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rosieofcorona · 2 months

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Ortolan

Angels, darlings, besties, I present to you the most evil thing I’ve ever written. The first chapter of a little gothic story about our favorite vampire ascendant and his beloved consort. Named, of course, after the bird that is born and bred to be eaten whole. Horror ensues. Also on AO3, if you prefer. Thank you for reading!

All her life Tav had lived in the palm of the palace’s shadow, its black spire-fingers stretching and reaching into the corners of the city when the sun dipped low. She had never known then how it held her, that distant, haunted thing, had never thought its eyes might watch her when she wasn’t watching back.

She watches everything now.

From its high balconies, she can see all of the Gate spread out below. The streets, the shops, the city center, the painted roofs and cobbled roadways— all in miniature from here, like little playthings from her childhood. The people move like dolls beneath her, in and out of the castle’s black hand, and on the days time seems to dilate in a widening, infinite loop, she thinks she sees herself among them, walking freely in the sun.

She could make the lower city in an hour, if she hurried.

It’s not so far, she thinks. Just far removed.

Half a league and a lifetime away.

*****

Where Tav feels out of place in their new home, Astarion thrives.

He stalks the halls with newfound confidence, cold command in every step, making note of things he’ll have their servants change. He seems to know the place inherently, every floorboard, every stone, while Tav gets lost with alarming frequency by comparison.

She only explores at Astarion’s urging– Until it feels like home, my darling – but the halls are narrow and labyrinthine, stairways twisting into darkness, secret passages that lead nowhere or loop back to where she started. When learning the layout seems impossible and makes her feel like a rat in a maze, Astarion reminds her that all the prior spawn, including himself, had done it.

Even an animal, she wants to say, can learn its way around a trap.

It’s not all awful, she supposes. She loves the libraries and the moon garden, with its fragrant phlox and foxgloves, and the oratory, too, when she gets brave enough to enter (Astarion promises more than once that she will not burst into flames).

In fact most of the rooms, when she discovers them, are beautiful, pristine save for a gauzy shroud of dust left over centuries. Others have fallen to neglect, or to irrelevance. There is no need now for the garderobe, the vanity, the ice house, for the dovecote where no living birds remain.

She finds the kitchen and the larder and the buttery standing useless– though the rats, if they could speak, might disagree. They’re busy gnawing at the stock of moldy scraps still in the pantry, hardly minding her approach until she’s on them.

Her eyes track them as they scatter, like a hunter, like a predator. An instinct she’s developed since her death.

She is stronger, swifter, sharper– as Astarion had promised– but there is violence softly shimmering beneath. She wants to tear at something, always, wants to follow something home. She wants to bite down hard enough to make her jaw ache.

She never tells him out of fear he will encourage it.

Tav dreads the day she knows is coming, the day he’ll send her out to hunt. He loves her bloodlust when he feeds her– Such an eager little thing– and keeps her hungry to incentivize her finding her own victims.

But a rat is not a victim, says her instinct.

She follows one into the back half of the kitchen past the storerooms, to a passage she has never seen before. The rodent slips beneath a door that hangs half-rotten on its hinges, as if no one has been through it in a century. It is unlikely, it occurs to her, that even Astarion knows it exists.

The door creaks open with her touch, the air beyond it thick with odor– wine and earth and slow decay, with something coppery beneath. She pricks her ears toward the sound of little claws upon the stonework, of a heartbeat in the dark that’s not her own.

The rat has vanished out of sight, but it’s no matter. She can trace it by its movements, by its scent. As she creeps farther down the passage, the metallic scent gets clearer– copper, yes, but also parchment, like the binding of a book. Hints of mushroom, hints of honey, hints of soil, mold, and… rat blood .

The realization feeds her drive and her disgust in equal measure. Turn around , she tells herself. Let the poor thing go .

But she moves on as if compelled, down one long staircase then another, winding deep beneath the palace where it’s damp and dark and cold. At the bottom she stops to listen, stops to take a deep breath in.

There is a foulness deep below– the unmistakable scent of death– and still, the rat blood, like a top note, rises over the decay.

She hurries blindly into the blackness, her feet following her nose until she loses track of how many times she pivots and pivots back. They move underground until the air gets moist, the stone floor slick beneath them. Her own feet stick each time she pulls them up, as if walking through mud, or through gore.

We must be deep beneath the earth, she thinks, for it to be so wet.

The creature ahead of her stops suddenly, its breath heavy and exhausted, running one way then another, side to side. Dead-ended by a wall, no doubt. It finds no way ahead.

She can make out the trembling shape of it, her eyes black with lack of light, and then another shape between them, and another, and another. They look like piles of festered meat left in a storeroom, long-forgotten, and for a moment she believes that’s where she is.

Tav takes a step around a pile and something crunches beneath her heel. A bone, or shard of bone, she notes, the flesh long-rotted off the marrow. Another step, another crunch, a skittering sound like a stone being kicked.

She kneels to touch the little object, to bring it closer to her face. Another shard, it seems, an animal tooth, the one end needle-sharp and hollow…

The realization swells and hits her like a wave.

Her single-mindedness is banished as she looks around the room, no, not a room, a crypt– the crypt!– where Cazador locked all of his spawn before the ritual. Whatever is left of them coats the floor, their blood, their hair, their shattered teeth, and Tav can smell it now, their stench, beneath the rat that she’s all but forgotten.

Her own voice screams above the instinct. I should not be here.

She turns and runs in the direction she came from, at least, the direction she thinks she came from– and should she turn left here, or right? There should be stairs, where are the stairs, where are the stairs?

She runs until she can run no more, until she corners herself in a corridor, caught between the way she came and a bolted door. She tries to stop herself from shaking, not from cold or damp, but terror, the idea she might be left in here until she is nothing but rot.

But what she has learned from getting lost is that he will find her.

She’s never asked him how he does it. She isn’t sure she wants to know.

He always does, she reassures herself. I only need to wait.

She doesn’t know how long she huddles there in the bleak and soundless gloom, doesn’t know how long she listens for his footfall.

At last a voice slips through the darkness. A pale hand reaches for her own.

“You’ve wandered far this time, my darling. I could hardly trace your scent.”

A horror scurries down her spine like little claws upon the floor. That’s how I tracked it when it ran, she shivers. Parchment, mushroom, honey.

It’s how he finds her now, no matter where she runs. ***** It is hours later when she asks him, with his blood still on her lips, how it feels to wring the life out of a creature, drop by drop.

“You ought to know,” he answers absently, completely unperturbed. He is preoccupied, deciding on the perfect place to bite her, fingers tracing every vein beneath her skin. “You’ve killed a thousand times, my love, have you forgotten?”

“That was different. Not for blood.”

“No, gods forbid,” Astarion laughs. “Most times for gold.”

She feels annoyance, like a spider, creeping up the back of her neck. “Do I hear judgment?” “Certainly not.” He makes a show of looking scandalized, a hand fluttering over his heart. “I’d never begrudge you a little violence, you know that.”

As he moves further down the bed his touch trails with him, hands and mouth mapping a blue line down her body, along her breast and hip and thigh. He settles there and moves her legs apart so he can kneel between them, makes her shiver in familiar delight.

She wants to lose them in this moment, those poor creatures in the crypt, wants to put them from her mind for now and always. But with every touch she feels Astarion’s hunger, still unsated; with every kiss, she feels the sharpness of his teeth.

Like animal teeth, she thinks. Like theirs, like mine.

“But do they suffer? When you drain them?”

Astarion sighs like rustled velvet, looking up at her from his knees.

“Such a soft heart, still,” he murmurs. “Did you suffer, my beloved?”

How easily, how often she forgets that he has killed her.

If there was suffering she can’t recall it now, no matter how she tries. The memory’s far off in the distance, formless, fogged by ambiguity. If she moved toward it, maybe she could make out certain details…

But his tongue is on her now, and she welcomes the distraction. It is unpleasant, after all, to relive dying. He drags it slowly over the soft flesh of her thigh above the artery until she hums a little sound of satisfaction.

“Would you like to?” He asks, in that same, soft voice. His eyeteeth shine like pearls in the rising moonlight.

“Please,” she whispers. It is all the urging he needs.

She cries out at the breaking of her skin, the rush of blood into his mouth. The feeding has always been pleasurable, even when she was alive, but it is heightened now that they are bound together. She can feel him from the inside now, coursing through his body, she can fill him and fulfill him with blood alone. “More,” she pleads, when he pulls away to look at her. Already he is bright with her blood. “Astarion, more.”

If this is suffering, she wants it– every evening, every hour– until whatever light still shines in her eyes goes out. ***** In her dreams she finds her way back to the black mouth of the crypt, its iron gates swung wide on their hinges as if to swallow her entirely. She’s running frightened, like a rabbit , like a rat from something watching, someone whispering her name into the dark.

#astarion x tav #astarion ancunin #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x female tav #ascended astarion x tav #ascended astarion #spawn tav #bg3 #my fic #my writing #astarion fanfic #vampire ascendant #tw: blood #tw: gore #I had to give them the gothic treatment so bad I hope you understand #astarion smut #the pale elf

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darktripz · 7 months

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#The Deadly Spawn #1983 #horror #gore

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thewritetofreespeech · 2 months

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No One's Gonna Harm You, Darling

Ascended!Astarion x Reader

summary: when Astarion turned you into his spawn, he told you that you needn't fear anything. But what about him? Ao3

The night was getting long and you still hadn’t seen Astarion. You were starting to get anxious about it.

Usually, when you woke up in the morning (night) Astarion was right there beside you. Greeting the day with you with that cheeky smile before you both set off on your chores for the day. Today he was nowhere to be found.

You had shrugged it off, though a little disgruntled at not getting your kiss and sweet ‘good morning my treasure’ first thing like normal, as you were not so conceded that you thought all of Astarion’s world revolved around you.

But after breakfast, and several hours of him not making at least an appearance, you were starting to get concerned.

His world may not revolve around you, but Astarion would never leave or disappear without telling you. On the off times during your courtship that he did have things to do, as building and running an underground empire of darkness could be time consuming, he always told you where he was going or left you a note as to not have you worried. You always told him he didn’t have to, but without those assurances this time you were starting to worry.

“Where is Astarion?” You ask one of the servants you had cornered in the hallway. They too had been suspiciously absent today.

The girl looked fretted. Seeming to debate on if she could run, or use some kind of manner of magic to disappear, but would never disrespect their Master’s consort like that. “He…He is busy, most esteemed one.”

“I figured that, but I asked where he was.” There was a furrow in the girl’s brow. A twitch of her lip. So you tell her proactively, “don’t lie to me,” and she flinched as if her hand had been smack for even thinking of the lie.

“He is in the kennels, beloved consort.”

You arch your brow quite high. The kennels?

Despite having all his new insurmountable power and complete run of the palace now, Astarion still avoided the kennels like the plague. Too many bad memories, you assume. Despite his complete renovation of an old prison into his new home, the walls still held secrets and memories unable to be masked over by a fresh coat of paint.

You leave the servant and head for the kennels. Unlike before there are no barriers to you in the palace. The two of you have no secrets.

The stench of blood and the horrors inflicted here still hang in the air. As if etched into the stone. But more than that there is a new scent of blood. Fresh and haunting. The back of your mouth watered at the smell, but you tamper it down as you follow its trail to the back of the kennels. Sounds of grunting, chains, and wet echoing off the stone to your ears until you are just behind Astarion. A knife in his hand. Stabbing repetitively over and over into some blood mass in front of him that sprayed his alabaster skin, as if you were back in the old days.

The stabbing stopped, and Astarion turned to look at you. His face goes a light when he saw you. Smiling with a jovial, “darling!” As if his face wasn’t freckled with blood. “Has it already gotten so late? I’m sorry my pet. I was just tying up some loose ends and got lost in my work.” He turned to show you what he was working on. And you felt your blood run even colder than it was. “Correcting a wrong.”

Though it’s impossible to tell anymore with how mangled his face was now, you could tell that this was the noble man from the party a few weeks ago. The one who insulted you. The one who felt the need to tell the other guests that someone of clearly such meager station & upbringing should not be the companion of someone they’ve now claimed as their own. The one who left with a gracious departure from their host and a curt regard to you as he left, thinking he was safe. Thinking that nobility and riches would keep him safe like any lord. Think the high walls of his own palace would keep anyone out as he likely slept peacefully in his bed.

He hadn’t met anyone like Astarion before.

“Now, I think we’ve established that your crimes are severe and unyielding, my lord.” The mocking sneer his almost like a serpent’s hiss as he coils around the whimpering man. “I know you’ve said many sorry up until now. Pleaded for forgiveness. Begged to your Gods.” His hand gripped the back of the man’s head by his balding hair. Turning it upward so he look at you with gapping sockets. “But it’s not me you need to apologize to. It’s my consort.” The man whimpered and sniveled as Asation leaned in by his ear and whispered, “apologize.”

He choked on the words and blood as he tried desperately to get the words out to you. See, he didn’t have a tongue anymore. You don’t know where it’s gone, but it wasn’t in his mouth. You were too terrified to ask. Astarion, however, seems to take his gargled words as the apology he was looking for and granted him the mercy that he sought by slicing his throat. What’s left of his blood spilled out over his bloated stomach as his body slumped in his manacles.

“There.” Astarion’s voice brought you back to yourself. The shock of the scene in front of you leaving you paralyzed until his words cut through your mind like the knife in his hand. “That’s that.”

He circled around from behind the corpse and came up to you. You fervently ask Astarion why he did this. Demand to know what possessed him to torture & kill a more or less innocent man. “Why?” He replied back curiously. A look of befuddlement on his handsome, blood-stained face. “He insulted you. Said those awful things in front of our guests. In our home. Did you really think I would let someone like that go to spread more of his disgusting words and bad breath about the city? About my consort.”

He took a step closer to you and you felt a subconscious pull to take a step back. It seemed you were still paralyzed in a way, however, as your legs couldn’t move. Astarion cupped his free hand to your cheek. Giving you a soft look despite the murder all around him. “No one is going to harm you, darling. Not while I’m around. Not even your feelings.”

He leaned in to kiss your forehead. So sweet and gentle that you almost forget about the blood and the murder and the smell of death in the air. He then let you go and walked past you. Some comment about needing a bath to get all this blood off, as it was too vile for consumption, and an offer for you to join him came past your ears. But you barely hear it. With Astarion gone the shock was setting back in again. Alone with what he had done on your behalf, you feel just as guilty as if you had wielded the knife.

Astarion said that no one was going to harm you while he was around. But who was going to protect you from him?

#;ask and ye shall receive (request answers)#ascended astarion #astarion #bg3 astarion #bg3 ascended astarion #baldur's gate #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 scenarios #bg3 imagine #bg3 fanfiction #baldur's gate scenarios #baldur's gate imagine #scenarios #imagine #tav #bg3 tav #spawn tav #tw: gore

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yoonkinii · 11 days

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We Were Human

Pairing(s): Ascended!AstarionxReader

Part 5:

Synopsis: Astarion died as soon as he became something the world has never seen before. No one noticed the damage before it was too late and the Astarion everyone loved was lost to the new one. No one could notice when the turn was slow and silent. He slowly lost the playful glint in his eyes. Lost the love he gaze upon me with. Lost everything that made him the man I loved. Oh, how I would give anything to get him back. I would gladly give up my damned soul for him.

Aka you are transported back to the past in order to prevent ascended Astarion from losing himself the only problem? You don’t have a lot of time.

Warnings: Gore, blood, cruelty, cursing, death/murder, mentions of using oneself unwillingly, abuse, mentions of torture. It's ascended Astarion, prepare for the worst.

Masterlist

Note(s): For the sake of the plot- Astarion will not automatically be damned from the start. In this world, Astarion becomes lost to the ascension overtime until he becomes the ascended vampire we know him to be in the game. Another note that should be highlighted is that this story will be told from the first person perspective since it benefits the story more than any other perspective.

You will also notice various things being different from the game. For example, Karlach will be able to stay in the ‘human’ world and she fixed her heart. (I love my girl, I’m not sending her back), Szaars palace has a different layout cause the one in the game was stupid. There will be more that you will notice in the future so beware.

Thank You.

It’s just my luck for this to happen to me. Earlier, the sky had been a clear azure, but it rapidly transformed, now brooding with dark, menacing clouds that swallowed the sun whole. Adding to the irony, I found myself in the hands of the very goblins I was trying to reach before Astarion. I suppose that it was both unlucky and lucky at the same time. As I was led through the goblin camp- well more like forced to walk around unless I wanted to get impaled by a feisty goblin with a spear behind me.

My capture had happened in a blink- an unexpected encounter with a goblin patrol while I was attempting to trail Astarion. I was just grateful that they decided to ask me what I was doing there instead of attacking right then and there. The charisma that I had harnessed over the months of lying to get past the people I wanted coming in handy.

All it took was telling the goblins I was there to join their cause and they quickly ushered me deeper into the forest. It didn’t take long to reach their base, the base hidden within the heart of the dense forest amidst the labyrinth of towering trees and verdant undergrowth. Their stronghold was cunningly concealed within a labyrinth of towering trees and lush undergrowth. The settlement was fortified by a wall made of both felled and living trees, an organic barrier that melded seamlessly with its surroundings. Under the dense canopy, daylight struggled to penetrate, the impending storm turning the sky even darker above us, the air heavy with the promise of rain and thick with the scent of smoke.

The familiar chatter and beating of drums sounded in the air, merry songs muddled with the shouts of anger, excitement, and drunkenness. Passing through the gap of the wooden wall, my nose wrinkles in distaste with the onslaught of goblin smell. I don’t know what I expected and I had no other words to describe the smell other than the smell of multiple things rotting. The camp was a chaotic jumble of makeshift shelters crafted from scavenged materials, standing stubbornly against the elements. There are several crude pits of fire, casting flickers of shadow that dance across goblins faces. Goblins either lounged inebriated, feaster noisily, or darted about with frenetic energy. The center of the camp is filled with a large ramshackle tent, its fabric patched with various patterns and frayed from use. Surrounding the main tent, are smaller shelters, most being lean-tos made out of fallen sticks and thin logs.

As I am led to the main tent, goblins gaze upon me with a range from sneering to curiously probing. I stumble slightly as I am harshly pushed into the tent, the flaps of the entrance being pulled back by a grumbling goblin stationed there. I squint against the difference in lighting of the tent. Inside, the tent was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the gloomy daylight outside. A few feeble candles flickered, doing little to dispel the shadows.

Then, from the depths of the tent, a voice broke the semi-darkness, rock and mocking. “Ah, what a surprise to see you here, hero of Baldurs Gate.”

Recognition from the voice alone caused my eyes to widen in surprise, of course I showed mercy when everyone else in the team advised against it and it has finally come to bite me back.

“How am I not surprised that you are the one causing trouble, Dror Ragzlin.” I scoff, my eyes adjusting enough to discern his looming silhouette. “Why persist in these schemes? The Absolute is gone, and it was never a god to begin with.”

As he paced the tent, my gaze followed his movements intently. He released a harsh laugh, the sound sharp in the quiet of the tent. “This isn’t about the Absolute anymore,” he declared, his voice echoing slightly, the raucous din of the goblins outside muted by the tent’s thick fabric. “It’s about revenge for what you did to me.”

I rolled my eyes with a scoff, hands landing on my hips. “Seriously? You’re lucky I spared your life!”

“You should have killed me!” He retorted vehemently. “Do you know how hard it is to deal with the embracement and shame of mercy? Death would have been a kindness.”

His words stunned me into silence; this man's foolishness was astounding. Shaking my head in disbelief, I sighed, “You can’t seriously believe that. It’s absurd. Instead of turning your life around, you persist in the very actions that led you here.” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I muttered, “Looks like I might have to finish the job this time.”

Dror’s chuckled was deep and unsettling, sending shivers down my spine.

“That-” He paused, the sounds of feet shuffling against the floor of the tent alerted me.The candles flickered out one by one, their light succumbing to the growing darkness, leaving only a solitary flame to my left. My muscles tense, my hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at my waist as I prepared to summon a flame to light the room. But before I could act, the tent flap burst open, flooding the space with blinding daylight.

I recoiled, realizing just how close Dror Ragzlin had approached; he was only a few steps away from me, easily within striking distance. He wasn’t alone; several goblins lined the walls, their grins menacing in the dim light. A nervous breath escaped me, aware of how perilous my situation might've become had we not been interrupted.

Dror Ragzlin snared, looking at the goblin that opened the tent. She was hunched over, breathing heavily, the beads in her hair clinking softly. Shadows played across ehr form as she struggled for breath under the harsh outside light.

“I’m sorry, sir.” She gasped, voice hoarse, “It’s just that-” She paused to clear her throat again, the urgency in her eyes unmistakable.

“Spit it out already or the next breath you take will be your last.” Ragzlin snarled, his sharp teeth catching the harsh light gleaming in.

The goblin took a deep breath, stammering as she replied, “Someone has broken into the camp and is slaughtering everyone!” She exclaimed, her voice trembling with urgency as she fixed her gaze on Dror.. “We’re losing warriors by the dozens. No matter how we retaliate, he just carves through us-as if we’re nothing.”

My eyes widened at her words- she said him.

“What did he look like?” I demanded

Both Dror and the goblin shifted their attention to me. The goblin’s mouth opened, but Dror’s stern look silenced her. “I…don’t know,” she murmured, her voice strained as if honesty caused her physical discomfort-a surprising notion of a creature usually so adept at deceit.

I shot an irritated glance at Dror. “What do you get out of not telling me?” I pressed, hoping my voice masked the creeping dread I felt. If it really was him, my fear was justified, yet I could not let that fear paralyze me. As I weighed my next move, Dror signaled subtly, and the armed goblins lining the tent’s edges swiftly departed, their faces set with grim determination, unaware of the slaughter that likely awaited them.

Dror lifted the tent flap, the female goblin hovering behind, poised to follow.

“Stay put, or things will get worse for you,” he warned.

I fought the urge to respond sharply, my throat tightening with fear. The mere thought of facing him again, after our earlier encounter, dredged up nightmares I had long tried to suppress: memories of being pinned down, cut repeatedly as my own vampiric blood fought to heal the wounds only for them to be reopened- him observing, a grotesque smile playing on his lips while adoring acolytes clung to him as though her were a deity. The memories of unbearable hunger twisted my stomach; I had been so famished I thought of ripping out my own entrails, but I couldn’t, no matter how deeply my nails dug into my flesh. I could never bring myself to do it. His laughter echoed in my mind as he once forced me into sunlight, my skin bubbling and dripping off my very own bones, until he forcefully dragged me back to the shadows and forced me to drink blood in order to continue living for his own pleasures. Resistance was useless; his compulsion was absolute, leaving me powerless and broken.

An ear-piercing scream shattered my descent into the past, reverberating through the goblin camp. I stared, wide-eyed, at the tent flaps, the chaos outside syncing with the pounding in my ears. I had to stop him, but the enormity of that task loomed over me now.

“Stay Away.”

Astarions voice suddenly rang in my ears. His body doubled over, grappling with an unseen agony. Stay Away. He told me as he shuffled backwards, his eyes wide not with fear of me but of what he might do to me. He was battling something internal, perhaps his very nature. .

Without fully processing my decision, I bolted from the tent. The scene outside instantly froze me in my tracks. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood mixed with the acrid stench of burning flesh. Fire rampaged through the camp, casting wild shadows as panicked goblins scrambled, desperately seeking a way to overcome an unstoppable foe. The carefree revelry I had first witnessed was annihilated, replaced by sheer survival.

A goblin darted past, arms laden with weapons, oblivious to my presence. I trailed him, cautious of becoming an unintended target. It wasn’t long before I encountered the epicenter of the carnage.

There he stood in the midst of it all, his figure shrouded in a macabre cloak of crimson. Fog crawled along the ground, cloaking everything in a deceptive calm. Blood, dark and viscous, coats his skin in a mosaic of pain and violence. It drips from his moonlight hair in rivulets, staining his features with a grotesque mask of beauty. At his feet, a sea of bodies formed a grim carpet.

His movements were eerily calm as he lifted the severed head of Dror Ragzlin by the hair. The morning light filtered through dense clouds, casting a pale glow on his teeth as they parted slightly. I watch in silent horror as he tilts his head back, blood dripping into his mouth, some missing and streaking down his chin. His once vibrant clothing was now a sodden tapestry of dark stains, each a silent witness to his brutal deeds.

I was frozen, eyes flashing to what was before me. This is what happened in my previous life. This is what destroyed him. This is what I was meant to stop but- I was too late. A distant cry snapped me back to the present. He let the head drop, and it landed with a soft thud, swallowed by the fog. Nudging something with my boot, I bent down and recoiled as my fingers closed around the cold, severed head. I straightened, the dead eyes staring back at me, the mouth agape unbelievably wide in a permanent scream of terror.

Releasing a shaky breath, sweat beaded down my neck. I dropped the head, which hit the ground with another dull thud. Suddenly, the owner of the earlier battle cry materialized through the fog. He moves, a flash of violence as one moment an ax is raised and the nex it has raced through the air, the blade glinting ominously before embedding itself in the ground beside me, a green, bloodied hand still clutched around the handle. Blood slowly drips down the hand, creating small ravines of blood on the wooden handles.

Swallowing hard, I looked back through the fog, where he kneels before the goblin, both figures fading into the mist. The crackling of flames devouring the camp mingled with the ringing in my ears, overwhelming my heightened senses. I widened my stance, every nerve on edge, attuned to a danger I could not yet see.

My heart, though lifeless, threatened to burst from my chest as an arm encircles my waist, yanking me against a solid frame. A hand clamped over my mouth, stifling the scream that clawed its way up my throat.

He clicked his tongue, his breath warm and disquieting by my ear. “What are you doing here, pet?” he murmured, his voice a sinister melody that sent shivers down my spine. His fingers eased from my lips, tracing a path along my bottom lip and jaw before coming to rest ominously at the crook of my neck. I was in this exact position before but this time, it was different-cold and calculating. His grip on my neck served as a chilling reminder; it was not affection but control, poised to turn lethal with any misstep.

Gulping down the fear that thickened my throat, I mustered a facade of bravery. “I was-” My voice trembled. I moistened my lips, gathering the shards of my resolve. “Looking for you.”

Chuckle rumbled in his throat, amusement coloring his tone. “Looking for me? And why is that, pet?” The pressure of his fingers increased, pinching my skin, a pointed reminder of his dominance.

The truth of my next words could provoke his wrath, but silence was no longer an option. I had not returned from the past to quiver under his gaze; I had come to confront the past, to change him and to save us both. Pushing past the paralysis of fear, I declared, “To stop you.”

A hush fell, thick and suffocating. I waited, every nerve taut, for his reaction. Suddenly, he burst into laughter, the sound sharp and devoid of any real joy. He released me as he stepped away, allowing me to spin towards him, my breath catching at the sight of him.

Blood marred his mouth, his lips a grim canvas of crimson horror. The eyes that had once danced with vitality now shimmered with a void of emptiness, shadowed by unseen specters. His smile twisted cruelly, revealing fans slick with dark blood. His laughter subsided, leaving his chest heaving with its remains.

“No need?” I echoed, incredulity sharpening my voice. His eyebrow arched, a silent challenge. At that moment, my patience shattered. I wouldn’t let his menacing demeanor silence me. Gesturing to the chaos around us, I pressed on, “Look around you! All this carnage, this needless slaughter-this isn’t our mission. We were not sent here to massacre every single one of these goblins.”

His expression darkened, a storm brewing in his gaze. His lips twisted into a force scowl. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice resonating from deep within.

“I’m your wife,” I replied, the words stark and heavy in the air between us. Standing before him, the man who haunted my darkest memories, the distinction between him and Astarion was stark yet irrelevant in the face of my fear. A battle loomed-not just between us but within myself-and I clung to the hope that I would not falter.

“No.” That single word fell from his lips before his blood-stained hand clamped onto my cheeks, tugging with brute force to make me meet his gaze. He leaned in, our noses almost touching, his eyes drilling into mine with ferocious intensity. “You are my consort. Not my wife,” he snarled.

Confusion and anger knitted my brows together as I met his piercing stare. “Consort?” I echoed, my voice tinged with defiance. “Is that just another term to claim me as your spawn? Another way to soothe your conscience, Master?” Venom dripped from my words, mirroring the malice he often showed me.

A chilling silence followed my outburst. His grip on my jaw tightened, threatening to crush the bones-something only my vampiric blood prevented. Our eyes locked, unblinking until without so much as a twitch of his lips, he hurled me to the ground. The earth beneath me, muddied with gore and viscera, squelched under my weight. My hands and robe stained with the filth of battle, I hit the ground with a force that left my body aching, sure to bruise.

He towered over me, never stooping even as he gazed down at me as if I were beneath him. Tilting his head slightly, he seemed almost to savor the sight of me in such a depraved position. “It seems you do not know your place, Consort,” he scowled, the pure disdain in his voice unmistakable. “No matter,” he mused, his tone chillingly casual. “I know exactly how to teach you respect.”

A sinister smile curled his lips as he noted the confusion on my face. He lifted his gaze to the overcast sky, humming thoughtfully. “I wonder how long these clouds will shield you from your demise.”

Panic widened my eyes; his cryptic words hinted at a terrifying fate. The privilege of withstanding daylight was now revoked from me. My mouth opened, but words failed me. No plea for mercy would sway him, would save me from this man. Driven by instinct and terror, I scrambled to my feet, my hands reaching for the familiar strands of magic, the weave that had always been my anchor.

I chanted the cantrip for Misty Step, desperation fueling each repetition as I pulled on the weave, feeling it burn within me. It didn’t matter that the city was near, my life hung by a mere thread. No matter how far I got away from him, his laughter echoed in my ears like a harbinger of my doom.

Again and again, I casted the spell until I was sure I was sick. Even when my vision blurred from exhaustion, I muttered the spell under my breath. My body was soaked with my own sweat, tears of panic and despair flooding my vision. Even as I breached the city's walls, I didn’t stop; not when the sun was now at its peak and the clouds could no longer hold it back.

Spell after spell, I cast until sickness overwhelmed me. Even as my vision blurred and my body protested, soaked in sweat and tears, I continued to mutter the incantations. Finally reaching the city, I didn’t stop-not when the sun climbed higher, the clouds thinning dangerously. The previous gloomy weather seemingly disappearing with every passing moment.

Casting the cantrip, my feet landed against a tiled roof- choosing to avoid the crowd that could prevent me from making it to my destination in time. Only the footing on the roof slipped upon a loose tile. A raspy gasp was all that signified my fear as I plummeted down to the stone walkway below. A scream rang out from a passerby as I cracked, body wracked with pain, painting on the cold stone, my nails digging into the ground.

Every muscle in my body screamed, my eyes begging to close, to rest, yet I forced myself up. The fall had broken something within me, causing me to lose focus on simply casting and ignore everything else. I was too drained to tap into the weave, too weary to walk straight. I stumbled through the crowded streets, jostling against strangers, too parched and desperate to apologize.

I avoided the path that would lead me back to the crimson palace. It was perhaps a folly, but with my skin still crawling from the memory of pain and the muffle of fear clouding my senses, I couldn’t bring myself to return to the place he would inevitably come back to.

Seeking refuge, I made my way to the one place in the lower city that promised even a whisper of safety-a modest house tucked away in a secluded corner, home to a solitary resident. My steps faltered as I approached, my hand raised to knock but my strength betrayed me. I swayed, crashing heavily into the door and relying on it to keep me upright.

“Bloody hells!” came a startled voice from within. “I swear to the gods, I’ll bust your hea-Shit!” The exclamation cut off abruptly as the door swung open, and I nearly collapsed through the threshold. Warm arms quickly enveloped me, steadying my trembling form. “Woah, soldier, are you alright?” Karlac’s concern was evident, her face etching with more questions that seemed to dissolve into the thick air around us. Her words barely registered as the relentless grip of fear that had ensnared me, keeping my body awake, finally began to loosen. As darkness edged my vision, cloaking the world in shadows, a single, haunting thought pierced my weary mind:

Was I really meant for this?

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