw her arms around his neck, sending him staggering back a bit. She hardly noticed. She stood on her tiptoes placing gentle kisses all over him. First over the bridge of his nose and then his cheeks and down his neck. Her fingers laced through his soft curls tugging him close, her lips brushed against his. Astarion’s hands fell to her soft waist, his mouth ever so slightly parting for hers. Dafni sighed, running her tongue along the warm seam of his lip earning her a satisfied purr. His hand ventured to the small of her back gently coaxing her closer. She took in a deep breath, the dizzying blend of leather and patchouli making her weak at the knee. She could have stayed like that forever, pressed safe and content against his solid chest. The feeling was big and terrifying but magical and perfect all at once.

Drat...

She was falling in love with him.

#elf writes #bg3 early access #bg3 oc #bg3 #Wyll #shadowheart #gale #wyll and astarion are besties you can't change my mind #astarion #dafni of gwynneth

22 notes · View notes

elisende · 3 years

Text

Songs in the Night (3/?)

Characters: Halsin/OMC, Astarion, Wyll, Gale

Rating: M

Words: 1627

Summary: Halsin and Langoth fight for their lives--and souls--on the fugue plane while in the Underdark Gale struggles to complete the ritual to bring them back to life.

They had only to persevere long enough for revival. To clasp hands at the precise moment the last words were spoken on the material plane.

But in the shadow of the dragon’s enormous form, blasted by the heat that radiated from its black sides as though from a blazing furnace, that seemed nigh impossible.

“Behind me,” Halsin said to the ranger, grimacing against the dragon’s roar. Instead, Langoth stood beside him, drawing his bow. Although his longsword and dagger had not survived the fatal journey between planes, his ironwood bow was imbued with deep magic and a brother’s love and had traveled with the soul of its owner to this purgatory. Seeing it in his hands gave him heart.

Langoth loosed an arrow at the ancient styx dragon’s neck; it merely plinked off its armored scales.

The dragon seemed to chuckle, exhaling plumes of flame with its laughter. Your spirits will make a meager meal but there is rich entertainment in watching you struggle, at least, said the dragon. It raised one clawed foot, blotting out the grey sky and Halsin dove, a line of white hot fire screaming across the back of his leg where the dragon’s spur caught his flesh. He yelled as its poison sank into muscle--his soul, in fact, for in this plane, body and soul were one.

The pain was vivid. Halsin opened himself to it, allowed it to sharpen his focus and turned back to the dragon. There was no weakness he could perceive, no gap in the undulant ranks of its black scales. But every dragon was tender around the muzzle and this one had foolishly lowered his, the better to watch him suffer. Halsin screamed again for effect, clutching his leg and the dragon sank even lower, its face in striking range. Marshaling all of his strength, Halsin drew the club from his back and threw it like a javelin into the dragon’s nose. It struck true, showering him a waterfall of hot, black blood, like tar.

The creature’s tortured shriek was terrible as it echoed across their minds. Halsin staggered over to Langoth, both his wound and his head on fire.

“When the time comes--whatever else should happen,” Halsin said, “You must take my hand.”

Before Langoth could reply, the dragon was upon them again. It was no longer toying with them: now it was out for blood. Only luck saved Halsin from being cut in two as he dove away--this time the dragon’s claws sliced through empty air.

How much longer? Langoth asked. He wove and tumbled around the dragon’s legs, avoiding its swiping claws with limber grace that might be a dance but for the raging dragon above them.

The monster busy with Langoth, Halsin ignored the throbbing pain in his leg and closed his eyes for a moment to test the link he’d left to the plane where their bodies lay, lifeless.

...was a mad idea, what if they don’t come back at all? Across the planes, Astarion’s voice was watery and hollow, as though he were speaking from the other end of a very long sea cave.

Master Halsin’s nearly past the point of no return, looks like, Wyll said. Hells, what’s that on his leg?

Gale’s voice echoed more forcefully in Halsin’s mind. Less commentary, if you please, this does require a bit of focus, you know--Halsin, is that you? Is it time?

Almost, he thought, Be ready. He felt the wizard’s assent and turned back to the fray. Langoth had sunk an ice arrow into the dragon’s nostril and it was trying to scratch it away, howling from its sting.

Halsin dashed over to the ranger, avoiding the sweep of the dragon’s tail as it staggered and bellowed in blind rage. They would just have to hope the distraction lasted long enough to complete the ritual. Langoth looked shaken but unhurt, his keen eyes watchful. Even as the dragon roared above them, Halsin felt a surge of love, of humility in the face of its enormity: greater than any ancient guardian of the Fugue Plane, greater even than death. “It’s time,” he said. Their hands joined and he reached across the void again, to Gale.

What if it’s too late? Langoth said. He sensed the ranger’s despair.

“Just don’t let go. No matter what happens.”

In answer, Langoth interlaced his fingers and squeezed them tight. The druid shut his eyes and perceived, worlds away, Gale whispering the incantations that would bring their souls back.

Halsin, Langoth’s voice rang in his mind, sharp with fear.

He opened his eyes to see the dragon bearing down on them, its mouth open, throat welling with blue fire.

“Don’t let go,” Halsin said, even as every instinct screamed at him to break away, to dive to safety. Langoth gripped his hand so hard he feared his bones would bruise.

The styx dragon bore down on them, a gout of flame shooting from its maw. Halsin closed his eyes again. The ritual was nearly complete--a few words away, if Gale did not stumble.

I need to tell you something, Langoth said. While there’s time. I--

But before he could finish, darkness took them both.

“...breathing, that has to be a good sign, surely?”

Dim, green light danced around him. Langoth moaned and shut his eyes again. Cold, he was so cold. Everything from his waist up was agony: pain that throbbed, ached, stung, burned, and stabbed. From the waist down, all was numb.

“Langoth,” Wyll said. He heard the warlock approach but couldn’t bear to open his eyes again. His voice sounded distant. “Hells, he’s properly torn up. Here, give us that potion.”

A hand cradled his head, tipped it back, and another held a phial of healing potion to his bloodied lips. It slid down his throat and he sighed as it took effect, restoring life to his stiff limbs. A sickening crunch as his spine reknit itself and sensation rushed back to his legs. He shivered. It felt as though he’d never be warm again.

“Halsin,” he said, remembering. The fugue plane, the dragon, the blue flames--he struggled to his hands and knees and collapsed with a groan.

“It’s alright, mate. Halsin is just there, look.” Wyll pointed to the other corner of the courtyard, where the druid was staggering to his feet, shaking his thick mane of hair and rubbing his face. Langoth sank back down in relief. They had made it, somehow.

“I’m fine too,” Astarion said. “If you were wondering. I also nearly died, on your behalf. Again.”

“Thank the gods,” Langoth rasped with a smile. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply--real air, again. Even though it was centuries stale and stank of fungus and dead minotaur, there was no sweeter smell.

“Actually, thank Gale,” the wizard said, approaching with Halsin by his side. “It was a very near thing, indeed. Suppose I owed you for all the times you’ve pulled me back from death’s door.”

The druid leaned over him and took Langoth’s icy hands between his own. “Thank you,” Langoth whispered.

Halsin laid a hand on his chest. “Don’t speak. You need food. Your soul has been too long in Kelemvor’s kingdom and needs to be fully restored.”

“And nothing better for that than a nice warming mug of soup,” Gale said. “I would know. I shall see to it.”

An arm around Halsin’s waist, Langoth limped past the minotaur corpses laid out on blood slick flagstones to sit in the fort’s cozy refectory by the fire that Gale had set roaring with a cantrip.

“Rest here,” Halsin said, helping into a dusty leather chair which was surprisingly comfortable, considering its age. “But don’t sleep yet. Your soul’s connection to your body is still too tenuous.”

“Stay with me?” he asked. Their eyes met and warmth spread through him; heat not just from the roaring fire. Gale busied himself nearby with the cooking, humming tunefully as he banged pots and spoons and asking Astarion if he might use his dagger to mince the garlic.

Halsin eased down beside Langoth on a rickety bench, favoring one leg.

“The dragon?” It still hurt to speak.

Halsin nodded, wincing as he settled onto the bench. “It will mend, in time.”

“Did I hear the word dragon?” Wyll said. “I think that might be next on my list, having taken down a minotaur single handedly.”

Astarion shot him an acid look from across the room.

“Well, almost single handedly. Alright, you lot all helped.”

“Your magnanimity, Wyll, is as ever, inspirational,” Gale said, magicking a stream of hot water into the cookpot.

Langoth laughed, and felt a little warmer still. It was good, he reflected, to be alive. The heady scent of garlic and onions sizzling over the fire reached his nose and his stomach growled.

“Well, our foray into the Underdark is off to a wonderful start,” Astarion said from the shadows. “I just can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings. Perhaps decapitation?” He met Langoth’s eye.

“Stop sulking in the corner, Astarion,” Langoth said. “We survived, didn’t we?”

The vampire spawn scoffed but he approached and even sat on the bench with Halsin. At the opposite end, but it was a start.

“Mad idea, coming down here,” Astarion said, looking moodily into the fire. He turned to Langoth and with unexpected emotion said, “We almost lost you.”

“Well, you didn’t,” Langoth said. “And we will make it to Moonrise Towers.”

He did not fail to observe the expression of foreboding on Halsin’s weathered features. He’d never seen the druid look so tired. Again, he perceived there was something he was holding back, some unspoken burden he carried. Langoth took his hand but he only patted it absently, staring into the dark.

#halsin #bg3 halsin #fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 fanfic #halsin/omc #langoth #baldur's gate gale #wyll #astarion

6 notes · View notes