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taz-writes · 10 months

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object memories

A fic I wrote as part of my D&D druid’s backstory that I’m in the mood to share. Do you ever write something for the sole purpose of splashing around in your own prose like a dog in a kiddie pool?

TLDR: POV character Hush and her father were held prisoner by a cult for 10 years in solitary confinement, before being ritually sacrificed. Unbeknownst to the cult, Hush wasn’t quite dead and woke up later in the mass grave mortally wounded but alive. As a druid, Hush can shapeshift into animals if she’s seen and studied them before. This fic is about how she 'discovered’ her first four wildshapes in the aftermath of her ordeal, while learning to survive alone in the wilderness and fend off the hunger that threatened to consume her.

~4,600 words; CWs: gore, animal death, take ‘em seriously I’m not kidding around. I feel like there’s also something going on here with the hunger stuff, but I truly don’t know what the fuck to even call that CW. If somebody knows, let me know lol.

The rat was the first.

She doesn’t know exactly when she reached the tipping point, but she grew intimately acquainted with the ways of the rats over the years. She spent an eternity in that dungeon, curled in the corner among her clinking chains, feeling them scurry over her in her sleep. Grew acquainted with how they move, how they think, grew used to fighting them away from what little she had to eat, bartering with them for the space, for help to stay clean, teaching them to bring her things. She watched them for generations, while they nested in the dirty little pallet that she slept on, until they were closer friends than she’d ever had among humans.

She knew them, inside and out, long before she knew how to change into anything. When she awoke in the aftermath and the wildshapes came, the rat was like a second skin. She slipped into the shape like a shield, slick with blood, and slithered out with the last of her breath.

The world outside was big.

She couldn’t heal. The first word she spoke when she took her given shape again was a rattling, empty gasp that sent sticky gore oozing through the feeble scabs over the gash in her neck. It didn’t matter how desperately she grasped for the language, how well she knew the incantation, how crisp and adamant the gestures were that should have saved her. There was no magic without sound. And her angelic heritage did little to help when whatever the source of her limited innate healing, it simply didn’t respond.

She spent the first week or so in the glade on the edge of the forest where she collapsed after running out of time as the rat. The summer heat broiled her skin, even through the shield of the canopy, leaving her parched and aching and crisp like a dead leaf. In the haze of exhaustion, she began to treat her wounds.

The sacrificial shift they’d dressed her in shredded easily. She wound long strips of it carefully around her waist and chest, stomach churning at the horrid sight of the injuries, and tied the rest as tightly as she could across her ragged neck before the pressure made her choke. Every motion left her dizzy and sick. She might have laid there on and off for hours or days or a month, languishing in the softest patch of moss she managed to find and dragging herself back and forth from the clear little stream that burbled a few yards away. As many moments as she could, she hid behind the rat again. The rat wasn’t bleeding. The rat was safe. The rat could forage, devouring whatever it could find, just enough to sustain her.

She learned the rabbits next.

Timid creatures, cautious and quick, they watched her with their wide beaded-bright eyes and darted to safety at the sound of her rattling breaths. While she waited to recover her strength between wildshapes, she watched them back, tracking the little families back and forth among the wild grasses. They were solitary, but not alone—never truly alone.

There was a nest not far from her resting place. She stumbled across the babies on her way to the stream. Their tiny forms huddled together in a depression in the grass and she looked one in the eyes and its little ears trembled, it tucked itself deeper in the shadows, bracing, and a sudden knife twisted in the center left of her stomach.

It took too long to realize it wasn’t the wound this time.

Her sunburnt skin ached desperately, throbbing to the rhythm of a heart that wasn’t hers. She fumbled past to the edge of the water and dipped her face below the surface, where the chill could bring her to her senses, but the soft curves of the current brushed their way along her cheeks like the perfect ghosts of her father’s hands.

Her lungs burned before she came back up for air.

The next time she changed, the new shape was a rescue. She was a stranger but she smelled like the glade, and the other rabbits allowed her there. In the shadowed night they huddled together, warmed by each other’s skin, and her tiny rabbit’s heart began to calm as it hadn’t before in a very long time.

She couldn’t remain forever. She was keenly aware, the longer she lingered, that she was far too close to the cult. Any member could stumble across her here, out on a forage or traveling to the compound, and she wouldn’t get another chance at freedom. She couldn’t risk it. When her stomach sealed enough that the insides of her abdomen didn’t spill to the outside after any major movement, she staggered to her feet like a newborn fawn and began the journey.

She stuck to the woods. Waterdeep was a death trap, anyone could be cult-aligned, anyone could see her and they thought she was dead but she couldn’t know who might know her face. The roads were too much of a risk, populated as they were. Stealth was her only option. The angels guided her when she slept, teaching her how to find north and south in the stars, how to know clean water from stagnant, how to name the leaves and berries around her and tell which ones were safe. She treated her aches with willow bark and bandaged herself with buffers of soft clean leaves. She passed the days in the shelter of her animal forms or huddled in the shade, thinking of anything but the black spots that swarmed intermittent in her vision and the weakness in her limbs. She stayed alive. It was a near thing.

When the berry season faded, and the leaves began to turn, the hunger snarled in her like a wild beast.

She stumbled to the nearest town under cover of night, shielding her body with her arms, following the smell of something delicious she couldn’t name that made her gut twist with starving, nauseous desperation. It was too open, the streets too broad, but every building’s door loomed and narrowed and filled her mouth with the suffocating taste of molding earth until her heart pattered the way it did in the rabbit’s body and the outlines of the structures blurred and blackened before her eyes. A too-cold breeze swirled through the streets and she shuddered from head to toe.

There was a man ahead in dark robes that swirled and her heart moved like rabbit’s feet fleeing in her ribcage. She forced herself to the alley, forced herself back, and bolted into the safety of the sacred darkness.

It was like that at the next few towns, too. There were kind people, here and there. One gave her a soft dark shirt and soft dark pants when she met him in the night, thrust them at her and skittered off when she tried through rattling gasps to ask if he wanted payment; a few innkeepers let her stay the night and gave her meals in the morning that softened the hunger’s brutal edge. But it couldn’t last, because the figures in the alleyways always came back, and names that she remembered from another life haunted her until she fled back to the safety of the trees.

The days grew colder.

The woods were safer further south, deep and dark, filled with birdsong and the golden colors of the waning year, the colors bright as life. She’d taken a sharp rock and cut a stick to hold her weight, easing the pressure on the days when walking was too much. Her breathing was growing easier, and her neck didn’t bleed anymore. But the words that would call magic to her side still couldn’t find their way from her mind out through her lips.

She was losing strength. The angels taught her traps and snares, but her feeble hands couldn’t tie the knots tight enough, and the few beasts she trapped slipped free when she tried to claim them. The herd of deer that once bolted at the sight of her now didn’t even flinch, the great many-pointed stag that led their numbers watching her passively while his mate and children drank at the riverside and foraged from the dying grasses. There was little to forage and less to live by, and some days the wavering mists of exhaustion hardly left her vision.

Sometimes, on the nights the angels didn’t come, she dreamed of the stag instead. Of his glinting eyes in the brush, watching her, unafraid. She murmured prayers in the morning to whatever forces listened.

She met the wolves in the pits of a moonless night, by way of gleaming golden eyes and an uncanny silence sweeping over her resting place, and she knew they’d come for her. She resolved herself to at least go down on her feet.

When the first wolf lunged, she lashed out with her staff, squeezing her eyes shut against the wave of fatigue that swept through her body from head to toe and sent the blood rushing out of her head, and felt herself make contact. The beast yelped, and she blinked spots from her vision just in time to fend off a second, sending it sprawling across the scrubby ground. Her hands shook.

“Please,” she tried to rasp, though nothing but a helpless wheeze came out. The wolves paced. She shifted back, making space, feeling acid adrenaline spread slow like venom down her arms and into her fingertips, biting back the way every motion tore at the scabby flesh of her still-healing abdomen.

The wolves kept pacing. In the dark, they moved like dancers, every footstep intentionally measured. Silent, despite their size, dwarfing her with heavy bodies—direwolves, not just wolves, but their largest and most vicious cousins.

Her stomach growled with a ferocity that nearly sent her to her knees.

The third wolf lunged. She grasped for the little magic she knew, one of the rare spells that remained without her voice, and scared it back with a shard of ice that burst into bitter steam across the pack. Its yelp was piercing and sharp and left her dizzy. Through the haze as she recovered, she watched the wolf pack flee.

She dreamed of the stag that night. She dreamed of blood and the careful steps of hunting beasts, tender in the foliage. She dreamed that she staggered to uncertain feet and the stag was there, his muzzle nudging against her arm, strong and stable, as she found her way upright. She wrapped her arms around him. He was warm and smelled of musk and the gentle decay of the forest floor in fall. He didn’t flee. His fur was soft like the velveteen skin of something whose name she’d forgotten, a precious something she’d loved in another life, beyond her memory, behind the veil of the endless dark. She awoke grasping for it, the name on her lips but not close enough to catch it, even if she’d had the voice to speak.

She dreamed fitfully, in bursts, interrupted by the empty claws of a hollow stomach scratching at the inside of her vessel like nails on slate.

The next day, something whimpered in the bushes when she went to change her bandages at the stream. She braced herself against her staff, and nudged aside the leafy branches, and found the wolf. It was panting, golden eyes glazed grey with pain, curled up defensively with hackles raised. It growled at her approach, but the sound was weak, and tapered to a whimper.

Near its feet, the ground was muddied with black-red blood. She traced the line from its paws to the place in its side where the fur was shaved down to muscle and a thin line of bone. The ghost of a spell and an icy projectile flashed across her memory.

Her hands were shaking again.

She went to the water. This stream ran clear and cold, down from somewhere in the mountains, carrying the mineral taste of glaciers high above. Flakes of mud and blood trailed free from her hands when she dipped them in the current, and she watched them swirl away through the eddies and whorls.

It was all mechanical, in the end. She pried a piece of moss from the bank, hefted it, ran it through the water and watched the dirt run off the roots towards the valley. Washed it clean, squeezed it under the surface and watched it fill with water. Stood and turned back to the forest.

The beast didn’t calm, but it didn’t bite when she pressed the pad of moss as gently as she could against the gash. It snapped, and she looked it in the eye, waiting. Its jaws were wide, teeth yellowed and worn from use. It could tear her to ribbons even now, if it had the nerve. She wouldn’t last long.

She washed the wound, and padded it with clean dry lichen, and flinched when she touched the beast’s side and a warmth filled her fingers that hadn’t answered her since she first returned to consciousness in the grave. She caught it like a soap bubble, soft as a memory. It settled in her chest and the breath that filled her lungs was deeper than she’d had in years.

She’d forgotten how it felt, when the warding darkness at her center answered. When the healing power in her blood responded to her call.

She forgot it again when the hunger returned in a wave of dizzying force, chasing all other thoughts from her mind. The wolf, rising from its rest in the hollow, tilted its head with a calculating glint and watched her. Gold eyes met gold.

It turned to follow the water, limping ever so slightly, and padded off.

She followed.

The pack was waiting in a stony cavern where the stream met a sparkling river. She felt their wary gazes long before she saw them, hidden as they were among the warm grey stone. But they recognized their lost member and pounced on him, tumbling together in a massive joyful bundle over the sandy patch of riverside, and before long it was like they hadn’t even seen her. She found a bright place on a rock by the shore, and waited for the sun to warm her bones more than the hunger chilled them.

Across the river, the bushes rustled. She knew what she’d see there.

The stag disappeared into the brush, and her vision blackened.

She awoke to the hot wet stickiness of a tongue on her face, and flinched, recoiling from the threat. In front of her sat the injured direwolf.

“Hi,” she whispered, bracing herself. “Hi there.” The words stuck in her wound and scraped.

The wolf cocked its head, stood, and licked her face again. It… did not try to bite her head off. This was not a situation she had anticipated. She particularly did not expect to be licked a third time. The wolf’s breath almost made her faint again.

Behind the wounded animal, the packmates slunk forward, watching her. Waiting.

The hunger in their eyes was a mirror of her own, and the shapechange came in its aching wake.

She followed them, that night, in a wolfish skin that matched their own. It wasn’t long before she had to pause, the time limits of her wildshapes forcing her back to rest while the pack moved on, but the howl carried on. They didn’t like to leave their own behind. She learned their faces—the mother the first to lunge, the father the second, the grown pups that followed them with their own faces and minds and hearts. They walked the trails of the forest, and she learned their gait, their stalking dance, their silent patience.

She slept between great warm bodies, and dreamed of blood and meat and the beasts that once wore the bite-marked bones on the floor of the den.

In the days, she jostled with the pups as one of them while she could. When she couldn’t, she rested on the rock by the river, while the echoes gnawing in her stomach dueled the white-hot claws of her bone-deep scars. She scrounged late-season eggs from a duck’s nest and swallowed them raw, on her hands and knees in the riverbank mud, eggshells scraping her gums and spilled yolk staining the ground, and coughed up half what she found when her scarred neck screamed with pain from bending low. It staved off the ache for an hour. She scraped up the spilled remains in her hands and wept.

On the fifth night, she followed the pack to a valley full of marsh-weed, where they found a limping boar. The pack struck in a whirl of fur and fangs, iron-stink staining the water. They fought her back from the bounty until the leaders took their share, but the scraps she claimed sated something, hot and vicious in the pit of her gut.

It was enough for a day.

She dreamed of it after, the blood that dripped from her fangs, the viscera on her tongue, the hot iron taste of it, the texture of muscle rending against her jaw. The heat on her lips and gums, bone crushing and crunching and cracking in her grasp, the relief like a soft warm pelt at the end of a long day’s journey as the soft squishing prey slid down her gullet like a prayer…

She dreamed of it night after night after night, waking with saliva in her mouth, thinking of it between the angels’ words, the ghost of that sensation dancing through her mouth in all her forms. She sat by the river and echoed it, conjuring up the giving resistance of flesh under her teeth, biting her tongue till it bled to remember the taste. She dreamed of nothing but. She dreamed even in her waking hours, as the first autumn frost laced over the land and the pack sat full and happy from the hunt.

She dreamed of it until the dream consumed her, empty of everything but teeth.

She left the den on an ice-bitter evening under ponderous slate skies when the dull weight of the thought hung heavy like an overripe fruit, when she wondered what the wolves would feel like beneath her fangs, if their heavy furs would rip and tear the way that scrap of boar did or if they’d linger in the teeth and scratch and bristle. She slunk up the hill to the north on the pack’s favored trail, filling her muzzle with the scent of heavy musk and petrichor.

The stag was waiting.

His antlers glinted in the cold dead moonlight, graceful as a halo, round as the crescent moon. He turned his head. She met his eyes and lunged.

She tore out the flesh of his neck like pages from a holy book, paper beneath her fangs as his blood ran like wine at a ritual. His stomach opened just as easily, staining the fallen leaves in garish scarlet, and his legs kicked feebly as she tore through the viscera that spilled free, relishing in the iron stench. Mouthful after mouthful, she ate her fill. She tore through muscle and tendon until she finally sank her teeth into his bright-hot heart and swallowed it in shreds. It might have still been beating, or the pulse between her jaws might have been her own, racing and vicious. She felt every piece reach her stomach, filling the void, hot in her chest like a hearthfire, bright as a star, sweet and tangy in the wolf’s senses and prickling in her own.

She hunted the liver down among the mess and swallowed it next, and the kidneys, and parts she knew no name for that glistened red and pink and sickish yellow in the light. She savored the feeling, the soft wet warm of it, the taste of the life that would fuel her own. She pried out the lowest of his ribs and it crackled in her jaws and she chewed out the marrow until there was nothing left of worth.

She didn’t know when he stopped moving, only that eventually, he did. It took too long.

When the wolf’s stomach filled, she lost the shape and scrabbled at the stag with her own weak human-shaped hands, her fingers shaking, nails digging into the slickened meat for purchase and prying up scraps to devour. She shook and shuddered and buried her own face into the stag’s shattered chest, drinking the lifeblood until it dried sticky on the edges of her skin, until she was full, until her aching stomach silenced and stopped and grew bloated with bleeding flesh.

She raised her head and her gaze caught upon his eyes. They were wide, and glassy, and milky with the haze of death.

She turned away from the kill and threw up nothing but bile, choking on the taste of steel.

“Thank you,” she murmured, too hoarse for anyone to hear, shuffling to the side and cradling his head in her lap, the warm blood filling her soft dark pants and seeping through to her skin. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

She leaned over him, wrapped her arms around his neck, curling her fingers into his short soft fur. Velveteen. Buried her face in his, her eyes hot and stinging, she swore she felt the ghosts of hands in her hair as the blood dried sticky on her face and melted down her cheeks. She clutched him tight enough to strain the scabs down her chest and belly, threatening to once again reopen the wounds. And she stayed there, waiting, until nothing came. Her stomach was quiet.

As she rose to her feet, she carefully bent and lifted as much of the stag as her body could manage. He was lighter than seemed fair, even to her haggard limbs.

Her hands didn’t shake.

There were hunters in these woods. The angels had told her, murmurs in the night, between the endless thoughts of hunger. They could help her. She stumbled through the brush, dragging the stag behind her, listening for someone larger than herself.

In the hours before the dawn, she found a young man in the valley, carrying a crossbow and a knife. He stiffened at her approach, and stood there wide-eyed, watching.

The words she spoke to explain herself died in rasping whistles in her throat, but still he watched, rapt, his eyes darting between the stag and her own face.

“You… you killed that?” the man asked, gesturing.

She nodded. Her neck twinged. She felt the man’s gaze skirt over her scarred neck, her hands slick with blood, the wrinkled scabby mess of her stomach where it was visible between the hem of her shirt and her makeshift belt.

“Do you… need to… take it somewhere?” She shook her head. The man swallowed. “That’s a lot of meat for one person. Erm…” He looked around, and she tilted her head. “…Do you know how to treat it? If you’re planning to eat that yourself, you probably want to salt-preserve it, it’ll spoil quickly otherwise. I could… help?”

She shook her head quickly, forcefully, then nodded, please, and the man flinched. But he was true to his word.

He led her to a clearing, his hands fluttering and his soft eyes nervous as she followed like a wraith, and showed her how to lay the stag down and open the rest of its body with a clean sharp knife. How to strip the meat from the bones, careful and keen, and process it into chunks and then lay it in pieces in salt to let it dry. She watched the process with singleminded focus, noting down every last motion, memorizing each flick of the knife.

He let her borrow his blade, so she could clean the carcass and keep that velveteen skin. With a few weeks’ drying and treatment, it would make a good blanket to last the winter through. She stripped the stag to the bones, and kept those as trophies. That night, the angels taught her to sharpen them into knives.

When the man had left, knife and bow in hand, retreating into the shadows, she realized that he never once quite looked her in the eyes.

She kept the skull. Late at night she stared into its face, searching for the glint of the stag’s all-knowing gaze in the depths of his bones, knowing there was nothing on the other side. She stared at him until somewhere deep inside, a part of her became him. Until his eyes became her own.

She took the form of a deer in the morning, wearing the weight of his antlers like a crown. The herd moved by her in the bushes and watched her like a ghost.

She went south. The winter was upon her, and it was time again to travel. The herd had enough to haunt them.

#dnd fic #this is... more gruesome than i usually go in for but it was fun to write #the way this feels like cannibalism when it definitely isn't #but at the same time in some metaphorical sense it kind of is #it's more... killing somebody and then stealing their skin #hush is a creepy forest witch who talks to angels and makes people nervous #and i love that for her #the hunter she met in the woods is just some sad little himbo trying to feed his family and thanking the gods he wasn't murdered by the fey #100% that man thought hush was either a faerie or a demon and feared for his LIFE #i told the DM that someday i would love her to just randomly bump into that guy again #because now that she's healed enough to /talk/ again she wants to thank him and will be all excited to see him #'omg it's my best friend!!!' meanwhile this poor guy is shitting himself 'oh fuck oh no i DID accidentally sell my soul to the fey'#hush is one of those characters i categorize as 'obliviously terrifying'#she is just a gal trying to survive and trying to regain her sense of self after being violently dehumanized for over a decade #she encounters other people and is overwhelmed but tries to be 'normal'#she just... fails to realize that between the aasimar angel traits and the inability to talk and the telepathy she uses to compensate...#she is very scary to other people #but then you talk to her and she is in tears of joy bc she had a fresh baguette this morning and it was really good #and it's like... ah. she's just poorly socialized

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saturniade · 2 years

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another bard. yeeeeeehaw !!!!!!!

#ocs #dnd #names ghoulash which is a pun on the ukrainian word [goulaty] meaning to go out / to be a little promiscuous #that he is :] got to use the Faceless backstory which is HILARIOUS its just fantasy autism i SWEAR #he has his aasimar buddy who is like his guardian angel (names philip) and then his ghoulash silly bard persona #and its a big masking metaphor. i love it #philip is just autism to a hundred he fucking hates textures and everything but he is very cool and powerful #he posseses ghoulash for a minute at a time and stims by killing demons with loghtning i guess.#its the beyond two souls its the mob psycho. i LOVE him #oh and the tiefling shi idk i think i posted snippets of her here and there. tiefling butter businesslady wizard shes also cool

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thedeadthree · 2 years

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ADDA DE TRASTAMARA (pathfinder: kingmaker)

i wanted to introduce the new girlie occupying the headspace so i returned to these two picrews!

TAGGING: these have made the rounds but if u would like to make more or if you haven’t done this yet please feel free to tag me! i always love seeing peoples ocs 💫

#oc: adda de trastamara #being sick means u make more clowns! ✨🤡💛🥴#she’s an angel blooded aasimar and empyreal sorceress and like.. im obsessed with her 💛🥹#the astral queen is her title i think? it fits! 💛💫#i uh.. have to re do the blood and wine dlc bc i messed up and the save was already saved over sksnjxjx ✨🥴#BUT AT THE SAME TIME maybe this playthrough was just an au? bc i know im gonna want to replay ITS MY FAV DLC FOR A REASONN #the main quest reigned (and still does) reign king of my heart but blood and wine oh my god.. IT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME #ill go into a lore rant about nyctemine and how she reacts in that au bc.. it’s not pretty knowing dettlaff is gone #and like she couldn’t save him ✨🤧#BUT BACK TO ADDA at first i had like maegor in mind but im maybe thinking tristian? ill know for sure when i meet them?#(or i can also just watch videos of their romances but..! yea!)#gonna SHOOT for an ending where her kingdom thrives and so none of her heirs have to make up for things for the lore sake 💛 we shall see!#her fc was originally cae’s a*nya t*aylor *j*oy but i realized her and the aesthetic of cae fit adda better!#and i think in a*6 im giving vexx/damon to lunafreya?#i realized that cae as a character with ch5 isn’t really a viable character? in possibility she doesn’t become queen and her sister does?#but luna definitely is! in either scenario! so i think she’s the better route!#a lot of caes character is being transferred over to adda! the virtuous appearance hiding someone more ambitious underneath gold aesthetics #leg.ocs #t: picrews

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orcelito · 1 year

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You know though despite being how I am, I've never actually played a tiefling in dnd

Instead, I have played several furries. Which I think exhibits How I Am pretty well, actually

#speculation nation #my current character is a Wolf Guy even. aka uhhh longtooth shifter i think #and theres also kallias aka swiftfoot shifter aka cat furry #but like. furry-lite. i havent actually played any anthro (yet)#ive got laima as an aasimar with bird-like qualities #and other than that. it's mostly been like... elves #my first was taltana. a drow druid.#there's ophelia who was reworked from an older oc who i made into a high elf cleric #shizuka who's an even Older oc from the group ophelia's from. except she was the First. i made her into a wood elf monk #and then of course there's nico. among my favorite ocs even if he's not currently the focus. who i made a half elf wizard.#there was an au where he was a uhh dragon sorcerer. but still half elf. just with dragon qualities.#i DO have a dragonborn fighter that i played Once back in 2017. rip Sulfras u have never gotten a moment to shine.#and besides that. ive got a druid tortle i havent gotten to play yet named Musca. who is likely my backup for if Fang dies #there's a kenku . whose name . i currently cannot remember . who i made for dragon sorcerer nico background #& who would be great to play someday maybe. maybe...#uhmmm ive made assorted other characters out of whims. but i also have played nico in Three different campaigns. so lol #and laima in two campaigns and kallias in two campaigns #OH i also did have a uhh changeling. whose name im forgetting but they were actually taltana's younger sibling or smth #NOTABLY. i have never made a tiefling. and that's just kinda crazy to realize.#the darkest in concept of my ocs is Fang. aka current wolf dude. bc of his whole cursed bloodline & shadow sorcerer shit #but he is Not the most angsty. that reward belongs to nico probably. with kallias close behind.#laima is probably Less angsty than even fang but thats bc hes got his whole tortured soul 'i bring bad luck to everyone around me' thing #he just wants to have a good time but the times keep having Him #laima is there to look cute and flirt with girls. as is her right.#oughhhhh kallias has the best backstory characters tho. his mom is so badass. his dad is a fucker but a respectable fucker.#he also has an old dragonborn pseudo-father who was his father's old war buddy who was 100% in love with him #but rather than say Anything he just happily agreed to help train his friend's son in combat once he was old enough #imagine an old white battle scarred dragonborn hanging out with this little black n white kitten of a boy #teaching him draconic too. & literally calling him 'kitten' in draconic as a nickname #it's literally SO cute and so kallias has a 2nd dad. dragon dad.

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nunalastor · 1 month

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You know what would be fun is if Charlie ran a DnD game as a group bonding activity. It encourages creative thinking, problem solving, and most important, Teamwork! She gets some... mixed reactions from the group.

Husk: Wait, why are we playing this kid's game? Niffty: Oh I don't know, maybe because SHUT THE HELL UP HUSK! Charlie: Niffty. Charlie: She's right though, shut up.

Angel Dust is into it. He has some fun coming up with a silly character concept based a little on himself and mostly on just what he thinks sounds fun. He's not taking it too seriously but he gets Husk into the idea. Angel Dust's character is a crossdressing assassin who uses seduction for their job and Husk's is an arcane trickster who is partners with Angel Dust's character.

Vaggie's more straightforward, making an aasimar oath of redemption paladin who worships a golden haired demi-goddess (Charlie blushes). She skimps on the backstory and basically just builds her character with combat in mind because she gets shy about roleplaying. At least at first.

Everyone expects Alastor to be a murder hobo of some kind but surprisingly his character is a fair bit different from himself. That's because as he got into the character creation thing he subconsciously started basing his character's traits on his mother's so now his pact of the fiend lady warlock is essentially the team mom. He's the one keeping the party on track, preventing the rogues from wandering off to steal stuff when they've got an objective to focus on - or busting them out of jail when they get caught - or reigning in the actual murder hobo (Niffty's character).

Niffty just wants to stab things. She was disappointed when she learned that it was essentially make believe but excited when she found out that meant she could use much bigger stabby things than normal. She plays a bloodthirsty barbarian tiefling whose appearance is based on Alastor but otherwise basically is just Niffty.

And Lucifer has been roped in as well. He decides to go cleric to fill the much needed healing role in the party and basically sets up his character to be opposed to Alastor's character at every turn by making his character the follower of a good deity with a specific hatred of Alastor's character's patron. Only they never get their in-game rivalry off the ground because they're almost immediately forced to work together to rescue Niffty's, Angel Dust's, and Husk's characters from jail (Husk got dragged into shit by the other two. Vaggie's character is a guard in the prison whom they take as a hostage and that's how she gets recruited into the party). Since Alastor's actually playing his character and is being helpful, Alastor doesn't feel right about antagonizing him and their characters actually end up sparking an in-game friendship. They're still assholes to each other out of game though.

👀

#hazbin hotel #radioapple #lucifer morningstar #asks #appleradio #alastor #radio apple #apple radio #nunalastor asks #headcanon #dnd au

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toxictoad · 1 month

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In furtherance of my agenda to make Tavs that are sorta cringe but that I love...

Wouldn't it be fucked up if Tav was Gale and Mystra's kid but he never knew about them until they both get tadpoled. Like wouldn't that provide so much potential for angst

(Obscenely long rant about my take on this under the cut, as I tend to do. Also trigger warnings for SA adjacent topics, grooming, brief pregnancy mention, parental neglect, and suicidal thoughts (Of the 'I wish I didn't exist' variety). I'll tag things accordingly)

As a member of the "Fuck Mystra" brigade (As we all are) she's gonna suck as a mother and a lover and all, HOWEVER, for the purposes of this post, I'm making Tav 19, because that's young enough to make a certain amount of sense (Forgotten Realms lore being put to the side for a moment) and making Gale 37, because even if you subscribe to the idea that Mystra was a nonce I don't feel like going there right now. Okay? Okay.

That being said; Mystra only wants a kid for like shits and giggles. Kids are inconsequential to a goddess and she doesn't tell Gale because who fucking knows. Maybe she thought if he had someone other than her to care about he would realize she sucked or something.

So Gale just never learns that he has a whole ass child out there for whatever reason.

With the math Tav (I named him Cosmos because I can do whatever I want) is born when Gale is at least 18, and deities are weird so I imagine that pregnancy is either not like a noticeable physical thing or it's accelerated or there's just something ephemeral about it, so it's not like Mystra is gone or actually physically pregnant or anything.

I think it would be funny if she just gave the baby to Elminster and was like "Hey I'm your goddess so you have to raise my kid also don't tell Gale bye" Because like... He's fucking Elminster. He's an immortal archmage and one of the most powerful people in the Forgotten Realms, and now he has to take care of a baby?! He doesn't know how to do that! He doesn't know what babies need! And what is he gonna do when this thing gets older?!

(Yes I know that Elminster has canonical children but as far as I can tell he didn't raise any of them so it tracks probably)

So Cosmos is raised by Elminster and grows up in a hazardous wizard tower and gets taken on perilous adventures in one of those baby slings because I think it's funny. Also, I think that Cosmos is a sorcerer and it lowkey pisses off all of his weird fucking parents. Cause he's an Aasimar. A child of a goddess. His blood is hella magical and he has an ego about not having to learn spells and shit. He has Gale's disposition but also he has actual charisma to back it up and it's a terrible (Read; Funny as hell) combination.

The result of Cosmos having actual charisma, confidence (Highkey arrogance), and skill is that he is... Well, he's a lush. Not in any practical sense because he is a teenager and lives with a bajillion-year-old man, but like... He's the guy from your high school who was nice enough but also he had a new girlfriend every week and does a little too much partying. He's a playboy and we support him in that endeavor. It really is a miracle that he isn't super obviously weird because he was raised by a cooky old wizard, never knew about his father (I think when he asked Elminster would just tell him he didn't know, because he does care about the kid and doesn't want to burden him with the knowledge), and got a visit from Mystra like... twice. She's literally your dad who texts you every six months and doesn't remember your birthday (I hate her so much).

But somehow he's kinda well-adjusted, and he moves out of Elminster's tower to go do sorcerer things and maybe go on adventures, who knows?

And then he gets fucking tadpoled.

And at first, it's like "Okay, I'm definitely adventuring now. Maybe it wasn't planned but I'm gonna be alright" and then he meets a wizard who was stuck in a rock and is obviously a devotee of Mystra, and he's like "Oh, okay. He could be cool to have around. The dynamic is a little weird but fuck it we ball" and then the wizard is like "Hey I need to eat magic or I'll explode can't tell u why tho" and that's a little sketchy, but he likes the guy and doesn't want him to die, so he gives him his magic shoes.

And things go... Well. He gets the hang of this whole adventuring thing and saving people is pretty cool, actually. And he does kind of indulge in the wizard/sorcerer rivalry because he thinks it's funny, but ultimately he just... likes these people, even if they're all kinda keeping secrets (Him included, because how in the hells is he supposed to unload all of that Mystra baggage to his new tadpole buddies?)

He's the youngest but Lae'zel and Wyll are close enough in age that they get kind of clique-y (I'm a Wyll simp so they're gonna end up married sue me)

And then the tiefling party happens, and he talks to Gale... and oh my god this is so awkward I do not wanna hear you talk about my estranged goddess mom. And like he indulges Gale in his magic trick but the whole thing sets off some warning signs that he's like... HM.

And he isn't sure yet, but he thinks that, maybe, Gale might be his father.

And that is just... Ah. That is both kind of cool and also makes him a little sick.

Because he doesn't know everything, but he does know that Mystra is maybe not the best when it comes to mortal men. And he might've been born out of some stuff that was ethically dubious at best.

So he has the brilliant and not at all stupid plan to never tell anyone ever.

And he tries his absolute hardest to not talk to Gale at all the entire time they're going through the Underdark (The order of the adventure is optimized for maximum drama). Everyone notices but he just... pretends that absolutely nothing is wrong and Gale eventually comes up to apologize like 'Hey man sorry if I was like too much :(' because he's a sweetie and will feel bad about things that are not his fault. And Cosmos tries to say that it isn't about that but it also kind of is, so he just accepts the apology and goes back to being a bit of a dickhead.

And the party is getting ROCKY by the time they get through the Underdark. Everyone knows some shit is up but they also all have their own issues so it's a mess. A hot goddamn mess.

...And then they go through the Mountain Pass... And Elminster is there...

And Cosmos sees him and wants to turn around SO badly but that would be weird and then Elminster sees him...

I cannot paraphrase this accurately to my vision so have a snippet of writing here;

*****

He feels like he might anxiety vomit, but hopefully, it doesn’t show on his face. Gale walks a little faster and waves, “Elminster. Fancy running into you here”

And he doesn’t look very surprised to see the younger wizard, but he does look surprised to see Cosmos. He prays to every deity he can think of that Elminster says nothing.

But who the fuck listens to prayers anyways.

“Gale, my boy… I have some, um, business to attend to with you, but…”

He turns his eyes onto Cosmos and he knows that his face goes white right then.

“How did this-?”

“I haven’t said it yet” He blurts out, swallowing bile, “And you aren’t going to”

Elminster blinks in surprise, glancing between him and Gale for a moment.

“What- You know Elminster?” Gale looks incredulous, and he wants to snark back with some taunt about wizards and sorcerers and useless teachers but he just bites his tongue and nods. He is… so fucked.

He and Elminster are locked in some bizarre staring contest, and Cosmos communicates as much as he can with his eyes that he will try to punch an old man. They say nothing, and Gale is growing increasingly exasperated, “I’m sorry, can someone please explain what’s going on? What have you not said?”

He looks at Cosmos with sad eyes- the same way he’s looked since the Tiefling Party. He can see it out of the corner of his eyes, but he doesn’t acknowledge the words. Cosmos grits his teeth and feels his breath catch in his throat.

“Camp. Now”

He is… so fucked.

*****

And then the big reveal happens and Cosmos is emotionally stunted and maybe has a panic attack or something and runs away for an hour and Gale finds him and tries his best to be an awkward dad. It works, somehow.

And then Cosmos finds out why Elminster was there, and...

Well in short he decides that he's going to punch his mother in the face. Divinity be dammed. It's an incredibly awkward situation at best, but fuck, man. He actually likes Gale- his dad- whoever you are- and immediately jumps on the 'Fuck Mystra' Train. He just got this parental figure and you want him to blow himself up? Yeah, no. Not happening. He has no mother anymore.

(Sidenote; I think that concurrently with all of Cosmos' shit Astarion and Gale would have a thing. This is mostly irrelevant but at some point, Cosmos is like 'Bloodline ended with Mystra. Astarion is my mom now' because it would be funny. Astarion can't take care of a child but he CAN be a weird step-dad to an adult child and give advice about how to get blood out of cotton shirts)

And Gale reacts... more or less like he does in canon, but it's a little different because like... Shit, this is his child. His child who... doesn't want him to blow up. He's devoted to Mystra, but I think an inkling of doubt would emerge with that. It's a little strange, finding out that your companion who you thought was just uncomfortable around you is actually your son with your ex-gf/goddess who is now righteously angry on your behalf. It feels... kinda nice, in a weird way.

I think Cosmos has enough charisma that he can make things sort of not awkward. He just makes jokes about Gale being his dad and everyone is just like 'Well I guess this is how things are now?'

Gale doesn't know how to be a parent, much less to an adult child who also has Mystra baggage, but fuck it if he doesn't try. Awkward conversations about love interests ensue (I like to imagine Gale trying his hardest to give Wyll a shovel talk but it ends up as just him and Wyll having a nice chat. He's trying to be intimidating, dammit!)

I do think Gale would have an 'Oh shit' moment at some point in the Shadow-Cursed lands. If Cosmos gets too low on health, or gods forbid if he has to be revived? Maximum angst potential there. Maybe it makes him start to realize how valuable his life is or something who knows.

Cosmos yells at his dad for even considering blowing himself up at Moonrise Towers (He says sorry later, but still)

A lot of Act 3 is getting through awkward conversations tbh. But it's good for them. But Gale's confrontation with Mystra... Oh boy.

Like Cosmos obviously doesn't approve of the whole crown of Karsus thing, but more importantly; he will scream at Mystra for as long as Gale will let him. Some very choice words are thrown around. But also (And this is where we get some of my own indulgence in angst) I think during this... very amicable conversation between adults... Cosmos would end up saying something akin to 'I wish I was never born' and... Oof. I don't think he would realize it at first, and Mystra wouldn't really care, but it sticks with Gale.

Like the man just kind of realized that his life means something other than benefitting other people, and now he hears that? Heartbreak. Immediate heartbreak. He doesn't know how to broach the subject and just ends up standing around Cosmos' tent until he finally asks what's up.

Cue Gale blurting out that he's glad Cosmos exists and that he wouldn't change any of the bs with Mystra because even if it's new and awkward he's his son and that means something and he doesn't want him to think about his own life the way Gale did and-

Cosmos... genuinely does not know what he's talking about at first, but when he gets it he's just like... Oh, that? Yeah no I just wish I didn't exist because I hate the way that I was made and it feels like my existence hurts you lmao

I think that Cosmos legitimately does not realize that most people don't feel that way sometimes. Like he knows, but he doesn't really internalize that there's something "wrong" with the way he feels

And... Okay why is Gale crying what did he say oh shit-

He had to hammer it into Gale's head that he's deserving of life and love, and now it's Cosmos' turn! Get loved, idiot

(I have so many feelings about so many other bits of Act 3 but this is SO long now so I'm just gonna skip to the epilogue or I'm never going to post this because I just keep adding things)

So Bloodweave happens, because tbh I don't see Gale with any of the other companions in this scenario (Spawn Astarion, obvi) and... look, I LOVE Karlach and I love Wyll's Blade of Avernus ending, but I just want them to be a weird fucked up little family, okay? Karlach got a Deus Ex Machina and her heart is fine for some reason in this case idk.

I just really like the idea of Wyll and Cosmos adventuring around the Sword Coast and occasionally popping into Gale's tower in Waterdeep to visit. The dynamic between Gale, his morally grey Vampire boyfriend, his dumb magic son, and his dumb magic son's hero husband who is also his friend is just... Mwah. Chef's kiss. Weird gay family over here I love them. Wyll's father is so confused. Christmas dinner is insane. Morena Dekarios is thrilled to have a grandchild. Tara is basically Cosmos' aunt. Withers is there sometimes. It's pure chaos and I can't get enough of it.

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ravel-puzzlewell · 6 months

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can we talk about shadowheart tho. her writing absolutely baffles me. like. when she admits she's shar's cleric, she gives u a speech about how shar is misunderstood and that like she's all about exposing bad ppl, toppling corrupt governments, using shady methods to get shit done, etc.

cool, so she believes that shar achieves good goals, so like. to me it seemed that her arc would be about realizing how it's not true, becoming disillusioned in shar, cue good old thats me in the corner losing my religion etc etc

and it just never happens? like we see a lot of evil shit shar has done all over the place and shadowheart never questions it, never even tries to rationalize the answers to keep her faith, its like she just doesn't care. and we as a player can't confront her either, we can't say shadowheart do you think shar successfully utilized girlpower when she cursed entire region with radioactive shadows and split it's spirit in half? instead we find like. shar's torture device secret chamber and shadowheart goes awww i wanna be a dark justiciar so baaaaaad

and then. then at culmination, at scene where she's deciding to kill aasimar or not, you can't give her arguments. you can't be like look at everything that shar has done all over this place, do you still believe this is for greater good? what greater good can justify this? what higher purpose is there in senselessly killing a prisoner again and again?

no you can only say like. you can't allow your goddess to control you! what do you meeean. like??? this isn't how faith works. clerics supposed to like. BELIEVE in the same things their god does. so far shadowheart was pro-everything shar-related she saw. she's like. enthusiastically into it. even if she's brainwashed, she still very much WANTED to be dark justiciar. and now it's all - oh, its shar "controlling" her. like. Shadowheart even said that shar's head nun or whatever told her that she isn't ready to become dark justiciar. This is very much shadowheart's own initiative. Why is it framed around like listening to yourself, instead of changing BELIEFS?

and THEN. after she doesn't kill. aasimar says. "Don't you find it oh so curious you would spurn your Dark lady? Perhaps you feel a stirring of the truth already" and then later reveal that shadowheart was like. selunite kidnapped by shar ppl. and this is why she didn't kill aasimar. WHICH??

like apparently shadowheart is the first to show mercy in a century not because she had a chance to live outside of cult for a while, meet and befriend new people and broaden her worldview, realizing her cults doctrine is false. no no no. she did it bc she's just INHERENTELY a good person. she just like. had intrusive thoughts urging her to be good. she just needed listen to herself. bc she's actually a selunite and not sharran. and like, all other dark justiciar apparently are just inherently evil and it was never possible for them to choose not to kill.

like how do you take a perfectly serviceable narrative about cult member escaping brainwashing due to being able to socialize outsife of her cult and instead make it about Selunite essentialism.

#brainworms gate #there are two genders selune and shar #and evil shar endocrinologists are just waiting to kidnap innocent selunite children and turn them into sharrans #but their true selunite nature will always prevail~~~~

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themadlu · 27 days

Text

A Simple Thing – Pt. 1

Astarion x Zélie

It's done. Cazador is well and truly gone, Astarion is finally a free elf and his first desire is to give all that's left of his body and soul to the one who saved him from his master and from himself.

Not out of need, but of want. He wants his Zélie so bloody (pun intended) much that he takes her to his grave, and on top of it too.

So when she leaves him behind, when she realises Cazador is only one of the endless troubles plaguing him and her human life is too short to fix even a fraction of those, he breaks. Like the pathetic child he's always been.

TW: Nothing much, mentions of Astarion's past, self-worth issues, very unreliable narrator (he's still working on himself, it'll take time). Some light smut, emotional hurt/comfort.

WC: ~2,5K

Not really proofread, and written with little time, so sorry if it sucks.

Part 2 should come out sometime next week (but it's Easter, so don't quote me on that).

Taglist: @spacebarbarianweird (thank you for the idea as always!), @amywritesthings

The room is stifling, heavy, with red brocades and somewhat pretentious ornaments covering wooden walls and glass windows with a funereal flair. Dim light from the moon and the outside streets filters through thick curtains in skeletal rays, outreached towards ghostly pale fingers hanging off the side of a bed. Astarion’s dark eyes stare, unblinking, chest still in the stale air and skin so pallid he looks more dead than usual. A pretty corpse sprawled on an unmade bed, ready for burying or taking.

He hates this; despises how the first civil accommodation they could find in weeks was so reminiscent of his own coffin, of the last two-hundred years of torment. Phantom pain grips him as unwelcome memories of bloody fingernails and mossy grave dirt invade his mind. He opens and clenches his fist to dispel the rising panic, the only sign of life coming from his prone form, and holds what’s been the one meagre comfort during the last centuries to his chest. The elf curls into a ball around what is left of his burial shroud, a once refined cotton cloth now reduced to tattered rags.

Dirty and disgusting, but his.

Where the hells is she?!

Cazador was waiting for his new spawn in the cemetery that night, but Astarion relishes in knowing that the vampire lord will not claim him again anytime soon. Never again, actually, as unbelievable as that was. His little hero made sure of that, a couple days before; thorough and proper as always, even in front of a hell-sent ritual, merciless as he’d never seen her before. Only for him. She cut with his dagger through the flesh and bones of her (his, theirs) enemies using techniques he taught her, marching through the horde to free him from his prison. She momentarily let her “oh-so-holy” ideals loosen enough to keep him safe and the thought stirs something wild and warm in the pit of his stomach and his chest.

Hunger for blood is familiar enough, but hunger for another, that restless longing is still foreign to the elf. Being with others meant manipulation, sweat, sex, pain, a performed debauchery, but not with Zélie.

(Even though he’s been a whore longer than he’s been anything else.)

Living with her is…simple. Scarily so. Natural, even when his (perfectly sensible) selfishness clashes with her (absolutely infuriating) courageous generosity. They disagreed and fought so intensely at first, in the wilds (well, he fought her while she stayed next to him in silence, cutting him a look that could make an Aasimar fall.)

Astarion picks up a discarded book from the bed, trying to resume his reading. It’s a childish collection of Faerunian fables, yet he finds himself drawn to it whenever his fears resurface.

If he were capable of honesty, he would admit that he reaches for that dusty volume whenever Zélie is not with him, because she gifted it to him at the grove as she turned down the offer of an unforgettable fuck back at that pitiful excuse for a party. The elf can still remember the onslaught of contrasting emotions all at once: relief, annoyance (because, really, when otherwise would someone looking like her ever manage to bed someone like him?), thankfulness and fear.

If sex was not on the table, what else could he give her?

What would it take for her not to discard him when his limited usefulness runs out?

And what now, that his tormentor is nothing but a pitiful heap of ashes and the pale elf is doomed to remain a useless spawn forever more?

That same fear slithers through Astarion again, wounding around his chest so tightly he almost snaps the book in two. Justice was served. The evil vampire lord was killed and the pathetic spawns were freed. He is free, and yet he is confined in a stuffy room that makes his skin crawl with past nightmares. Astarion groans and tries to concentrate on the words on the page again, even though he’s already finished the book twice, with little success. Barely two nights have passed since he took Zélie to the cemetery and claimed his rebirth by laying with her on top of his grave. Warmth fills him at the image of his stern, solemn hero paying respects to the patch of dirt he crawled out and to the long-forgotten elf who did not survive the centuries of horror. That night, Zélie knelt and bowed so deeply her forehead touched the cold ground, murmuring something he couldn’t understand. His ruined soul trembled so strongly at that act of reverence he cupped her cheeks to lift her face away from his burial, noses bumping together. Grave dirt stuck to her forehead and he gently wiped it off with his thumb while tutting in mocking disapproval. “Honestly, darling, no need for the theatrics,” his usual smirk faltered a little as a sudden wave of affection surged through him at her misplaced respect. She, holier than any of them, was whispering prayers to some useless deity on his behalf. He felt anger and shame lodge in his throat.

You’re the only creature deserving of worship, my love.

“Not to seem ungrateful, but prayers never did me any good. Do not waste precious time,” her chapped lips were raging fire against as took them between his own. “Not when death could find us tomorrow.” His passionate kiss morphed into a loving peck when Zélie raised a finger between their faces, solemn as ever. “I am praying for the Astarion Ancunin,” she brushed her fingers on the tombstone and the undead shivered as if he could feel her touch in his very bones, “who was left behind. May he find peace in seeing his resilience finally rewarded.”

She then trained her gaze on him in that way that made him squirm. He used to hate her for it, back when he lived in terror of what she’d do to him after all his masochistic pushing and prodding; now, he craves it evermore. Her palm splayed on his chest and he cursed whatever entity kept her away from him for so long. “And I pray to my god for the strength to guide this Astarion,” she tapped her index finger against his dead heart, “to see his worth in this world. To me and to others.” Astarion barely noticed his mouth parting in stupor at his lover’s words.

Infuriating, precious woman.

Astarion fully abandons his book, letting it fall on the bed, as the weight of her sentiment nestles inside him with disturbing ease. As if he were made for it. Her stalwart presence has the downright annoying capability of robbing him of his masks and his snark and his spite—the foundation of his entire being. He is left entirely exposed to her assessing eyes, yet he has never felt safer, more alive. He never wants to be out of her sight again, he decides. Never wants her to lose herself as he once did. Zelie’s spirit is near unbreakable and stupidly just (She would never agree with him on this, but he witnessed it first hand, after weeks of failed temptations and rancorous conversations), and Astarion will happily murder and steal and torture their path through the world if it means she can hold onto her ideals a little longer. He already did, when she was but a weird stranger to charm, as he finished off the enemies she so generously spared.

Astarion lets out a strained chuckle, because he cannot believe he fell so irreparably for such an idiotic creature, let alone an honourable one. And now—now that she has saved him in any way a person can be saved, she leaves him in a stale tavern room. The elf covers his eyes with his pale hands in frustration. The voices in his head—Cazador’s taunting timber—tease him that his Zélie has finally come to her senses and seen him for the wretch he is. He will never be more than a lowly spawn, and leaving him in camp is her polite and proper way to ensure he doesn’t hinder their world-saving mission with his selfish ideas and his weaknesses.

The world can rot.

Astarion has already decided. the moment things go awry he’s dragging Zélie away from Toril itself if he must. She can glare and hate him all she wants, but he will not let the only one who ever mattered to him to protect a bunch of ungrateful, unknown bastards (The same bastards who took any part of him for themselves.) Gods, he sounds—is—so disgustingly desperate.

He claws at his biceps with his hands, and tryings to distract himself from his worries again. It’s almost evening and Zélie hasn’t returned from the city. So haven’t Gale, Lae’zel and Jaheira, but Astarion is not a selfless being, and he only wants his precious hero to come back to him. He focuses on the night at the cemetery, on how he all but pounced on the woman who just destroyed his last defences with few thoughtful, honest words. He crawled on top of her like the monstrous thing he was, and she held his face so gently, caressed his ears and hair so devotedly he couldn’t contain a laughing sob.

He gets hard at the memory of her letting him take the lead—trusting him, a vampire enamoured with her blood, so completely that he flipped them over and almost begged her to take him in any way she wanted. In her mouth with his back against his tombstone, clutching the stone as he moaned in the moonlight, in her core on top of his grave, where his coffin was laid, trying not to shout his name too loudly. Astarion, the one in the Elfsong, shuts his eyes as he feels himself and discovers a growing wet patch seeping through his trousers.

He groans, tender and ready.

But Zélie is not with him this time, so the familiar disgust at his defiled body and soul grips him again and makes him gag with the certainty that night was a one off, a way to celebrate a successful rescue and nothing more. It’s not like they can reach those peaks of pleasure at will anyway—Astarion is still too broken for that, too pathetic to offer his only saviour the one reward he can give her. He can hear Cazador’s laugher echo in his mind.

No! She would never—she loves me! She doesn’t lie, it was real, what we have is real!

The laughter doesn’t stop, forcing Astarion to curl on his side and press his hands against his ears. Zélie loves him—he knows this, because she told him twice, even though she’d rather throw herself off a cliff than deliver declarations of affection so openly.

“Shut up, shut up, just shut up!”

“Astarion? Are you talking to that awful book again?” His little human’s voice cuts through the nightmarish laughter and the pale elf clings to it.

He schools his relieved expression into a more neutral mask and sprints off the bed towards Zélie, his Zélie, safe and whole and… stepping backwards to put some distance between them. Astarion cannot stop his dark eyes from going impossibly wide at her behaviour. He panics for a moment, fearing Orin used her skills to take his leader from camp, but the vampire would not be fooled by a cheap imitation—he would recognise his love anywhere, her minute idiosyncrasies and the smell of her and her blood engraved into his memory evermore. This is definitely Zélie, keeping her distance and studying him as if he were a ghoul (He is.)

Then, her gaze shifts downwards and her brows arch.

Shit.

The cooling wet patch on his crotch stares back at him in mocking. “Ah, darling, I…”

Fuck.

Astarion has been thoroughly trained on keeping up a flawless, polite, desirable front over the centuries, but he cannot think of how to best express his utter mortification at this moment. Pathetic, a consummate lover—a prostitute—like him wetting himself at the mere thought of–

“Astarion, are you—well, are you—well, uh, are you...well?” It would have been extremely satisfying to witness the rare sight of a discombobulated Zélie—something he seemed to be the cause of most times, a point of pride for him—if only he did not find himself in the same predicament.

Say something, you wretched imbecile!

“I…I was…thinking of my brave, perfect hero,” he inched closer to her, seductive act shackling his creeping terror in the dark corner of his mind he hasn’t escaped to since the woman in front of him accepted him into her life. “And I just could not stop myself from remembering your delicious cries from the other night…and how you took me so well—”

He should know by now that his Zélie can see him better than he’ll ever see himself. “That’s very, uhm, flattering, Astarion, but it does not answer my question. Are you well?” She is focusing on his face, keeping her gaze averted from his crotch with that impossible, utterly incomprehensible respect (They have already slept together and he all but threw himself at her in earnest.) and how could she just not understand?!

“Am I well? Oh, why darling, I’m simply marvellous! I’ve had the pleasure of lounging in this fine establishment the whole day, laying on a heavenly soft bed and staring at this tasteful walls,” Astarion’s frustration and insecurities bubble up his throat and he cannot stop himself. He is lashing at the one person he reveres, again. Proving he does not deserve her (He never will, but he is a selfish monster of the night after all.). “And all this while you were out on your merry way, gods know where, with a senile druid, a joke of a wizard and a murder-happy Githianky!”

“You are ‘murder-happy’ too, Astarion. And more senile than Jaheira, if we’re talking about years and not physical ageing—”

But they’re not me!

“That’s not the point! You swore you’d be guiding me or what meaningless, shallow promises you made, then I let you fuck me on my grave, then—”

Then you left me behind. As I knew it would happen.

“Are you quite done, my love?” Astarion stills, then sniffles in indignation. His—Zélie has only called him “love” twice so far and both times she did so to call him back from whatever spiralling thoughts sent him cowering in the furthest corners of his mind. But she clearly has no interest in having him at her side now, so hearing that so-rarely-used term of endearment makes a pained rattle come from his still chest. She is going to end whatever fever dream was between them. The certainty is so encompassing his hands shake from it, and he promptly hides them behind his back.

#astarion x oc #astarion #astarion bg3 #bg3 #oc: zélie #astarion x zélie #astarion fanfiction #astarion angst #astarion ancunin #this one was written with very scarce inspiration

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stardusted-bookworm · 7 months

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It'd been so long since he'd felt warm.

Sure, he'd felt the warmth of the sun. Of fire. Of lava. But external heat rarely thawed internal frost. And he had been cold for so, so long.

He had felt a brief warmth in the company of his two friends, only to be snuffed out by the one they'd called teacher.

After that? Eleven years of numbing frost had crawled through his insides, shutting off everything but the bare minimum.

He thought he'd never feel the warmth again. Had made himself content with the frost, for that would be all he'd know for the rest of his life.

Until it wasn't. Until the frost cracked and broke, shaking off little by little.

As he met a little goblin girl as filthy as he was. His loyal companion who did not belong to the skin she had been forced into.

As he met a blue tiefling girl with her love for pastries and unwavering devotion, a handsome half-orc with a loyalty that ran as deep as the oceans he dreamed about, and a brusque human woman who was running from her past with the same fervor as he was.

As he met a giant aasimar woman whose fearsome countenance was belied by her gentle nature.

As he met a beautiful lavender tiefling who sparkled brightly in order to bring joy to everyone around them. Their brilliance was so strong, he could not help but be drawn to them.

When they lost the lavender tiefling to powerful enemies.... Well, he had thought the frost would come back to stay. Felt the edges of a familiar coldness return and prepared for the worst.

Then, a wise firbolg taught him that death is not the end, that there are many, many ways to honor those who have passed.

He felt the last of the frost thaw completely, and he finally allowed himself to mourn. Allowed himself to trust. Allowed himself to love again.

And oh, how he loved.

He loved his friends, his family, the way a well-fed fire burns: brightly and unceasingly warm.

He loved his partner, his beautiful and intelligent and flawed partner, the way the stars shine: luminously and without end. For as long as they should live.

And as he lays here, on his deathbed, Caleb Widogast cannot help but think how lucky he is to be able to love and to be loved. How lucky to have known and seen as much as he did. How lucky he is to be filled with a warmth that so many spend their whole lives searching for.

I have lived my life well, he thinks, heartbeat slowing. I have no regrets.

And as he exhales his last breath, he smiles. I have so many stories to tell you, Mutter und Vater.

#critical role #caleb widogast #the mighty nein #nott the brave #veth brenatto #jester lavorre #fjord stone #yasha nydoorin #mollymauk tealeaf #caduceus clay #essek thelyss #brief mention of shadowgast #but this is more about caleb's growth and love for his friends #i'm so normal about the dirt wizard i swear #ace writes

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chaoticbardlady99 · 2 months

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She’s Not Acid Nor Alkaline (Astarion x F! Pirate Captain OC) Chapter 2

Synopsis: The Heroes of Baldur’s Gate experience their first battle at sea in their adventure to bring Karlach back from the Hells.

CW: mentions of violence, NSFW cause these are two horny mofos (not a lot though- the next chapter is gonna be spicy as hell though)

Author note: I’m sorry this took so long! I am finally not horribly depressed and not sleeping at all due to work stress! I’ll be posting more for this story, starting a Master Vampire reader x astarion fic, and I have a lot of chapters written for my Trans Female Tav, Keeley, and Astarion that I am so excited to post! My goal is to get everything onto my new AO3 sometime this week! Oh and part 4 of I Wondered If I Could Come Home is almost complete 😈

Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! Thank you for your patience!

Part 1:

Chapter 2: Valkur’s Aasimar

Calypso is forever grateful to Lucifer for taking over the night time duties so Calypso can actually rest. It doesn’t make the early morning wake up any easier, but it helps. She loves her cabin and she loves the peace it provides.

The bed frame is built into the wall so that she doesn’t slide around everywhere as the ship continues to sail and there’s a washtub nailed down in one corner. Her desk and map table are equally as glued to the floor.

Calypso watched (and was an unfortunate victim of) her mother’s lack of ‘safety’ precautions when she was a captive on her ship. She was often run over by her mother’s bed or her desk- left for hours underneath them- when her mother had no use for her.

It’s been 60 years since Duke Ravenguard helped Calypso secure her freedom, but there had still been 90 years of torture and misuse. If her mother wasn’t absorbing every last drop of power from her bones- she was starving her, beating her into submission, waterboarding her, etc, etc. It’s not a reality that Calypso misses.

The soft glow of the morning sun outlining the shadows of Astarion’s face is a much better world to wake up in.

If Lucifer helps make waking up easier, then Astarion does not help- in fact the man makes it damn near impossible to leave her bed at all. She doesn’t want to have to untangle her limbs from his or wait for another 8 or 9 odd hours before she can be like this with him again.

Astarion had managed to keep her in bed later than usual over the last five days. The minute she so much as moves a muscle- Astarion has her underneath him writhing and begging for release or he’s fucking into her slowly, stealing all the air out of her lungs. It’s invigorating to say the least and her body sings under his attentive touch.

The more she learns about him, the more Calypso adores him. Astarion had opened up about his life pretty quickly after a bad trance. Supposedly one of his victims’ faces had been replaced with hers and he handed her over to Cazador. He was struggling to accept that the reality was different- that Calypso is well and truly alive in his arms. The man had been borderline inconsolable in the aftermath of the twisted memory, but Calypso had managed to coax him out of the fog and back to her.

Astarion even experienced Calypso at her worst- jealous. He learned very quickly that she wasn’t going to deal with that. When he had knocked on her door with his tail between his legs, Calypso made sure to answer and let him in wearing her skimpiest outfit- a nude, see through corset bralette and a pair of lacy nude panties. His apology ended with him eating her out on top of her map table- one of her maps needs to be replaced entirely after the affair.

She always made sure he actually wanted to engage in these activities with her- especially after learning about his history. Astarion assured her that he would let her know if he didn’t or if he needed to stop and he did. Astarion had only wanted to pleasure her that night and the rest of the night was spent just enjoying each other’s company.

Astarion will spend time with her throughout the day as well and his company is very welcome. Lucifer is usually taking his turn to sleep throughout the morning and into the evening so Calypso doesn’t have to worry about the two of them bickering.

Astarion has begun to ask her questions about the ship, how to be a Helmsman, commands, language, so on and so forth. He’s a very good student- picking it all up impressively fast. Calypso has let him man the ship (under supervision of course) as they made their way to the first stop.

Caer Callidyrr isn’t Calypso’s favorite doc to stay at, but they need to dock The Chimera and take a smaller ship into the Hells. The Chimera isn’t large, but it won’t be able to navigate safely through Stygia. Only Calypso and Lucifer will be traveling with the group of adventurers. With Callidyrr being only hours ahead of them, Calypso is confident they will make it before sunrise- provided there aren't any unexpected obstacles.

Which always seems to happen no matter how many times Calypso plans her routes out or how careful she is to avoid crossing paths with the Cult of Umberle or the Cult of Water. Now there are at least 8 Cult of Water ships heading in their direction.

Calypso isn’t paying attention to the frantic looks on the faces of Astarion and his companions as they realize they are about to be engaged in their first open water battle. She wants to reassure them (more so Astarion) that it’s going to be just fun, but there isn’t any time for that right now.

“I need Chain shots loaded- NOW!” Calypso shouts and her night crew sprints up from below the deck to join for the coming battle.

“They are chasing us at full sail, Calypso,” Lucifer’s voice holds an edge of aggression, “I’d prefer to not have a full blown battle on the Sh-“

“Yes Lucy,” she says with a wave of her hands, “I’m aware of what you would prefer and I’m working on it.”

Calypso climbs up the stairs and leans over the railing of the helm.

“Alright- we need the ship to come about! Wizards, warlocks- basically anyone who can cast gusts of wind- take position on the quarterdeck ,” she shouts, the crew shouts in understanding.

“Anyone else,” Lucifer yells, “split yourselves into two groups- I want some of you below deck readying the canons and the Chase gun! The other half- ready your bows and arrows and be prepared to fire when we are 3 fathoms away from the other ship!”

Lucifer looks up at Calypso and gestures to their guests- she raises an eyebrow.

“They all know what their capabilities are,” she states, “if they wish to travel on this ship then they need to protect it too.”

The looks of absolute dread on all of their faces is almost comical. They really have no faith in her! How hurtful.

“Well- then you heard the Captain,” Lucifer says with far too much gratification, “get to your assignments.”

“Careful, Lucy,” Calypso warned, “you sound so happy I may make you go below deck to help and let the Dragonborn be my first mate.”

Tav beamed, “I’m so glad I’m your first pick.

Astarion pouts up at Calypso and she flashes him a teasing grin before blowing him a kiss. Calypso stands on the rail and addresses the crew one final time.

“Oh,” Calypso clears her throat, “and may I remind you sorry lot that dead men tell no tales- so let’s try to make it out of this one alive- savvy?”

Everyone races to their positions. The laughter and the energy is infectious. Calypso isn’t worried a single bit and she watches the tension ease from Lucifer’s shoulders. He rarely thinks she takes anything seriously, but Calypso does. She is equally as protective of her crew and her guests- it’s not about her or the ship’s safety for her. Calypso has a special group of individuals aboard her group- her main crew consists of runaway slaves from Calimport, ex-Lolth sworn Drows who remain below deck until the night time and operate the canons, Half-Orcs who have been ostracized, Dhampirs who were abandoned at birth (Calypso would come across them and the crew worked together to raise them), etc. They aren’t a ragtag group of scummy pirates- they are all survivors who are standing together.

Well, except for the contract workers. Fuck those entitled pricks.

She jots back to the Helm- waiting for the exact moment to turn the ship.

The minute red and green flares go up in the air- the ship goes flying forward with the assistance of the many magic users casting gusts of wind on the sails. Calypso turns into the sudden rush of air allowing the ship to circle into position where it can slam the side of the other boats.

Calypso closes her eyes and takes a deep breath- letting the smell of the ocean water fill her senses. She imagines a storm surrounding the ship hurtling towards them- the waves thrashing them around and consuming them whole.

The thunder cracks the peaceful sound of the air before the dark clouds even begin to sweep across the sky- the water underneath her rumbles it’s war cry and Calypso allows Valkur’s power to consume her- like him, she can commandeer any ship, walk through water, control the weather, navigate through every storm unscathed, call upon Orca’s, etc. The best part though? No ship she sails on is able to sink- ever.

Then she hears Wyll scream, “HOLY SHIT!”

She looks over with a smile- her good friend, Hesjing, must have missed her enough to make an appearance. Or he’s just really hungry. Most likely he is really hungry and her targets make for easy prey considering they end up floundering in the ocean.

The massive Sea Wyvern goes flying over their heads and laying chaos to the ships- their flags going up in flames and the chaos keeps them from changing direction in time.

“NOW!!!!!”

The ship lurches forward in the water with the support of the extra wind and Calypso’s magic as Calypso prepares to ram into the 4 ships in the back of the line.

The bow crashes with an ear shattering noise through the first, second, and third ship. Hesjing takes one of the ships down in the front of the line. The world is full of smoke and flames- Calypso barely sees the four remaining ships beginning to form a circle to trap them in.

“GRAB ON TO SOMETHING!”

The command roars through the air as it’s repeated by the whole crew upon the deck. She takes one glance at Astarion- trying to remind herself not to get caught up in whatever emotions he is feeling.

Calypso is surprised to see the pure adrenaline in his posture and in the shadows of his face. There isn’t a single ounce of fear to be seen. She can’t help the smile that crosses her face. Poor Tav looks absolutely green and is holding onto Astarion’s arm for support. She’ll have to make sure to pick up something for sea sickness otherwise the Dragonborn may detest her forever.

The screams shattering through the air is the only thing that keeps Calypso from being lost in thought. One of the other ships had managed to turn towards them and was going to hit them very very hard. The ship will be fine- much like her powersake, Valkur, any ship she sails is indestructible. However, that means the ship will pass through the boat and they are going to have a battle on deck.

Calypso jumps over the Helm- yelling to Celeste nearby to take control of the Helm momentarily. She doesn’t check if Celeste goes there, she just keeps racing until she hits the deck.

The ship is barreling at them much faster than Calypso thought and she messily says a spell in Thaumaglossia (Celestial spell casting language). Both ships are being pulled up and to the side ever so slightly by a massive title wave- the captain of the other ship makes eye contact with her and she can see the fear as plainly as the whites of their eyes.

Magic flows through her fingertips and the tidal wave passes over them and engulfs them in the water- an air tight bubble surrounding The Chimera while they watch the enemy ship be demolished by not only a tidal wave, but the pack of Orcas that followed it.

It’s a gruesome scene- the pirate ship popping back up underneath another enemy ship and adding to the carnage. The Orcas leap and flip through the air with screaming cultists in their mouth.

The last two ships had been graciously taken down by Hesjing, who then proceeded to inhale one of the Orcas on his dive back down to the depths of the sea. The Chimera totters along the capillary waves as the Crew cheers loudly.

Calypso releases a sigh she didn’t realize she was holding and nearly stumbles to the ground when a large hand slaps her on the back.

“Excellent work as always Captain!” Toothless Tosh shouts out- everyone cheers in agreement.

“Oh yes, it was a very impressive display as always,” Lucifer says goadingly- his eyes flitting around her form, “so much so that drinks will be on the Captain tonight- hm?”

“You rat bastard,” Calypso mumbles under her breath, causing the man to laugh, “fine! But only because you actually hurried your asses up this time!”

The crew disbands with laughter- returning to their previous spots and helping to make sure everyone is injury free. Some of the less magically inclined individuals begin to pass out the rations for the day. Honestly she feels like she could fall over and fall asleep. It takes a lot of thought, magic, and concentration to be able to perform that many high power spells at once. For example- the Orcas did not show up on their own accord, they showed up because Calypso’s magic called out to them when she asked it to. She does feel poorly about Hesjing running off with one.

The sound of approaching footsteps and grumbling from a certain seasick Dragonborn fills Calypso with glee. Wherever Tav is, Astarion usually is.

The poor man is still tinted green on the tip of his scales, but luckily, he doesn’t have to utter a word.

Lae’zel, Shadowheart, Gale, and Wyll are smothering Calypso in questions- some she barely has any answers too. For example- how does she summon Orcas and a Sea Wyverm. Her answer? She has no fucking clue. However, she does appreciate how impressed they are.

Eventually everyone disbands to get their rations for the day. Calypso is thankful that Farview is maybe only 6 hours away and they’ll be there before the sun falls. They are running low on food and Calypso prefers to not go hungry if she can help it- especially with a crew of hangry individuals. They are all the worst people she has ever met when they are hungry- it’s great for raids.

“That was quite the show of strength, my Dear,” her lover’s melodic voice flows through her ears, “I can’t decide if I’m afraid or turned on.”

She smiles cheekily at him with an eyebrow raised, “why not both?”

“Hmm, how erotic,” Astarion teases, “should I expect to be tied up while we’re at it?”

“Perhaps, I am full of surprises, you know.”

“Oh- I am very well aware.”

Calypso can’t help it- her face always hurts when she is around Astarion (in the best way possible). Everything about him makes her smile and her heart sing. It’s proper gross if she’s being honest with herself. She never pegged herself for a smitten school girl- at least not in her adult years.

“How much longer do I have to wait to keep your attention for longer than 5 minutes at a time, East?”

Despite his teasing tone, she can sense the impatience in his tone. She tuts at him.

“I’m afraid another six hours, North,” Calypso says with an exaggerated pout, “you will have to wait several five more minute increments longer.”

The man groans and grabs Calypso’s hand- dragging her off to her cabin. The moment the door is closed- Astarion’s lips are on hers hungrily and his expert hands are already rubbing her clit, a finger and then two sliding in as soon as she’s ready- which she finds very quickly when it comes to Astarion. A hum of pleasure rolls through her body as he coaxes moans and her orgasm out of her. Her own hands have fumbled their way into his pants and she uses his precum as lube- rubbing her hands up and down his hard cock. The moans and curse words that tumble out of Astarion’s mouth are absolutely divine.

Calypso knows this is all they have time for- they would never leave if they actually had sex- and Astarion thankfully respects that, but Valkur preserve her- it’s going to be a very long six hours.

#baldurs gate 3 #astarion #astarion x reader #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 spoilers #astarion x tav #astarion romance #astarion x you #karlach #bg3 #Astarion x oc #dark urge #dark urge x Karlach #astarion acunin #astarion x f!tav #astarion x f!reader #smut

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gribbo · 2 months

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In the hands of another minstrel, it would make a triumphant theme: Thorm trounced, his captives freed, his curse lifted from the land. Let another minstrel write it. The one who struggled up from the bowels of Moonrise Tower would rather find an unobtrusive corner in which to curl up and die.

"Somebody knocks you on the head every tenday," grumbles Barcus, as though it's a character flaw. His hand on the minstrel's jaw is rough and cool. "Follow my finger."

He seems to be holding up two. Peculiar. The minstrel does his best to watch them instead of falling over. "Did you see the"—he wobbles, peering over Barcus's shoulder—"aasimar?"

The Nightsong, tracking bits of Thorm across the hall, wings to Isobel in a blaze of moonfire. Barcus fails to notice. "You're more addled than I thought."

The minstrel could kiss him. If either of them deserved that.

He reports to the High Harper, who stops him midway and orders him to bed. Where bed has gone eludes him; Vally, he thinks, had shouldered his bedroll. Karlach, his pack. He looks for them in the hushed bustle of the hall: teary farewells here, his niece Nimble frowning at him there, the dead laid out yonder for the living to grieve. Harpers weeping for their fallen softly, businesslike. Victims of the cult, too, lying far from their families and friends—and Alfira where he expects her to be, hunched alone with her lute, feeling out the first fumbling chords of a threnody for them all.

It all makes sense, all of a sudden. He still has his gittern. When he drops onto the bench beside her, her hands stumble on the strings.

“Let’s sing for our supper, then,” he rasps without preamble, tuning up.

Alfira stares at him—huge, stunned eyes in a hollow face. “Really?”

Magga cammara, the minstrel thinks, she’s gotten thin. She’s not even famous yet.

“Go on,” he says gruffly. He fiddles for a moment in A minor before settling on something suitable. “I’ll back you.”

A slow, weary smile staggers across Alfira’s face.

It’s a grueling task, to sing in tribute for so many, for so long. Few would ask it of a singer so untried. But when Alfira’s voice lifts in lamentation like a rusty bell’s chime, heads turn; when he joins her in the second verse, the stentorian echo of her high mourner’s cry, the hush that follows is a grim gratification. They play long after their voices fail. He’s nodding over the gittern, his fingers plodding across the strings, when a warm, heavy hand envelops his shoulder. “Silk?”

“Karlach.” His voice scrapes like an old hinge. He blinks up at her, wondering why she’s so blurry. “There you are.”

“Here I am, sangster.” She turns from him, speaking gently to someone else. “Get some rest, Fira, hey?”

Whoever’s leaning on him rises with a willing mumble, leaving him cold. There’s a head on his knee, he realizes; he gives Mirkon’s curls a drowsy pat, then nudges him awake. Someone lifts the boy and carries him away. Around the hall, the torches burn like drowning stars.

Karlach’s hand keeps him steady. “Can you walk?”

He wobbles up. To his consternation, the hall tilts. Around him, the torchlights stretch and spin—

“Whoops,” Karlach says—and whisks him off his feet, bearing him who-knows-where. Hellion. He should object, probably. Keep his eyes open, certainly. Beneath his head, the machinery in her chest—that horrid death-clock, ticking—rattles a radiator-cough.

She smiles grimly at it. “Will you play one of those for me?”

A funeral dirge. His own tired heart beats off-tempo. “Oh, Karlach.”

“It was beautiful,” she says in her plain, awful way. “Will you?”

He’d sooner cut off his hands. Milil, he thinks, help me play happier music for these people. That triumphant theme. It’s in me, somewhere.

“Sangster?”

A voice speaks up somewhere past his eyelids. “Is he all right?”

“Asleep.” An infernal yawn. “Hells. I’m beat, too.”

Not quite asleep, he thinks. There’s a space between sleep and wakefulness, now, where the Prism-bearers’ minds mingle and meet. Gale’s drifting off thinking about a real bed, with sheets and blankets and such, so all of them are thinking about real beds. Them, the minstrel thinks muzzily, who are we, who are us.

Karlach’s thoughts, blunt and amused, brush his. You sound like that brain-thing.

Shadowheart, ever the eavesdropper, dips in. Are we going to keep it?

That headcheese? asks Vally.

Whatever will it eat, thinks Wyll, in our company?

Tsk’va. Lae’zel pretends to miss his joke. The creature is an abomination.

So are we, darling.

We! cries the intellect-devourer, somewhere else. It’s skittering after a rat, its simple joy rippling through their minds in alien hues. Whee!

Not a theme, the minstrel thinks, absently. Not a theme. He blinks up at Karlach with some effort. “Odd little medley, ours.”

Karlach blinks back at him.

Then she grins, brushfire-bright. “Catchy."

#act ii was my favorite #bg3 #microfic #barcus wroot #alfira #karlach #oc tag #silk #and assorted other characters

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hello-eeveev · 1 year

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Oooh I finally remembered a wip wednesday!

Here’s Essek having some demi/aro-spec/ace-spec feels while talking to Reani!

“You… kissed Beauregard?”

“Yeah!”

“I mean no offense, but… why?”

“Well, she’s really smart and cool and super hot.”

Essek paused. ‘Beauregard’ and ‘hot’ were not words he would put together of his own volition. Granted, he had never described anyone who wasn’t running a fever as hot. But Beauregard was fine to look at, and she was a good and loyal friend once he got past the brusque exterior. He could… understand the appeal.

“Ah,” he said finally. “I suppose.”

“You don’t think so?”

He leveled a flat stare at Reani. “I can count the number of people I’ve felt”—he fumbled for the right words—“feelings for on one hand and still have several fingers to spare.”

“Really?”

He nodded.

“Oh,” she said. “But you’re so—you’re—” She simply gestured to him. “You’re the hot boy.”

“I don’t see how my physical appearance is indicative of my inclinations,” he said. “Besides, it is little more than a decent draw in the genetic lottery, bolstered by a preference for good grooming. I did not choose to be ‘hot’ any more than I chose to be a drow or you chose to be an aasimar.”

“Fair enough.” Reani took a swig of her drink. “But you’ve really never kissed anyone?”

Essek sighed. “No. I have not.”

“Why not? You’ve just never been interested?”

He sat back and thought about how best to explain. “I would not say such things haven’t been of interest, but they have never been of import.”

“But now it is?”

Essek flushed. “Perhaps,” he mumbled, and downed the rest of his wine.

And another line that I love and want to fit somewhere in this scene:

He didn’t think that the warmth in his chest that sparked a desire to touch and to hold was the same heat Reani spoke of.

#I think the line about interest vs. import is my favorite #essek figuring out his relationship to romance can be something so personal #kissy kissy uwu #I’m very excited about this fic but it’s gonna be a while #shadowgast #eve’s writing #wip wednesday

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unreadpoppy · 4 months

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Wild Magic Surge

A little something based on a moment that happened while I played. Enjoy.

Summary: Gwen discovers that she can summon cambions midway through a particularly nasty fight.

This was a most inopportune time.

They were losing the fight. Badly. Gale was crying for help, with Halsin trying to get near him to heal the wizard up. Gwen had misty stepped too far away from Shadowheart, and so the cleric couldn’t see where she was. Dame Aylin was a great help but she kept missing and Rolan was doing his best to support.

‘I never figured a wizard would be this hard to kill’ Gwen thought to herself.

As she managed to kill the opponent closest to her, Gwen began to mentally count how many scrolls of revivification she had, for the odds were distinctively not in their favor.

And that’s when she felt it. That tingling feeling at the tip of her fingers, the way the air almost began to move differently. While Gwen loved her powers, there was one thing that was sure to cause problems.

Wild magic surge.

She couldn’t control it when it happened nor what it brought. Sometimes, she’d go weeks without having trouble. Others, it was every day. But no matter when, it always happened when Gwen least needed it. For example, one time the surge made her, Karlach and Shadowheart all become cats and dogs. Cat Karlach had still been able to kill a goblin, so it wasn’t that worrisome then.

Still, she didn’t like her odds.

As Gwen cast magic missile on her enemies, she felt the effects of a wild magic surge taking place. In a puff of smoke, she had summoned a being from another plane. Usually, she’d expect a mephit but this time it was a familiar figure.

In fact, a very familiar cambion.

Raphael.

…

Raphael was having a peaceful day, for once since meeting the tadpole adventurers, when he was snatched from his house by forces unknown. Looking around, he seemed to be in some sort of tower, in a balcony, surrounded by books.

But also, he was very clearly in the middle of a fight.

He saw Gale of Waterdeep, on the other side of the room, in a balcony, casting spells from a safe distance. A bear was underneath him, beside the ladder, surrounded by two elementals. Shadowheart, the cleric, had slipped on the mud in the floor and was prone. The aasimar missed yet again and a tiefling Raphael had never seen before cast a spell powerful enough to end one of the elements.

“Oh great, what in the hells are you doing here?” He heard a familiar female voice behind him speak up.

It was the little mouse, Gwen, all bruised and bloody.. Looking down, a red haired man lay beside her, probably dead.

“I should ask you.” He exclaimed, hearing the wizard shouting as he cast a spell. “How did you summon me?!”

“I didn’t! It just happened!” She shouted. Gwen looked past him at the chaos happening in battle. “You know what? Since you’re already here, you might as well help!” She said.

“WHAT?!” He shouted. You will not make me-”

Before he could finish, another elemental had gotten up to where they were and beat him. Raphael slowly turned around, angry. Without a moment’s hesitation, he struck the creature, wounding it badly.

Gwen saw that and smiled. “That was good! Keep it up.” She said. Raphael rolled his eyes.

…

Eventually, all but one of the elementals were dead.

“I can’t see him!” Shadowheart shouted towards Gwen. “I think they became invisible.”

The tiefling groaned. “Gale, do you have any see invisibility scrolls?”

The wizard rummaged through his things but found nothing. He shook his head. Gwen sighed. The good thing about the creature turning invisible was that it allowed the party some time to rest.

The bad part is that, thanks to Volo’s botched surgery, Gwen was the only one capable of seeing the invisible. She would have to go where the elemental had last been seen by anybody and hope she’d be able to off it before it knocked her out instead.

“What’s happening?” Raphael asked. At this point, he had transformed into his more devilish form, wings spreading around.

“There’s one elemental left and the bitch turned invisible.” She brushed past him, towards the ladder. “I have to go find it.”

Before he could argue, considering how in such a poor state she was, Gwen had already misty stepped towards one of the floating furniture.

The elemental was revealed and before she could even react, the creature struck her, Gwen falling down. However, Shadowheart dealt the final blow and soon, the druid Halsin - now back to his normal form - rushed towards the tiefling, healing her up.

Raphael flew down to where they were, seeing Gwen standing up on shaky legs, supported by the large elf. The others had gathered around.

“What are you doing here?” The cleric asked him.

He pointed a clawed finger towards Gwen. “She summoned me here, I do not know how.”

“I think…it was… the surge.” She breathed out. Halsin cast another healing spell.

“Ah, wild magic surge.” Gale exclaimed. “I remember reading somewhere that powerful sorcerers were capable of summoning cambions to our plane of existence during one of these events.” He looked Raphael up and down. “This is probably what happened.

The devil scrunched his nose. He was aware of how the wizard felt towards him but chose to ignore it. For now.

“I shall take my leave, then.” Raphael turned to look at the Nightsong snapping the red haired wizard’s back. “Before she does that to me.”

Gwen chuckled, clutching her side as she did so. “Well, thanks for the help.” He nodded his head and snapped himself away.

“This was…weird.” The druid said.

“Yeah.” Gwen said. “Let’s hope this doesn’t happen again. We already have Mizora to deal with, don’t need another cambion fooling around.”

#raphael bg3 #raphael the cambion #shadowheart #halsin #gale #Tav #bg3 #i'm not tagging ships cause nothing romantic happens #raphael baldur's gate 3

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