bg3-apprecimaytion - Tumblr blog

[bg3-apprecimaytion]

This is so, so very sweet. We love that Auri goes to Astarion for comfort, and we especially love that Astarion refrains from teasing her to spare her feelings! Elle comforting her is so incredibly adorable 😭

Astarion's deep love and fondness for Auri radiates throughout every line of this fic. And then her falling asleep on his lap after the story 🥺 It just shows how safe she feels with him.

Thank you so much for participating! This is a wonderful appreciation of the fic, and we appreciate your hard work!

Appreci-may-tion day 20: secret

the best policy

Auri arrives at Astarion's doorstep in the middle of the night. [bg3 • auri & astarion • 1.3k • vague sadness]

an auristarion @bg3-apprecimaytion fic for day 20 - secret. featuring the characters from @aevallare's modern au, pour one out.

hey ms alex aevallare you're great and funny and your mind is brilliant and every day i enjoy your presence in my life! which also brings me to the reason i chose this specific prompt on this specific day: happy four month serverversary! as i was backreading long after everyone had moved on, as is per my way, a little topic in the pour one out chat caught my attention, so i hope it's okay i sat down in your sandbox and played around with auri for a bit. 💕

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This was so, so incredibly cute! Seeing the two dragons was adorable - their personalities are so different, and you've written them both splendidly! Each of the dragons have a different relationship with Astarion, and it's just heart-melting 🥺

Tori taking in little Crystal to shield her from the rain, then relaxing enough with Not-Astarion to take the meat she's offered? Crystal, with her hundreds of toys? It's so, so perfect!

Thank you so much for participating again! This fic was so cozy and lovely, and we adored it! ♥️

"Like Two Dragons in the Rain" for Apprecimaytion

I have several people in my corner who have really kept me going this year. And while their support of my writing and me as a person has been invaluable, what has probably impacted me the most is that two of my lovely readers have found the courage to try their hand at creative writing themselves. Like, for the first time.

The stories they have created are absolutely delightful, cute and original and completely different takes on the "Dadstarion, except he adopts a dragon" premise: "Fool's Copper" by @vyjuarts and "Small Crystal" by Xen.

Here's my take on their beautiful dragon ladies meeting for the first time, as part of the "Rain" prompt of the @bg3-apprecimaytion event: "Like Two Dragons in the Rain".

Teaser:

“What’s your name, little one?”

“Papa!”

Torimgetih frowned. “Your name is Papa?”

There was a moment in which the tiny dragon seemed to extricate itself from just a fraction of the overwhelming misery it was currently experiencing. It drew itself up a little bit, pushing out its chest and thrusting its tail into the air, taking up about as much space as a creature of this size could possibly manage.

“Crystal,” she declared, radiating pride at either the name or her ability to remember it.

Only, her voice was awfully underdeveloped, so it came out more like Cryphtal.

“Crystal,” Torimgetih said, just to make sure she’d gotten it right. “What a pretty name.”

The little one nodded enthusiastically. “Papa!” she said, looking almost happy for a few seconds before fresh tears welled up in her eyes. “Paaaaapaaaaa,” she repeated miserably.

Read on AO3

[bg3-apprecimaytion]

Thank you for posting this on Xen's behalf! We'll be sure to direct our comments to her personally, but also wanted to share the appreciation for the fic here ♥ This fic was such a lovely, comforting read! The spawn's dynamic was perfect - even vampire spawn have to remind their roommates to pick up after each other, after all. And the image of 12 cats running around in that big manor? The fighting over the names? So very accurate. The mention of Astarion and his taste in coffins was so very Astarion that it had us laughing out loud. Of course he would want to be there, trying to keep everyone in style. We love it! Thank you, Xen, for participating and appreciating this wonderful fic!

Apprecimaytion fic for post-canon "Accountant's Guide"

Have you ever been wondering how the spawns would organize their newfound freedom and sudden real estate ownership after the events of Accountant's Guide?

Me too!

Cohabitational Discussions is a beautiful little spin-off piece the wonderful Xen (who does not have Tumblr) wrote for me as part of the @bg3-apprecimaytion event (prompt # 21: Home).

Naturally, I'm beside myself with gratitude and joy. No one's ever written anything about my stories or characters, so this is really special to me. Please, enjoy it.

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Yay!! Another amazing piece - the coloring is absolutely beautiful, the details are lovely, and Gilly's expression is perfect! Clearly, we've interrupted something very important, and we can't help but wonder what it is 👀

This a wonderful appreciation of another character, and we thank you so much for all the time and hard work you've put into these! It's just such a wonderful way to make other creators feel valued, and it's something so important to us. Thank you ♥

I am so behind the @bg3-apprecimaytion prompts but I am finally free to draw something for Interrupted :D

Gilly belongs to @themaybug ; POV: she was talking to her pet centipede and you interrupted her! 😨

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How absolutely gorgeous! The rays of sunlight shining down on them, the petals fluttering to the ground nearby (are we seeing things, or are those in the shape of Astarion's scars?), and the flowers in the background are absolutely beautiful!

The color palette is so warm and lovely that it gives the immediate sensation of being under that tree, watching Halsin and Astarion talk. Just amazing! And the fic is absolutely wonderful as well - the banter betwen the two of them is hilarious, and the slow comfort that builds between the two of them is so very sweet.

Thank you so much for participating again! This is stunning, and we really appreciate the work you've put in ♥️

Flowers: Apprecimaytion Day 16 A modern AU Halstarion @bg3-apprecimaytion thing for In Dubio Pro Natura by the wonderful @cathartictrash

In Dubio Pro Natura is the fic that sold me on Halstarion - messy modern lawyer Astarion and chilled eco-warrior Halsin are my Roman Empire. (Not pictured: the construction site opposite them featuring butch Karlach in a hardhat who has been affectionately haunting my dreams since Lee first wrote her into existence)

I wanted to spend longer on this but time has not been my friend recently so I'm throwing it out there as is 🌱

Drabble will eventually make it to AO3 but for now can be found below the cut:

Astarion Ancunin, on behalf of his boss, Cazador Szarr, on behalf of Szarr Law, his boss’s highly reputable legal practice, on behalf of the illustrious and prosperous Thorm family, is meeting with a terrorist. An eco-terrorist, which somehow feels rather less dramatic, but still. And yes, admittedly, there is nothing particularly terror-inspiring about the broad, open face of the terrorist in question, though Astarion must admit there is something somewhat terrifying in the fact that such a handsome man could have such a dreadful sense of fashion. The dirty t-shirt and cargo shorts - cargo shorts, for the love of Correllon! - would be bad enough, but the sandals the terrorist wears on his feet are so particularly awful that even the thought of them is enough to evoke a barely-suppressed shiver of horror from the young lawyer.

Astarion has chosen today to attempt another meeting with eco-terrorist Halsin Silverbough because Enchantrix, his not-so-intelligent magical-home-intelligence system, assured him earlier this morning that the entire day would be overcast. Much to his dismay, almost the instant that he steps under the bower of the ancient ash tree in which Halsin has made his home, the sun emerges from behind the thick grey clouds.

“Shit.”

“Good morning,” says Halsin from somewhere above him.

“Is it?”

“It certainly seems like it. The sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, the birds are singing. There is plenty to thank the Oak Father for on a day like today.”

“I’m allergic to the sun,” snaps Astarion, hating how whiny his voice sounds compared to the rich, slow tones of the druid.

“Ah,” says Halsin, swinging gracefully down from the crown of the tree to land beside him. “Yes, I can see how that would be a problem. Come, sit for a while. The sun will no doubt be hidden again soon.”

Halsin sits by the trunk of the tree, patting the ground beside him. Astarion sits too, albeit begrudgingly, hoping not to get grass stains on his only good pair of trousers. For a while there is a silence: comfortable on Halsin’s part, and awkward on Astarion’s. Halsin seems to sense Astarion’s unease, though, and breaks the silence by asking him a benign question. Astarion answers dismissively at first, but the druid keeps at it, and before long they are simply talking.

And so they sit, beneath the leaves, amongst the flowers, and they talk, and they talk, and they talk.

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BG3 Appreci-May-tion Day 16: Flowers

The prompt for today is flowers! Can't wait to see the submissions ♥️

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BG3 Appreci-May-tion Day 15: Peace

We're just about halfway through the month now, and therefore halfway through the event. Thank you so much to everyone who's participated so far, and we can't wait to see more from you!

Today's prompt is peace.

[bg3-apprecimaytion]

We don't even have words for how lovely this fic is. Or, rather, since we need words to write this, we do have words - they just don't do justice!

First of all, thank you so much for taking the time and effort to write this beautiful piece of appreciation! We love Captainstarion and this is a stunning love letter to the original fic. Genevieve has so much character, and her interactions with Astarion are so much fun! Their dynamic is incredible - all the banter and flirting! Your descriptions are just gorgeous, so many moments are absolutely hilarious, and the ending of the fic is fantastic! Thank you again! ♥

"The Call of the Sea" for Larvasmoon

Coming in with my take on the "Interrupted" prompt from the @bg3-apprecimaytion event to show my undying love for @larvasmoon and her absolutely stunning take on Captainstarion in the pirate AU "Salt the Earth Behind you". While Astarion and Beatrice are very clearly endgame, I've been wanting to explore some of his earlier adventures, before meeting and falling for her. None of this is canon to the story, but I hope I managed to channel his swagger and general badassery.

Happy birthday, @larvasmoon. You are a beautiful soul and so very talented. I adore your work.

Teaser:

“Hello, darling,” he drawled, drawing himself up to his full height with the slow, confident smile of a man who knew that he looked absolutely amazing, no matter the ridiculousness of his outfit choices. His red eyes found hers for just a moment before darting to the jewel in her hands. “Oh, Hells, no!” Genevieve shoved the jewel into her coat and reached for her dagger. “This one’s mine! I was here first, and you are not fucking me over, Ancunín!”

Read on AO3

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This was absolutely lovely! The image of Astarion, expecting to receive showers of praise then getting hit with constructive criticism is hilarious. It's such an Astarion move, and all of his pettiness and sulking afterward is so true to his character as well!

The little poems he writes are brilliant, and the conclusion? Perfect. Thank you so much for participating again! ♥

His Masterpiece (a drabble to appreciate Daybreak Ballads)

in honor of @bg3-apprecimaytion i decided to write a drabble for one of my favorite Astarion one shots, "Daybreak Ballads" by @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate! this probably fits the "poetry" prompt froma. few days back best, but shhhh that's fine.

i love Emi's oneshot so much. it's some truly delightful petty Astarion smut. i highly recommend it. so to appreciate it, here is a little "prequel" drabble of sorts I wrote for it.

enjoy petty Astarion writing bad poetry. and Emi - I hope you like it!!

***

“Not for her? What in the nine hells does that even mean?’ Astarion scoffed as he paced back and forth in the woods.

He had kept his composure during his lover’s critique that evening. Admittedly, he had fully expected her to tell him he was brilliant - a master of the art, a wordsmith - and to beg him to let her perform the piece. He would have graciously agreed, of course, after a fair amount of flattery. But no. No, she had ripped it apart. From his form to his “creative” rhymes to his lack of authenticity. 

She’d said he needed to find his intended audience, because it wasn’t right for her. 

How infuriating.

He decided then and there to prove her wrong. He would write another poem. A better one. One that would make her eat her words. She’d come to him after, the tips of her ears all red, and admit she’d been a fool because he, Astarion, was truly a gifted poet. And his words had put her to shame.

He just had to compose it.

Astarion took a deep breath and flopped down onto a log, puling out hte paper he had brought with him so he could begin to write. 

She says she is not my intended audience

He frowns, clucking his tongue as he thinks of a word to rhyme with audience.

But soon enough the world will applaud-y us

He stares at his own words. Applaud-y us? Fine. That was terrible. He scratches both lines out and tries again. 

She says my work is inauthentic

But I think she’s being a sullen dick

Hm. Better, but still not great. And sullen didn’t feel like the right word either. And perhaps “dick” was a bit too crude for poetry. He scratched those lines out as well.

She says she doesn’t like my art

But at least i’m a better poet than Shadowheart

Admittedly, now he was just being silly. He wadded up the paper, shoving it into his pocket with a sigh. He could have acknowledged that perhaps his lover was right and that he was not a very good poet. Or, he could find another way to make her take it back, since apparently a revenge poem wasn’t going to do the trick.

That’s when the idea struck him. 

He may not have been a bard like his little songestres, but there was one instrument he could play like no one else - her body. In their time together, he had truly honed that craft. He was capable of producing such beautiful music from her lips. And Astarion suddenly knew what song he wanted her to sing for him next.

He grinned to himself as he got to his feet and began to make his way back to camp.

Tonight, he thought, he would compose a masterpiece. 

[bg3-apprecimaytion]

BG3 Appreci-May-tion Day 14: interrupted

Two weeks into May (which is absolutely wild? where did the time go?) and our prompt for today is interrupted. Also, apologies for the fact that the daily posts have been later in the evenings - we'll do our best to get these posted earlier in the day from now on ♥

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Eeee! Rockstar!Catstarion owns our hearts - he's so incredibly cute! The piercings are the perfect touch, and his outfit is so perfect! We can just see him yowling out some tunes, determined to show off his talent for Estellé. We aren't sure about her, but we certainly couldn't resist his (adorable) charms!

We just have to thank you again for doing so many of the prompts - it's incredible, and we really appreciate all the time you've spent appreciating amazing works! Thank you so much! ♥

Heartbreak of a rockstar(ion) 🎤

As my next entry for the AppreciMAYtion event by @bg3-apprecimaytion, I would like to bring you the prompt Day 14 - Interrupted.

I would like to show my immense appreciation for the hard work and amazing writing of @davenswitcher and her fic of "The Rockstar and the Groupie", starring (hehe) the pre-vamped rockstar AU Astarion. Of course, I wouldn't be able to do it and not bring my sweet animal versions of that man into this.

Once in March, there was a little discussion of how Astarion would react if he saw his favourite groupie, Estellé in the crowd during a concert with someone else. He might get stunned a bit? Stumble and forget lyrics? Then maybe start singing his heart out while looking in her eyes? Would certainly be an interruption on that concert! ✨

Featuring the biggest, wettest cat eyes possible from a eyeliner wearing rocker, when his concert gets interrupted by an impending jealous heartache:

More close-ups:

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We're so incredibly happy to see this beautiful fic for Neve! Every bit of this is stunningly written - the descriptions are vivid, and there's an underlying poeticism that makes even the simplest things lovely: Mornings always come to her sharp and early, crisp like dried tea leaves. Neve's loneliness is both palpable and devastating, and this entire work radiates such a deep, intense love for her character that's just... so, so lovely for us to see. Works like this are exactly why we're doing this event! Thank you so very much for participating! ♥

in honor of @bg3-apprecimaytion's event! for @again-please's iconic elusory wizard girlboss tav: neve nomani 🔮🪄 from Dancing With My Demons (please read the whole Mercurial World series btw)

@again-please if your character is misrepresented in any way just let me know and i'll delete it no questions asked ✨️this is all extrapolation

if i'm late no i'm not you didn't see anything

12. memories snippets of neve's last day in baldur's gate. look at the clock, it's sad girl hour. word count: 4419

storm's eye

"Do not take oaths when you graduate from Blackstaff Academy."

--Ka'a Orto'o, Gnomic Utterances, CC IV xvi

Norry's shop is little more than a hole-in-the-wall, humble stone and wood and washed-out sign ensemble of a storefront, nothing like the famed portal of children's stories you’d wander in hoping to stumble upon opportunity and adventure.

Fortune favours the ones who bet on losing dogs, so you could take a chance.

You’d push the door open and strings of bronze bells would chime the merry little tune of serendipity.

Worn out drapes over small tables and shelves lined with books, bronze and gammanium arcane tools, miniature astrolabes, the stray fire elemental trapped in a crystal globe, dancing dust particles visible in the dim sunlight filtering through the windows, strings of colourful cantrip-infused trinkets that do nothing to help the shop's reputation as a curiosity store that provides unreliable magical objects (it's an unfortunate side effect of being associated to the Enchanter's Guild's name, uncancellable subscription, no refunds).

Magic safely contained in vials, jars, airtight bottles, neatly labelled and organized the way you'd store food or legal documents or body parts in a mortuary. Not a single living thing, no skin-prickling excitement that awakens at the mere mention of 'magic'.

The place is a light inconsequential spring breeze to the pulsing cold storms of the Weave.

Behind the counter, a young woman with pleated locks of strawberry-blond hair, a pale freckle-dotted face, and magic spilling out the eyes. The scroll she'd hold in her hands would go up in flames, and you’d very wisely choose a less hazardous place of commerce.

Well, a few days ago, that's the sight you would have been greeted with.

You've only taken refuge in this empty shop to avoid the tentacled monstrosity abducting people outside, after all.

Neve should be sleeping, which signals to her brain that now is the perfect time to wake up fully and work on the eldritch cannons problem.

Mornings always come to her sharp and early, crisp like dried tea leaves--so many things to do, so many tasks to get started on, so many readings to pick back up. But the light bravely soldiering on through her round window is not even pink yet, bathing her room in blue-gray hues that do nothing to lure her away from the covers.

No matter. She's awake, now.

The silver cylinders are waiting for her on her desk, exactly where she left them last night.

Neve slips out of bed and goes through the motions of her routine--splashing frigid water on her face, putting on her brown robes laid out at the foot of her bed, braiding her hair--and her train of thought starts following the path she'd agreed on with herself a few days ago. The eldritch cannons belong to a patron, a monster hunter in need of a magic touch on top of their skills, and Norry dropped the order in Neve's lap on top of everything else.

She can't resist taking a look at them before starting her day. Cold and smooth metal under her hands. She can feel the magic embedded in the mechanism--human-made. That's not the interesting part, though. Loaded in the cannons are silver capsules, which can split open to reveal empty insides. Scattered across her desk, half-finished explosive scrolls that she keeps worryingly close to her few belongings. What's the worst that could happen, anyway? The attic going up in flames?

Yes. That's why she traced a ward of containment along the wooden rim of the desk.

The only scroll she's finished is sitting in a bowl filled with blackened remains of charred silver--a neat line of ink disables the spell, running like a seam in the middle of the scroll. This hunter's quarry requires full-silver weapons, which lowers the melting point of the material, but it cannot coexist with the scrolls that are supposed to fill the capsules. The very nature of the spell endangers the metal, reaching the too-low melting point too fast.

It's an impossible endeavour, which makes it excitingly infuriating.

How do you slow down an explosion? Or rather, force everything around it to hold together?

She's still trying to figure that part out.

The key is probably in the acceleration upon release of the mechanism's trigger, but the trick is to force the spell into holding together long enough—at least until it's out of the barrel, and out of the hunter's hand. Perhaps magical cooling would help? Books on frost magic are harder to find, but Neve is pretty sure she can get around that.

It's in cases like this that she bumps against the frustrating limits of her education. What ten-year-olds learn in academies, she has to knuckle her way through it, scraping together unrelated pieces of knowledge, reading between the lines written by long-dead archmages.

Well, no time like the present, right? First things first: harvesting the ingredients needed for the morning batches of potions.

On the roof, Neve's day dress sways on the clothesline, rippling in the wind. The chilled air carries the promise of rain, and even if she'll probably need to take her clothes to dry inside, it's a welcome change from the stifling atmosphere of the attic.

Her garden is a well-kept square made of orderly rows of magical herbs, culinary vegetables and berries. Along the neat edges of soil that turns downright frosty and hard in winter, complicated glyph patterns glow an eerie purple, keeping hungry insects away. They also form the base of an invisible energy dome protecting the plants from rain and hail--she cannot stomach seeing her little garden in ruins again, ever since a summer storm so sudden she didn't even have the time to pull the tarp up destroyed it a few years ago.

Away from the patch of earth sits a clay pot full of birdseed that she refills every tenday, when a couple of turtledoves stop on her windowsill, stretching their necks to peer inside her room. Sometimes, she'll put her work aside for a minute to get closer to them, and even if they're about to fly off, they'll change their minds and stay, letting her pet them. When she talks to them, they cock their little heads, beady black eyes watching her intently. They always stay when she talks, waiting until she's finished to leave.

It's the same couple, every time. She recognizes their matching white-spots.

(This grave is no home, they chirp. A heart-shaped hole in an axe's blade does not make it less of an axe.)

It's only her on the roof today, though.

She kneels in the madder soil of her much smaller plot of herbs--this one is surrounded by a much more potent combination of blue glyphs to keep the plants inside. That's where she grows the less appealing spell components, like daggerroot, oleander, henbane, aberrations of mugwort and rogue's morsel unfit for consumption and healing potions. Insects end up here, crushed by creeping vines, mixing with oxblood provided by the butcher's shop.

She pulls the roots and the soil stains her fingers, gets under her nails, the blood-fed stems rough to the touch.

Sharp pain lances through her wrist when she puts the roots in her woven basket, and she braces for the uncomfortable nerve-tingle that follows in her fingers. She'll try to write more with her other hand today, then.

She gets up and dusts herself off, her trousers spotted with earth and unfortunate ants.

No weavemoss here, she thinks wryly.

Neve blinks sweat out of her eyes and huffs. One more batch and she'll be done with today's first set of chores.

The fumes rising from the cauldron's surface press against her cheeks in hot swirls, and she cannot wait to wash it all off. Her eyes sting and her back is smarting with pain again and her stomach makes her acutely aware that it's almost noon.

Once she's satisfied with the colour and consistency of the mixture, she starts filling the pear-shaped glass vials that she'll have to label and put on the shelves later--but first she'll probably have to postpone lunch, she has to be in the shop to receive a shipment of wolfsbane and leave it in the decontamination salt circle for at least five days before using it, it has a bad habit of sucking the nutrients out of the soil and being a menace to the other plants, oh and there's still autumn crocus in the stocks, is there not? If not she'll have to make a quick trip to the botanical gardens, get more seeds, because the way they grow crocus (next to the strawberry stolons) is absolutely horrendous.

The cauldron is emptied until only dregs are left.

Neve settles at her workbench and starts grinding the mugwort roots she dried using her homebrewn rid-of-moisture spell. Once thoroughly crushed into a fine brown powder, she sifts it before mixing it with the pressed daggerroots in a clay bowl. She could keep going and turn this mixture into a proper oil, but that's not her end goal. Well, she is going to use it to coat the capsules and enhance their accuracy to the point that they'll never miss their target--better keep these explosions very, very localized.

However, this doesn't solve the melting off problem. The heat is dangerous for the cannons but also for the handler, who must take their mission seriously if they're willing to waste that much pure silver into a weapon, and as a result of its use, into, well, corpses (Neve tries not to think about that part too much. Yes, she's daydreamed about fire-bolting the careless cart-drivers who rush past her in the street while almost flattening playing children, but it stays what it is. A thought. She has more than an inkling that the client chose Norry's shop for its unobstrusiveness rather than for its quality of service.)

She needs something else. Something that, used in a different way, could solve her problem. Deerskin pouches rest on the shelves, but she knows none of them contains what she's looking for.

"What do you think?" She asks the cow doll slumped against her window--a gift from a little girl after she'd given her a healing potion for free three years after the start of her apprenticeship.

Black mica eyes stare back at her.

Oh gods. Two more years like this and she'd start animating the doll to get an answer.

Supply lines from the southern Sword Coast have been cut for weeks, narrowing the range of ingredients at her disposal. The Merchant's League is supposedly working on it, but most of the shops she frequents have been relying on stocks and seaborne trade. With certain components missing, one has to get creative and be willing to crack some eggs at random for... mixed results, to say the least.

Neve doesn't need to go through a lot of trial and error. She just knows. She sees the experiment failing before even setting up the materials.

She has to. She's running on limited reserves of time and energy.

Experiments play out to the end in her head, or stop when something goes awry--a misshapen ward, an ingredient shortage, too much heat under the cauldron, unsought results. When she encounters a problem that needs many steps for solving, she lays them out neatly, holds them each in her mind's eye, spins them in six or seven different directions to establish the most efficient and cost-effective way of accomplishing her task. Sometimes, an unexpected development prompts her to drop lines of thought, or add new ones.

Ingredients don't behave in unexpected ways unless you make them.

When she sees the solution too soon, it leaves her with mixed feelings. Yes, it's gained time, but she likes the challenge, and the feeling of being right that follows.

Small victories. She'll take them.

Maybe a temporary seal on the capsules to isolate them?

Norry is (or, rather, was a long, long time ago) a sealing specialist, and the back of the shop houses stacks upon stacks upon stacks of books on ward technique left to gather dust and cobwebs. Neve's made her way through a solid third of the collection, but quickly realized this was more a hoarder's trove of mostly dead languages than useful accounts of sealing spells. Still, she keeps a new tome on her bedside table, writing down any new information she can make out of it, referring to her translation notes and inferring purpose and spell components from context and common sense.

Her old master doesn't care much for frivolity or obvious displays of sentimentality, but he treasures most of his books like they're his own children.

He sure cares about them more than he does about Neve, not that his indifference comes from a place of genuine malice.

At least she's not on the streets selling her backside to the highest bidder, but there are some nights when even this thought offers only meagre comfort, nor does the knowledge that this alternative wouldn't have bothered anyone, least of all her parents.

Nights become the theatre of uncomfortable dreams--a cottage in faraway farmlands, where she'll be blessedly alone and only worry about her raspberry bushes and honeysuckle flowerbeds that she'll grow only for tea, no more soulless potion brewing in a dark room, coffee in the morning and getting dressed up to go nowhere, free to do whatever she wants with her days.

A place that's hers, no conditions attached, and in her wildest dreams, it's built for two.

She dreams of a slow, peaceful, rose-tinted life and doesn't think about the implications of retirement, because to retire she'd first have to live through something, anything, and it hurts and it doesn't stop there, because even though it's been ten years memories and dreams still blur together.

The in and out of a sewing needle, the embroidered bodice of a recently-mended pinafore dress that will be outgrown in a year and never mended again, lilac-scented hair she buried her face in, the forgotten feeling of laying her head on someone's shoulder, of a hug--

--a feral smile dripping with blood, the cut of a diamond, magic coursing through her marrow, splitting the skies, shattering the earth--

--waking up, the dream already evaporating, leaving her with the ghost of it, sitting on the edge of her bed, her guts twisting with aching loneliness, lack and emptiness all around her.

Others she spends in the throes of nightmares that never end nor clarify. Undefined. Black chasms and the slow agony of breath forced out of her lungs, burdened down, down, and this single thought like a death sentence, like cold truth: forever. this life all alone forever and ever and ever.

Those nights end with her eyes snapping open like a mechanical toy's from the artificer's shop, her brain leaning back in its chair, satisfied like a cat who got the cream of despair, I'm done! Please go on with your day! and she does, of course she does, because what other choice does she have?

Adjusting the shoulder strap of her satchel across her chest, Neve smooths the rumples of her day dress and locks up the shop, checking the defensive wards one more time--Norry left for an astronomy conclave with old colleagues in the countryside, entrusting her with the completion of the ongoing commissions and the never-ending list of magical items of service that need enchanting.

She's got some way to go before reaching Rivington, where she is to post a letter to Candlekeep.

Despite her earlier predictions, it hasn't rained yet.

She walks past busted open crates, wine spilling on the cobblestone path, broiling low clouds casting shadows across the buildings, wind carrying the smell of salt and fish and rotting fruit from the docks, the mix cloying in the back of her throat. It could have made for an unappealing brew if Neve didn't relish every second spent outside. Everything beats feeling like an old maid sealed off away from civilisation. Conversations no longer muted by walls reach her ears, the hum of the city, the hustle and bustle of shopkeepers.

Being lonely in a crowd rivals being alone in the attic.

Her path leads her closer to the docks, zig-zagging between sailors unloading ships, coming and going and dragging crates that clink with the tell-tale sound of wine and whiskey and rum bottles, the rumble of their steps on the gangplanks like the familiar ticking of clockwork.

Ivory tiles of Bite and Sting blink at her from a draughts stand, hand-painted bees and foxes and wolves laid up or down, sailors swearing and mutually accusing each other of cheating. Its companion card deck lies ignored in the muddy puddle at the sailors' feet. A few paces away, a lanceboard is perched on a barrel where two lanky laundresses are leaning on their elbows. Neve slows down, just enough to check out the board, and she can tell they're playing by Moonsea rules, if the broken Mystras laying on their side are anything to go by.

Near a warehouse, elderly seafarers skewer and skillet fish gasping for water. A rivulet of blood serpents around the lumps of wood and drips to the ground, carrying ripped scales.

High noon sunrays glint off Steel-Watchers patrolling on the piers. Neve can't say she likes seeing them around, but she can't deny she's curious to know what kind of spell animates them. She put aside incredibly rare books on armor magic from Khorvaire that Norry keeps in boxes in the attic like they're worthless junk but it seems she never has enough time to settle down and catch up on all her reading.

Watching the ebb and flow of low waves against the wooden pier pillars reminds her of all her compiled notes on elemental magic. She has no one to share them with, no one to comment on the capillaries-bursting focus she's attained to channel lightning, crackling wisps of blue light between her fingers, she'd been so ecstatic over finally managing to do it that she'd immediately broken her concentration the first time. No one to remark on her control of water, which she primarily uses to conduct electricity. No one to talk to, at all.

It's fine, though. She's spent ten years virtually on her own in Baldur's Gate. She can handle herself.

And if she hugs herself at night pretending to be held by someone else, and if she sometimes goes to Umberlee’s temple and skims her fingers over the flowers floating in the fountains and holds them in her hands long enough to convince herself she has someone to give them to, and if she dreams of curling up and laying her head against someone’s chest to fall asleep to the sound of their heartbeat, well.

No one has to know.

The carrier pigeons of Sword Coast Couriers lounge under the sun, coats of feathers puffed up around them, looking like satisfied, plump, red and brown balls.

They look so peaceful to Neve, unburdened by debt and earthly matters and free to go wherever they wish.

They tweet at her as she enters the post office.

Danzo Arkwright, dwarven head honcho of the postal service, stands behind the counter, arguing with a customer--a darkling, hood lowered.

"No, no, no! Your hells-spawned bird already murdered seven of my carrier pigeons!"

An outraged gasp. "Hells-spawned? How dare you? He's as pure and innocent as the day he hatched from his egg! These were all unfortunate--"

"Well, I'm afraid I cannot let it join the ranks of the carriers."

The darkling clicks his tongue, pulls his hood up, draws himself up to his full height--Neve's, give or take the thickness of a hair--and turns on his heels.

On his way out, Neve catches a small flash of grey feathers and yellow-ringed eyes of the cuckoo he cradles in the crook of his elbow.

(He's saying Kill your whole family with an oyster knife. Do it and you'll be free. He's really fun at parties though, and this whole cannibalism affair in 1487 was a complete misunderstanding.)

Danzo glares daggers at his back until he recognizes Neve and smiles.

"Miss Nomani," he greets, crow's feet deepening around his eyes. He used to see a lot of her when she still sent letters to her father, and winked at her conspiratorially whenever she slipped a new letter to The Baldurian Post's editor across the wooden counter.

Still, his gaze quickly leaves hers when he spots another regular behind her.

She hands him the letter and thanks him before leaving.

The darkling is nowhere in sight, and she decides to allow herself one wishful trip to Sorcerous Sundries before going back to the shop.

A month ago, the Castle of Tomes issued a challenge: every scholar of magic was invited to send a new classification of the complete works of Ka'a Orto'o. If the classification was deemed an improvement compared to the previous one, the scholar would win the privilege of hearing their name added to the prayers of the Avowed.

And nine thousand gold coins.

Mostly nine thousand gold coins.

Of course, a wizard always pursues knowledge for knowledge's sake.

But nine thousand gold coins can't hurt someone's pride, which is a crucial aspect to consider when one has to deal with wizards, and it's a good carrot to convince scholars to dive back in Orto'o's works.

The true order of composition of Gnomic Utterances is a hotly debated topic in a pinpoint niche of the wizarding community. Voluntarily published out of order and purposefully mislabelled, it comes only second to the complete works of Volothamp Geddarm in terms of inanity and usefulness.

These works have nothing to envy to each other--rife with historical inaccuracies, bad puns, and piecemeal points of interest. It's a colossal waste of ink and paper and breath in arguments--in the year 1432, two wizards destroyed an entire reconstructed spelljammer fleet outside of Melvaunt in an explosion of magic after their discussion got too heated.

Unlike most wizards, Norry seems to have lost the need for posturing and constant ego-stroking, and thus didn't even spare a glance for the letter informing him of this challenge, resuming his tasks with the characteristic unhurried pace of an immortal being.

Which was tacit permission for Neve to sign up.

(To be quite honest, it's the hotly debated part that attracted Neve in the first place.)

It's the kind of work that relies on the reader to understand. But understand what?

Neve is a self-taught wizard through and through. She's used to figuring things out on her own. She's studied books until her eyes started weeping blood.

This proved not to be much different.

Of course, these books are an assortment of the most moronic, even if somewhat amusing in an absurd way, thoughts to have ever crossed anyone's mind since Ao created the Realms.

That's not what's important about them.

People have spent so much time unable to see the forest for the trees and dismissing Ka'a Orto'o as a bumbling old fool of a gnome that they've missed what was always sitting in front of them.

Because Gnomic Utterances paints a bigger picture: a complete map of Baldur's Gate ley lines--the most basic of basics of a wizard's education. There's a reason why the city is more often than not simply called "the Gate". It's not enough to read the words--a cryptographic approach suited this endeavour a lot better. In the right order, sentences bounce off of each other to create a brand new text.

The city is a gate for what Orto'o calls "the Swarm", some sort of collective-consciousness entity sealed off somewhere hundreds of years ago.

Even if Neve wasn't positive her proposition is the right one, she knows it's at least an interesting interpretation backed up by textual and magical evidence.

She's put in all the work she could. Now she can only wait for a response.

She signed the letter with her own alliterative initials, N.N.

Usually, everything that leaves Norry's shop bears Norry's seal. It's a frustrating erasure of Neve's work, and at the same time a safety net that fuels Neve's fear of being found out. That one day she'll be looked at and looked through and she'll have to make up for the fact that it's only her. That hypothetical people will assess and dismiss her in the same look.

As long as no one knows, as long as it's only her with herself, she's safe.

The solution hits Neve as she cracks an egg against the counter.

Yellow yolk spills in the pan and instantly starts sizzling, and she looks for her inkwell to write it down before she forgets. She's too tired to work on anything more tonight, but she'll get it started first thing tomorrow morning.

It's well into the night already, and she's barely pep-talked herself into eating a little before finally passing out on her bed.

Her brown robes are neatly folded and laid out on her small coffer, ready to be put on tomorrow, and there's nothing but the grating sound of her feather against parchment in the bare room.

A clutter of meaningless knick-knacks that see her leave in the morning and come back in the evening. Ropes of thyme and mint to drown out the burnt stench of cauldron dregs. Half-hearted attempts to decorate the place over the past ten years, but it'll take more than her good will and the smell of humid wood on rainy days to turn this attic into a home she'll be happy to go back to.

The space is lived in because she lives here, not because it's hers.

Surely, there are better ways to fall asleep that don't involve the gnawing feeling of being part of the book and arcane tools collection, left to be coated in dust and dashed hopes.

Surely.

Her scarce belongings are exactly where she left them.

Her abandoned and creased day dress, the bundle of unsent letters she keeps under her pillow, the little cow plush slowly losing its fluff. Dusty books on a bedside table, notes sticking out from various pages. Outside, the garden left to wither under a protection dome that's slowly killing it now that no one's here to renew it properly. Turtledoves pecking at an empty clay pot.

The little attic doesn't miss her, or wait for her return.

Don't think it cold-hearted.

It's just glad she got away.

[bg3-apprecimaytion]

BG3 Appreci-May-tion Day 13: Comfortable

The thirteenth prompt for May is comfortable! We hope you're all very comfortable at the moment ♥

[bg3-apprecimaytion]

This piece is just absolutely gorgeous! The tenderness in Astarion's gaze as he looks at Zoya is palpable, and his hand in her hair is so lovely and sweet. The details are just amazing - from the plum trees in the background to the ruffles on Astarion's shirt, to the shading on the bunny! And his gold eyes, too!

This is a beautiful, incredible appreciation of this lovely work! Thank you so much for participating! ♥

Entry for Day 12: Memories // @bg3-apprecimaytion

For today’s prompt I bring you Astarion Ancunín and Zoraya Naelgrath, from the wonderful fanfic Magistrate’s Advocate by @cinnamontails-ff. These two are so good together and I always have a blast reading about their adventures! This is a representation of a small portion of chapter 16, that made my heart melt from how sweet it was!

Hope you enjoy it!

[bg3-apprecimaytion]

BG3 Appreci-May-tion Day 12: Memories

Day 12 of the event, and the prompt is memories! We're very excited to see the posts for this one. Also, happy mother's day, everyone!

[bg3-apprecimaytion]

This is so, so cute! We never anticipated an artwork for another apprecimaytion fic, but we're so happy to see this, because Pirate!Catstarion is so adorable!

Every detail is just so well done - the shadow of the rope on the wood, the parchment and compass on his belt, and the little fangs 🥺 Even his ponytail is there, and the red eyes! You are so incredibly talented, and we cannot thank you enough for all the work you've put into these amazing pieces ♥️

Pirate catstarion and his love letter ✒️

I would like to bring you a crossover creator appreciation I made for the amazing fic of @larvasmoon's "Salt the earth behind you", as well as @davenswitcher's Apprecimaytion entry of the same fic, the lovely "the seas freedom and love intertwined". 💙

The best kind of Captainstarion fic I have ever read was @larvasmoon's! It's so well written and insanely immersive. Hot and very very captivating. Not just for our favourite vampire, but for the author's amazing OCs throughout her fics! They are always so deep with an interesting backstory. Can't get enough of that fic!

For Apprecimaytion, @davenswitcher wrote the heartfelt little love letter Captain Ancunin wrote to Beatrice, after climbing up to the crow's nest. 💙

So, as my another entry for @bg3-apprecimaytion's Apprecimaytion event, I bring you my kind of Captainstarion, in the process of climbing up to the top of the ship to write that lovely letter to a really specific red haired cat he met in that tavern. ✨

Late entry for Day 1: Writing letters.

[bg3-apprecimaytion]

Yay! We're so happy to see another fic from you - thank you so much for participating again! We really appreciate your hard work and your appreciation of these wonderful authors!

This fic is so very sweet, just beautifully written. The imagery is stunning, and the picture of him writing this letter combined with the striking last sentence really just makes this an incredibly gorgeous, impactful piece ♥️

Appreci-May-tion entry #2!

Prompt: poetry

Original work by @spagyricqueen "The Quest For Dawn"

A little summary (spoilers ahead):

Astarion and Tav began their quest for Astarion to walk in the sun again and find an artifact called the "dawnshard". Unfortunately, this dawnshard rendered Astarion blind, yet over time cured him of his vampirism. First, he was able to walk in the sun, cross rivers and walk into homes, then years later completely cured. After his cure, Astarion heard the news from his wife that she's pregnant.

@bg3-apprecimaytion 💕