#astarion also does this to me because its like fangs :} | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

feyascorner · 3 months

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Imagine Tav who has a thing for deep voices (ahem Astarion’s when he gets all low and breathy and AHHHHH) and he notices. I’d combust

AGLAGKJL I HAVE OTHER REQUESTS BUT I SAW THIS AND I HAD TO WRITE IT IMMEIDATELY HES JUST SOOO....also warning this is a bit suggestive nothing terrible but i also haven't written anything other than fluff and angst in ages so i might be a little rusty....

You have barely any breath left in your lungs, and you think you wouldn't mind dying this way. He shoves the door to your shared room open with his back as you push him through it, lips molding against his in a heated wave of passion. Your fingers entangle themselves in his white curls, pulling at them just gently enough to draw out a low groan from his throat, and in an instant, he has your back pressed against the wall, both hands holding either side of your face as if it's the last time he'll get to touch you.

And as much as you wouldn't mind dying from suffocation here, being ever so perceptive, he pulls away to lean his forehead against your own, watching as your chest heaves up and down in a helpless attempt to catch your breath. He pinches one of your cheeks. "It's a relief that one of us needs air to remain conscious. If you were to become like myself, I'm not confident we'd actually ever stop."

"I never said we needed to stop," you say breathlessly.

"You don't need to tell me," he leans forward to press his lips against the area where he usually sinks his teeth into your neck. Instead of the familiar prick, all you feel are his cool lips peppering kisses on your skin. "Your body, and how it responds to me...it does all the talking for you."

And much to your embarrassment, his words are sent straight to the hammering of your heart. It must be the way he says it---so softly, yet rough. Teasing, yet honest. Low enough to drop his voice an octave but not enough to take away its usual charm. And the worst is the breathiness adorning his very words. For someone who doesn't need to breathe, he certainly sounds like he does it a lot.

You feel him nip at a sensitive spot of your neck and practically yelp, earning a snicker from the culprit in front of you.

"Your heart's beating quite fast, darling," he says slowly, almost in a whisper. "Are just a few words enough to rile you up so much?"

You remain silent, afraid all sanity you have left will snap if you dare to speak.

"But that's not all, is it? No, my sweet, you only feel this way about my words because I'm the one saying it," you can hear the grin in his tone. He pulls away from your neck, lifting his head back where he can meet your eyes. "Do you like when I say things like this? Vulnerable? Sensual? Seductive?--"

You slap your palms across his mouth, heat practically radiating off of your face, as you feel his fangs through his smile. He knows, you think, face paling. He knows how you respond to just his stupid voice, and you know him more than enough to expect the worst from the power you've given him. It's humiliating almost---but more than anything, you want him to shut up. To stop talking to you in that way that brings butterflies to your stomach, to stop looking at you as if you're the most desirable person in all of Faerun, to stop just existing in the moment---

Astarion gently pries your hands away from his face, satisfaction more than apparent in his expression. "No use being bashful now. I'm not offended at all. If anything, I'm rather flattered to know you find even my voice as attractive as the rest of me."

"Please stop talking."

"You don't mean that, clearly."

You grab a nearby pillow and smush it against his cheek, pushing him away.

With a soft laugh, he takes the pillow from your hands, placing it beside him to look at you properly. You want to hide away in a hole forever, but you can't do much other than look to the ground, beyond embarrassed. His obvious amusement doesn't do much to soothe you.

"Look at me, darling."

"Hells no."

"Will you listen if I whisper it to you?"

You shoot him a glare, and he laughs again.

So instead of convincing you any further, he takes either of your hands. His voice is low again, and you swear he's doing it on purpose. "We all have our quirks, my love. I enjoy drinking your delicious blood in our nights of passion, and you enjoy listening to my wonderful voice during them."

"Did you just compare this to being a vampire?"

"This and that. Same thing."

The quirk of your brow is enough to tell him of your annoyance, making him squeeze your hand with a grin. You'd throw him out if he weren't so pretty. Those long lashes, the white curls, that irritatingly beautiful shade of his eyes...Gods, you're helpless. But something tells you that the feeling is mutual. Wordlessly, you find yourself leaning closer again, and his grin stretches wider. "So talking lowly does seem to work its charm on you."

You snort, rolling your eyes. "Shut up and kiss me."

"As you wish."

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

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morgana-ren · 6 months

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I'm in Raphael hell right now. I'm ascended Astarion and Gortash sandwich all the way for my toxicity but Raphael has snuck up on me!

He looks upon her with such longing and hate I think he might actually kill her

Urgh Hope you lucky bitch

Also this line from him

I'd hate to have to slit a child up the navel and rinse you in their insides

I forget he is a devil sometimes!! Although his dirty nursery rhyme is so funny.

What playthrough are you doing at the moment? Where you up to?

Raphael has the wit, charm, and charisma that most successful devils possess. It's how they get their way. They come off eloquent and personable, and humans are disarmed because many are conventionally attractive. A nasty little trick to lull you into the weaver's web.

I have to applaud his ambition. Even for a devil, he truly dreamed big.

I think I never considered Raphael like that mostly because, during the base game, it seems as if he has zero interest in you carnally. At all. In fact, he's entirely narcissistic and only wants to have sex with himself--

Or so it appears to the untrained eye.

Anyone who has spoken and has a standing pact with Raphael's personal succubus Haarlep can tell you that he does, in fact, want to fuck Tav.

I like to imagine he might not've been interested before. Humans are a dime a dozen, after all. However, there's something undeniably alluring about a clever, canny human willing to play his game and make him work for it. The audacity to break into his house. A force of nature cutting a swath out of the Sword Coast for themselves. Headstrong and determined. It might hammer its way into his mind after a while.

Truthfully, stay in true devil form and lengthen his hair, and I'd probably be very into him. I love my men elegant, sinister, and with fangs and wings and horns, so he certainly fits the bill.

Something something something, you kill Haarlep and you owe him a personal play toy. He seeks out a deal. You take it because whatever it is he holds over your head is too dastardly. You are now his playtoy. Just off the top of my head.

As for my playthrough, Abeloth is dinking around in the city, trying to finish as many quests as she can before we end the game. I have to do another Durge playthrough because apparently I wasn't resting enough and I missed some vital fucking scenes. Some quests are time oriented so I was deliberately trying not to rest unless absolutely necessary. I missed some really good ones. I'm extremely bummed. These are like triple digit hour playthroughs, maaaan.

#morgana and friends #raphael bg3

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corpo-rat · 3 months

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nellie is so gorgeous!! but also all your ocs are <3 do you have any nellie facts you’re willing to share ?

HSDKFGH THANK YOUUUU!!!! 💕💕 i put a lot of thought into each my ocs looks and aesthetic so that makes me really happy 🥺💕

and OUGH im so glad you asked because im dying to talk about nellie, lets goooo heres a list of her current iteration!!

her mother was an elf and her father was a half orc so she has lil TUSKS/FANGS

her father was a bard and taught her violin

she lived in a remote little village when she was young, which was attacked by a band of mindless undead (nellie doesnt know where they came from, she theorizes maybe someone summoned them nearby and lost control of them). the villagers tried to protect themselves but failed and perished. nellies parents barricaded her into their home, but died themselves trying to protect her

after the remaining undead moved on from the village, nellie broke out of her home to discover the carnage left behind. she didnt know what to do, where to go, or who could help her, so she meticulously dug graves and buried all of the dead, including her parents, all on her own. people showed up to investigate the village a few days later, and found her alone, playing her violin for the deceased among the graves. they took her to baldurs gate, and she wound up at the temple of kelemvor there, which became her home

shes a bard and cleric of kelemvor multiclass (i have modded items to make the build work better than it should LOL) and spent her adult life hunting undead and performing funeral rites all over the place, returning to the temple in baldurs gate in between her travels

mostly hunted mindless undead, but she once came across an isolated and recently turned vampire spawn that was being forced to hunt for her master. at her request, nellie mercy killed her, because there was no other way to escape her masters commands, but nellie never forgot about that spawn. its part of why nellie chooses to trust astarion and give him so many chances despite her experiences with undead (and advantage on insight checks), because she wants to help where she couldnt before. also she eventually falls for him, so. lol. lmfao

shes like, the least religious cleric youd ever meet. considers her devotion to kelemvor as a business arrangement, pretty much. she 100% would throw down with a god if given the opportunity (mystra and vlaakith shes looking at you)

uses her single charge of divine intervention in the fight with cazador, because shes so afraid of either failing astarion or losing him. besides, who better to call for killing an undead vampire than kelemvor?

her romance with astarion actually progresses differently in my headcanon than it does in game: nellie never sleeps with him. he pursues her to manipulate her, but she dances around his advances while still being nice and understanding to him (its infuriating for astarion LOL). in act 2, nellie almost dies to protect astarion in a battle, and that prompts the act 2 confession scene with astarion instead. im very normal about this (lying)

the streak in her hair is her going gray mainly in that spot

AND THATS ALL I CAN THINK OF RN, thank you for attending nellie posting hours and please know that i adore her

#asks #anon #nellie nettlesong #bg3 spoilers

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wilchur · 4 months

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*slides into you inbox* why hello there. I come bearing Tav qotd questions for the lovely Ezra <3

2 + 3 + 4 + 9 + 11

(xx - @zoneofsmites)

questions from Tav QOTD

wowza you gave me a lot to work with ily. this is going to be SO long agdjdkdk

2. What would their blood taste like to vampires?

So my headcanon is that because Ezra is a quasi-deity in his own right and just doesn't know it, his blood hits like chugging down pure ethanol. Maybe it doesn't necessarily burn a vampire's throat, but that shit is strong. Has less taste more pure, raw energy.

3. How would they kiss their LI?

Which one 😂 Because the answer differs. With Shadowheart he keeps things gentle, innocent because she gives him the worst Urge-induced intrusive thoughts and he's worried about losing control of himself and hurting her if things get too heated. Astarion he pretty much only ever kissed during the time when they were still sleeping together (they have a convoluted queerplatonic relationship past act 2 that is too complicated to explain here lol) and it was all bloodied lips and hunger back then. He was not that worried about hurting him because he believes Astarion to be able to go toe to toe with him pretty well and it's hard to worry about being a danger to someone who has their fangs in the vicinity of your throat. There's also Gortash, but with him things were different because he understood the nature of the Urge in a way no one post-tadpole has been able to wrap their heads around. They've known each other for a decade before Ezra got shanked by Orin and both of them knew how far they could push things back then. I think its safe to say there were sparsely ways in which they haven't kissed, but if he remembered it Ezra would probably say (in his head, never aloud) that the soft, most guilt-heavy kisses stolen whenever the opportunity for a peck on the lips presented itself, were his favourite.

4. How do they sleep with their LI (what position, does one steal the blankets, is one too hot/cold, etc)?

Ezra rarely ever sleeps during the events of the game for obvious reasons and when he does it's usually a case of him passing out the moment he sits down somewhat comfortably. You would often find him seated on the ground, Shadowheart on a log above him with her hand in his hair, while he naps slumped against her legs because he had fallen asleep while listening to the party talk. It's the only time he'd dare to close his eyes around her. However post-game, more or less free of the fear that kept him awake, I see him as a massive cuddler. Big spoon with no need to hoard the blankets because he is the blanket and Shadowheart's personal heater. With Astarion I don't think he's even aware they've ever shared a bedroll because that was something Astarion kept to himself, Ezra most of the time passed out from bloodloss because again, weird situationship. But post-game whenever they're on an adventure or share a bed back home, the deal is the same as with Shadowheart -- big spoon and heater. As for Gortash... I really don't think Ezra's overwhelming sense of guilt ever let him stay underneath his silk sheets after sex. He might've lingered a few times when explicitly told to or by accident, but there was no cuddling involved and unless he passed out, he wouldn't have slept a wink the entire night.

9. If they had to be put in a “get along shirt” with a companion, who would it be?

Ughh he's such a people-pleaser this question is honestly really hard to answer. But if he had to, I think it would be Lae'zel. Especially in act 2 and 3 when he seems to be straying further towards losing himself and that costs him a great chunk of her respect. But that's still more her being put into the shirt with him, not the other way around. He cares a lot about them all and any animosity is more likely to come from the opposite side.

11. What are their thoughts on clowns?

He thinks other people's strange and very strong dislike of clowns is the only funny thing about them, finds them stupid and unamusing himself, but considers a clown performance less about the performer and more about the company you bring to it. He enjoys going to the circus with people he can make fun of the entire thing with a great deal.

#bg3 #the dark urge #bg3 oc #bg3:ezra #tav qotd

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butleroftoast · 8 months

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No major spoilers, just sleepy ramblings about my BG3 characters which touch on one of the game's broad themes and mention some details about companions.

Without straying into spoiler territory, I love that trust is such a prominent theme in BG3, because boy howdy does Morris have trust issues. This means the game is turning into an arc of him being forced to learn, in the worst possible circumstances, how to trust people again and then immediately having that trust tested to its limit and shaken to its core.

Meanwhile, Barbarian is just "I trust you implicitly :)" to everyone she meets.

I also love that without my trying, and with Morris being greysexual and having a deeply-rooted antipathy towards other druids (/humanoids in general), Halsin is super into him. Like, super into him. Like ''every conversation we have ends with me dropping a massively unsubtle hint, why (and how) are you not picking up what I'm laying down'' super into him. C'mon, Morris, loosen up. I know you particularly dislike druids who turn into bears all the time, but what's the worst that could happen? :D

The rather elaborate spoiler warning up top is because a) I somehow managed to totally miss Gale (he's on the cover art) and had stuff about him spoiled, and b) I accidentally spoiled Astarion for my brother, resulting in this exchange:

''I love that the companions reveal their obvious secrets to you like it's a big thing you hadn't already noticed. I know, Shadowheart, your name kind of gave something away there."

"Yeah, and when Astarion tells you he's a vampire. Buddy, I can see the fang holes in your neck."

"...Astarion is a vampire?"

#tozby plays bg3 #druid pol morris #barbarian needs a proper name

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dragonswithjetpacks · 3 years

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The Gratitude of a Hunter

-dragonswithjetpacks

Summary: Ferelith roams the wood at night in search of a clear mind. Just as she finds silence, she finds a beast awaits. Rather than flee, she tames the beast. And extends an offer.

Notes: I have not given anything for BG3 in awhile. While Theurgist is still under works, I am afraid I am stuck. So as a treat and an apology gift, I give this to you all. I have also been extended my writing. So this is not written in my past-tense third party style. If there are mistakes made, please let me know as I am fairly knew to this type. Thank you all so much! <3

Read here on Ao3!

The memories of a place I once called home are still fresh in my head. As I walk through the trees, I can remember the smell of freshly cleaned wood. Though it was never clean for long. The lower part of Baldur’s Gate was dirty. And my shop was filled with dust. With every stack of books I moved, it would shift. And my counters would be dirty again. On the other hand, the trees would always be this way; untampered. Unlike me. Unlike this shift in my head. Unlike the crushing wave of anxiety growing in my chest with every second I felt Fian stir uncomfortably in the back of my thoughts. I wish the trees brought me peace as they did before. But now they look more like the tombstone for my grave.

At least the nights are peaceful here. If there was anything louder than the noise in my head, I am very likely snap. No one would blame me, or so I believe. Even if they did, they wouldn’t for long. Oh, I am quite grateful for the quiet times like this where I can have such impish thoughts. The cruelty in me has not yet been satiated. I have a desire building inside me that I cannot explain. One that has been burning the moment that worm came crawling into my eye socket. If I am quiet enough, I can hear it in there burrowing deeper inside. But tonight, I hear something else that has my attention. A soft moaning through the thicket accompanied by rustling. It sounds more like a wounded animal, but I’ve heard people sound that like before. My feet are cautious and my pace is quick for the sake of my curiosity. As I round a tree I can see it from the corner of my eye. There is a deer on the ground. Beneath its head is a pool of blood. And hovering above it is a fang dripping vampire.

I pause, attempting to calm myself and my heart before he can hear me. But it is too late. He looks up, his red eyes narrowing as he searches for my reaction. My sight shifts to his mouth painted red with fangs unsheathed. The same fangs that were once embedded in me. I recoil in shock, gasping quietly as I am unsure of what offending him might do. His brow becomes furrowed and I can see the wrinkle on the bridge of his nose. He is disgusted with me. I have made him angry.

“Why are you here?” he calls out to me.

I cannot answer. A carnal hunger pulses in my core as I recall his need to taste blood. My skin is reminded of what it felt like to have him clutch my body, the fluid racing through me to reach his lips. I slow my breathing, he cannot know of the uninvited excitement that has introduced itself into my thoughts. I examine him, his chest heaving upward to hide his shame, his fists clenched with anticipation. The deer is barely alive, struggling to keep its eyes open. A leg stretches forward, looking for something solid to keep it steady as it crawls away. I do not care if it lives or dies. But perhaps tonight it will be lucky enough to keep the rest of its blood. I am feeling generous. I am feeling… a bit of pity. But for a different kind of beast. And that burning desire rears its beautiful head in approval toward me. I blink slowly as if the night has taken me into a haze. It almost rings true as my impulse has taken control. He looks confused standing there over his prey, looking at me with anger and a hint of fear. Truth be told, I cannot stand the sight of it. It makes him look so weak.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

The aggression did not take away its true intent. It was a demand, but I could hear it as a plea. I push myself forward and watch him rise to his feet. He brushes the back of his hand against his mouth, removing the blood that remained. How bitter it must taste to come from a being lower than himself. While people are often like cattle to creatures of the night, at least it isn’t feeding on actual mindless animals. The substance of one with intelligence that rivals his own could even be sweet. And I could only imagine I am like honey to him. He can hear my heartbeat race and I can almost see him salivate as I undo the first button on my blouse.

“What are you doing?” he reaches up to grab my hand, but I pull away.

“I can’t watch you like this.”

“Then don’t watch me.”

He spat back and I pause. He is embarrassed, to say the very least. My inner thoughts are not doing him any favors, either. I should not look at him with such disdain. And I would be lying if I said I was doing anything because I felt sorry for him. No, I had thought about the piercing of my flesh for by the sharpness of his teeth since the morning I woke from that first night. I had touched the mark on my neck as I reminisced the sensation it left. The curiosity boiled inside me each night when I watched him slink out of the camp. And the urge to feel him taking my life away grew stronger the more I resisted. It was addicting to have yourself fade away. To know the moment before your body has relinquished its ownership from your soul. I had never experienced anything like it before him. I wanted to slide into a blissful moment where nothing mattered but life... and death.

I move to the second button on my shirt.

“I don’t want your pity,” he almost snarls at me.

I like this about him. Very much.

“Consider it an offering,” I say softly.

My tone changes him, softening his gaze as his eyes flicker to the crook of my neck. The marks from the first bite are still there. The way he inhales sharply makes me believe he likes the way they look, that he would leave more if he could. Whether this is the last time or the beginning to many… I am willing.

“Why would you offer such a prize to me?”

“Because I like you better when you’re properly fed,” I say as I pull on my collar. “When was the last time you drank from something that didn’t walk on four legs?”

“It’s been a few days,” he admitted. “But I’m fine, really.”

The smirk on his face is a lie.

“I’ll have no trouble getting any… sort of…”

I take his hand and surprisingly, he does not resist. It is larger than mine, but not by much. I grasp two of his fingers and he allows me to guide them to my neck. I know he notices my pulse through his gloves, the small palpitations beating into his fingertips. I know because he swallows hard and he stares at me defiantly.

“Just take it,” I shake my head.

I let go, giving him the choice to remove his touch. He does not. His fingers linger at the base of my neck, listening to my heart beating faster with every second I can feel him there. My heart feels as if it will explode, but his hand relaxes and slides to the base where the warmth of his palm greets the nape of my neck. He grips it with ferocity and I am suddenly aware of something sinister behind his eyes. It does not scare me as I smile up at him.

“I could kill you.”

“I know.”

The silence between us lures in tension. I can sense it turning inside my stomach.

“I trust you won’t toss aside the only opportunity you’ll have to feed on decent blood when needed.”

“Decent?” he grinned as he clenches harder. “My darling, you are the definition of exquisite.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“I am not certain you know the decision you’re making.”

“Bren nha ath tel'quiet lor. Teshuel salen alusfaen.”*

His eyes widen as he hears the familiar words from my tongue. He knows elvish. But I imagine it has been a long time since he last heard it spoken fluently. I am surprised to hear how clear it sounds, myself. Though I believe I have Fian to thank for that. And I have no time to thank him. Astarion hesitates no longer and I am caught off guard by the force of his fangs. The initial penetration is more painful than the last as if he was striking with a distinct purpose. Though, his drinking has become more controlled. The pull is slower like a rising tide rather than a bursting wave. My neck does not sting from the sheer force of the blood leaving my body. And I can feel his tongue. It traces the side of my neck between swallows. I clutch his chest, but the leather prevents me from clinging too much. I can already sense my conscious slipping, my vision blurring as I can only make out the ends of his curls. His other arm wraps around me and he leans me back. My blood begins flowing smoothly up my body. And it becomes more comfortable to lose control. I reach up, folding my arms around his neck, cradling him as he takes slow… long drinks…

Everything grows colder, but I ignore it until I can feel it in my fingertips. He notices the change as well as his lips come free of my skin. It is not my voice that brings him to a stop but the loosening grasp of my number fingertips. My knees shake beneath me as my body searches for strength. As he lifts me, my hands clutch the back of his shoulders. His face is close. So close. His eyes are hooded, looking over my profile. They stop at my lips where he looks for what seems like several minutes and I can hear my muffled breaths. He tilts my chin upward, now looking to my neck and the trickling stream of blood running down to my chest. Not a drop goes to waste as his tongue returns to lick from my collar bone to the freshly made wounds. A sigh escapes as I close my eyes. For a moment, I feel his lips again. But he is not drinking. He is just… tasting. They are gentle, sucking on what remains. The second time they make contact, they are softer. This is not a way a beast eats his prey. This is how a hunter gives thanks. And I receive it all down my neck as he peppers my skin with small caresses. I want to enjoy it. I want to urge him to continue. I want to tangle my hands into his curls. I want to feel lost in him further than I already am. But the blackness surrounds me. And I give one final squeeze as everything goes dark.

When I wake, I can hear the faint sound of birds in the trees. I blink slowly, looking as the sky becomes a bit brighter than it was before. I can smell the dew on the grass next to me. And I realize I am still in the wood. I push myself up, ready to sprint back to camp. But I am stopped by two red eyes as Astarion is propped on his elbows at my right.

“Good morning,” he says flatly.

“Morning,” I breathe, looking up to the still darkened sky.

“I’m glad you’re awake, though you look a bit pale,” he leans in to examine me. “Tch. I don’t think this will scar like the last one.”

My head jerks downward as I watch his lip uncurl. The assumptions I had made before were correct; he wants to mark me as his own. I look away quickly under his observing stare. I am not uncomfortable. I am… vulnerable. “Last night was a lovely surprise,” he goes on.

“I wanted to help,” I shoot a glance toward him.

“And you did,” the grin blossoms into a smile as if he is keeping a secret that I only knew a small portion of. “The offering, as you called it, was a treat. But the way you spoke… well,” a heavy breath came through his nose like a machine relieving pressure, “that was a pleasure.”

I open my mouth to speak. But nothing comes out. A flush of heat spreads across my face as I quickly turn away. I reach to close my blouse, but my buttons are already done. I touch the side of my neck and find no moisture. No dried blood. No cover. It is but smooth and clean skin.

“Did you-”

“It felt indecent to leave you exposed,” he rises to his feet.

The impression he leaves is that he had not been by my side the entire night. I fear he had left to find another feast once he had finished with me as there is more blood on the ground just a few feet away. And he looks… rejuvenated, just as before. There is a glow in his eyes and somewhat of a genuine smile that showed happiness. Looking down at me, he holds out a hand. I take it, though rather begrudgingly. I am guided upright but my legs are still weak. The blood rushes as I stand and the throbbing begins.

“We best get back before the others wake,” he suggests.

“Very well,” I nod.

“If they are awake, I am leaving the explanation to you.”

My eyes narrow at him in annoyance.

“I mean, I could think of many ways we were together alone for an entire night. But I will refrain from giving any sort of excuse unless approved by you, my dear.”

The pur in his voice brings me the same sensation as his tongue against my skin. I shutter and attempt to shake my head free of his nonsense. Though, he has a point. It was a valid excuse.

“Let’s just make our way there and I will think of something. If they are awake…”

“I will be right behind you,” he slightly bows. “I do want to make sure my investment is capable of making it back.”

Ending Notes: *This is mine to make. Take my blood. -There is literally nothing on elvish in the Forgotten Realms and yeah I'm angry about. This was the best I could do. Don't yell at me.

#astarion #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #vampire bites #angst #denial of feelings #astarion x mc #astarion x ferelith #mc: ferelith #ferelith moonshade #ferelith writing tag

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the-apocryphal-one · 3 years

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Ebb and Flow

Summary: She has always been watching him, hasn’t she? From the moment she met him. Maybe it was inevitable she would start seeing other things. Astarion x Isaniel

Also check it out on AO3 here and ff.net here!

A/N: whelp, here I am. writing fic with my OCs. that never happens. but this cheeky little bastard left me no choice. I fell in love with him so quickly, I had to write how my character did (or is starting to...getting there...feeling feelings...look we're still in EA and I love slow-burn enemies to lovers).

Minor spoilers ahead!

A mix of old paranoia and carefully-honed insight tell Isaniel, from the moment she meets him, that Astarion is suspicious. The only reason she even approaches the grass is because the risk of leaving an intellect devourer on the loose is far greater than the risk of exposing her back to a stranger. One is a dangerous beast that could quickly kill her or innocents if left unchecked; the other, she believes, is just an elf she knows to be wary around. He cannot do anything she is not braced for.

She is wrong. He is far stealthier than she’d expected.

After she diffuses the situation and they agree to work together, Isaniel subtly flexes her left hand. His dagger had cut into her palm as she’d struggled to pull it away from her throat. It was deep enough to merit healing, and she knows it’ll scar. A lesson.

It’s not an easy thing, to watch your surroundings and look for other survivors and keep someone in your peripheral vision, but she manages.

That night, everyone at camp is wary, watching each other, gauging their trustworthiness. They’re all newly acquainted, a collection of cast-off captives with bombs in their heads. It’s simultaneously the most ironclad and the thinnest of bonds. But gradually, one by one, they drift off.

Isaniel tries not to. Decades of learning to embrace Eilistraee and lower her guard around others have vanished tonight. She sits, staring at Astarion across the fire, and he stares back. His eyes are somehow both jeering and flirtatious, the planes and shadows of his face even more beautiful in the firelight. They sit for hours, just watching each other, her quiet declaration that she wouldn’t turn her back on a stranger heavy between them.

But eventually, exhaustion creeps up on her and slips the trance over her head, and then it is morning.

His smugness is unbearable.

Isaniel considers herself a practical woman. You can’t not be and survive the Underdark. She will refuse to give up on a cure until her body physically starts to change, but she knows that the second it does, she wants the others to cut her down—the same way she’d cut them down if they began to transform.

So when Astarion asks how she wants him to kill her should she sprout tentacles, she’s not affronted. She sees it as professional courtesy.

After some thought, she decides on a knife. Poison is not gentle, nor quick. Neither is strangulation. A good, clean thrust to the heart or head, though, will be fast and painless. The best result for her and those around her.

His eyes light up with enthusiasm as he discusses her choice, and Isaniel remembers how quietly he’d snuck up on her. This is not just professional courtesy, she realizes. This is a man who intimately knows the art of death, and loves it. And at that realization, the walls that had started to cautiously lower, just a tad, jerk back into place.

When he finishes, she crosses her arms, cocks her head, smiles coolly. “And you? How shall I kill you?”

His teeth flash an almost unnatural white when he grins. “Oh darling, I’d love to see you try.”

The night they gain some leads, she finds him stargazing while doing the rounds of the camp. When she pauses to speak with him, it is surprisingly nice. His quip about “taking or leaving” her chin makes her lips twitch, despite herself. And she can’t help but approve of someone who can also appreciate the beauty of the night sky.

Her eyes seek out the moon instinctively. Her hand closes around her sword pendant for a brief moment. Eilistraee, watch over me.

For a brief heartbeat, an echo of a song floats through her mind. It’s the same music that stopped her dead in a marketplace in the Underdark, so beautiful and ethereal and divine it almost brought tears to her eyes. Isaniel would later learn that Eilistraee was always seeking to touch the hearts of the drow, and had been beyond grateful she’d listened. But at the moment, all she had known was that she could not rest until she’d found that music again. Hearing it again now is a promise.

The notes fade, but she doesn’t feel empty like she did that day in the Underdark. Her goddess is with her and loves her, and there is nothing more comforting in the world than that. Even Astarion seems not so bad in that moment, and they bask together in the companionable silence.

But then he wonders aloud what will happen in the future, and the illusion of safety breaks. She briefly mourns its departure; then, she straightens her shoulders and looks back at reality. And reality includes him.

She gives him a taste of his own medicine: “What? Would you miss me?” He laughs, rises, and compliments her. She accepts it, and in doing so deflects. He flirts, invades her personal space. Out of sheer stubbornness, she refuses to step back. To do so would be to admit that he has unnerved her. It’s not just his proximity; it’s this undercurrent of something.

The dance ends; he leaves. The tension drains out of her body.

When she emerges from a restless, unsuccessful trance and finds Astarion leaning over her, Isaniel lashes out. Her elbow catches him square in the jaw; he curses and stumbles back, and she almost attacks while he’s off-balance. But she’s a follower of Eilistraee, and somehow, she’s become the leader of their group. Both of those factors give her a responsibility to hear him out. So, she stomps down on those old, false instincts and lets him talk.

It’s almost a relief to find out he’s a vampire. The secret is out, and now she can deal with it. Really, Isaniel feels like a fool for not putting the pieces together. The sun doesn’t burn her eyes anymore, thanks to the tadpole—why shouldn’t a vampire be able to walk in it as well? But she’d just assumed that his red eyes were indicative of drow blood somewhere in his family, the fangs some form of genetic defect.

Astarion asks her to trust him. Incredulously, she counters that he tried to bite her. He retorts that they need each other. And then he begs for a sip of her blood.

Isaniel takes a deep breath. Looking around, she realizes that their brief scuffle woke the others up. She decides to give them the benefit of the doubt and assumes that they only watch because they’re too surprised to actually do anything. But that’s irrelevant right now. She turns her focus inwards and analyzes exactly how much they need Astarion.

He’s the best among them at picking a lock. His speed is blinding. He’s deadly with his daggers. And he moves so silently…

Losing him would be bad, she has to admit. So: keeping him means feeding him. And logically, it makes sense that a vampire would not find animal blood as nourishing. Oh, she knows he’s manipulative, she doubts he’s telling the whole truth with his “I’ve never fed on humans!” spiel—but she does believe him in that, at least.

She certainly can’t half-starve him, but she will not let him eat innocents. So…what other options are there? Letting him feed off their enemies? Plausible; but that is a question for the morning. Because Astarion is ultimately right: it really comes down to whether she can trust him.

Isaniel doesn’t know what surprises her more: that she does trust him, or that the events of this night haven’t cost him all of it.

Well, she trusts him to an extent. She gives him his share of night shifts, she relies on him in battle, and he has easy access to their food. But that’s trusting him not to kill them; keeping him, knowing what he is, requires trusting him to not lose control. It means trusting that if an emergency happens and he needs their blood, he won’t go into a frenzy and drain them dry.

A test, then. If he reverts to a creature of base instinct, if he cannot be reasoned with, if he tries to kill her, she will kill him. Better to discover the extent of his self-restraint now, while she’s alert and prepared to stop him, than later, when circumstances might not be so fortuitous.

So she sends up a quick prayer to Eilistraee, bares her neck, and lies down.

He gets caught up in the moment, but her command to stop brings him out of it easily enough. He lets her go, breathless and smiling, thanks her, and stalks off.

Isaniel can’t be angry at him; after all—and this is very hard to admit, even to herself—she almost got caught up in the moment too.

Sometimes she would catch him gazing at the sky, during the day, open wonder on his face. Now she knows why.

Isaniel can understand that. With her eyes no longer burning, she can drink in the tableau around her in a new way. There are shades of color she couldn’t quite discern before, and everything seems so much richer in the sun. How many drow have been able to do this? Very few, most likely.

It’s not enough to make her want to keep the parasite—it could never be enough—but it is something she can’t help but appreciate.

The day the sickness strikes, Isaniel gives the order to make camp where they stand, long before night falls. They’re all just too exhausted to keep traveling, even to search for a suitable place to rest.

That’s not the only thing they’re too exhausted for, as it turns out. Not one of them can muster the energy to scout for nearby threats, or camouflage, or stand guard. Even Lae’zel’s attempt at a “mercy kill” is sloppy. They’re all so pathetic a kobold could walk into their midst and kill them.

Between talking Lae’zel down and doing her customary rounds of their parody of a camp, Isaniel’s low energy reserves are completely barren. As she crawls into her bedroll, for some reason, her mind turns back to Astarion’s panic.

He’s usually so self-assured. Smiling in the face of anything. Ready with his rapier wit. The complete unraveling of his composure is…alarming.

But before she can think much more on that, a fresh wave of tremors hits her. She squeezes her eyes shut, curls into a ball, and prays.

The next morning, Isaniel wakes up with heartache—and fury.

How dare it? How dare that parasite approach her in the guise of her dead husband? How dare it speak with his voice, ignite her skin with his touch, dishonor his memory by wearing his face? The sickness of the previous night is completely forgotten; instead, she shakes with rage as she brushes her hair, checks her equipment, gears up. Her fingers itch to play her lute and vent it all out in jagged, discordant music—but no. Astarion’s pale form is up and about, but the others are still sleeping.

She pauses and subtly studies him. He looks much better now; his movements are fluid again, his step springy. Even his hair somehow seems extra fluffy.

He turns, catches her staring, and winks. She rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch, damn them. Definitely back to normal.

At that, the memory of the dream rears its head. Her anger, which had started to simmer down, flares up anew. Isaniel scowls as she struggles with her sword belt, her normally dexterous fingers made clumsy by emotion. Curse that tadpole to the Hells—

“Well hello! Feeling better, are we?”

Astarions voice rings from right next to her, and she jumps. Eilistraee’s sword, how did she not realize he was a vampire sooner? No one can move that silently and swiftly and still be mortal.

“I certainly am,” he continues, without waiting for her answer. “This morning I find myself free of pain and with a new trick. A new power. Last night, the risk of transformation—it all feels like some terrible dream now.”

A dream…

Isaniel doesn’t know why she opens up to him. Maybe it’s because he’s around and she needs to get it off her chest. Maybe it’s because his witty tongue actually does make her chuckle, despite herself. Maybe it’s because he draws her eyes like the moon draws the tide.

Regardless, she ends up spilling the contents of her dream, anger and pain leaking into her voice. Astarion doesn’t really say anything; he just listens, eyes bright with curiosity and intrigue. But just listening is enough; she can feel an invisible weight lifting off her with every word out of her mouth.

When she finishes speaking—with an exhale of relief—he asks if she enjoyed it. Her fists clench at the memory of that intruder’s touch on her skin. “No, it felt invasive. Uncomfortable.”

“We had the same dream, then. The worm’s trying to be…enticing.”

Had he also seen someone he’d loved? But that blank look, the flat voice…there’s more to it than that, she’s sure. Isaniel hesitates, then pushes him to share. He lent her an ear, in his typical flippant fashion, but an ear nonetheless. It’s only fair to return the favor.

The truth of what he really dreamed about surprises her. She finds herself blurting out, “Your old master? That doesn’t sound ‘enticing’.”

“It was not,” he says, voice raw and low. “I—we don’t need to talk about it.”

And—oh.

That flash in his eyes. That pain.

Her throat closes.

It was brief, but she saw it. She would never mistake it.

It’s the pain of someone who has been trapped in darkness for so long they don’t even know light exists. The pain of someone who lived with cruelty every minute of every hour of every day. The pain of someone who does not let themselves feel pain, does not even acknowledge they are in pain, because that would be weakness and wolves would descend on them if they admitted to that.

It was her pain, before Eilistraee.

Isaniel is not good at comforting people. She knows how to talk people into doing what she wants and how to keep their group more or less from killing each other. But put her in a room with a crying woman or a scared child, and she’s just lost. Emotions are messy and difficult to deal with.

But at this moment, she wants, more than anything, to brave them. To let him know he’s not alone.

She can’t think of anything to say, can’t figure out how to put this epiphany into words, so hesitantly, she reaches out a hand—

And he recoils like a snake. Then, he strikes like one, eyes and fangs flashing, venom flying from his mouth as he renounces her pity.

It’s not pity, she wants to say. It’s not pity, because I know how hard it is to survive an environment that wants more than anything to break you. To pity you would belittle your strength. It’s empathy and support.

But she’s so stunned that by the time she’s able to begin, “It’s not pity,” it’s too late; his retreating back is the only thing that hears her.

One of Isaniel’s first memories is of her mother killing her pet bat, then slapping her until she stopped crying.

It was as a lesson, of course: that love was something that would only be exploited. The sort of lesson that every drow child learned young. Other lessons included how to think creatively, hurt others, scheme, and be paranoid—Isaniel still remembers carefully pouring poisons and potions into large, hollow glass beads and stringing them into her jewelry.

The lessons that had really struck a chord with her, though, had been how to create. Her family had been artisans, and had held a relatively secure position as employees to a well-off merchant clan. The plotting hadn’t been as intense as among the nobles, but it was still dangerous. After all, there were rival artisans and rival merchant clans to watch out for or destroy, and Isaniel had done her share of participating in that.

But oh, she had truly loved art, beauty, music. Eilistraee used that to reach her, and through it Isaniel came to love Eilistraee in turn. But it took a long time. Secretly seeking information about that music, a flight from the Underdark, and decades of studying the teachings of Eilistraee, testing them, putting them in practice, before the scars the Underdark left on her had begun to heal. Decades in which she found companionship with others of her faith, met her husband, became a mother…lost her husband to the ravages of time…

And now, after such a long time away from the toxic mindset she grew up with, she has come face to face with someone who embraces it. And she is torn.

There is a part of her, one that Eilistraee has grown and nourished, that is appalled in the face of Astarion’s casual cruelty towards others.

There is a part of her, one that Eilistraee has also grown and nourished, that begs her be compassionate and forgiving.

There is a part of her, one that she has abandoned but clings to her like a ghost nonetheless, that screams at her to end the threat before he ends her.

There is a part of her, one that has been with her as long as she can recall, that sees his trauma, and remembers, and empathizes.

Their experiences are not the same. But the darkness is the same.

She does not know what to make of him. She does not know what she should believe or do about him. So she watches, and speaks with him, and tries to understand.

Their travels eventually take them to a swamp, and there, they find a Gur. A monster-hunter. That in itself wouldn’t necessarily mean anything, but it’s foolish not to gauge his intentions, considering her company. So, in-between Astarion’s light insults, she inquires.

He says he’s hunting Astarion. Not to kill him, but to capture him.

Ice settles in Isaniel’s belly.

Capture him. And bring him to his “associates” in Baldur’s Gate. Back to Cazador. Back to the bastard who scarred him down to his very marrow. Back to chains and torment.

That’s not going to happen, she thinks vehemently.

Astarion is practically vibrating in place, his red eyes hard and uncompromising, his hands hovering close to his daggers. And yet, he still waits for her order. Out of genuine respect for her authority? Trust that she’ll neutralize the hunter? She’s not sure, but something about it is…a little touching.

She gives the word, and he lunges.

The battle with Auntie Ethel is tough, but manageably so. They all stay away from the cliff edges and destroy her illusionary copies as soon as they appear, they put out the fires near Mayrina and keep her out of harms’ way, and while the hag’s spells are powerful, they all somehow manage to avoid the worst of the damage.

But Auntie Ethel is one of those types. The type that likes to taunt and mock with a loud, clear voice that rings across the battlefield. And through some hag witchery, she knows how to hit where it hurts.

“Is there still rat stuck in your teeth, slave?”

She’s not near him, but Isaniel can see Astarion’s flinch—then his strikes resume, much faster and more furious than before. Her own teeth grind with outrage and sympathy, and she redoubles her efforts, and soon the hag is brought down.

She is not feeling quite as sympathetic when, after bidding a crestfallen Mayrina farewell, Astarion blithely remarks that it was a pity the young mother-to-be couldn’t see the funny side in her husband being resurrected as a zombie.

And yet, he voiced his approval back when they helped Karlach.

It’s not like that outweighs it. Life isn’t a set of scales. Helping one woman doesn’t balance out being amused at another’s pain. The people Isaniel hurt back in the Underdark wouldn’t care or forget just because she helped someone else now. Words and actions have permanent, tangible impacts.

It’s not like she wants to “fix” Astarion, either. People can’t be “fixed”. They can be broken or damaged by others—but never returned to who they once were. They carry the scars and lesions on their heart, like Isaniel does. With time and support, they hopefully heal, but that’s only if they want to.

It’s more like—and she might be projecting a bit, or biased because of her past—remembering Karlach gives her hope that Cazador didn’t destroy Astarion’s humanity.

Maybe it was inevitable.

Isaniel weaves throughout the party, smiles freely, even dances and sings. It’s impossible not to—the tiefling’s joy is infectious, the gentle warmth of the wine is infusing her body, and the moon is full and smiling overhead. All of her problems will still be there tomorrow, but tonight is a night for forgetting, and celebrating, and living.

The back of her neck prickles, again. This time she doesn’t ignore it. This time, she turns, somehow already knowing what she’ll see.

Sure enough, there’s Astarion, lurking on the fringes of the party, a glass of wine in hand, eyes fixed on her. Under the moonlight, his hair is practically glowing, his skin silver-tinted. He looks like some ethereal king of night and winter, standing there silhouetted against the darkness. It’s striking.

Striking. Oh.

She has always been watching him, hasn’t she? From the moment she met him. Maybe it was inevitable she would start seeing other things.

A jostle jars her out of her thoughts; she’d stopped moving right in the midst of the dancers. She mutters an apology to the tiefling couple and hastily clears the floor. Glances up again.

Astarion is still watching her.

Before she consciously decides to do it, her feet take her towards him. She falters when her mind catches up to her body, almost turns and runs. There’s something in his eyes, something in the air, something between them that crackles with intensity and promise.

But it’s too late to run—he’s coming towards her, too. Her heart lodges itself in her throat. Stay strong, she tells herself.

Whether she wants that strength to resist the shifting currents in their relationship or to swim towards them, she does not know.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x mc #astarion baldur's gate #astarion bg #astarion x charname

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the-apocryphal-one · 3 years

Text

Next of Kin

Summary: A special kind of pain squeezes her heart. The soft question that emerges from her lips is only natural. “Do you have any family?”Astarion x Isaniel

Also available at AO3 and ff.net!

A/N: Merry Christmas to all your lovely readers!

She should have done this before now. She knows she should have.

But there just hadn’t been time, at first. In the earliest days after her infection, she’d been teetering on a tightwire of panic and desperation, hastily cobbling together plans to get this thing out. Even when they’d stopped to eat or make camp, the thought of writing a letter to her son had never entered her mind—much to her shame.

Then, as days passed and nothing seemed to happen, she’d grown complacent. Maybe their parasites were defective. Maybe the ceremorphosis had failed. Maybe they could walk away from this with nothing more than some trauma and psionic abilities.

Then the sickness came and slapped her in the face with the reminder that nothing about these parasites is normal, nothing can be taken for granted, and nothing is all her son will know of her fate if she’s not careful.

But how do you do it? How do you say goodbye to your only child across hundreds of miles with no body language or facial expressions?

For the past few nights, Isaniel has been trying and failing to figure that out. Each time, she has pulled out parchment, stared at it for an indeterminate amount of time, laboriously pushed out a few words, stared some more, then folded it back up and returned it to her pack.

Tonight, she vows as she sits near a large, flat rock that will substitute as a desk, she’s not getting up until this letter is done. She pulls it out of her jerkin, smooths it out, places it on the rock, and uses a few pebbles to hold the corners down.

Selakiir, it says.

If you’re reading this, I’m very likely dead or worse. We can never foresee our fates, but I have a reasonable certainty as to what my particular ‘or worse’ is. The details are included in an additional, enclosed letter. That had already been written, perversely coming easier than this one. You may ignore it if you wish. I would not hold it against you if you did.

That was as far as she’d gotten. Now, she dips the quill back in the inkpot, sucks in a breath, and pens, I hope that the person who delivers this will be able to give you a first-hand account of my fate, so they can

Soothe you? Selakiir is bafflingly, wonderfully outgoing…but he is also private in his grief. When his father died, he withdrew from adventuring, his friends, even her. He’s not the type to accept banal well-wishes, especially from strangers.

answer any questions you have.

Her quill stalls. She stares at the drying ink, trying to muster up something else to say.

When she writes letters, they always end up much like her: detached and logical. But this is supposed to be a goodbye letter. The last thing her son might have of her. It…it has to be right. She can’t leave him feeling like she saw this as some sort of duty. If there’s one thing she’s always wanted to make sure Selakiir knew, and was always afraid he didn’t, it was that she loved him.

Remember: my love for you is like the moon. There are nights when it doesn’t know how to show all its self, but it is always there.

No, that should be in the closing paragraph. It’d be more final, more poetic. A lovely note to leave things on. But she can’t make herself scratch it out. There’s this foolish, superstitious fear that Selakiir will find out and be hurt. Isaniel grimaces, struggling to wrestle small talk, emotion, something onto the paper so it’s more than this dry thing.

It’s almost funny that I ended up adventuring like you

We’ll meet again in Eilistraee’s

I’m sorry I won’t be there for your wedding. The present I was making is in

Don’t you dare try to avenge me. Stay far away from

Isaniel presses her head against the heel of one hand and bites down an uncharacteristic scream. The paper’s empty spaces and crossed-out lines mock her.

“If you stare at that any more intensely, it’ll burst into flames.”

“Iblith!” she curses, startling so fiercely she upends the inkpot. She’s still thinking in Undercommon, so her next few words come out in it before she catches herself and switches back to Overcommon. “Dos olist mzild taga—stop that.”

Astarion is bent double with laughter, guffawing so hard some of the others are glancing their way. There are actually tears in his eyes. “And miss out on the chance to see you jump like a wet cat? I could never.”

Gods, he can be so juvenile sometimes. Something dangerously close to affection laces that thought, banishing the bitter frustration of failure.

Ever since that day he recoiled from her hand, Astarion has haunted her thoughts more than she would like. She has sought him out more frequently, asking questions, trying to understand him, trying to sort out what she should feel. He is dark and dangerous and cruel—and yet there is something in him, raw, genuine pain that mirrors what she once knew, that she cannot turn away from.

So, Isaniel is not surprised that Astarion’s bouts of childishness have become something she can think on with almost-fondness. Empathy, revulsion, confusion, curiosity already spin together in a whirlpool; what’s one more emotion on the pile?

That doesn’t stop her from shooting him a dour look as she rights the inkpot, though. “I will remind you that I have a rapier and that someday, I’ll be so startled I’ll stab first and ask questions later.”

“Ha! Duly noted.” Astarion gingerly—because of course he’s still worrying about getting stains on his clothes—sits next to her. Unabashedly, he peers at her pathetic letter. “What are you writing?”

She lets him peek. There’s no way he knows Undercommon…and even if he does, he won’t break her cipher. “A letter to my son. In case I die or transform.”

“Your son? That is a very important letter. Who will you entrust with its delivery?”

“Whoever among us is still alive, I suppose.”

“My, don’t you have a low opinion of our abilities.”

It’s not quite that; more like she’s just not picky. But he’s clearly preparing to launch into some spiel, so she chooses to simply wait rather than argue the point.

He doesn’t make her wait long, gesturing dramatically with his hands as he speaks. “Not that you’re wrong. Without you keeping his thirst for revenge and delusions of grandeur in check, Wyll will run off and get himself killed. Lae’zel and Shadowheart will kill each other before the sun goes down. Gale—” He chuckles. “Well. Need I go on?”

Irritation nips at her. Eilistraee knows her companions’ colorful range of personalities have given Isaniel more than one headache, but she still feels protective of them. “Yes, actually—or am I supposed to believe you wouldn’t be leaping into situations fangs first?”

“Ah, but if there’s one thing you can trust me to do, it’s survive those situations. I can see that letter to your son, darling.”

She snorts at his transparency. “You just want to read it.”

He just shamelessly grins, unapologetic about being found out.

Isaniel toys with and discards the idea of chastising him. The matter is too small to make a fuss over, and his cat-like tread and nimble fingers mean he can very much lift the letter off her if he wants. Although…hm. Maybe she can twist this back around on him. She shrugs with feigned disinterest. “Well, it’s not like you could, anyway.”

Astarion inspects his nails. “Oh, I’m sure I can get a scroll of Comprehend Languages somewhere.”

“It’s not just in Undercommon. It’s encoded too.”

He’s visibly taken aback by that. It’s childish of her, but she can’t help thinking, That’s a point for me. Gods, it’s too fun to match wits with him. “You write to your son in code?”

“It was a game we played when he was little.” It had simultaneously been a way to teach him and soothe her paranoia. “We’ve kept it up since.”

In a calculated move, Astarion twists and leans in close. His voice drops, becomes husky. “You do know there’s nothing more tempting than something you can’t have, yes?” His eyes deliberately trace a path up her neck and settle on her mouth.

He’s trying to knock her off balance. Isaniel would rather walk barefoot on hot coals than let him know he has—though not, she suspects, for the reasons he intended. Let him stare at her mouth or neck, he’s a flirt and a vampire spawn. No, the feel of his breath tickling her skin, the way his hand is almost but not quite brushing hers, is more alarming. It’s too intimate. Distracting.

She hastily delivers the coup de grace before he can spot the rapid flutter of her pulse. “What better way to guarantee your delivery? Stubbornness or curiosity will make you hold onto it until you crack it. But you won’t, so you’ll have to bring it to Selakiir to find out what it says.”

A heartbeat. Two. Then Astarion laughs, throaty and deep, sits back, and shakes his head. “Well played, my dear.”

With fresh distance between them, Isaniel exhales in relief. She hastily tries to cover it up by pretending to shift in her seat, but there’s a certain twinkle in Astarion’s eyes that tells her she failed. She clears her throat, praying that her face doesn’t betray her fluster. “I’ll give it to you when I’m done.”

She expects that to be the end of it, for Astarion to fire a parting quip and wander off to tease someone else. But her surprise, he doesn’t. Instead, he props his chin in his hand and studies her.

That look in his eyes…is that actual curiosity?

Like paper thrown into fire, her own is fanned. She hasn’t bothered to ask how old he is, but she can make an educated guess. The Underdark’s abusive culture forces drow to mentally mature well before their twenties; surface elves like Astarion can afford to wait until their first century or so. Of course, magistrate isn’t the type of position you typically get straight out of adolescence, so there could be anywhere from a rough fifty years to another two hundred on top of that. For some reason, she doesn’t peg him as any more than three hundred, pre-turn. Post-turn adds another two centuries.

For humans, several hundred years encompasses several generations. But for an elf… His parents and siblings could still be alive. So could his possible children. Unless he, like her, had a half-human child. They would have died in the time he spent enslaved.

Selakiir’s warm brown eyes and smiling face flash across her mind. A special kind of pain squeezes her heart. The soft question that emerges from her lips is only natural. “Do you have any family?”

A shadow briefly flickers across his face; then, like a rat fleeing for its life, it is gone. He smiles brightly and waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, let’s not exhume the past. There’s nothing interesting about it.”

Isaniel furrows her brow, but before she can say anything, Astarion rises, brushes his trousers off, and struts away. As is all-too-common of late, her gaze lingers on him until he disappears inside his tent. She exhales slowly. If he departed with such alacrity, it’s probably for the best she didn’t get to push him. Eilistraee knows how well that went over last time, and she’d just been clumsily trying to comfort him.

She glances down at the letter. Inspiration strikes. Spontaneously, she pens in another sentence. If accompanying this letter is a pale, white-haired elf named Astarion, point him to the Dancing Haven.

It’s unusually risky of her. If Cazador really will stop at nothing to get Astarion back, she could be bringing a vampire lord down on her congregation. And Astarion just might be callous enough to repay them by selling them out or abandoning them. He does not deserve such risks, the old Isaniel insists.

But then, she wouldn’t be here now if an Eilistraeen hadn’t taken a risk for her over a century ago, when she hadn’t deserved it.

She adds, I don’t know if he’ll actually go there, but like me, he’s fled some sort of dark past. I hope that, in absence of my aid, he can at least find refuge.

Bantering with Astarion seems to have unlocked some wellspring of words from deep within her; the mention of her past gives her the subject. Speaking of which, you may have all my belongings, including the forge and the new house. The password to disarm the magical traps is the same as our old one—I hope you remember it? Your father was always fondly exasperated by my insistence on having them, but you loved to show them off to your friends. My memories of you two are the best in my life…

The next day, she hands Astarion several pages and a “thanks” that holds more meaning than he knows.

Drow isn’t officially a language in 5e, but it was in older editions. So even though Isaniel was technically speaking in Undercommon for a bit, I went ahead and borrowed words from their dictionary. Rough translation:

Iblith: shit

Dos olist mzild taga: You stealth (intended to be akin to sneak or skulk) more than— (“a drider” is what she would have finished with)

Also Overcommon is just Isaniel’s name for Common.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x mc #astarion x charname #isaniel gelin #fanfic #my fanfic #my writing

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