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moonlitdesertdreams · 7 months

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Thankful

A/N: Everyone wanted more soft Astarion, so how's traumatized instead? Tags: Astarion Ancunin, Astarion, BG3 Astarion, BG3 Imagines, Astarion x OC, Astarion x Tav, Astarion x Reader WARNINGS: Canon-typical blood, mentions of grieving/loss. ACT III/ 'THE PALE ELF' QUEST SPOILERS Summary: You comfort Astarion and talk about emotions after the events at Szarr Palace.

Word count: 2.1k+ (GIF credit to @silverformymonsters)

Leaving Szarr Palace is both a weight off your shoulders and the biggest burden you’ve carried since this adventure started. Cazador is dead, and Astarion is free as last. No master, and no more being used as a means to an end.

But it’s never that simple, is it?

Shadowheart and Lae’zel, mercifully, take Astarion’s second wave of heart-wrenching wails, after all the spawn were set free, as their cue to leave. You give him space as he cries and wait until it’s only a soft whimper to approach. He’s on his knees at that point, Cazador’s bloody body inches from his. The daggers still sticks out of the vampire lord’s chest, begging to be used once again.

You come to a stop behind Astarion’s left shoulder and let your fingers barely brush his skin. For once he feels warm, filled with anger, denial, fear and vulnerability. When he doesn’t brush you off, you press more firmly, moving to the front of his body. Astarion’s hands creep up to your hips and use them as leverage to stagger to his feet. It isn’t until he’s upright that he makes eye contact and breaks your heart into two.

Blood runs in macabre trails down his skin and clothes, puddling on the floors around him and his fallen master. His eyes, normally alight with mischief and mirth, are downcast, swollen and dripping with tears. The pain is apparent, tied together with confusion and grief for the end of an era, even if it was depraved and lonesome.

“... I should be happy.” He whispers, pinching his eyes shut. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“Oh, Astarion.” You murmur, reaching to envelop him in your arms.

Your vampire crumbles, arms wrapping tight around you to the point you’re fairly certain you’re not getting enough oxygen. Astarion clings to your clothes, to any concrete fragment of reality that can ground him from what he’s been through. His face buries itself into the crook of your neck, hiding the tears from your prying eyes. One hand comes up to cup the back of his head and strokes his blood-stained curls.

“I-I… I feel numb. Empty.”

Keeping him close is the only thought in your mind. It’s not the time to delve into the implications of grieving an abuser. You decide it’s best to get back to your lodgings above the Elfsong Tavern to let him have privacy instead of being surrounded by the exact place causing him so much pain.

And a long journey it is. Past the Gur leader Ulma waiting at the dais, and through the bustling streets of Baldur’ Gate.

Astarion barely makes it into the washroom before he collapses, and you just do your best to keep him on his feet.

“Here, here. Sit down and I’ll draw you a bath, yeah?”

Astarion drops on the floor where you’re lowering him. You think he nods, but don’t stay long enough to confirm it. The other members of your rag tag team are dotted about the lounge area when you walk in and beeline straight towards Astarion’s chest of clothing.

Karlach is the only one brave enough to approach you, tapping long talons nervously against her leg.

“Well? How’s he doin’?”

“As well as can be expected…” You sigh and sit on his bed, fresh clothes in one hand. “It’s a complicated situation. He hated Cazador, but the man was also some of the only constant interaction Astarion had in damn near two centuries.”

“Sometimes I fell empty, not having orders and all. Not having something constant that tells you where to go and what to do.” Karlach rubs her arms and shrugs. “Then I remember freedom and how much that means. I’m done being bound to some wretched leader. But there’s still a spot that feels empty. It’s healing, but it takes time. Hells, mine’s gotten better just having all of you around.”

Her words kick your brain into gear. “Yeah, that makes sense. Thanks, Karlach.”

Much to your surprise, Astarion’s already in a warm bath upon your return. You close the door behind you and slide the lock over, ensuring privacy for you both. The vampire’s eyelids only lift slightly when you drop his clothes onto the fireplace hearth and drag a wooden chair close.

“That was fast.” You observe and nod towards the water.

“Mhm. I caught Gale on his way up from supper. He waved his fingers around and made it work.”

You’re thankful for Gale’s presence and quiet affinity for the vampire, as it would’ve taken you twice as long manually.

“You don’t have to sit here, you know. I’ll be alright.” Astarion says quietly.

“Is that you nicely asking me to leave?”

His answer comes quickly. “No. I just don’t want to be a burden.”

The words are like a shot through the heart. “You could never burden me. No matter what.”

Astarion opens his eyes then. “Not even with a century of fucked up emotions? Trauma, as I’m sure you’re thinking?”

Ah, he needs the direct approach. You begin undressing, tossing your belongings in a messy pile on the floor.

“Fuck off and move over.”

Astarion stares at you and blinks comically before sliding over.

Once naked, you climb into the still-steaming water. There’s not an over-abundance of room in the tub, but enough that you can both put your backs against opposite sides and face each other. His long legs stretch to either side of your bum while yours remain crossed beneath. With both of you inside, the water easily rises above your chest, licking gently at sensitive collarbones instead.

“Talk.”

He sulks, but you can see the redness in his eyes and the swelling beneath. “And what should I talk about? How I’m not feeling as free as I should despite killing my slave-driver? I don’t need a psychic to tell me something is wrong with me.”

Astarion’s anger is familiar and raw, defending the vulnerable emotions swirling like a whirlpool in his gut. You don’t flich at its bite, nor retreat from its bark. It only rolls off your shoulders, dripping like rain right back into the bathwater.

“Yes, exactly that. You’re allowed to be upset. To be sad. Cazador and his necromancied skeleton guard were the only constants in your life for a long time. And now they’re gone. You’re allowed to grieve that loss. Even if it feels wrong.”

He draws in a breath, water rippling around his bare chest. “It feels atrocious. After everything he’s done - I’ve done- killing him should be a relief. Joyous, even. And instead I feel like this.”

You reach a hand onto the table to grab soap. Its smell is a pleasant break from blood and gore, and you start towards Astarion with it in hand.

“You’re still in shock. Everything we saw and did in that dungeon, all those people you knew. It’s natural to be sad and feel guilty.” You lather up your hands and bring them up to his neck, starting a slow and cautious massage. “Releasing them into the Underdark was the best chance they had to survive… and the best way to redeem the sins forced upon you.”

He leans into your hands as they rub the soap into his chest and shoulders. “I suppose it was.”

“Turn.” You tell him softly. He complies, drawing his legs to sit cross legged and face away from you.

Knowing it might be easier to hear your sentimental words while facing away, you lean into his ear. “No matter what, I’m proud of you. You’re a hundred times the man Cazador ever was.”

Astarion heaves a breath at your words, scarred back rising into your hands as you continue to spread the lather across his skin. You pretend the horrific rune isn’t there, doing your best to prevent another angry outburst His shoulders hitch when you start scrubbing at his hair and gently cupping water to wet his curls.

“I think I’m glad it’s over. I just….” He’s at a loss for words and flounders. One hand waves aimlessly in the air.

“Need time?” You supply, gliding your hands across his trapezius.

One of his strikes upwards like lightning, grabbing onto yours and squeezing. “Yeah. Time.”

You use a small cup from the tray to rinse his snowy curls without getting soap in his eyes. He hums at the warm water rolling down his scalp, and spins to face you as soon as you’re finished.

“Tav?”

You’re leaning to grab the soap when you pause to look at him. “Astarion?”

“Will you come to bed with me tonight?” Astarion stops and corrects himself. “Just to keep me company.”

“Of course I will.”

Much to your surprise, Astarion pushes himself through the water until you’re chest-to-chest. The liquid swirls and sloshes, splashing onto the floor and no doubt dripping onto a table at the tavern below. He draws your close, arms winding around your waist and pulling you into his lap.

You smile and wrap your legs around his middle, ignoring the discomfort due to limited space. Astarion’s head finds its place on your shoulder, nose brushing against the delicate side of your neck. His cool skin is a reprieve against the steamy bathroom. You nuzzle his damp curls and rub his back softly.

“I’m glad you didn’t stick to your original plan when we slept together that first night.” You hum, “You’ve become quite important to me on this journey.”

“How could I have? You’re too perfect.” Astarion’s breath sends goosebumps shooting in all directions from the joint of your shoulder. The feeling is similar to that of his bite, but less intense.

It hits you that he’s probably famished, not having fed on you the night before and being partially drained by Cazador’s profane ritual. Not to mention the amount of strain that’s been put on him both emotionally and physically in the last few hours.

You brush your hair away from your neck. “You need to feed,”

Astarion lifts his head. “That wasn’t what I was-”

“I know. But you’ve been through a lot.” You insist, rolling your head to the side. “Humor me.”

“I suppose I could be tempted.” Astarion’s eyes darken, and he shift back in towards your neck

His cool breath washes over your skin, and combined with the water it’s so chilly that it’s almost numb while he prepares to sink his teeth in. You feel his nose brush your skin, seeking out the delicate vein carrying the liquid he needs so desperately. He marks his target with a gentle kiss, and one hand holds your hip as he bites down.

Ice shoots through your veins, spreading slowly from collarbones to belly button, and eventually your toes as he drinks. The freezing quickly turns to ecstasy, shooting arousal into every corner of your body though you know it's not the time. Your hand knots in Astarion’s hair, unconsciously encouraging him to keep going. Somewhere in your brain, you realize this is how people fall so easily to vampires. With a blissful numb that rivals the best Opium and a feather-light sensation overtaking all your limbs, what wouldn’t someone fall for?

But luckily, your vampire would never let you fall.

Astarion’s fangs pull away from your skin but his mouth remains on your neck, lapping at the weeping blood until it stops. You’re woozy for sure, and allow yourself a few moments to be dead weight in his embrace.

“I apologize, darling. I got carried away.”

You shake your head and press a kiss to his chin. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Are you going to be able to navigate back to bed?” He asks, tipping his chin towards the shared space. “While you understand me, I’m not sure the others will be so friendly about my choice of dinner.”

“I’m willing to pay the barkeep for the private room across the hall for tonight.”

And you do, without thought. Anything that provides Astarion with comfort is worth the price for you. So you both trek across the hallway, leaving the bathroom mess for morning. Exhaustion has completely taken over after Astarion’s bite, and you take a moment to wrestle with the sheets until you’re able to climb under them.

“Comfortable, darling?” Astarion asks as he lays down.

“Delightful.” You reply, “Now get some rest.”

Astarion does as you say, but keeps you within arms reach at all times. He might be having trouble with his feelings towards Cazador and the missed opportunity for power, but he’s thankful.

Thankful for his choice, and thankful for you.

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mumms-the-word · 1 month

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A Macabre Masquerade - Ch. 4

Ch. 4 - The Gang's All Here

Characters: Tavs (multiple), Gale, Astarion, Karlach, Wyll, Lae'zel, Shadowheart, Halsin, Minthara + other OCs Plot: One year after defeating the Netherbrain and saving the city, Dani and Gale receive a mysterious invitation to a masquerade ball. The invitation specifically invites them to participate as the Heroes of Baldur's Gate. However, when they get there, they soon realize they aren't the only Heroes of Baldur's Gate that got invited. A/N: All the crew is back together again! And strange things are afoot on their way to the masquerade. Things are looking more and more like a trap... Also, I'm very aware that I'm a slow writer lol more action to come very soon!

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Dani turned away from the empty street—away from the blank stretch of city wall where a masked servant and a stall of enchanted masks should have been—to face Gale and Astarion, her expression a mix of resignation and annoyance.

“Typical,” she said. “This had better be a bloody practical joke.”

“Which part?” Astarion asked, examining his gloves in a feigned show of disinterest. “The permanent mask feature, or the disappearing servant act?”

“Both!” Dani tried to move her mask once again, but the results were the same as before. She couldn’t even peel it away from her face enough to wedge a piece of paper beneath the mask. She dropped her hands back to her sides with a sigh. “Come on then. We might as well go see this Lord Dormire and ask him what the big deal is.”

“Oooh, delightful,” Astarion said, dropping his bored act to clap his gloved hands together. “It’s been too long since I’ve held someone at dagger point. Almost a full twenty-four hours, in fact.”

“Let’s not get too hasty,” Gale warned. He’d tied back the ribbons of his mask again, even though his mask was clearly going nowhere even with the ribbons loose. “There may yet be some…sensible explanation for all this. Perhaps it’s a temporary spell that lasts only until we’re inside this lord’s manor.”

Dani gestured toward the blank wall. “Then explain the disappearing servant and disappearing mask stand, love. No one packs up that fast, not even the Lower City merchants at the Wide when the curfew bells ring.”

Gale pursed his lips, clearly casting about for an explanation. He admitted defeat with a shrug. “All right, fine, something nefarious is afoot, but—” he held up a finger as Dani and Astarion exchanged gleeful looks, “we should proceed with caution. It wouldn’t do to land ourselves in worse trouble than we’re already in, hm?”

“I see married life with our darling Dani hasn’t robbed you of all your prudence,” Astarion said, smirking.

“Only out here in the streets, Astarion,” Dani said, patting his arm as she swept past him to head toward Dormire’s estate. She seemed to know on instinct which street was best, further proving that there was indeed a navigation spell in place. “In the sheets, however…”

“Dani!” Gale protested, sounding exasperated. But he didn’t deny it. He simply shook his head and fell in step beside her, and Astarion joined her on her other side.

Dani linked arms with them both, happy to be between her husband and one of her dearest friends. Despite the suspicious situation, they chatted amiably as they walked, catching up with Astarion, inquiring about his life as a roguish clandestine hero and complaining in return about Baldur’s Gate politics. They spoke, too, of Gale’s latest finds in his research about sun sensitivity cures, infernal engines, and mysterious Sharran wounds.

“We’re planning a trip to visit Candlekeep soon, to make use of their archives in our research,” Gale said. “When I say I am beyond thrilled at the idea—“

“But first a trip to Waterdeep to have tea with Morena and Tara and collect a gift for the gatekeepers,” Dani added. ��We don’t have anything suitable here at home.”

“Or rather, nothing you are willing to part with,” Gale said wryly.

The gatekeepers of Candlekeep refused to let anyone inside the halls of wisdom without first presenting a seal of a renowned wizard and offering a gift of knowledge to add to the collection. Gale had suggested that his own name might be “renowned enough” to grant entry past the gates but, lacking an official seal, he had asked Elminster if he could offer his seal instead. Elminster happily agreed. As for the gift of knowledge, Gale had told Dani this usually meant a very rare, very expensive tome, but the gatekeepers had recently relaxed their rules to accept other artifacts as well. She was a little too attached to the arcane (and mundane) treasures they had accumulated over their adventures pre- and post-Netherbrain, so they agreed to select something from his old tower in Waterdeep. Or ask Tara if she knew of anything suitable.

The journey overall was meant to be their next big adventure, made up of several days spent away from Baldur’s Gate. But it seemed now that adventure had come seeking them out much sooner and much closer to home.

“Ah, Candlekeep,” Astarion said. “That great big library fortress to the south. Sounds like more your thing than mine. Still, if they know anything useful…”

“You’ll be the first to know, I promise,” Dani said. “One way or another we’ll have you back in the sun. Without burning to a crisp.”

Astarion opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Dani gasped, her eyes landing on another familiar figure just up ahead. The swept streets of Manorborn were relatively empty of people, aside from a few late-evening strollers who seemed eager to keep to one side, well away from the three of them. But a solitary figure was waiting for them at the end of their current street, gazing at them patiently behind a silvery mask, her shell-pink lips curved in a teasing smirk.

“That can’t be Shadowheart behind that pretty mask, can it?” Dani called, breaking away from Gale and Astarion to rush forward.

“The one and only,” Shadowheart said, laughing and opening her arms.

Dani embraced her quickly in a tight hug before pulling back to glance appreciatively over her outfit. Shadowheart had opted for a black dress with silver and pearl accents, sewn and embroidered in gentle leaf and vine motifs, her sleeves nothing more than sheer black drapes of glimmering chiffon. Her mask was made of curling silver filigree in a familiar style that reminded Dani vaguely of Dame Aylin’s helmet and armor. She’d styled her usual braid, still silver-white even a year later, in a coil near the top of her head, crowning the bun with a silver circlet.

“What do you think?” Shadowheart asked. “I thought about going for all white and silver, but it just seemed like overkill, especially with my hair.”

“I think you look gorgeous. But you’d look gorgeous in anything, Shadowheart.”

“You flirt,” Shadowheart laughed. “You look stunning too, as usual. I’ve missed you.” She nodded smilingly toward Gale and Astarion. “Gale, Astarion. It’s good to see you both again. You’ve both been keeping out of trouble, I hope?”

“Naturally,” Gale said, while at the same time, Astarion grinned and said, “Of course, darling.” An obvious lie for one, if not the other.

“Shadowheart, have you noticed anything strange about your mask?” Dani asked, pointing toward her own golden bird mask. Better to get it out of the way now. “Anything…er…magical?”

“You mean like the fact that it’s telling me where to go and the fact that I can’t remove it?” Shadowheart set one hand on her hip, her fond amusement sobering into a more serious look. “I asked the servant about it, but he told me that it’s all just precautions to protect me out here in the Upper City. I say he’s lying, or at least withholding a great deal of the truth.”

“Protection from who, the City Watch?” Dani asked. “They’ve always been a sort of ‘arrest people now, ask questions later’ type of organization, but gluing masks to our faces to prove we have a reason to be on Upper City streets seems a bit much.”

Shadowheart nodded. “There’s definitely something else going on. I’m just glad I convinced my parents to stay behind at our cottage. The last thing I want is to drag them into something like this.”

“Have you met any of the others? Karlach or Wyll? Lae’zel?”

“Lae’zel is coming. I was waiting for her here, actually.” She swept her gaze over their surroundings. “We were supposed to travel together from my cottage but she said she had to shake off some pursuers, so we agreed to meet up in the city.”

“Does she still visit you every now and again?” Dani asked, grinning. Shadowheart and Lae’zel’s relationship had shifted since the early tense days over a year ago. Dani was convinced that part of Lae’zel’s decision to stay on Faerûn rather than join in the liberation of the githyanki empire was because a certain half-elf cleric wouldn’t join her in the Astral Plane. Her suspicions were all but confirmed by the rumors that Lae’zel allegedly made frequent stops by Shadowheart’s cottage on her way to or from a githyanki outpost.

“Once a tenday, if she hasn’t wandered too far abroad,” Shadowheart responded with a faint smirk. Her hazel-green eyes lit up as she spotted someone just over Dani’s shoulder. “Ah, and speaking of…”

Dani turned her head just as Lae’zel herself walked forward. Dani didn’t know what she expected Lae’zel to wear to a masquerade ball, but whatever her expectations might have been, they were surpassed by Lae’zel’s choice of outfit. She’d donned an indigo long-sleeved dress, the skirt little more than a drape of fabric in front of and behind her legs, which where encased in githyanki-style boots all the way up to her thighs. That would have been enough, but over top of the dress, she wore pieces of armor, bits of fine chainmail and githyanki pieces, all silver and purple, with more indigo fabric draping from her shoulders like two thin capes. Her mask was a simple black fabric thing that barely covered her eyes, so slim that Dani had almost mistook it for more of the black shading she usually wore around her eyes.

“You were supposed to dress for a party, not for war,” Shadowheart teased.

“Chk,” was Lae’zel’s telltale response. “It is better to always dress for war. That way you are never surprised by it.”

Lae’zel ignored Dani, Gale, and Astarion and instead went straight for Shadowheart, pulling her by the waist until their bodies were flush, their lips meeting as naturally as if they’d done this a hundred times. As they kissed—and continued to kiss for several seconds—Gale coughed slightly into his fist and looked away politely while Astarion rest an arm on Dani’s shoulder and watched with glee.

“It’s about time the two of them made things public,” he said in Dani’s ear. She giggled. It had been an open secret for so long, none of them were particularly shocked.

At last, Lae’zel and Shadowheart separated from one another and turned to face the others. “Well,” Shadowheart said, somewhat breathlessly. “Shall we get going? After you.”

“Just don’t fall behind, you two,” Dani teased, taking Gale’s arm. “We’ll need all the backup we can get should this turn into a fight.”

“Are we expecting a fight?” Lae’zel asked.

“Maybe? We’ll explain on the way.”

Dani and Gale took the lead, with Astarion, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel following. Lae’zel was irritated but not entirely surprised to learn about their masks’ unique, magical qualities as the others explained what they knew. She muttered something about Faerûnian wizard antics, but otherwise was content to walk hand-in-hand with Shadowheart as they navigated the Upper City. They were no closer to figuring out the point of the masks, however, so topics turned to Lae’zel’s latest adventures and the ever-increasing numbers of githyanki loyalists she’d killed so far in Faerûn. If the party proved to be a trap or a bust, at least Dani was content to catch up with her friends as they made their way through the Upper City.

Lord Dormire’s estate was deep within the Manorborn district, almost on the edge of the district itself. Though the masks had granted them all an innate ability to know which turns to make and a general sense for how close they were getting, Dani was surprised at how far into the district Dormire’s manor actually was. Most of these elegant houses belonged to the oldest families, the ones who’d been here so long that their names were as familiar as Balduran’s own. These manors were larger and had lush gardens and tall, wrought iron or stone fences surrounding them, often with the family heraldry over the gates or hung in banners all over the buildings.

Once upon a time, Dani would have greedily rubbed her hands together and giddily plotted a grand heist to break into one of these estates and abscond with a pack loaded with valuables. Now, in the past year, she’d been inside at least half a dozen of these estates for parties and balls, often with a fake smile fixed to her face until she could turn her head and whisper her biting remarks about puffed up nobles to Gale as he fought to control his expression into something neutral.

But it seemed they wouldn’t be attending another event in these larger homes. Soon those grand estates fell away and they were heading to the far reaches of Manorborn, very nearly to the massive wall that made up the edge of the city itself, where the manors became narrower and more numerous, the gardens and fountains now shared features rather than individual hallmarks of wealth and prestige. As they turned the last corner, they stepped out onto a street lined with well-built, newer-looking manor homes, their windows burning brightly with candlelight and torch-glow. Several carriages lined the streets, parked and inert, more than they had seen on other streets. A relatively short distance away, one building was twice as bright with torchlight as the others, illuminating colorful banners hanging from windows and drapes of fabric framing the doorway. Distant strains of dance music wafted over to them. Dani recognized the tune and the beat as a popular court dance.

Their destination at last.

“Finally,” Astarion said. “I was beginning to think there would be no party at all.”

Dani glanced at the carriages as they passed, trying nosily to guess which noble families would be in attendance based on the heraldry on the doors, but to her surprise, she didn’t recognize any. No Portyrs, no Hhunes, not even an Eomane, and they were famous for their cruel masquerades. She expected to see at least a Jannath, because they showed up everywhere, whether they were wanted or not, but she didn’t see the Jannath heraldry either.

“Curious,” Shadowheart said.

“What is curious?” Lae’zel asked.

“The carriages. They’re empty.”

“Is that so strange? The party isn’t out here in the street.”

Dani turned her head to respond, but Astarion beat her to it. “Normally a patriar’s driver will at least stick around for a short while to tend to the horses, or secure the carriage, or be on hand just in case their patriar master wants to make a hasty escape because they saw their spurned lover across the ballroom floor,” he said. “That sort of thing. But I don’t see a single driver or footman.”

“Maybe they all nipped off to get drinks at a nearby pub,” Dani suggested, but she didn’t believe it. A few drivers and footmen, maybe, but all of them at once?

“Or maybe Lord Dormire is a liberal-minded fellow and invited them all inside to enjoy the party too,” Gale suggested, with an equal lack of conviction. He shook his head. “At this point, if we step inside and there are no guests, I suggest we turn around and leave.”

“And have these masks glued to our faces forever? I think not. Party or no, we have to find this guy and get these masks off.”

“Agreed,” Shadowheart said. “I don’t relish the idea of having to peel off a few layers of skin just to get this thing off my face. It’s pretty, but it’s hardly suitable for everyday wear.”

They paused just outside the manor itself, looking up at the building in all its finery. Though it looked like every other manor building on this street, the stone clean, the architecture and design reflecting a newer, nouveau riche style, the banners and draperies that flowed down or fluttered gently from the windows and down from the roof elevated the facade and created an extravagant yet mysterious aura about the place. To her pleasant surprise, Dani saw figures moving inside, blurred and shadowed forms passing in front of sheer-curtained windows, some swaying to the beat of the music playing inside. The music had shifted to a bouncier courante dance tune and Dani was transported suddenly back to memories of dancing a courante with Wyll, her singing the tune and Wyll teaching her the steps, both of them grinning wide.

“Pity that Wyll hasn’t seemed to make it,” Dani said. “I can just picture him out on the dance floor to this music, showing everyone up with his moves.”

“It’s like you’ve read my mind, my friend! The Blade of Avernus would never turn down a dance.”

Dani turned with a gasp at the familiar voice. Wyll stood several paces away just up the street, sweeping a low, courtly bow as a greeting. Beside him stood Karlach, grinning brightly and practically bouncing on her toes.

“Wyll! Karlach!” Dani voice rang out exuberant and loud, her heart fit to burst seeing two more of her dearest friends once more on the Material Plane. She let go of Gale and ran to grab them both in a hug. They both laughed and wrapped their arms around her until the three of them were more a tangle of limbs than anything else. “I can’t believe you made it out of Avernus for this! Gods, I’ve missed you.”

“We’ve missed you too, Dan,” Karlach said, giving her as tight a squeeze as she could with Wyll also tangled up with them. They both reeked of brimstone and ash, like the very Hells themselves, but Dani couldn’t care less. She held on as long as she could, trying to make up for months of missed hugs and scarce messages.

When she finally pulled away, Wyll was trying to discreetly wipe his good eye free of tears around the eyeholes of his wolf-shaped mask and Karlach was burning with blue flame. She was also starting to sweat a little, her face glistening around the scaly, dragon-like mask she wore.

“I have so many questions,” Dani said. “How did you get out of Avernus? Where the hells did you get those clothes? Have you found a blacksmith to fix your heart yet? Do you have to go back?”

“Hang on, soldier, I haven’t said hi to everyone else yet,” Karlach said, laughing.

Dani stepped to one side as Karlach went around hugging everyone in the group, including Astarion, who relented much the same way he had with Dani, with a look of surprise and a little fond pat on Karlach’s back. Wyll, too, was eager to hug or shake hands with the others, and soon the group, finally back together again, was abuzz with conversation, with Shadowheart and Lae’zel catching up with Karlach and Wyll, and Lae’zel comparing kills with them, and Astarion quipping now and again with his usual humor. Dani stood back with Gale and watched with a smile. It felt as though all the little pieces of her heart, the pieces that her friends had carried away with them the moment Withers’ party had broken up six months before, were once again made whole. She almost felt like she could cry. The old crew, back together again. Or mostly so, since Jaheira, Halsin, and Minsc wouldn’t be joining them.

By and by the details came to light. Karlach and Wyll hadn’t had much luck with a blacksmith just yet, which meant Karlach’s heart was still in disrepair. She was certain it would hold for one night, though, since it had done just fine at Withers’ party six months ago. Despite the danger, they both agreed that trying to go to the party was worth the risk, so they had visited the House of Hope to catch up with Hope and see if she had any clothes left over from Raphael’s closets for them to borrow. It seemed they had been quite lucky sifting through Raphael’s old things, as Wyll was now sporting an elegant red and silver doublet with trim leggings to rival any Upper City bard in style and Karlach had found a black, red, and gold low-cut sleeveless dress with two slits all the way up to her hips. She’d paired it with black leggings and thick black boots that looked like they had probably curb-stomped a cambion sometime in the last two or three days, yet went with the dress surprisingly well. As for how they got here, they said that a portal had opened up for them nearby while they were traveling, not unlike Withers did for them six months ago.

“You don’t think the old bag of bones is behind this party, do you?” Karlach asked.

“No. I wish, but Withers has a more casual style than this,” Dani said, gesturing toward the decorated building they were all loitering in front of. “Plus, Withers wouldn’t enchant our masks to get stuck to our faces like this.”

“Hang on. What?”

Karlach and Wyll exchanged shocked glances before they simultaneously tried to remove their masks. They had just about as much luck as the others, with exactly the same results. Their masks were stuck fast.

“By the Triad,” Wyll said. Karlach only groaned and said a long, drawn out, “Fuuuck.”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, we have a plan,” Dani said.

Gale shot her a surprised look. He wasn’t the only one, as Shadowheart and Astarion both looked doubtful, but it was Gale who spoke. “We do?”

“Sure. Go in, find this Lord Dormire guy, get him to talk, get him to remove our masks, steal the booze, and leave. We can iron out the details as we go.”

“Oooh, I volunteer for ‘get him to talk’ duty,” Karlach said, cracking her knuckles. “Astarion and Shadowheart can steal the booze.”

“Just like old times,” Wyll said, shaking his head with a smile. “And here I was hoping for a dance or ten.”

“I’ll dance with you after we know we won’t be spending the rest of our lives perma-masked,” Dani said. “Deal?”

Wyll’s smile was infectious. “Deal. It would be a sin to waste a party, after all, since it’s been so carefully coordinated for us.”

The seven of them, once more reunited on the anniversary of their defeat of the Netherbrain, turned as one to look up at the manor once more. There was no servant on the steps to greet them and the double doors at the front were firmly closed, but every window was lit with cheery light and the sounds inside certainly sounded like a patriar’s party, with music and the low murmur of chatter. Strange events aside, it didn’t seem any different than any other Upper City party Dani had attended in the past year.

So why did her body seemed to buzz with anticipation? The masks, the empty carriages, the disappearing servant, they all hinted at some adventure to come. But what kind? Would there be twisted party games, like the Eomanes liked to do with their masquerades? Was this all an elaborate trap, intended to lure them in and attack them unawares? Was Lord Dormire an enemy, a practical joker, or a harmless patriar, well-meaning but strange?

Dani looked at Gale and found his eyes already on her, patiently waiting for her signal. She took his arm with a little grin and nodded toward the doors with her head. “Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

Together they stepped through the gates that separated the manor from the street and went up the three steps that led to the double doors. Dani was prepared for magical shenanigans, so she was unsurprised when the doors opened of their own accord the moment she reached for the handles. Golden candlelight spilled out over them as the doors swung inward to reveal a grand foyer, several masked attendees milling about inside and one central figure in black and white standing at the bottom of a carpeted stairway.

The masked attendees quieted and turned to look at them, all curious glances, fluttering fans, and glimmering finery. But it was the centermost figure who had Dani’s attention.

“You,” she gasped. “The servant from the gates!”

The masked servant bowed low as he had done before and then gestured for them to enter. “Welcome, Heroes of Baldur’s Gate, to the masquerade. Eat, drink, dance, mingle, and...enjoy the party. Lord Dormire will begin the official celebrations shortly.”

“Wait—”

But the servant didn’t wait. With another bow, he disappeared in a flurry of swirling ash and embers.

#bg3 #bg3 fic #my fic #oc #bg3 companions #bg3 fanfic #dani #meridan zavrai #gale #gale dekarios #astarion #wyll ravengard #shadowheart #lae'zel #karlach #long post #we're trying to keep this up lol

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fuckitwebhaal · 4 months

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Shit wait why you leaving what happend

😭 Nothing horrible, oops, I realize how bad that last post sounds. Ultimately it’s burnout, both with the game and tumblr and within my own personal life. I don’t really play BG3 anymore, I have a lot of criticisms about it, and I find myself feeling isolated from the fandom due to either disagreeing with popular fanon or just not relating to content going around.

This blog has started to feel like a chore to maintain; I stress when my queue gets low because it feels like I have to perform to keep my little followers and mutuals happy, and that’s not healthy. I’ve been through a lot in the past few months in my personal life (moving in with parents, lost my apartment deposit, constantly sick, wrecked my car, my cat died, etc.) and I just don’t get the same joy out of it. Instead I’m stressed over “falling behind” or “not producing enough content” which isn’t normal or healthy for me. I’m holding myself to standards about playthroughs and oc lore and meta content that I’m just… never going to have the energy or drive to do.

This isn’t because some followers or mutuals have made me feel this way, these are my own personal sentiments borne out of extreme depression, withdrawal, and anxiety over how my TUMBLR BLOG WAS DOING when I have quite literally been putting out fires in my personal life and that’s where my attention should have been (and should still be, I’m not out of the woods yet).

Another thing is that the burnout with bg3 has turned my attention over to the pathfinder games that Owlcat studios has made, and I absolutely love them and I find them more engaging and well-made. It’s a much smaller fandom, I feel like I have a lot more breathing room, so I may switch to either moving my pathfinder blog here or dropping this one entirely as a memorial to my time in BG3.

Regardless nothing is set in stone, I haven’t made any real decisions yet, but I think the end is on the horizon for me in the bg3 sphere. I love everyone I’ve met and I intend to stay in contact with people (I’m not dying or going away, my discord is still open lol) I’m just really, really tired.

#askbox #personal

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summerwarlock · 29 days

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Hello 👋

Howdy, I'm SummerWarlock. I'm an artist and game developer. Very into BG3 right now in case that wasn’t immediately obvious. :)

I mainly post art here, you can find it under the tag #my art

Requests:

Got ideas for what I should draw next? I’d love to hear them. You can drop requests in my ask box or message me. I can't promise to get to every one but I'll do what I can and I always appreciate prompts.

Commissions:

Commissions are open!

If you'd like to me to draw (or animate) something for you, please get in touch.

As well as art I also make VIDEO GAMES. So if you ever want a self indulgent personalised dating sim just sayin 👀

Rules for commissions:

All payments through PayPal. NSFW is fine. (Doesn't have to be BG3 related, OCs and other stuff are all fine)

Pricing:

I'll have a new comms sheet linked here at some point buuut I keep procrastinating on it so in the meantime just message me, let me know what you're looking for and we'll work it out. General guidelines: Quick sketch - $20 B&W character - $50 Colour character $90

Extra $ for additional characters, backgrounds, other complex stuff. Discount if you're a returning customer 💕

Contact:

Message me here or email me at [email protected]

Support:

If you wanna help me keep making art (aaand the top secret video game I'm working on) you can support me on ko-fi. It's super appreciated. :)

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bhaalble · 7 months

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God Love Me Like a Fawn- A Dark Urge/Enver Gortash fic

I finally finish something for BG3 and its for the guy I didn't give a FUCK about my first playthrough. This is also posted on my AO3 (Skeletorific) if you prefer the formatting there. Anyways. A snapshot of pre-Crown of Karsus heist. Enver does his level best to make sure his alliance with Murder Incarnate doesn't wind up how this kind of union typically should go. Alternatively, the author's barely disguised fetish for men putting jewelry on other men

TW for Canon typical violence descriptions, disassociation, memory loss, and generally toxic dynamics. Dark Urge Tav is an oc, Melkior, who uses he/they pronouns. Nothing explicitly sexual. 3.5k words.

Excerpt:

Still studying, then?”

He’d had to repeat the question before Melkior’s eyes finally lifted from the page in front of him. Fiery yellow set deep in black. Not the most uncommon color for tieflings, but the effect of them piercing through shaggy dark hair was always a touch startling. He always held them a little too wide, blinked too little.

“......You’re back already?”

Gortash can’t help but smile, whisking the door to his office shut behind him. Melkior had been holed up for hours, carpeting his office in books and papers. Everything that had ever been written on Mephistopheles' vaults, accounts from the exceedingly factual to the patently deranged. Most of those hours had been silent, by necessity: the Chosen of Bhaal, prodigiously talented in all arts bloodthirsty, was an almost charmingly slow reader.

Silence was unbearable to Enver. He’d had more than enough of it for twenty lifetimes. It had been better, almost, when they were beating him because when they weren’t he was left below for hours, days, weeks. Not a voice to be heard or a person to see. He made his excuses to busy himself below, lose himself in the tangled noise of his machines and his lackeys.

“Already? The sun’s nearly set, you’ve been in here all day.”

Another slow blink. A scowl crosses the Bhaalspawn’s face, probably a startling visage for most. The grey-white death mask tattooed into his purple skin would twist, rippling over a nasty burn scar on his right cheek. The effect was entirely demonic.

Not for him. He knew better. Knew better of demons, and knew better of Melkior. This wasn’t a threat, but a sulk.

“I was busy.”

“Clearly.” He tilts his head, meaningfully regarding the rest of his office. “Not a drop of viscera to be seen, either. I commend the focus you’ve shown for this task.”

It’s hard to read blushes behind the tattoos, but the way his tail flicks nervously behind him is as good as any coloring. “Why am I the only one focusing? It’s your plan, Baneite.”

“Enver.” He says cheerfully. In two strides he’s crossed the room, taking a seat on the worn chaise he slept in more than his own bed. It was the only surface not entirely littered in paper. “I am focusing. But there are wheels in motion, my friend. Someone needs to make sure they don’t fly off before we’ve had the chance to make our play.”

“I have better-”

“The compliment was sincere, Melkior.”

He didn’t need words to know that was worse, leagues worse. Melkior snaps the book shut, rolling cat-like to his feet. Enver watches him tilt his chin, drawing himself up to his full height to look down at him on the couch. Blazing eyes, stony expressions, claws ever so slightly parted. Like in a twitch they might rend a throat. Divine wrath made manifest.

“I’m returning to the Temple. The flock needs tending. The cattle need culling.” He stalks past him, feet padding silently. “Call me when you have a more productive use for my time.”

Enver says nothing, yet. Waits for him to get nearer the door.

“Then I suppose you don’t want your present.”

Stillness, silence. So thick over his left shoulder it was nearly tangible. A lesser man, a man less practiced in his art, might’ve thought the tiefling had left.

Enver was not a lesser man. And Bhaal’s favorite bludgeon was more a child at heart than they realized.

“....Present.” Melkior’s tone is flat and heavy, trying to smother the curiosity out of his voice.

Without turning, he lifts his hand, holding the palm flat to reveal two delicate gold chains, bookended by clips set with rubies. “You have a penchant for jewelry, don’t you?” The carelessness rolls effortlessly off his tongue, the benevolent disinterest weaving the lie into the truthful statement. “I’ve noticed many of the tieflings in the city have taken to horn decorations of late.” Finally, a turn, a graceful smile sliding on. “A life in service to the Murder Lord doesn’t offer much exposure to the latest trends, I imagine.”

Melkior seems to have frozen mid-stride. He’s frozen in general. Among the more monkish of his habits: the ability to appear carved right from the rock. Even still, the argument clearly taking place in the theater of his mind is all but broadcasted. “...Why do you care?”

He shrugs, closing his hand over the trinkets and lowering it ever so slowly. “You don’t need to take it if you don’t wish. I’m sure I have a few other colleagues who would be interested. “

“I don’t-” His hand jerks. Enver feels the point slide towards him. He watches Melkior feel it slip away. A paroxysm of irritation passes over him, making his lip curl to bare fangs. An animal kind of frustration.

His palm opens beckoning.

“....You waste a lot of time on gestures, Baneite.” Melkior’s heels sink to the ground, pivoting towards him. Seconds before his claws can close on the proffered chains, though, Gortash’s hand snaps shut again.

“Enver.”

An annoyed twitch of the tail. Golden eyes are locked on his hand with a greedy gleam.

“You waste a lot of time on gestures....Enver.”

“Not so difficult, is it?” He smiles, gesturing in front of him. “Come here, I’ll put them on.”

“I can do it myself.” He follows the gesture where it leads, though, tugged a few steps around the edge of the chaise.

“You haven’t seen how they’re attached. I’d like my gifts worn properly.” He tilts his head up to look him in the eye. The bland smile never wavers. “Though, I can’t exactly reach from here.”

“Then...stand?”

“Ah, my friend, this seat is comfortable, and I’ve had such a long morning.”

This, actually, is where it becomes most dangerous. Not lightly do the Children of Bhaal open their space. Even less lightly should they be invited into yours. Gortash doesn’t break eye contact. Almost doesn’t dare to. The long ebony claws now mere inches from his face occupy the whole of his awareness regardless.

Melkior glances again at the hand holding his prize.

He takes a seat on the couch, settling awkwardly at the very edge of the worn green velvet. His gaze flickers towards him again.

“Better?”

The faintest knot of tension that had begun tying itself in his chest is swept cleanly aside. His smile deepens, sharpens as he sits up properly. “Better...but you are blessed with some very imposing horns, Melkior.” He glances at them, near vertical and spiraling like a goat’s. They add nearly half a foot to his height. It’s when the tiefling’s eyes dart up towards the same appendage, however, that he moves. In one blink, he plants a hand on his shoulder, sweeping him off the couch entirely.

In the span of a heartbeat, Melkior is kneeling before him.

Another heartbeat. Gortash half expects to feel a draft over his innards the next second. So, he doesn’t let himself pause. With deft hands, he plucks one of the chains from his palm and begins carefully clipping the first end near the base of his horn.

Melkior’s body goes tight. From this level, he has to look up at him. From the edges of his vision, he can feel those eyes held wide, burning into him. No doubt imagining a thousand ways to split him down the middle for the insult.

“Will this satisfy you, then.”

......

Enver’s been too well trained to let his surprise show. He doesn’t break his gaze from his work, even, carefully lining the clips along the ridges spirals of the horn, assessing placement to see if the chains will lay properly.

“For now.” He says softly.

Melkior rolls his eyes, arranging his legs to fold more comfortably underneath him. His hands clasp politely in his lap, for all the world looking like a penitent at his prayers. The visual has its appeals. Much more so the fact that he’s clearly trying to avoid eye contact at the moment.

Up close, it’s surprising how clean he smells. The undercurrent is there, of course, old blood and fluids of more unmentionable varieties. The reeking incense of Bhaal. Something antiseptic, a rubbing alcohol perhaps. But there’s linen too, notes of a soapy kind of a lavender smell. He wonders if it’s intentional, a way of hiding his nature. Or perhaps this was simply a clean outfit, yet unspoiled by the usual grisly tasks on Melkior’s to-do list.

The tiefling continues to sit quietly. An outside perspective might presume him to be meditating. Certainly his gaze seems far enough away for that to be the case. Gortash looks closer, though, and sees the barely restrained shiver every time he traces the edges of his horns.

Hears the slightly staccato rhythm of his breath.

“If I had known all it took were a few baubles to get you to behave, I would’ve sent earrings ahead of my first few envoys.” The spirals of the horns pose an inviting challenge, drawing the chains taut where they should instead drape. He recalculates the placement some. “Are all Bhaalists so materialist?”

“I don’t care about finery. I take trophies.”

“My favorite assassin, this is a trophy.” Slowly, ever so slowly, his free hand slides into his hair, threading through dark tangled strands to sweep them from his face. This is almost a bridge too far. Melkior’s shoulders snap to attention and his lip curls. Enver only presses firmly on the top of his skull, tilting his head back gently until his eyes meet his own. “We’ve secured our means into the hells.” Not quite a murmur, not quite a whisper, but something velvet and soft and prayerful in his voice all the same. With his hair pushed off his forehead, he can see glints of amber and red swimming in the molten gold of Melkior’s eyes. “Our victory is within our grasp, and I’d say that merits a reward.”

Melkior’s chest rises and falls in sharp movements. The dark purple of his lips peeks through, the usual white paint scraped away by his teeth. “We haven’t won yet.”

“True. But it’s as simple as closing our fist.” He presses his thumb pointedly to the center of the tiefling’s forehead, biting back a laugh when his eyes briefly cross in their attempt to track the movement. “Not comfortable being touched?”

“I’m not frightened of you.”

“I didn’t ask if you were frightened.”

“People who touch me don’t find it ends happily for them.” He still hasn’t moved. The pressure he’s placing on his head is tight, not easily breakable, but Melkior hasn’t so much as tested it.

“I didn’t ask how I’d end up either. Even if I did.” He tilts his head, lifting free hand to show the mark matching the one blazoned on the Bhaalspawn’s shoulder. “We have certain oaths to prevent exactly this. Your Urge isn’t complicating that?”

Melkior huffs, darting his eyes to the side. “No. Father made...allowances.”

“Then you’ll forgive me if I continue to place my trust at your feet. So far as I can see it, then, the only reason for me to not touch you is if you prefer not to be touched.” He’s still looking away. It won’t do, it needles him where he needs to remain placid. He taps his chin, drawing his gaze back where it should stay. “Do you prefer that?”

The office isn’t silent. A draft beckoned in by the open window carries the din of the city below, the echoes of small lives and ways. The floor buzzes with his machines, the clanks and crashes so familiar they felt like music.

Just as familiar is the sensation he feels. A leash, tied around Melkior’s neck. The end lays in front, his for the grabbing. He could layer his voice with such powers as Bane made available to him, let the sensation of his touch seep into that too addled mind neatly cupped in his hands. A final completion of his art, dominating that which was by its nature untameable. Violence incarnate in his palm. Perhaps impossible, but the temptation was there all the same. Nearly overwhelming, even.

He doesn’t reach for it. It means nothing if taken now.

Melkior blinks. Blinks. Blinks. Blinks.

“.....You’ll touch me unless I say no?”

“Correct.”

“........For how-....” His brow knits together. For once not in anger, but confusion. “Continuously? Or just now? Or-”

He can’t hold it back anymore. He laughs, for once not the boisterous, controlled thing he saved for meetings. He might even go so far as to call it genuine. It seems to worsen the confusion, but Enver only ruffles his hair before getting to his feet.

“We can work that out later, then. For now, I think it may be time to speak with our diabolist.”

Melkior scrambles to his feet, the new chains jingling slightly in the motion. He seems wholly taken aback. “I didn’t give my answer.”

“Later.” You did . He claps his shoulder, smiling brightly. “Duty calls”

Enver slips out the door before he can say another word. He glances back only once, when the expected footfalls don’t hit his ears.

A gift of his own. Who else in the last century can claim to see a Bhaalspawn smiling without a hint of bloodlust?

------

Some Months. Years. Decades. Eons. Time Later

The patriars are all speaking at once, their chattering so loud as to nearly drown out the whirr and clank of the Steel Watch. The metal monstrosities tower around his party, flatly beckoning him into the fray. All of it fails to overpower the sound of Melkior’s own heartbeat.

The tiefling’s feet strain against the boots Shadowheart had wrestled him into. Without his calloused heels touching the earth he feels untethered. So many people, their reek hit him like a fist to the face. Unbidden a frenzy of gore-spattered images swim past his eyes, made sharper and angrier by all his unrestful heart. The duchess, her legs discarded as bloodied stumps on either side of her. One of the country lords to his immediate left, gagging on Melkior’s staff as it punched through the back of his skull. A sizzling smell of cooking meat as he imagined the Steel Watch chassis stuffed full of lordlings to get acquainted with the infernal iron buried within.

He didn’t even bother to breathe right now, to try grounding himself. There were simply too many things to distract himself from. Easier to let it swim by. His hand twitches instinctively towards Gale’s, but can he trust himself then to leave the limb intact?

The wizard notices the motion. Gale knows enough not to touch him, but he does favor him with a kind smile nonetheless, reassurance dripping from that soft voice of his. “Not far now, my love. We won’t let you lose control.”

“Right. Or if you’ve got to, I’ve got just the dickhead in this room for you to aim it at...” Karlach grumbles just behind him. Gale looks at her disapprovingly, though the regret seems to hit her even faster. “Sorry, that’s not funny.”

“He’ll be with my father.” Wyll says. Urgent, so urgent, his eyes scanning the throng. Those eyes aren’t meant for anything but Ulder Ravengard at the moment, they can’t be spared for the fearless leader. “Likely near the front-...BLAST these crowds, can you see him?”

“We’ll find him, Wyll.” Melkior says faintly, voice so small it immediately becomes lost in the pandemonium. “And the others...” Though what he’s meant to do about it in here he couldn’t say. This hall. He’s never been in it before, he can’t have been, not with the way everyone’s eyes seem to slide right off him. But something lingers in the hall, a miasma that claws into the aching gapes in his brain.

The machine had known him. He eyes the mechanical soldier like it might echo with that voice again.

Karlach hisses. It’s joined by a flare of heat just at his back. Lucky they were on the edge of the carpet, or it might’ve started smoking. “Got him. Just at the end there.”

“With my father.” Wyll says, relief palpable in his voice. He starts forward reflexively, but hesitates, glancing back at Melkior. “.....How do you want to do this?”

Melkior sees a flicker of strain behind his eyes. The compulsion to move towards his father. Or not, that strain had been flickering ever since Last Light. Since the cler- “It’s your father, Wyll.” He says, strangling the thought in its synapse. A shaky smile forces its way on his face, like it might make them all friends again.

Wyll smiles back, like he might be able to accept it. “And the Steel Watch let you in, my friend. I’ll follow your lead.”

“ Fuck strategy, we should just rush the bastard. Letting him even speak is a bad move.” Karlach says, glaring daggers at the room at large. “Fuck, hang on, he’s on the move. Can’t see him from here.”

“He can’t have gone far” He rocks up onto the balls of his feet, craning his neck above the cross to try to find where Wyll and Karlach’s gazes point. “Is it-"

“ There you are.”

A headache splits his skull, so sharp and profound that the word ceremorphosis floats to the front of his consciousness. It's not me , rumbles the Emperor, but he’s momentarily insensate to it. His heels crash to the ground and he staggers. The cobblestone and the rich carpets swim in front of his eyes. The voice, the voice from just behind him, the whole universe in a voice.

Vaguely, he’s aware of the voice of Gale, concerned, and a yelp from Karlach. All he can do is lurch forwards, dragging a head that seems ten pounds heavier up to meet the origin of the voice.

Black and emerald leathers, set deep with gold. Are all Bhaalists such materialists ? Above them swims a face, the features refusing to resolve themselves. It's like it's being blocked. His face won’t render them into anything human, just swirls them into a sickly whorl of flesh. All that pierces through are two dark eyes, deep and shadowed and taunting.

He nearly doubles over to vomit. The eyes narrow, tilting to the side. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

The voice again, deep and smooth as spider’s web, I’d tear the voicebox out to keep it on my pillow, but I can’t, but I can’t, it won’t sound if it's not where it should be

“Melkior, can you hear me?” Gale’s touch on his shoulder, pulling him upright, and Karlach’s big arms hauling him to his feet at the waist. All feel wrong, itching, pulling.

“What the hells did you do to him?” Karlach growls. Time was he’d love to wrap himself in that protection, in the ferocity of love it signified. Now he shoved hard at her arm, scratching like a caught stray.

“While I appreciate the faith in my abilities, Karlach, I think you overestimate them a hair. When would I have had time to do a thing to him?” There’s a laugh in his voice, and it makes a mouth sprout in the skin spiral. Smiling, always smiling, dark stubble dotting the jaw. The nose follows, and dark brows. “I think he can stand for himself, now, can’t you, Melkior?”

The face is just a face. He shoves hard until Karlach drops him, lurching forward the last few steps. The last thing he feels is Gale’s hand sliding off his shoulder, the kind touch evaporating like a dream.

He stops a hair short of the dark-haired man. The Chosen, the Absolute, Gortash, Baneite, but he’s missing a name, isn’t he? Treasure locked behind that name, prizes, secrets.

Trophies.

On the last step he pulls himself up. Melkior sinks his claws deep into the fabric of his trousers, planting his feet squarely apart. There’s barely a meter between him and the stranger now, a meter that seems to draw his breath out from him entirely. This is not the Urge, not his father, and yet he fights for control all the same.

“Who....who are you?” His voice rings out impossibly loud. The crowd of nobles immediately near him look around in stunned surprise, creating a ripple of silence.

Gortash scarcely seems to notice. He tilts his head, regarding him with a detached sort of warmth. The look Gale gives to his books that used to claw at him so, the look Astarion gives a willing neck before his teeth sinks in.

The headache is worse. He won’t let himself react, even as his vision whites out-

There is a gentle warmth on his forehead, edged in something sharp and metallic. It brushes the hair on his head back, sweeping the overgrown tangles back between his horns. He blinks hard. He’s touching my head like I'm a sick child , comes the realization like thunder.

“My favorite assassin, what have they done to your eyes?”

His entire face feels hot, the stone set in his left socket itching self consciously. “What are you-”

“Don’t fucking touch him!” Karlach barks.

“No need to be like that, Karlach. He may not remember it, but...”

Enver tilts his head. He smiles. For just a second, Melkior’s head feels just fine.

“I do have permission.”

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #durgetash #enver gortash #the dark urge #dark urge spoilers #enver gortash x dark urge #dark urge x gortash #oc tag: melkior #long post #apologies to my followers on mobile #goretash

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mightymizora · 4 months

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Answering my own reading questions!

because I can! feel free to do these as asks or just fill them out I'm a nosy bitch.

How many BG3 fics did you subscribe to or bookmark on A03 in 2023?

22 bookmarks and 9 new authors subbed to! There's been so much great stuff out there.

Did you have a favourite canon character to read?

I love a good Gale fic, but actually it's default Durge, if that counts. If not, Gortash.

Do you have a favourite OC of somebody else's that you fell in love with this year?

Oof, a tough one but I've gotta say that I love @mordymord's Labrys and @popiellart's Wormwood like AIR. Both have some similar traits in a lot of ways, being lean, clever demigods, but both are also so distinct. I don't think I've read any other characters like them. There's SO many good Durges but I fell for both of these fic-first.

Which fic that you've read has been the most popular?

Probably @aliquistis' excellent Gale/Tav fic Witch Ways, which has one of my other favourite OCs. Echo is excellent, and the fic is SO well done. No wonder it has 25k hits!

Which fic has been your hidden gem that you think deserves a wider readership?

I can't choose one, so have three: I'm coming around all of your houses with print outs of Intimate Connection by @plethomacademia because it deserves a HUGE readership. I think Concentration (a moment's silence) by @smoreofbabylon (and all of 'smore's fics) are just excellent. And please, read @des-no9 the one who bleeds, it's fucking beautiful.

Was there a fic you read that was completely out of your comfort zone, but you absolutely loved?

Loook I'm not a monsterfucker but. Also! I'd say that Subjugation by @say-lene is not my usual dynamic but I ADORED it. And I loved Voyeur which again was not something I'd ordinarily reach for but I think @rowanisawriter is SUCH a talented writer, I gobble up everything.

Is there a piece of description from a fic that you particularly loved?

this from FIRE WALK WITH ME by @todderwodders

Enver suspects his parents do not fully appreciate that she is a middleman. Her eyes, wine dark as they were, and her fine, perfectly kept curls may be charming, but there is an air of servant that comes clear as she speaks in winding language that seems intent on sewing confusion. No patriar or lord would sit down to a cobbler’s dinner. No patriar or lord would deny themselves a drink, or read paperwork aloud to lay people. This wine dark woman is a warlock, and he roughly knows the vague mechanics of warlocks in the makings of a deal with someone of more importance and as a result benefiting in magic and boons. That she should be as she is makes a kind of sense, then. That interests him, draws him in, even as his mother has that glazed look she always gets when she only half cares to listen to what people say to her. She has counted and recounted coin, measuring and remeasuring where it is all meant to go on her abacus. Sometimes he suspects her mind wanders without permission if she is not kept busy. Often, she comes back to the present sharply, eager to needle endlessly over past slights or gossip, over the current conversation. He wants to explain things to her in a clearer way that she will listen to, to ask questions of this dedicated warlock where she numbly nods along.

Is there a piece of dialogue from a fic that has stayed with you?

Listen I sometimes find myself doing everyday life things and stopping and thinking about this exchange from The Dark Urge sleeps alone by @popiellart

"You remind me of my sister."

"What's a sister?" Lae'zel demands breathily, and drops her hips down, spearing herself on him without hesitation, drawing a desirous, possessive growl from his draconic muzzle.

His eyes, half-lidded with hunger, have that foggy, far-away look that vexes others, but she doesn't mind.

He is living, yawning death on the battlefield, his scales turning regal crimson whenever he's bathed in blood, and when he violently grips her and slams her down on the crumbling altar, bruising her back and cracking this font of worship to some dusty, dead god with the roaring fire of their living, he is a dragon red enough for her.

"I don't know," he admits, finally. "Something sharp, I think."

What was your overall most read type of fic in 2023? Were there tropes you particularly loved? A pairing that you adored?

Dark as shit Dark Urge fic. GOD the fandom has just taken all of the little strands given by Larian and run with them. The endless invention, expression, interpretation of the fans has been extraordinary. I love you guys. Never change. Keep weird.

What would you like to read in 2024 if you could wave a wand and get exactly what you wanted?

More Jaheira/Halsin. Just ANYTHING I am desperate for more of this.

Something with Wyll/Karlach which is very, very sexy and very queer. Top Karlach! More t4t!

More Gale/Lae'zel that reaaaally leans into her alien qualities honestly. I love this ship and might start writing it.

Filthy, filthy Ketheric stuff. FUCK THAT MAN TO DUST.

#writing tag #answering my own asks!!!

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sky-kiss · 27 days

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BG3 oc question: If Orin had kidnapped your Tav/Durge, what do you think she would say to trick the party (kinda how she does to Minthara/Lae'zel/Gale/Halsin)

It's the smell, first and foremost.

Astarion stiffens. He catches Shadowheart's wrist before she can take another step, nostrils flaring. "Blood," he growls, lips curling back to reveal whitened gums, tongue flicking out to wet chapped lips. Shadowheart nods. Blood, silence…strange and unwelcome new additions to their camp.

Her heart catches in her throat. Ahead of them, outlined by the campfire…Joi hunched over Yenna. The girl's limbs—gods, everything pale and limp, the dirt around them turned to a thick amalgamation of blood and mud. The tiefling's tail loops around the child's right ankle.

"Darling," Astarion says, speaking slowly and carefully, as one might to a cornered animal. The muscles in their leader's back and shoulders pull taut, but she doesn't react. Joi shakes her head, stroking Yenna's face. Over her eyes, cheeks, and the gentle slope of her nose—it's featherlight, bordering on maternal. "What…"

"You can't know what it's like…" Joi murmurs. "The voices—they don't stop. Father whispers to me, compels me, and I'm…" her chin drops to her chest. "Gods, so tired. I kept telling myself they'd stop if I held on, but…" she hesitates, choking on the words. "He'll never let me go."

Shadowheart feels the bottom drop out of her stomach. Joi lifts her head, green eyes swimming with pain and madness. Her conscious mind says to run to her, offer comfort to her lover…

…but there's a second voice, all instinct, that screams to run—wrong, wrong, wrong.

"Father wanted a sacrifice," Joi holds her stare, the right corner of her mouth curling up. "He took it." Something shifts in the tiefling's features, hardening, and she digs her fingers into Yenna's face. "Perhaps I should have stayed dead—it'd have been better for everyone if I'd only stayed dead."

#asks #oc: joi #sorry you get a mini fic lol #was feeling inspired #it'd be bad for yenna tho #thank you for this ask!#it was a unique one!

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avallachs · 7 months

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Hey there, I've been watching the (sort of) drama going on with the BG3 fandom blocking fiasco having to do with you guys and I wondered if there was maybe a solution? Not trying to butt in, but I want to make sure you guys have considered a possible fix to what's going on.

It seems that emeralddgraves does tag their OC posting with #oc:name at all times. Would it be possible to block this tag rather than the whole user?

I totally understand if this user has done more that warrants blocking, and if you want to keep them blocked! But if it's just not wanting to see their OC posting, they seem to use a unique tag for it pretty consistently. Then they could still be able to reblog and like you guys' gifsets like they wished, and you're not bogged down by their OC posting.

Cheers!

hi. i appreciate that you have the best intentions in sending this, but the fact of the matter is that this never needed to be drama in the first place. i was trying to avoid publicly name dropping myself, but i suppose that may have been a pointless endeavour given their own behaviour.

in theory, filtering the relevant oc tags would work. that said, i'm not particularly inclined to go through the blog of someone i had no intention of following back and sifting through their posts just to find every relevant tag. however, i do also filter/blacklist as liberally as i block, and blocking is simply more effective most of the time. it was never anything personal against them.

now, i really hope this doesn't read as hostility (especially towards you), because that's certainly not the case, but even if i had been inclined to unblock and filter instead, i would not be any longer after their, quite frankly, unfounded and horrendous accusations against myself and my friends. being accused of targeted harassment and abuse because we blocked them and moved on is absolutely appalling, and in general their attitude has been baffling. i'm sure it's disappointing for them, but they aren't entitled to anything i, rena, dani, or any of our other friends make.

again, i understand and appreciate your intent here. but this should never have been drama in the first place, and any of us reserve the right to curate our usage of this site as we see fit -- disappointing as it may be for some.

i really hope i've not come off as rude ^^;

#asks #anonymous

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omgkalyppso · 2 months

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"You can trust me. I hope you know that." your FE3H or BG3 characters of choice

I decided I'd write something I'd probably never have written otherwise! Shahid's surrender.

I'm not sure which AU it fits into. Avery is there, my shez oc. And Nader briefly.

The whole thing is 2,193 words and I'll probably put it on ao/3 later. No editing has been done.

Thank you for the ask!!!

Shahid felt the noose tightening. Khalid was the leader of this Leicester Alliance, he should not have been upon the field — what else could there be for him to prove? Unless he simply wanted to kill him personally.

In victory, Shahid imagined he would find his brother at the back of the army, or further still in the walls of some city. Why wouldn't he run away again, as he always had?

In defeat, Shahid would have expected to die at the hands of a stranger, or to be brought violently back to his brother's heel for execution.

Yet here they were, landing wyverns across from one another in a field already stained with blood, no action or subordinates to distract from their acknowledgement of one another.

“It really is you …”

“I'm here to stop you from ruining Almyra's reputation, Shahid.” Claude’s wording was careful. If he could appeal to his brother’s Almyran pride he might be able to turn the leadership of this fight elsewhere.

Shahid pulled on the reigns of his wyvern, causing the beast to rear back with a roar. “Her reputation in this land of weaklings and cowards?”

Claude sighed, disappointed that he’d stumbled on the wrong phrasing for Shahid’s current mood.

“Even now Fodlan's only glory is from the heels of Almyra's weakest link. Without you, this country will cannibalize itself within the decade,” Shahid spat, charging his mount forward, knowing that turning the wyvern would only give an archer lie his brother a larger target.

Rather than accept the clash, Claude took off, spinning thrice to avoid the thrown axe he’d known was coming.

“Almyra knows her worth!” Shahid shouted after him in chase. Whispering under the rush of wind and wings, “And mine.”

Shahid’s axes came close. A single strike to a winged shoulder would have been enough to risk a deadly fall and a lost friend, so Claude paced himself, not meaning to toy with Shahid, but timing sudden drops and careful acrobatics to his advantage. Arrows riddled Shahid’s wyvern before Shahid had managed more than a single scratch on the hide of Claude’s wyvern. Shahid’s mount’s movements had steadily become more choppy, but the final arrow sent the beast to the ground in a steady decline.

Claude wished they’d landed earlier. Shahid’s mount didn’t die gracefully, but Claude had some relief that his brother jumped down and across the wyvern’s wailing body, axe still raised in accusation.

“Give it up, Shahid!” Claude shouted, landing across the field, bow still raised. “It's over. You lost.”

Shahid’s eyes flickered to where a Fodlani soldier rushed forward, skidding to an angular stop to his brother’s side. Beyond, he could see his own fallen guard, and bared his teeth in rage.

“Let fly that arrow, then!” He taunted. “I'll never kneel to the likes of you!”

“But that isn't what I'm asking for you to do here!” Claude insisted. He threw his arms down in frustration, lowering his weapon as he thought of how Shahid would have demanded his allegiance, if not his death — and how he should be doing the same, whether because of Almyran custom, to hide his identity as planned, or for the safety of both Leicester and Almyra. He dismounted. “Let's end this, come on!”

Claude dreamed of the children they had never been, playing together, teaching one another, and reflected on how Shahid’s natural gravity and subtle intellect had inspired the methodology of his plans all the same. Even with how their environment had pit them and their siblings against one another, they were more similar than they were different, even if he would have to convince Shahid of the worth of people not from Almyra. He was his brother, and Claude wanted him at his side, even ahead of him, so long as he would listen, as long as he would try.

“You little brat …” Shahid hissed, holding his left shoulder as though his axe was heavy and he was supporting himself. “I'd sooner die!”

The knife flying in Claude’s direction wasn’t a surprise, but it also wasn’t an attack he should have been weathering, with dreams of reconciliation.

Avery was in front of him in the blink of an eye, easily parrying the thrown blade with the strange, summoned sword that acted as an extension of his arm.

Claude sighed hopelessly, and then donned a different mask as he addressed his classmate, “Thanks for that.”

With his dual blades still at the ready, and without looking away from Shahid, who took three more heavy steps forward, Avery squared his posture, tightened his jaw and tossed his head slightly to adjust his bangs.

“Look, Claude …” Avery said, low. “If you can't do it, then I can.”

Shahid heard him anyway and chuckled darkly as he swung his axe up to hold the weapon in both hands. “Yes, Claude,” he mocked, “loose a mongrel on a prince of Almyra. Even that would be more dignified than to be ended by the hand of an impertinent, soulless—”

“Prince Shahid—” Nader shouted, as if to interrupt him — royalty, while he had the impertinence to land his wyvern at his brother’s side.

Shahid would have none of that, and took off towards him in a run. “How dare you speak to me! You fucking turncoat.”

He expected his brother’s guard dog to cut him off and ignored the roar and shout as he readied to swing up towards the defensive maw of the wyvern on which Nader sat, catching an arrow in the upper arm at the last moment. His weapon faltered, and he should have died, but Nader pulled hard to turn his well-tamed beast aside and into flight again, leaving Shahid on the ground, injured and shamed.

“Why?!” he called up after Almyra’s supposedly staunchest general. “Why did you come with me at all? Why did I trust you?! How could you trust him?!”

It hurt. His pride, his arm, his heart. Yet when the soldier rushed his side, Shahid was able to spin his axe in a wide arc and send them crashing aside.

He expected that might earn him a moment to breathe, to rethink his retreat, but then Claude tackled him and Shahid lost his grip on his weapon as he met the earth unceremoniously.

They’d never fought before, not really. Claude had been a babe, a child, and Shahid had injured, annoyed and abused him if Claude had had the misfortune of being left without a sympathetic authority in his presence. Perhaps that had led Shahid to believe he’d never fought before at all, or to see him still as that helpless child.

Claude clamped a hand around Shahid’s throat, allowing his brother enough momentum to try to sit up from his place prone on the ground before shoving him back down, choking him briefly and cracking the back of his head against the ground. Shahid reached up to claw at his face with one hand, punching back against his brother’s left shoulder with his left hand. Shahid’s wild eyes shook and his vision swam, but he could make out the glittering pieces in Claude’s outfit at this inescapable proximity and despite how Claude decked him in the temple, he was able to steal one of his brother’s many knives with his left hand as his right clung to Claude’s chest, Shahid’s brain rattling in his skull.

Shahid drove that knife into his brother’s thigh and did not release the hilt through the resulting scream, nor as he used Claude’s shock to force them to roll aside.

Shahid longed to berate his brother, to banter and rage and tell him exactly why and how he would never take Almyra, but all he could do was grunt as he pulled out the blade and struggle with his right arm, still plucked by his brother’s arrow, to try to drive it down into the side of Claude’s head. Claude only had to raise his arm to redirect the blow into the earth, where Shahid left the knife and reached forward to grab his brother’s hair and knock him into the ground as Claude had done to him moments ago.

They tussled, all hands, and teeth, and hidden knives, and the rush of wind and dirt as Nader’s wyvern landed somewhere nearby, and Shahid knew he was going to die here.

Claude’s injured leg kneeled down on Shahid’s arm, the retrieved knife held down by Claude’s left fist, deep in his shoulder. Claude’s right forearm extended across Shahid’s chest, Shahid’s right arm twisted on the ground, the arrow now broken and its tip lost somewhere inside the wound. They both gasped for air, the same air, Claude wished he could shout, blood stinging down the side of his forehead getting caught in his brow.

“Shahid,” Claude asked again. “Don't make me do this.”

Shahid hissed through a false smile of teeth again, until Claude pressed the blade harder.

“Don't you want to see home again?” Claude asked desperately, close to crying as he watched Shahid’s eyes squint closed in pain. “The southern beaches, the western desert…”

Shahid’s eyes opened slowly, staring blindly at the blue and white sky above.

“Don't you want to see the sun tomorrow?” Claude bargained. They both winced, shoulders shrinking in shame and humiliation as Nader corralling a crowd could be heard at a distance.

“Shahid,” Claude begged. “Please.” He pulled the knife free, letting the tip press into Shahid’s cheek, not piercing the skin. “Keep your eyes. Keep your tongue.”

Shahid let his gaze drift to Claude again, the fight draining out of him as he thought of home, tears swelling with the realization of all he’d lost, and all he had yet to lose by agreeing.

“I mean to treat you with dignity and respect,” Claude promised, “and that means I won't seek to humiliate you if you just stop … But this respect also means I'll kill you if I have to, brother.”

Shahid smiled again, not at ease, but less malicious than before — more impressed.

“We don’t need to be enemies. But even as enemies,” Claude said, sliding the blade down to press up into the soft flesh under the corner of Shahid’s jaw, “you can trust me. I hope you know that.”

Shahid scoffed and felt the knife draw blood. He swallowed just to feel that he could, and endeavoured to memorize Khalid’s face in this moment: No joy in his victory.

“Get. Off. Me,” he declared, low and regal. He fully expected Claude to refuse, to press a promise of reconciliation, alliance, vassalage, or exile, but on his shaky leg, Claude slowly lifted himself up and stepped away. Shahid lay in the dirt barely a moment longer, reaching up to touch first his neck and then his forehead, bare, now that his circlet had rolled away on the ground during their fight.

Shahid looked over to the purple haired soldier that held their broken ribs in a crooked stance where they stood by the rubble he’d tossed them into, and then turned his attention back to Claude as he sat up with a grunt and a hand on his chest.

“Shahid—” Claude began again, silenced by a raised royal palm raised not so high as usual for the pain and exhaustion Shahid was subject to.

Shahid stretched his neck back, and closed and stretched his hands before making strides to pull himself to his feet, one knee, split open, nearly giving out on him, bleeding copiously through his armor.

“You,” he demanded of the purple haired soldier. “Ask for my surrender.”

Avery answered before looking to Claude in confusion. “What?”

“Please,” Claude said, an open hand facing the ground extended towards Avery to ensure he stayed his weapons. “Do as he says.”

Keeping in-line with the standard set by the nobles in his presence, Avery forced himself to stand though he kept his arm around himself, still feeling the weight of the Almyran prince’s blow.

“In the name of the Leicester Alliance, I demand you … call off your forces. And, uh, submit … to a total surrender.”

Claude’s wince and Shahid’s lowered brow reinforced how Avery had not done that correctly.

“Do I have any forces left?” Shahid asked Claude.

“We’ll take care of it,” Claude answered cryptically.

After a roll of his eyes, Shahid addressed the soldier again, “You will have to bind me.”

“There's no need for—” Claude began to object.

“Shut up,” Shahid said ineloquently. “I need no more than my hands to best you.”

Claude had to hold himself back from pointing out all the evidence to the contrary, and could see how his irritation earned another biting smile from Shahid.

“I will need to be bound,” Shahid told the soldier despite the bile in his throat.

“Yeah,” Avery agreed, sparing a glance at Claude. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Take him straight to the keep. And find him a subtle healer,” Claude ordered Avery. “He’s not a spectacle.” Shahid laughed openly. Claude hid his eyes in his hands and rubbed feeling back into his face, and then swept back his hair. “I have stuff to finish up here.”

#long post #fire emblem #three hopes #claude von riegan #khalid von riegan #shahid few3h #my writing #i made this #the fanfiction i mean

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