basket-of-cats-and-witches

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

They say that death by drowning is painful. That it is the worst way to go.

You can't help but think of how much they understated it.

It is a struggle to survive. A violent, ship-killing storm has already devoured your vessel, claiming it to the watery depths.

Saltwater stings your eyes, and you gasp, choking on the waves that slam into you. You can feel blood vessels popping in your eyes. Your ears crackle, and there's a tingling in your skin as you struggle for your last breaths.

It is a fight you cannot win.

Yet still, you do not submit.

It goes on for far too long, this endless cycle. You cough and gasp and spit up just enough to make it for just a little bit longer before sinking below the waves.

Just as you're about to give up, time and time again, you gain a burst of energy and force yourself upwards.

"Give up". The voice is soft. It booms in your bones like thunder that is far too close. "Please. You only prolong your suffering."

You fight it. Not yet. You're not ready.

In the moments that death caresses you, live blooms violent and desperate, flooding your mind and body with ferocity.

"Please. If I don't take you, they will. And it will not be so kind."

The voice is whalesong. It is the crash of waves on a crisp winter night, the whisper of sand pulling away from the shore.

It is a thousand things humans were never meant to hear, sounds meant only for the deep of the ocean, for the jellyfish and deep ocean creatures to feel in their flesh.

You can see something coming. For a second your heart, still pounding, leaps into your throat. You are terrified. You are overjoyed.

That hope dies like a flame in the rain.

What cuts through the waves is enormous. It searches for you, humanoid only in the vaguest of terms.

"Please," the voice whispers urgently. "You must give up. They will fight over you until the end of time."

Behind you, lightning cracks, and the light that flashes afterwards slams into the monolithic form ahead. Something inhuman screams, and you feel your eardrums pop and burst.

The heat of blood trickling out of your ears is almost relieving in the sharply cold water.

Beneath the water, something glows. It is a soft algae green, strangely welcoming amidst the storm.

You don't want to die.

You don't want to face those strange monsters.

You hesitate. If you go with this strange voice, how can you be assured of your survival?

There is a soft laugh. It is salt on your skin after a hot day at sea. It is gentle winds that fill sails, and the sound of water breaking as dolphins play.

"It is too late for that, sweet one. It is a fight for your soul, now. Your body is deep below."

You remember the warning bell ringing. Men sprinting to positions.

Winds that tore at your clothes and waves that surged higher than any man should see.

You remember the ship lurching, your foot catching in the rigging as it capsized.

You look down, and suddenly you know.

You swallow hard. A third creature has joined the fight, with bright feathers that drink in the lightning of the storm.

You wonder if you'll see your loved ones on the other side.

"You will never see your family again," the voice whispers. It is the muffled weeping of sailors, lonely at sea. The gentle, idle songs mumbled late at night. It is a durge sung as boats are pushed into the water and set ablaze. "You will never see them, but you will not be alone. You are with us, now. You are one of many."

You sink your head beneath the waves, and breathe in. You look down as your lungs fill.

A hand reaches upwards, made of a thousand skeletons. Strangely, it feels kind.

Not all of the bones are human, but for you, it is a fully humanoid hand, and it takes yours as you reach out.

What of my gods, you think. What will they do? When will they come for me? But the answer comes without a response. Those things above are the gods. And this...

This hand must be a god too.

"We are one and many," the voice replies. "We were you. You will be us. Here in the deep, we are together."

Yes, you think quietly. Together forever. Until the end of time.

When someone dies, the afterlife they go to is determined by WHERE they died. Dying in Scandinavia sends the soul to Valhalla or Hel, but dying in Greece lands them in Hades, and so on. You have just died in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

#my writing #writing prompt sparked 1am brainrot #death is a heavily discussed topic in this one #drowning mentions too

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Eternity

We were not meant to be partnered in this life.

I stand here with your blood dripping from my blade, watching the light fade from your eyes.

You reach for me.

Of course you do.

It is not Karlach you look at in your final moments, for all she wishes she had been the one to take your life.

If it were anyone else, I would have let her.

I wish you were anyone else.

You smile at me, and you think it is your last moment.

“I'm glad it was you,” you whisper, and slip away.

It is not the end.

Although there are other battles we will partake in, other paths to walk upon, mine shines clear before me.

We were not meant to be together. Not in this life.

The next, however, is unknown.

Bane cannot have you. I know what he wishes. You were sworn to him first, but you are mine.

I will chase you into the endless beyond, and make your soul eternal.

Gale has set the path, all I need do is follow.

He shall take the crown.

I shall take my father's head.

I will wrest you from Bane, and find you again, and again, and again.

We were not meant to be with each other in this time.

But I shall love you the same.

As a Grand Duke.

As a farmer boy.

As a baker.

As a mercenary.

As a teacher.

No matter the form, the gender, it was you who tangled your life so effortlessly with mine, and in doing so, became the stardust that spirals throughout my universe.

We were meant to be together.

Before there were Three, there were two.

And so we shall be again.

#durgetash #YES this is durgetash #this is exactly the sort of obsessive toxic soulmate behavior I expect from those two #also the idea that Durge would become a god just to keep Gortash #bg3 #my writing #enver gortash

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Sorrow Over Loyalty

Most likely this piece isn't for everyone. I have two Durges, and I wanted to write about how they met. It's my belief that the longer-lived a Bhaalspawn is, the more they learn to resist the Urge, or willingly give in.

Aelune uses they/them pronouns, whereas Lament uses he/him.

Content warning: gore, discussion of child death, trauma to do with those lines. There's a brief allusion to animal death, but I keep it VERY. BRIEF.

And now, to begin.

-

There was a farmhouse on the outskirts of Neverwinter.

It was idyllic and ordinary.

Beautiful in the way simple things are, like the gold wheat that rippled in waves with the wind, bright against the sharp red and white of the old barn, paint slowly peeling away.

In the distance, the cows lowed, their voices plaintive and irritated.

Chickens strutted across the old dirt road, puffing their chests out and being as prideful as brainless birds could be.

Beneath the cornflower blue sky, nary a cloud to be seen, the chickens scattered, wary of an approaching stranger.

The bloodlust had called them here.

The sunlight bore down on their dark skin, making them wince. It was harsh on a body that had nearly forgotten the Underdark, sharply stabbing into their eyes.

Beneath their skin, their blood pounded, roaring in their ears like a battlecry.

Somewhere nearby was someone like them. A sacrifice needed to be made.

Aelune unsheathed their blades and walked further down the path, hidden from the main road by emerald crops.

The farmhouse was strangely quiet.

Aelune hadn't spent much time around places like this, but even they knew that the curtains shouldn't have been drawn, the chickens left unattended. There should have been dogs to bark and snarl and snap at their feet, alerting a master to their presence.

The stairs gave way with a loud creak.

Aelune stilled. There was no response.

Something was wrong, and beneath the violent bloodlust, their instincts screamed for them to back away.

They opened the front door and stepped inside.

The house was dark.

Something wet slicked beneath their feet, a bitter iron tang filling their nose and coating their tongue. They tried to step carefully, wincing every time something crunched and squelched.

The bloodlust pushed them further. Their prey was deeper inside, obscured by shadow.

Their ears pricked up, swiveling slightly as a muffled sob caught their attention.

There.

They stepped through to mercifully cleaner floors, into a bedroom.

A brightly quilted comforter draped across a bed covered in stuffed animals, from owlbears to dragons. Toys were tucked neatly into an old toybox, with peeling paint in a soft pink, clearly passed down from generation to generation.

Aelune noted these, and ignored them. Passing by lacy curtains and poorly done paintings of flowers, to the far corner of the room, obscured by the big bed.

There, they crouched down, blades in hand.

Big, crimson eyes stared up at them, watery with tears. The child wrapped himself around a stuffed rabbit, fur worn bare with love, nearly as big as he was.

He barely even had horn nubs, and although Aelune's experience with Tieflings was mostly post-mortem, they guessed him to be around ten at the latest.

“Are you here to kill me?” The child said.

Aelune frowned. The bloodlust began to reside, common sense rising to the surface. The boy was much too young to be aware of his own mortality.

And yet. He was Bhaalspawn, same as Aelune.

They tilted their head. “Do you want to be killed?”

The boy's eyes watered more, and fat tears rolled down his cheeks. “I killed them,” he whispered. His hands, a ruddy red, were flaked with dried blood. Streaks of it lingered in what was left of the bunny's cream fur.

“I know,” Aelune replied evenly. “We all do. People like you and me.”

The boy trembled, gripping the bunny tighter. “Discipline, Haven, Daddy…. they're all dead. I couldn't stop it. I was just so mad.” He looked up. “I've been bad. Really bad.”

“Do you want to die, then?” Aelune watched as the boy shuddered and shook his head.

“No”, he whispered. “The voice says it'll be empty and cold. That I'll be alone. That I'll be punished for being a c-c-coward.” Snot oozed out of his nose, but he didn't go to wipe it.

Aelune thought of their sisters, of a marble house in the deep Underdark, of a vicious mother and a trophy husband father.

How good it had felt.

How awful it was to remember the way their sisters had held their hands every day, relying on them to feel safe.

They set their swords down, and reached into their coat, pulling out a handkerchief.

“Blow,” they said firmly, pressing the cloth against the boy's nose.

He did so immediately.

“What's your name?” They asked, tossing the handkerchief towards an old laundry basket, pulling out a new one and wiping the boy's cheeks.

“L-Loyalty,” he said hoarsely.

Aelune frowned. That wouldn't do any longer. “From now on, you're Lament. You're mine. If you want to live, you'll do as you're told. If you don't, well…” they sighed. “I'll make it quick.”

Lament nodded. “What does that mean? La…la…”

“Lament,” Aelune finished. “It means regret. To be sad and wish you hadn't done something. To lament is to cry out about your past sins. It will serve as a reminder. You killed them. You will carry their memories. You will learn to control it.” They stood, picking up their blades and sheathing them before holding out their hand. “Come. Let's pack your things and we'll go.”

Lament grabbed their hand, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Can mister Scleritas come?” He gestured to the bunny, half-dragged across the floor.

Aelune's mouth twitched. “Only if he behaves,” they warned.

For just a moment, the stuffed bunny’s eyes glowed, and Aelune felt the weight of their threat received.

Not even an hour later, the boy and his stuffed bunny were carried out of the old farmhouse, into the quiet morning sun.

Here, the farmhouse would remain, idyllic as ever, its sins hidden in the shadows inside.

#aelune for oc tagging #lament for oc tagging #bg3 #dark urge #durge #my writing

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Comfort, Part 4: Halsin

This one's a bit heavy, a bit melancholy, a little bittersweet. I actually write these when I'm having a bad day, you know, to comfort myself.

I hope they do the same for you.

If you like my works, please reblog them. It helps spread them to other people who might like something soft to read as well.

(and if you haven't read the others, Wyll, Gale, and Astarion are all up already.)

----

He finds you hiding in the washtub.

He prefers to be under the stars, usually, but tending to the needs of orphaned children sometimes requires you two to stay in a nearby inn.

Today has been disheartening.

He doesn't say anything, at first.

You're naked, your face pressed against your drawn up knees, and at some point you stopped caring that the water was getting cold.

Your tears practically scald your cheeks, regardless.

He kneels beside the basin, and any other time you'd laugh and tease him about the way his knees crack loudly.

Another quiet sob wracks your form. You have to keep it in, lest the sound of your distress break you fully.

You are barely keeping it together.

His fingers graze the surface of the water, and it begins to steam.

“May I touch you?” He asks gently, and somehow you find the strength to nod.

His palm is hot against your shoulder. “Lean back, and I'll wash your hair. Please.”

You nod again.

Dipping his hands into the water, he wets them before lathering up the soap. His fingers drag comfortingly through your hair. Pulling just enough to anchor you.

His fingers catch on a tangle, and you wince. The apology on his lips is unneeded. The feeling strangely anchors you.

As he gently undoes the tangle, so are you.

The twisting knots in your chest loosen, and you can breathe once more.

The tears fall faster despite it.

Halsin presses a kiss to your shoulder, breathes in, and begins to speak.

“I know today was…difficult. Nature presents us with many challenges, and this was…” he sighs, a deep sound that wooshes out of his lungs and chills your damp shoulder. “This was an especially hard one.”

You laugh, but it is a hollow sound. “There were so many,” you whisper. Halsin presses his fingers against your scalp, massaging it, and you close your eyes against the feeling. “I don't know how we can help them all. I feel like I've failed them.”

His hands dip back into the water, and it is blissfully hot against your skin.

They return to your hair.

“You haven't. We are working against time, the most fierce and stubborn creature of them all. The ones you've helped will have hot food tonight, dry clothing, and warm blankets. It will give them hope for tomorrow.”

“And the ones I couldn't? When we ran out of supplies, when there was no more?”

He finishes lathering your hair, gathering his words. Even now your bond remains close, and all he has to do is tap your shoulder for you to lean forward, a bucket of hot water sluicing over you.

It is a welcome relief. The dirt and grime of the day washes away, and the loud sound of water drowns out your heavy thoughts.

He refills the bucket.

“We must simply hope that someone has the same kindness that we try to give. Nature is a cruel mistress. She takes and takes, and the snap of winter’s kiss takes many victims.

It is up to us to do as much as we can, to encourage others to do the same.”

“I don't know if I have that faith that you do.”

The water spills over you again, just hot enough to make you sigh, as it strips you to your skin, to your bones, to your core.

It stings, and it is a welcome relief.

Halsin slicks the hair back out of your face, his touch tender.

“Tell me. Why did you choose to come with me?”

He picks up the sponge and lathers it meticulously.

“I needed to feel as if everything we'd done was worth it. That I was worth it. All the accolades we received, and the rejoicing…and all I could think about was the blood on my hands. The families who were left behind. We won, but at what cost? I needed…I needed…”

“Hope?” He supplies.

You nod. Your hands are slightly reddened from the heat of the water. “Hope.”

He runs the sponge across your shoulders, along the back of your neck.

“I cannot give you what you seek,” he sighs. “Such instant gratification is not easily found in this journey. However, I encourage you to take heart. Every week we receive letters from our friends, telling us of how they are doing, how alive they are. You could not get away from the flowers raining down in the streets fast enough, when people were celebrating.

This work is not for the faint of heart. But take comfort in those you have already helped. The rest will come in time.”

He kisses your cheek, smiling as you do. “And until then, I will be by your side, as you are by mine. Nature has brought you to me, and bears are protective, guarded creatures by nature. I would not give you up so easily. So I encourage you to do the same for them.”

He rinses your skin, and you smile softly. The pain and trouble still lingers, of course. Such worries are not easily set aside.

For now, however, this is enough.

You take comfort in what you can.

“Halsin?”

“Hm?”

“Join me?”

He smiles, and his eyes darken slightly into an inviting honey-gold.

“Of course, my heart.”

#my writing #bg3 #halsin #bg3 spoilers #just a little but it's post endgame stuff #halsin x reader #halsin x tav #I hope y'all have a lovely day/night

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Comfort Part 3: Astarion

If you haven't read part 1 and 2, you don't have to to read this one. This is part of a group of indulgent fics for wholesome hurt/comfort moments that I think other people could use as much as I did. 1 and 2 feature Wyll and Gale respectively, if you're interested.

This one is set around act 2, but doesn't include spoilers, really. It's right before Astarion's second scene, abouts.

Anyway, enjoy, and if you like this fic, please give it a reblog so other people can see and read it as well💖

---

You can't seem to stay asleep.

You toss and turn, but nothing seems to be comfortable enough.

Maybe there's a rock underneath the tent floor, or a bit too much lumpy ground, or maybe your pillow isn't in the right position.

Either way, sleep evades your grasp, like a teasing lover just out of reach.

Eventually, you give up. Your mind swirls with thoughts, tomorrow's problems crowding in and shouting in your ears.

They're impossible to ignore.

There is, however, someone who can distract you.

Finding Astarion is surprisingly easy. You catch him right as he's about to enter his tent, his cheeks almost flushed with the recent satiation of his hunger.

He smirks as you approach, his body loose and languid. “If you were going to offer a nibble, darling, I'm afraid I've already had my dinner. Slim pickings, but I've made do.” That expression fades as you get closer. “You seem troubled, lover.”

He pretends not to care, for the most part. Here in the privacy afforded to you two by the night, however, the worry snakes its way through his artful mask, and in return, it eases you slightly.

You sigh and smile at him. “Any chance you'd be willing to help me forget them?”

Something flickers across his expression. He's been doing it for a while now, the further you get into the shadowlands.

He'll tell you when he's ready, you know. Pushing Astarion tends to make him snap and withdraw.

Instead, you wait, and he rewards you by opening his tent flap. “Well, since you insist,” he sighs. He gestures for you to go inside.

And for a while, you're distracted. Despite his noting his lack of hunger, he still sinks his teeth in, and the pain mixed with pleasure clouds your mind.

It is almost enough.

More and more, lately, he stays afterward. Especially considering this is his tent, but he doesn't encourage you to leave.

Instead, he studies that creepy tome of his as you catch your breath by his side.

It's quiet in the night, the only sound is his turning of the page.

Eventually, however, he huffs and puts it aside.

“Alright, enough of this. Speak to me. What is plaguing you so? Usually you're asleep by now. Not that your company is entirely unsavory, but you should…talk about it.” He pushes the words out, and you look up at him in surprise. He's bare, pale skin out on display, but he looks at you intently. He doesn't waver.

“I…” You close your eyes, if only to find some reprieve from his gaze. It's hard for you to focus under the full weight of his attention.

“I can't sleep. I can't stop thinking about what's ahead. Our tadpoles. The next step. Everything feels like it's an uphill battle from here.”

He's quiet, and you open your eyes to look up at him.

Astarion is no longer looking at you, but out into the distance, deep in thought.

“Neither can I,” he admits softly. “I don't think any of us can, darling. We're all running from our own demons, some of us more literally than others. I mean, have you seen Wyll? That woman won't leave him alone!”

He smirks a little as you snort, a smile reluctantly tugging onto your face.

“There you are,” he murmurs. He leans in towards you, hesitating for just a second before cupping your face. “If I must be the voice of reason, remember this. You-” he chokes for a second, his words stuttering, before he forces himself to continue. “You are not alone. You're not.” The words seem to be as much for him as they are for you. “Everything is bad right now, and we could turn into mind flayers at any second. Or, heavens forbid, Cazador could show up at our doorstep and wipe us all out in an instant. But right now, here, you are not alone. Gale would probably have something more eloquent and long-winded to say, probably nattering on about Mystra and the Weave for an hour or two, but fortunately, darling, you've got me.

So.”

He moves his hand to your chin, tilting it up so you're forced to meet his crimson gaze.

“Remember that. Tomorrow will most likely be hard, and who knows what will happen. But tonight, you get the privilege of sleeping in my tent, and I'll watch over you. So rest for a bit, and remember that tonight, you are safe and in good company. Alright?”

You nod, and his expression softens minutely.

He leans down, and steals a kiss.

It surprises you, in its mundane nature. It's clear he doesn't expect any reciprocation, and even seems a little startled himself.

It is the first kiss he's offered without reason, and in that moment, you realize that something has shifted between you two.

There's a relaxed intimacy that wasn't there before.

He huffs and looks away. “Anyway, go to sleep. We've got another long day of walking about in the mud, and you still need rest, so you should do so.”

You smile as you settle down to sleep, curled up against his side.

As your eyes close, a cool hand gently begins to stroke your hair.

#Astarion #astarion x reader #my writing #bg3 #hurt/comfort #just some wholesome “people learning that they care about each other” times

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Comfort Part 2: Gale of Waterdeep

A continuation of "I don't feel well so I want fluff and hurt/comfort". If you haven't read the first part with Wyll, you don't have to, but I highly recommend some more wholesomeness for you.

Enjoy!

(if you like it, reblogs are appreciated!)

---

It's been a long day.

One of those days where nothing could go right, as if the universe itself were fighting against you.

Exhausted and upset, you open the front door, golden light spilling out around you.

Tara is the first to greet you.

She chirps her welcome, jumping down gracefully from her perch and winding around your legs. For all she is a Tressym, she is still a feline, after all, intent on giving you enough love to trip you over.

It's a soft balm to your soul.

Hanging up your things, you can't help but smile as you hear the clattering of pans. For all that Gale is a prodigy of magic and an accomplished wizard, cooking is one of the few things he doesn't without too much accompaniment.

One of his simulacrums greets you as you step into the foyer.

“Greetings, love. If you're hearing this message, I'm in the process of making us both a delectable feast. There is a surprise upstairs for you to put on before dinner.”

You can't help but wince.

It was date night, wasn't it.

Your feet throb in your shoes, and getting dressed up sounds like the worst thing you could possibly imagine. Your entire way home your body had ached, and all you'd dreamed of was a comfortable night in.

You sigh. “Tara, could you ask Gale if we could do something a little more…cozy? It's been a long day.”

She mrts in response, ignoring the simulacrum entirely as she slips into the kitchen.

You head upstairs to wash up.

Hanging on your closet door is a beautiful outfit, graceful and made to fit only you. You'd grown used to little gifts like this, as Gale loved to spoil you rotten.

Your fingers grace the fabric, and you sigh.

Another night, perhaps.

Instead, you change into something comfortable and loose, and head back downstairs.

No wooden landing greets your tired feet, however.

Looking around, your eyes widen. Stars form a rich blanket across the night sky, the smell of loamy earth and moss filling the air. In the distance, there are trees, and you are brought back to a different time.

This time, instead of a despondent and solemn Gale, your husband smiles up at you lovingly from a picnic blanket.

“Tara told me you might be in need of some comfort.” He pats the spot next to him, stealing a kiss after you sit down.

“Gale, this is…”

“Only a fraction of what you deserve? I agree. Which is why I also brought some books we've been meaning to read together, and whipped up a little something extra for dessert. I hope you like strawberries. If not, I can turn them into something else.”

You laugh fondly, shaking your head. “It's perfect, Gale. Thank you.”

“Anything for you, my love.” As he serves you both dinner, Tara curls up between you two, her soft warmth comforting against your thigh.

You couldn't have imagined a better ending to an awful day.

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #my writing #bg3 #bg3 x reader #also set ambiguously in the future except you're married

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Comfort

It's been a bad day, so we're doing some hurt/comfort bg3 x reader.

I needed some catharsis, and hopefully it'll be just as good for those who need it.

Starting with the sweetest boy, Wyll Ravengard.

(if you like it, reblogs are appreciated!)

---

He's quiet when he comes in.

You've been off all day, drowning in a sea of thoughts, unable to shake your mood.

Sometimes, the demons win.

You can hear his footsteps on the floor, followed by the clink of fine china, but you don't look up.

You can't.

Guilt and shame ride on your shoulders, consuming you whole.

You are unworthy. You are nothing.

You do not deserve him.

Yet still, he sets the tray down on the nightstand.

He finds a soft blanket, and drapes it around your shoulders.

There is an aching tenderness in the way his hands slide over yours, drawing your attention out of your mind. His calloused hands scrape against your skin welcomingly, and you cannot help but raise your head, like a sunflower turning to the sun.

Wyll smiles softly at you.

“There you are,” he says, gentle in a way that already makes your eyes sting. “I brought you your favorites. I know you haven't eaten much today.”

You shake your head. You're not ready to talk.

You don't deserve this.

“It'll be there when you're ready, love. I won’t keep you. I don't want to intrude.”

His hands slip away, and you panic, reaching out and grabbing him before he's too far.

He sees the look in your eyes. The desperation.

Don't leave me.

The corner of his mouth turns down in worry, but he smiles nonetheless, eyes crinkling as he sinks down on your shared bed.

“Alright. I'll stay. Would you like quiet?”

You shake your head.

Toeing off his shoes, he moves further up, laying down on the bedspread.

He lifts his arm invitingly, and you settle at his side, tucking your head under his chin.

He holds you close. Tightly, as if to anchor you to him.

Your eyes sting, watery, as emotion chokes you.

He rubs your back soothingly, and begins to tell you about one of his adventures.

You weep quietly as he speaks. You cry until the tears run out, until you're so exhausted you slip into slumber.

When you wake, he is still there. Still holding you tightly.

You have survived the night.

And Wyll, as always, has stayed by your side.

#wyll ravengard #bg3 #bg3 x reader #my writing #this is set post game but there's not spoilers it's just left ambiguous

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Time for new angst hello

Ex durgetash now durgestarion time

Or, as I like to jokingly call the pairing between Astarion and my Durge, BloodMoon.

I waffle back and forth on two different paths. One where Durge has a complicated rocky relationship with Gortash (as is their messy, toxic right), or redemption with Astarion.

There's also the ascended vers, of course, but that's something I'm going to explore once I get to that ending in my evil Durge playthrough :3

Anyway. Have a waltz.

(if you like it, reblogs are appreciated!)

-

"Would you believe I've never done this before?" Astarion's voice was airy, playful, as if he had not a care in the world.

Years of experience reading people had taught Aelune differently. The slight tremor in Astarion's hand, his artful smile a little too sharp, and they clocked the anxiety instantly.

They smiled. "Impossible, of course. You move with such a fluid grace, you must have danced with the nobility at least once or twice." They nodded to Lestor, their bard.

The violin started up, and they bowed. Extending their hand.

"Lord Astarion," they murmured. "May I have the pleasure of this dance?"

A moment of hesitation was marked in the pause before he answered, his eyes softening as he settled his hand in theirs.

"You may, darling."

Thus, they began.

Astarion had shown much improvement in the weeks past. Since Cazador's death, he had blossomed, leaving the shadow of his former life behind at last.

It was funny. For a creature of the night, he glowed like the dawn.

Still, it seemed he still didn't know how to react to the way Aelune treated him. He was precious to them, cherished and adored behind all measure.

They would have hung the moon for him, if he asked, or torn the world asunder.

To be given such love after so much abuse...well.

Aelune knew better than anyone what that was like. Jarring, and sometimes overwhelming.

They tried to pace themselves.

"Follow my lead, you're doing wonderfully," they murmured. Together the pair moved across the floor, almost seamless in their grace. Astarion was clearly a quick learner.

He shot them a sharp look. "Don't coddle me."

"If it's being taken as coddling, I apologize. I meant only to encourage." They smiled as he rolled his eyes.

"You're impossible. How on earth do you know how to do this, anyway? Last I checked you weren't some Mezobarrazan noble."

"And even if I was," they reminded him, "I wouldn't have been called upon to dance very often. Men are merely ornaments there, even one born female." They kept pace with him, politely ignoring it when he stepped on their toes. He learned fast, but not that fast.

"That doesn't answer my question, darling. Unless you're being coy on purpose."

"Surprisingly smooth, for an assassin," Enver said, the delicate filigree of his jewelry warming up against Aelune's hand. "One would think you were raised to this."

They chuckled halfheartedly, glancing away. The overlay of memories sometimes caught them off-guard.

"I was a singer in a pleasure house, Enver. Of course I learned how to dance. It may not have been anything as sophisticated as this, but it was certainly more complex. Unless you'd like to learn how to dance with scarves."

His husky laughter warmed their ears, settling their bloodlust and hunger in a way it hadn't been for a century or two. "I'll pass, if you don't mind."

Astarion stumbled slightly, and they kept him up, smiling as he huffed. "Coordinating this is tiresome. I can't believe I agreed to this."

"Because for some reason, you like Wyll, and thus accepted his invitation to his celebration as the new Duke of Ravengard," they reminded him.

He waved them off. "Oh, yes, that. Merely a trifle. I don't know why he seemed so touched when I agreed. Of course I would love to attend such a lavish event, if only to watch people bask in my presence." His hand trembled again.

Aelune snagged his hand once more. "And I'll be there the whole time to fend off your waves of admirers. Maybe even steal you away to a secluded nook or two."

Astarion couldn't hide the flicker of relief. Aelune knew he still had trouble in crowds, in settings that reminded him of Cazador.

"If only we'd met sooner," Astarion sighed. "You could have stolen me away from so many tedious events."

Aelune pictured it. Attending one of Cazador's events, probably for Gortash's networking, on his arm like a dangerous jewel.

Seeing a beautiful man across the room who laughed too loud, too bright.

Who reeked of fear.

They wondered what it would have been like. Probably not good for any of them.

With Enver's help, they would have made him worse. As power hungry as the pair.

They wondered if Astarion would have replaced Ketheric.

The dead three. Bhaal, Bane, and Myrkul.

Aelune, Enver, and Astarion.

Their grip tightened slightly on Astarion's.

"If only," they murmured, and ignored the dark desire that thrummed in their veins.

#my writing #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #durgestarion #durgetash #well previous durgetash but you know #aelune for oc tagging #lestor for oc tagging! #astarion #enver gortash #more of a thinky piece but I still like it

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Toxic era hallmark durgetash

I can't write full fics right now so I'm in hell and y'all have to suffer with me with snippets.

Anyway hallmark durgetash, durge fled and had to fake their own death after their sister nearly killed them. (That's more Lifetime but stay with me.)

Durge finds out they're pregnant during all this.

Fast forward several years, where Durge settles into a small town, running a small ranch, when a familiar name comes into town. A name carrying a lot of money, meeting with the richest folk in town....

(just snippets of thoughts, feat. my durge, Aelune and if you like it, reblogs are appreciated!)

---

"Wait!" Gortash's hand whipped out, capturing Aelune's wrist. "I just want a word."

"That's five right there," Aelune bit out. They yanked away, rubbing the skin tenderly. "You abandoned me, Enver. My own sister was going to kill me, and you did nothing. You had your chance. I shouldn't have had to change everything about who I was just to keep safe."

Gortash took in the sight before him. Eyes filled with old, tired anger, hair whipping in the wind, the golden hour illuminating their form and making them seem heavenly.

Nothing had changed. They were still as beautiful as the day he'd last seen them.

Everything had changed. They wanted nothing to do with him.

"I didn't know," he said softly, holding out his hand beseechingly. "Please. I thought you were dead. I thought I had lost you."

Aelune laughed bitterly. "You did, Enver. For a powerful man who supposedly knows everyone's secrets, you are surprisingly thickheaded." They looked away, arms wrapped tightly around themselves as if they were attempting to keep from falling apart.

From giving in to that outstretched hand.

"Ignorance isn't bliss, Enver. It's malice. It's destructive. Saying you didn't know fixes nothing. There's a lot you don't know. That you may never know."

"Mama?"

Both of them froze at that tiny voice.

Behind Aelune, opening the big front door, was a small child. Frail and dark-haired, with luminous grey eyes. Behind him, a woman looked on apologetically.

"I'm sorry Aelune, I tried to keep him inside," she whispered, as the child scampered over, clinging to Aelune's pants. "He missed you while you were working."

Aelune shook their head. "It's okay, Amaira. He's a wiggly one when he wants to be." They picked up the boy, settling him on their hip.

Enver could only watch helplessly. The child's hair was as wild and as dark as his own, nearly a carbon copy to how he looked when he had been that young.

While he'd been toiling away, working to bring his company to the height of power, Aelune had been raising a child alone.

His child.

They met his eyes squarely. "I'm sorry, Enver. We'll have to speak another time. It's dinnertime for me and my son."

The distance between them yawned wide, like a chasm that stretched ever onwards. Long gone was the vicious rival he'd fallen in love with. Cold corporate takeovers and violent displays of power had been replaced with gentle words and rough hardworking hands.

"Goodnight, Enver," they said firmly.

For a moment, he saw double. The past stood behind them with a cruel smirk and a powerful stance. Clean, well-dressed, and ready to kill.

And then it faded. To tired, dirty jeans, a well-worn flannel, and a sorrowful parent hellbent on protecting their son from anything that would threaten them.

Including him.

He gave a half-bow. "Goodnight, Aelune," he whispered.

As they walked away, his son on their hip, he couldn't help but feel as if he had been saying farewell.

#durgetash #don't come for me I know #aelune for OC tagging #enver gortash #my writing #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #yeah

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

I'm sorry y'all I was gonna do bg3 x reader stuff and then fake marriage + modern AU with Gale and my Tav hit hard and now I'm in hell

(if you like it, reblogs are appreciated!)

-----------

"I'm your husband," the man blurted out.

Gale blinked in response.

"I'm sorry?" He gingerly touched the back of his head, wondering if he'd hit it harder than he thought. Dashing young men saving him from being run over aside, he didn't think he would've forgotten something so important as a husband.

The man shook his head, looking around quickly. "No, no. I'm not actually your husband, but then your phone rang while you were in the ER and so I answered it because they gave me your belongings-" he inhaled sharply in the middle of his rambling, and continued. "And then some cold sounding woman answered and I explained what had happened. And...um...well...she told me I should lie and be your husband until she got there. Something about the university calling your emergency contact as soon as the ambulance arrived.

Anyway, your ex wife is on the way."

Gale paled, his hand freezing in his hair. "M-Mystra is coming?" He squeaked. For a second, everything was white noise. They hadn't spoken since the divorce proceedings where she had stripped him of every possession he'd ever owned, save his darling companion, Tara.

He swallowed resolutely, and nodded. "You're right, you're my husband. What's your name?"

"Lament Noire. I'm a gardener, I'm allergic to milkweed, and I'm twenty eight. Perchance, your ex wouldn't happen to be some Karen-esque blonde woman who looks like murder in a power suit, would she?"

The heart monitor spiked in response. "Quite. Apologies in advance, I promise I'm a perfect gentleman most of the time." Gale grabbed his hand, yanking Lament down into a bruising kiss.

#gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #bg3 #my writing #yes I'm in hell this is my brainrot #Lament Noire for OC tagging

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

I am unfortunately very tempted in my "late night sleep deprived" state to write BG3 x Reader stuff.

Sighs.

If it garners enough interest, perhaps I'll give it a try. Let me know.

#bg3 #Baldur's Gate 3 #hate/love that my phone autocorrects to Baldur's Gay 3 now #writing #maybe #we'll see.

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

All the World's a Stage, and You're the Playwright

Hello! It's been a while. Life really catches up to you, huh?

In the interim, book 1 of one of my favorite interactive fiction novels just dropped, and I've been devouring it.

Speaking of which, this is set post book 1 of The Night Market, in the interim between book 1 and 2 (since 2 will be a wip for a while and I'm impatient and I adore this work so much).

If you're not entirely sure what's going on, use dream logic. Because I intended for this to be a very different piece and then Milo Next said "no I want to be sad and tormented".

There are SPOILERS in this for the ending of Book 1, and mentions of Child Death, and Death in general. I don't get explicitly into detail about it, I'm not that kind of a writer, but if those heavy topics aren't for you, I recommend avoiding this piece.

Ember/Blaze is my OC! They use any pronouns.

Without further ado....

-

He knew he was dreaming.

Milo remembered the acrid smell of blood in his nose, looking down at the crimson stain on his hands (or was it silver? Or chrome? Or an oil slick spill of color?) and seeing their wide eyes staring back at him accusingly. A pearlescent tear sliding down their cheek as they gasped their last.

It was a dream he'd had many times. One he'd have many times more.

He shuddered, holding them close. His handsome lover, reaching out and cupping his face, their lips trembling. The black smoke of their hair drifted out to mingle with the late-night mist of the gardens, almost as if desperate to cling to the fabric of this world.

The world he'd excised them from.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Apologizing the way he never would have in the waking world, baring his bleeding scarred heart.

In the dream, he always did this. Like two actors upon the stage, a single lantern dangling over them like a spotlight.

If he looked out, he knew he'd see a full amphitheater, their breath held tight with anticipation.

A sea of masks watching his mistakes over and over again, witnesses to his crime.

"Save him!" A voice shouted from the audience, soft and sweet even in its anger. A mask made of woven willow branches, with glistening sap tears that spilled out of the eyeholes.

"You deserve to rot for your crimes," another called, from out behind a featureless onyx mask cracked and gilded with silver, heartachingly beautiful in its kintsugi design.

A third raised its voice, powerful and commanding even amidst the crowd. "You didn't deserve her. You've killed us all." Eyes stared accusingly at him from behind an ornate devil's mask, the golden snarling mouth turned copper from lipstick made of blood.

As always, he braced himself for the last voice, the voice that never came.

The empty seat in a full theater that terrified him as much as he was desperate for it.

He stared down at the lifeless body in his arms. He had once embraced this body with his own, whispered frantic words in hidden alleyways mingling brightly with loving laughter.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If I could bring you back…" He held out a wooden heart, the red paint cracked and peeling. A prop on the stage of his dream. Red fabric slid down his chest in stop motion across the empty courtyard.

He knew how this would end. The curtains would draw on his false heart, the audience booing in dissatisfaction.

They wanted a proper ending. His body at the gallows, his crimes paid for.

They wouldn't get it.

He would relive his guilt again and again, night after night upon the stage for all the world to see.

Milo bowed his head and waited for the lights to dim.

That's it?

A voice slid across his mind, and he gasped, jerking his head up. Looking frantically around.

The dream always ended afterwards. No one else had lines.

Hands slid around his own, grasping the wooden heart.

Squeezing tightly, punishingly.

Don't you think I deserve more than this? A false caricature of your heart?

He looked down.

To his horror, his dead lover stared back at him. Hollow, empty eye sockets stared back at him, keeping his attention.

A perfect pair of lips moved, and he heard their voice become clear, as if he had been listening to them from underwater, and only now had begun to surface.

"Don't let the curtains draw, Milo. The audience deserves a proper ending. It is you who expects the Gallows." They tugged at the wooden heart emphatically, and he watched as it rotted and crumbled between his trapped hands.

"If you truly wish to change things, you must change the ending. Malcolm has always been the Gatekeeper. You knew this from the start." Ember reached out, cupping his face. Her hand was incredibly warm, almost searingly so.

"Become the Storyteller, Milo. Make the ending your own. After all, I'm not the only one who you made a promise to. I'm not the only one you left behind."

They glanced out to the audience, and he followed their gaze.

A lantern slid down from an invisible ceiling, a spotlight on a single seat.

Malcolm's seat.

Milo's eyes widened with horror.

Wood became metal, and the corpse in his arms grew warm, hot with life. Skin became unbroken, and cheekbones swelled, eyes forming and staring at a spot in Milo's warehouse.

On the woven circular rug in the epicenter of his room, sat a little girl clutching a stuffed cow. She watched in anticipation, a child listening to a story told by their parents.

Milo's hands trembled.

He had forgotten.

No- he had purposefully pushed thoughts of her away.

He'd left her behind when he ran away, and here, in his dreams, he couldn't run any longer.

Ember's hands squeezed around his own, and he glanced back at the man in his arms.

"She deserves a happy ending, Milo Next. Not everything has to be a tragedy. We adults soak in the jaded pain of our lives, we sometimes forget the children we once were. We have to teach them to hope. That death is not the result of punishment, or despair." He nodded towards Ever. "That her death may have been frightening, but it is not the end. Death is just another part of life. The cycle that always begins again."

Ember looked up at him, warm amber eyes flickering like lantern lights-

No. Like a blaze of fire. Burning brighter, with no intention of stopping.

"Show her, Milo. Show her this is not the end. Show her that you can be kind. She needs you. She needs to hear it."

Milo shuddered, feeling tears beginning to leak down his face. "But death is scary. It is the end. How can I lie to her? How can I tell a kid that sometimes people die?"

Ember, no, Blaze laughed softly. "It is adults who are afraid of death. Children don't know to be afraid until we teach them." Their gaze was sorrowful. "And sometimes, children die. Lovers die. People die. It is our duty to ease them into the inevitable. To twist the story into something hopeful. Show her, Milo."

Another voice spoke up over his shoulder. The voice he had been dreading from the start.

"Show her that death is not the end." A hand grasped his shoulder tightly. "Show her that even you know how to forgive and be kind. Show her your heart."

Milo didn't look at Malcolm. He couldn't. Not when his gaze remained captured by Blaze.

Tears streamed down his face, and finally, he sighed.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."

Milo Next reached into his chest, pulling out his bleeding heart. Beating wildly with the frantic pulse of life.

The audience in the theater gasped.

Ever leaned forward, her eyes wide with wonder, with the innocence of children.

In the garden, in the still quiet by the fountain, he leaned down.

Just the two of them.

Blaze and Milo.

A corpse and its murderer.

He pushed his beating heart into the keyhole of Blaze's chest, and watched it be swallowed whole.

"I'm sorry," he said. Milo watched as color began to bloom in those cheeks, filling pink lips with life. A chest that began to rise and fall, as it had done so many times before.

"I'm sorry," he repeated firmly, trying not to choke on the words. "I love-"

"-you."

Milo woke up with that last word on his lips, and gasped, sitting upright in his makeshift bed. His chest heaved, and he clutched at it, feeling for the frantic beat he'd known his entire life.

It was still there.

Hastily he scrubbed the tears away from his face, night sweat drying on his skin, and felt something smear across his face.

He pulled his hand away.

Silver/red/chrome/oilslick blood still lingered on his fingertips.

In the silence of the waking dawn, Milo Next wept.

#my writing #the night market #Ember (my oc for tagging) #milo next #Ever TNM #tnm book 1 spoilers

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Reblogged from my main blog!! If you liked A Howl in the Night, Gone but not Forgotten, A Memory Where My Heart Used to Be, and many more, then come baaaaaaack.

Come play with me. Yes, I meant that to be creepy.

It's almost here. I'M SO EXCITED.

The Night Market Book 1

The day is almost here! The Night Market Book 1 comes out tomorrow (September 1st) on both Steam and Itch.io. Official word count is 1,164,255 words! That is over 179k more words added to the story!

I cannot wait to hear about all of your play throughs and I am very very excited to share this labor of love with you all! Thank you so much for the support.

I'll be seeing you in the Night Market. :)

#the night market #not writing #I CAN'T WAIT

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

A Howl in the Night

Since The Night Market is currently in the process of getting edited and put on Steam, I've been missing it quite a bit!

Moreover, I've been missing my girl Hazel and the absolutely fantastic world around her.

So what better way to reminisce than creating more fic?

If you haven't read The Night Market, I highly recommend you check out @night-market-if ! It's an extremely awesome community and a phenomenal read. And this piece will definitely contain spoilers for the end of book 1!

Warnings for mentions of blood, the threat of violence, and toxic parents.

----

There was a presence in the house.

It hid well around Lucinda, a strange pressure on the air that disappeared when she set foot in a room.

She knew the bones of this house well. Every floorboard, every whorl of wood, every pane of glass was hers, swelling with power, down to the very foundation.

The presence was not.

It followed Hazel loyally, swirling around her, settling like a mantle on a queen. Where Hazel walked, the house warmed. Flowers bloomed in the dead of winter, glass polished itself, silver shone bright.

Everything was just a fraction smoother whenever her daughter was around, as if the universe wished to be kind to the girl.

As if the very Night Market had found Hazel broken, and fallen in love regardless.

Lucinda was not ignorant of the presence. In fact, she could not be.

The presence hid, but it protected.

In the morning, as much as morning in darkness could be, Lucinda once again tried to speak to her child on the subject of curses.

Hazel's shoulders tensed, and the presence grew ever-so-slightly.

"Hazel, if you only-" As Lucinda reached out to touch her daughter's shoulder, a spark snapped in the air, a pop of static so sharp it made her hiss and yank her hand back.

"Mother?" Hazel looked up, alarmed. "What happened?"

Lucinda waved her off. "It's fine, girl. Don't worry about it. Go wash the breakfast dishes."

Hazel bit her lip, but rose, collecting the plates. As she wandered off into the kitchen, Lucinda glanced down at her hand.

A single bead of blood welled up bright on her fingertip. A warning.

She smiled. "How cute. You'll have to try harder than that."

The air chilled around her. The teacup and saucer in front of her cracked, and plants grew the slightest hint of thorns.

"This is my house. You are not welcome here." Even as she went to pull on the magic around her, she felt the house…resist. It was a strange feeling. The magic that had once been hers seemed to hesitate, almost as if it was used to a gentler, kinder hand.

Her expression darkened. She raised up the hand that had bled, feeling the single bead of blood begin to rise.

And then, footsteps sounded behind her.

The presence vanished. Lucinda closed her hand, tucking it behind her back as she turned. "Hazel, dear, have you finished the dishes already?" She asked sweetly.

Hazel nodded. "Yes, Mother." She shifted on her feet, seemingly unaware of the conflict that had almost occured. "If you'll excuse me, there's a stray dog outside, I have to feed him. He comes by every once in a while for scraps." Hazel dipped past, a bowl of chopped meat and vegetables in her hand.

Lucinda sighed, watching her daughter pass. The presence had vanished, but that didn't mean it wasn't still around, and Lucinda remained on edge. "Girl, there are no dogs in…the…" She trailed off.

As Hazel opened the front door, stepping outside, she set the bowl down and flung her arms around a massive dog. With a long black muzzle and long dark brown fur, it wagged its tail slightly at Hazel's affections.

Mr. Billows wove around it, tail held high.

Lucinda was sure all her daughter saw was a dog. After all, that was what she was supposed to see.

The old witch, however, saw a wolf. Golden eyes like lamplight reflected back at her, staring her down like she was a rabbit on a hungry winter night.

Instantly she understood where the presence had gone. It had always been here.

It would always be here.

And it was making it very clear of who it was here to protect.

Lucinda raised an eyebrow.

Well, well. It seems Hazel's made some new friends while I was gone.

The wolf nuzzled Hazel softly before dipping its head down to eat.

Its eyes never left Lucinda's.

#the night market #hazel albright #lucinda albright #alder (my oc from the night market) #my writing #spoilers for the end of book 1

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Gone But Not Forgotten

It's been a day already even though it's *checks watch* ...11am. So I wrote something short and sad and melancholy in just the perfect amount for my tastes.

If you haven't finished Book 1, major spoilers ahead!

If you like interactive fiction, I highly recommend you check out @night-market-if ! It's beautifully written, and the author is working on getting the first book finished to come out on Steam!

(Warnings for overworking, forgetting to eat, grief)

-

"Hey. You need to eat."

He stamps a piece of paper, setting it aside. Exhaustion washes over him, aching in his bones.

He feels too large in his own skin. Unsettled, pressing out, splitting at the seams, clawing his way out of the prison of flesh and bursting free, blood and viscera-

"Stop it. You're winding yourself up. You know I don't like it when you do that."

He sighs, setting the pen down and rubbing his eyes. His hands shake badly.

He doesn't recall the last time he ate.

There used to be crackers in his desk.

"Far right drawer, sweetheart. I left something there for you, just in case."

His eyes flicker downwards. Reaching out, he pulls open the drawer, the track squeaking slightly.

There's a box wrapped in brightly colored fabric.

How long has it been there?

"I didn't want you to go hungry while I was gone. Eat something, please. Be good for me."

He gently unpicks the knot, folding back the fabric and setting it neatly aside.

He opens the wooden box.

Inside are dried fruits and nuts, pieces of jerky and little sweet cinnamon candies, things that will last a long time.

There's a note.

"Surprise!" He can practically hear them laugh, bright like little jewels.

"I know sometimes you get so busy you forget anything else exists. I hope this helps some! That way you don't have to worry about stale crackers. Hazel even put a little preservation thing on the inside of the lid, so just close it up when you're done!

Please remember to eat.

Be good for me, Gabriel.

Yours,

Spark."

He doesn't know when he picked up the note. His hand shakes, and he watches cracks appear across the surface of his skin, light spilling out. Their looping, curling handwriting stares back up at him, the slightest hint of bright lemony scent tingling his nose.

"Be good for me, Gabriel."

He picks up a cinnamon candy. He knows they made them by hand.

He eats. The cracks grow even brighter.

#the night market #my writing #Spark (OC for tagging) #gabriel caine

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Howl Like a Lullaby

So....I played Blood Moon. A lot.  Needless to say I’m head over heels with all the ROs, but especially Sergi because I can’t help but be attracted to someone with way too much baggage.  Go figure.  If you don’t know what Blood Moon is, well boy howdy do I have a doozy for you.  You like werewolves? Of course you do, this is Tumblr.  You like romancing werewolves? Obviously, you’re someone of refined taste.  You love hurt/comfort pack!fic with themes of revenge and found family?  Well this is the IF for you! It’s from @barbwritesstuff, and I guarantee you’ll have a blast.  Check it out! Anyway, have a fic! It’s a little “What if the MC never joined the pack” and it’s already 5k and we’re on chap 2! Sort of. You’ll see.  Anyway, if you want a whole lot of hurt/comfort, this will probably be your jam.  Hope you enjoy!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46709128/chapters/117639364

#blood moon if #My writing #Blue (OC for tagging) #Foley (OC for tagging) #sergi

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Of Mandrake and Mischief

....Don’t ask. This is the fault of someone from Discord. You know who you are. 

This is mostly based off of The Witcher 3. But with Jaskier, the better version.  Mostly just people just absolutely fucking around with Lambert.  hints of Aiden/Lambert with a sprinkle of geraskier. Don’t...don’t come after me for this. 

“Cocksucking arsewiping cockatrice fucking shitstained son of a bitch!” Lambert stomped around his laboratory, searching for something on his desk. “I swear I fucking added that rat piss to the distillate two days ago, it should have- fuck!” Aiden poked his head in the doorway. He was quickly learning that sound carried easily in Kaer Morhen, especially with…Jaskier and Geralt. Some things didn’t change, no matter what school you were from. “Lamb? What’s wrong?” Lambert whirled, his expression like thunder. “Aiden,” he said dangerously. “I lo- mmm. I care for you, dammit, and I need you to leave me alone right now. I’m going to stab something. Maybe even myself, if I’m feeling frisky. Now, where the fuck did I put those fucking notes? This should have worked! Maybe a hemlock and comfrey mixture next time, provided it doesn’t fucking burn my eyebrows off-” Aiden glanced down the hall, where Eskel was casually reading a book. He leaned against the wall, his face the picture of serenity. Strolling over, he tried to peer at the title, but there was none to be found. “Eskel, do you have any idea what’s got him so…” “Pissy?” Eskel glanced up from his book, over towards the partially open doorway. He hummed softly. “Might have something to do with my replacing his distillate with one of Vesemir’s failed mandrake cordials. They were relatively the same color.” Aiden blinked. “Why? Isn’t he going to notice?” The tall witcher flipped another page, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Lambert hides it well, but he killed off most of his sense of smell a few decades back. Tried to make a more ‘pure’ form of alcohest, only the fumes off it fried his nose. Geralt, Vesemir, and I had to camp out at the old tower for a few days while it cleared out. As for why?” His mouth twitched again as another flurry of swearing came from the laboratory. “A few days ago he used the kitchen for one of his experiments. Now there are scorch marks everywhere, and half the kitchen is unusable. That and Geralt, Vesemir, and I have a bet going on to see how long it is before he tries to drink the mixture to try and figure out what’s wrong with it.” Eskel smirked. “I think it’ll take him a few days.” Aiden sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “...I’ll put five crowns on a week.” Eskel closed the book, giving Aiden an appraising look. “You’re not so bad, Cat.” He strolled off. As he did, Aiden realized that just inside the front cover, the book had read Property of Lambert.

#The Witcher 3 #lambert #aiden #eskel #my writing