#but astarion is trying his best

[slothquisitor]

Some Credit in Trying

New relationships are hard to navigate. Also, let's have a new first kiss *after* Moonrise. Astarion x Liv, 3.5k, fluff-adjacent?

Also on AO3.

As Moonrise Towers recedes behind them, a curse lifted and a direction found, Astarion breathes in the lighter air. There’s a hint of sea breeze, a promise of sunshine and warmth ahead of them. Nothing has gone the way he thought it would at Moonrise. They know now what the Absolute is, and who is behind this entire plot. An elder brain, The Chosen of the Dead Three. It’s like something out of the adventure stories he loves so much. It’s….a lot. He believed they were out of their depth before with all of this, but now, he knows how laughable and naive they’d been. There are gods at work. And they’re what? Supposed to steal these netherstones and save the day? It’s probably hopeless, but he feels far from it. Perhaps it’s the high of the victory at Moonrise, at the way they’d faced down Myrkul and Ketheric and won, but Cazador can’t be that far out of his reach. 

He knows what the scars on his back mean now, knows all about Cazador’s little plan. He could not only snatch this ritual away from Cazador, but he could take the power for himself. How delicious would it be to not only stop the man who ruined his life, but also to take this ritual that means so much to him for himself? If he’s successful, he’ll never be at the mercy of anyone ever again. He’ll be able to walk in the sun and be the master of his own fate once they get rid of the tadpole. He will be free, and he will never have to be afraid again. 

 Liv wants to stop Cazador too, but there’s some hesitation whenever he mentions completing the rite himself. Nothing good can come from devils, she says. Can he really just sacrifice his siblings so callously, she asks. He’s sure that she’ll come around, sure that he’ll convince her to see the reason in this. An elder brain and Bhaal and Bane’s chosen will be nothing when he is the one who ascends. It’ll all but guarantee their victory. 

It’s so close he can almost taste it. 

With Baldur’s Gate just one sleep away, their growing group has set up camp in a crumbling ruin on the hillside. The city spreads out in the distance like a promise, the soft glowing lights twinkle like fireflies. After endless weeks in the wilderness, the Underdark, and the Shadowlands, the city feels like light and life and… home. It surprises him how sentimental he feels about the place, now that he’s seeing it again in freedom. He’s not the only one. 

Wyll and Karlach are trading stories by the fire, reminiscing about places they love and hope to see again. Shadowheart sits near them, maybe she’s hoping something will click a forgotten memory into place. Astarion is content to drink with them, offering his own critiques or insights into if a tavern or restaurant still exists or has changed management in the years Wyll and Karlach have been away. 

Eventually, Karlach glances around before leaning over to him. “Hey, where’s Liv gotten to?”

“Why are you asking me? I’m sure she’s around,” he lifts a hand to encompass their little camp, but he knows it’s the wrong response as soon as the words leave his lips. 

Karlach frowns. “She slipped away after dinner and hasn’t come back. I’ll go look for her if you won’t.” Karlach’s golden eyes are awash with disapproval, and guilt settles into his stomach. Her extended absence in the evening isn’t her usual way, and he should’ve noticed. But he didn’t. 

“I will of course go and see what she’s gotten up to,” he says, a note of apology entering his voice. The truth is that he’d noticed she wasn’t here, but simply hadn’t thought that much about it.  But now that he looks around the camp, he sees no sign of her. 

“You do that,” Karlach says. Her words are delivered with careful control, a hint of admonishment lacing them. 

He’s not very good at this…whatever he and Liv are to each other business, and it’s clear Karlach has seen that. It’s not that he wouldn’t have preferred to be spending time with Liv this evening over anyone else, but he…simply hadn’t thought about finding her. And of course, Karlach would ask if he knew where she was. They’d scarcely been out of each other’s sight, and he’d taken every opportunity to be as close to her as he could at every opportunity. Their…attachment is no secret. 

While their companions aren’t privy to the specific details about what is or rather what isn’t currently happening within whatever they are to each other…he’s still sure that they look at the two of them and know what he knows: that he’s invariably getting the better deal out of it. He’s not sure what he has to offer anyone beyond complications and baggage. His feelings for Liv are genuine, but somehow he still feels like he’s taking advantage of her kindness. 

Perhaps he should’ve let Karlach go; she’s probably better company this evening anyway. But he does go, setting off on his own exploration of the ruin, hoping to find wherever Liv has absconded. 

It takes some doing, but eventually, he finds her at the top of the highest point of the ruin. She’s sitting up against the parapet, facing the city that’s visible from her vantage point only because the opposite wall has crumbled away. She glances up at him as he approaches, and looks relieved, perhaps. He takes it as an invitation. 

“It’s quite the spectacular view,” he says, sitting down beside her. They’re not quite touching, but the proximity is nice on its own. “Is everything alright?”

She looks back at the city and sighs. It’s a heavy thing, and he realizes that of their group, she’s the only one (aside from Halsin) who hasn’t seemed excited about getting to the city. 

She shrugs. “Sure. Just thinking about what we’re going to find when we get to the city is all.”

“So you were brooding,” he says the words with a hint of tease, knocking her shoulder with his own, hoping for a smile or a laugh or something. 

“I wasn’t brooding,” she says, shooting him a long-suffering look that is a confirmation all its own. 

“Sulking, ruminating, or worrying then? I could go all night with the synonyms.” Liv is always steady, always so unflappable. Seeing her like this makes him worried. He used to think it would be entertaining to see her break, to fall apart spectacularly. Now, he wants to be the person who helps keep her together. 

“Oh, I know.” She finally huffs a little laugh. “Maybe a little bit of worrying.” 

He leans in closer and takes her hand in his in a gesture that has lost none of its novelty for the familiarity. Her fingers lace with his, warm and steady and sure. He loves this. “Tell me what you were worrying about, my dear.” 

She shakes her head. “Nothing that matters. Truly.” She squeezes their joined hands, as if in reassurance, but he knows her too well to believe her. She’s not lying, not in the sense that she’s trying to be dishonest, but she is so very good at minimizing her own problems, worries, and concerns. Before Moonrise, he might have let her have the deflection, might not have pressed, but that’s not what this is anymore. 

“It matters to me,” he says. “Talk to me.”

If thinking of himself too much is his failing, then this is hers: she never thinks enough of herself. Her world-ending tadpole problem is nothing in the face of other’s suffering. She wants to save everyone, always. Even him. He wonders sometimes if she’s ever tried to save herself if she could be that selfish for anything. 

She is quiet before finally glaring out at the city as if it’s just another enemy to stand against. “It’s just my family…I don’t want to see them, and I’m afraid it’s inevitable.”

She never talks about her family. Oh, he’s pieced together a few things. He knows she has siblings, all older, but he doesn’t know their names, or what they’re like. But the fact she doesn’t want to see them is enough for him. Liv is kind and doesn’t say no enough. But if she’s decided she doesn’t want them in her life, well that’s all he needs to know. He doesn’t speak, just squeezes her hand lightly in encouragement, so she knows she can go on. 

“I don’t know how to talk about them. With you,” she admits, glancing at him before looking away again. “I don’t know how to talk about them with anyone. But especially you because…you’ve experienced far worse, and I don’t know. I don’t know how to tell you without minimizing your pain.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He’s sure he’s not given the impression that he is an especially empathetic person. And it’s true, he doesn’t have a lot of practice giving a shit about other people’s problems. When he first stumbled off of the nautiloid, he wasn’t interested in solving anyone else’s problems but his own. Two centuries of captivity and he was finally free for who knew how long, and he didn’t want to waste this chance, this opportunity. He was desperate for it to mean something. The urgency has faded somewhat. They’re protected, and they’re not going to turn into mind flayers any second. And well, he knows his companions now…it’s different. Sort of. He’s finding himself moved more often these days. It’s annoying, and probably Liv’s influence. But…he cares about her problems. Always has, even when he wouldn’t allow himself to ask about them. He has no such internal rules now. 

“I’m not used to being trusted with the burdens of others, but you so happily share mine. I want to do the same for you.” For so long, his life had been only about survival from moment to moment, there was no room for anyone or anything else. He keeps clawing space, trying to reclaim something more for himself, for her, for them. It’s not perfect, but she has given him precious, impossible moments of comfort. He only wants to be able to do the same for her. He’s just not sure how.

“I’m afraid of going back to Baldur’s Gate, afraid of seeing my family again because the only time I’ve ever felt like my own person was out here. I’ve never been looked at as anything or anyone that mattered much at all, but then I met all of you…and everyone just…trusted me, followed me.” Her words are stilted, like she’s still unsure about voicing any of this aloud. 

“It felt good. Better than good. It felt like proving my family wrong,” she explains. 

“Wrong about what?” he asks, but he’s sure he already knows the answer, or part of it anyway. 

“Magical aptitude was all my parents cared about. I was reminded, often, that I would never amount to anything, and that I would certainly never measure up to my siblings. Failure to meet expectations was not treated kindly. My parents are quite adept, and would use their magic to…motivate us.” 

He recognizes the careful tone, the way she says motivate like it’s a repetition of someone else’s lexicon, a word with its own painful universe contained within. He has many of those himself. He stays silent. 

“They also encouraged my siblings to use their magic on each other. That’s…that’s how my sister Brelia died. She was fighting with Cressida and Percy and…my parents made sure it was ruled an accident. We were forbidden from saying anything. Not that Percy or Cressida wanted the truth out there anyway.

“Roland and I just stood there at Brelia’s graveside letting people tell us how fucking sorry they were and we couldn’t say anything about it. We couldn’t tell a single person the truth. Not with Percy and Cressida and our parents standing by, watching us the whole time.”

Her shoulders slump inward, and Astarion doesn’t know what to say. He can tell that this is important, and he wishes he was better at this. At knowing the right things to say. This is real; he doesn’t want to mess it up. 

In the silence, she continues, “After Brelia died, I thought Roland would stay. Thought he’d stick around with me to try to find a way to fight back to get…justice? But he left me, went off to Candlekeep, barely even returned my letters. But I stayed…I stayed too long. I don’t know why or what I thought I was accomplishing spending every day letting them treat me like shit. And I woke up one morning about six months ago, and I…I just left.”

“They let you leave?”

She sad smile spreads across her lips. “I thought that maybe they’d come looking. I think part of me wanted them to, if only because it would prove…they cared or something. But they didn’t. I could have left at any time, and it wouldn’t have mattered. Wouldn’t have made a bit of difference. They didn’t care.” She looks at him, unshed tears gathering in her eyes. 

He feels so far out of his depth. He understands now why Liv apologizes so fucking often, the words ‘I’m sorry’ are the only ones coming to mind, but they don’t feel like the wrong ones. “I’m sorry. They didn’t deserve you.”

“I’m sure they’d disagree.” She wipes at her eyes with her free hand. “I like who I am here, with all of you. I don’t want to go back to Baldur’s Gate and be reminded of them or their impossible expectations. And I’m sure that if they’ve thought there’s anything to gain in allying with Gortash, they’d do it.”

“You think they’re tangled in all this.”

She nods. “I wouldn’t be surprised. They’re very powerful and very good at following whatever way the wind seems to be blowing. They get into things just deep enough to profit. If they thought Gortash could gain them anything, I guarantee they struck some sort of a deal. We have enough problems, and I don’t want my family to be another.”

“I’d be very happy to kill them,” he says. He means it too. 

With what has to be the first genuine smile he’s seen tonight, she shakes her head. “You know, not every situation should be solved with murder.”

“I don’t know, our track record of the last few weeks might suggest otherwise. Would you like the examples chronologically or alphabetically?” 

She rolls her eyes. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’d rather just leave them alone.”

He cannot fathom this. They hurt her, and she what, wants them to just go on being awful? Where is the justice in that? “To go on hurting people? To let them get away with covering up a murder? What about justice? Don’t you think they should pay? Don’t you think you deserve better?” 

“People rarely get what they deserve, you don’t have to look very far even in our camp to see that,” she says. 

She’s right, of course. Karlach didn’t deserve to be betrayed and handed over to Zariel, and Gale didn’t deserve his goddess telling him to die. And Wyll didn’t deserve to have to sell his soul to save Baldur’s Gate. Shadowheart didn’t deserve to lose her memories or be manipulated by Shar, and Lae’zel didn’t deserve to be cast out from her people for questioning her queen. Liv certainly didn’t deserve her upbringing, didn’t deserve parents who cared more about what she could do than who she was. Most days, he’s not sure what he deserves, but after two centuries of shit, pure shit, he thinks he deserves something better too.

“I can’t make them sorry. I can’t make them care that they hurt me. All I can do is learn how to live my life without being ruled by it.” Where is the fairness in that? Astarion doesn’t want to take any sort of high road out of this.

“I suppose that’s what you want me to do, too, isn’t it? Just forgive Cazador and move on with my life being good and kind for the rest of my days?” He knows that his words are unkind, unfair even. He cannot be good like her; is not sure he wants to be. “That…was unfair…”

There is a hard edge to her gaze when she looks at him, her words quiet. “No. It’s alright. Cazador needs to die.” 

He agrees of course, but it is gratifying to hear it come from her. “Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page about that.”

“We’ll make sure that he can’t ever hurt anyone ever again. You have my word,” Liv says. He doesn’t like promises; they’re too easily broken, but with her, it’s different. But even as she promises this, he realizes that he’s somehow taken this moment, and twisted it to be about him. He doesn’t want that because wants her to feel heard too. 

“For what it is worth, I think you’re rather wonderful, and that has nothing to do with your magic. You’re patient, and you’re kind. You always listen, and your first reaction to any situation is to look for a way to help.” 

Her eyes narrow, but her tone isn’t accusing. “I thought you hated that I always wanted to help.”

“Because no one ever helped me. People don’t help, but you aren’t people. You’re you. And I am grateful that I met you.”

“I’m grateful to have met you too.” She’s smiling now, and he thinks that maybe he might not be completely terrible at this. “Could I…could I kiss you?” 

It’s his turn to smile. He did do something right after all. She always asks for consent before touching him. It’s not a concession he ever believed he needed, would have never asked for, but he loves it. There’s a thrill in being asked what he wants, and a safety in knowing he can always say no. “There is nothing I’d like more.”

Since Moonrise, their relationship has been deliberately careful. It has been a profound relief to discover that Liv is fine simply holding his hand or hugging him goodnight and that neither of them has felt the need to ask for more. He’s wanted to kiss her, of course he has, but if he’s being honest, he’s been waiting for her to ask. He’s not sure he trusts himself to know what the normal progression of a relationship should look like anyway. But he trusts her, trusts that she’s not going to push him into anything he’s not ready for. She’s always been careful with them both, even when he wasn’t. 

She cups his cheek, as she slowly leans in, eyes never leaving his. There’s a careful watchfulness in this, and he realizes that she’s looking for any sign of hesitation on his part. The slowness is deliberate, giving him an out if he needs it. Something in his chest clenches at the care, the consideration. But he’s never been a particularly patient person, and so he leans into her, enthusiastically closing the rest of the distance.

This kiss is soft, unhurried, a kiss just for the sake of a kiss. Liv keeps their fingers laced tight between them, anchoring him to this moment. He is not sure if he can ever match her gentleness. He is used to reading his partners, meeting them where they are, matching their urgency, their insistence, and ardor - forever aware of the half-life of those couplings. He worries that not only was he not made for sweetness, but that he is not capable of it. That he will always reach for her with sharpness, in a way that cuts and wounds. 

But she is not afraid, so perhaps, he shouldn’t be either. 

The kiss is over all too soon. Their eyes meet as she pulls away, and he wonders if this is a first kiss they might have shared, in another life, another time, another set of circumstances where their hearts were less broken. 

“Mmm,” he sighs. And because she needs to hear it, and he needs to say the words aloud, he tells her, “I did rather like that, you know.” He hopes that’s a reassurance given, a permission granted for more moments like this. 

And because she makes him feel brave, he releases her hand to instead drape his arm around her, pulling her closer to him. She burrows into his side, slotting into the space perfectly, and they sit together and watch the city glittering in the distance, a place that holds so much hurt and pain and potential for them both. They’ll face it together, of that much he is sure.

There is much to learn, and to unlearn, but he knows that he wants nothing more than the time to try. 

Thanks for reading!

[myrkulitescourge]

i'm surprised i haven't seen any text posts yet about the Unsubtle Differences between astarion’s tiefling party/high approval forest scene and the one you get after the goblin party.

there’s something so terribly interesting about how the conversation afterward plays out depending on which variation you pursue.

like, most people have seen the tiefling party version by now. astarion basking in the sunlight the morning after, playing off most of what tav says with relative ease, even when they ask about his scars and he tells them about cazador. his cadence is smooth and composed, his smile almost friendly, even though you know, as the viewer, he’s playing a game of manipulation at this point. the only real crack in his demeanor is if tav notices that cazador’s “poem” was written in infernal, which, understandably, startles him.

but recently i watched the goblin party version of this same scene, and everything reads so differently. unlike at the tiefling party, it’s still the middle of the night when astarion tries to leave, thinking tav is asleep—almost immediately after the act, in fact. when tav does speak to him, he’s visibly nervous, halting and stammering in the middle of lines delivered unflinchingly in the other version of the scene. he gestures broadly and fidgets more while talking, his smile comes and goes. there’s even some of his distinctive high pitched, fake laughter sprinkled throughout the exchange, almost identical to later scenes where he's very, very obviously uncomfortable (like if raphael mocks him and magics off astarion's shirt to show the party his scars in act 2, or when confronting the gur children in their cell in act 3, etc etc).

siding with the goblins represents something deeply familiar to astarion, a level of cruelty he's more than familiar with and embraces likely because cruelty and duplicity, to him, go hand-in-hand with the power and freedom he craves so badly—but he won't stay the night with this tav, even if he approves of their actions. no, in this case, he'll keep to what's familiar and attempt to leave them in the forest under the cover of the very same darkness he resents having been cast into by cazador. when he gets caught, it sets him on edge, and everything he says becomes such a blatant lie to save face that tav would have to be completely oblivious not to see through him, or maybe just not care enough to.

but if tav saves the refugees? challenges his worldview and comes out victorious? oh, he'll complain of the poor rewards for his trouble at the party and whine about it being boring, but he decides to stay with tav through the night while they're asleep and on past dawn. he takes a moment to enjoy the morning sunlight, returned to his life after two centuries without. the same is true if you have high enough approval that he asks before the party, in which case, you've almost certainly hit his biggest approval gains: trusting him and supporting his safety. maybe he doesn't trip over his words when he speaks because, well, maybe this is someone he doesn't have to worry about. someone who's already more than proven themselves a foolish, heroic sort with a bleeding heart or otherwise demonstrated that they're already in his corner. in other words, not a threat—at least not to him.

does any of this make sense. i wanna study this guy under a microscope.

[syn0vial]

my gun-loving, car guy, "i'm the straightest man i know" brother who just finished baldur's gate 3 talking about astarion:

[indimiart]

meet Fern. she deserves the whole world, and her dads know it well 🫶🏼

(she’s how they discovered Astarion’s original eye color was the loveliest of browns)

[astral-veil]

One is not like the others

[assaahashi]

You thought I forgot about that au but I didn't

Prev posts r here

A little more about language barrier

Thanks @sophiasharp for inspo :D

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 8 - Practical

The rogue makes a decision.

On AO3.

The two of them agree they’ve made enough progress for the day (such as it is, in the dark, cut off from the sun). His flesh is already chilled back to his pre-abduction nights.

He does his best not to touch his own skin.

There’s a sandy beach not far from the hellish tunnel they’ve slithered through, and his illustrious leader says there’s a short wall and what may be a way into another chamber above.

He scents her blood. She says it’s a scratch from the cave, but he hears the squeak of a bottle being uncorked, and the spiced scent of a healing potion.

He clawed flesh. Her blood clings to his fingernails. But she says nothing and he’d rather not bring up a reason for her to be cross with him, so he settles in on his back and she all but flops down nearby, and forces his mind to sink into reverie.

It’s the roaring that eventually pulls him out of it. Not a memory, this is a different sound. Something deeper. Sustained.

His eyes snap open. Or he thinks they do, useless things. The roar fills the space. Thunders the air. It rattles around in his skull and he hears nothing over it.

A rockfall? Some Underdark beast?

He sits. Climbs to his feet and his hands splash into freezing water that he was nowhere near when he laid down. The sound keeps going and going. No pausing, no easing. It’s water. A great deal of it. He’s seen a few waterfalls since the nautiloid crash. But this one? This one is right here.

It’s a flood. The water races over his hands until he gets to his feet. Droplets hit his face, and he pictures the horrid tunnel, the dip he crawled through. What would happen if a river tried to shove itself through that nightmare.

How deep can an underground river get?

…he was resting on a beach. Of sand. Sand indicates water flowing over where he currently stands.

Sweet hells.

A hand latches onto his shoulder. He snatches one of his knives out of his belt, and remembers he’s with someone and she’s snatching her hand away. Shouting something.

He can barely make out her voice. Catches many syllables. But they’re strange. Foreign. Because she fell asleep and the Potion of Tongues would have worn off. It’s their daft wizard’s fault.

He focuses briefly on the echoes around them. It’s flatter where he stands. The tunnel narrower. She’d said there was a wall and a potential way out on the other side. So they must scale that wall before this burgeoning river decides to wash them away.

Astarion does not need to breathe. This should be easy enough, if cold and disgusting.

He takes a step. And that hand clamps right back down on him.

“Excuse you!” he snaps and flails an arm to dislodge her.

Only she grabs his hand and he wasn’t wearing gloves when that trap triggered. And that, for some reason, startles him into letting her drag him away. Warm skin on his palm. Faint calluses. He’s stroked hair and ears; clutched at sweaty backs and buttocks; slid his fingers into tight, wet heat and between tongues and teeth; fisted his own fingers into linens and pillows and tunics and trousers.

But another hand? A bare hand in his own?

Something in his chest gives a queer lurch.

Then she stops and drops him and he stands there dumbly for a moment.

She shouts again. Thrusts something against him and it’s the rope. She wants them tied to each other. He loops his end around his waist and knots it expertly. Then she prods him towards the river. The sound is bigger here. The walls further apart and the river wider.

“What, you want to cross more of it?” he says.

She swears—the one that starts with a “fuh” sound; it seems to be her favorite—and leans in so close her warm breath puffs over the shell of his ear.

“Small bad!” she says. “Large good!”

There’s a joke, there.

“Small, um, fast! Fast bad!”

It takes a moment. Then the meaning blooms. The same amount of water squeezed into a narrow channel flows faster. More likely to sweep them away.

And she thought of that.

He wonders if they possibly do stand a tiny chance down here.

She nudges him towards the water again. “You walk. I sit. I…”

She tugs the rope against him. Then tugs it down, as if checking the line tension on a tent. “I sit. Big sit. You walk. I walk later, you big sit?”

An anchor. Yes. That makes sense. He goes first (as an unbreathing vampire) and she’ll anchor him. Once he’s across, he can do the same for her.

“Yes!” he shouts back.

She says something in her own tongue. He has no idea what it is, but likes to imagine it’s something encouraging.

He takes a step. The water rushes over the toe of his boot, but it’s not so bad.

His next step immediately contradicts all that.

The river rushes up over the tops of his boots, floods in to soak his feet and it shoves hard at his foot. This beastie is hungry. It wants to take him.

He stops. This is a terrible idea. It’ll be far safer for the both of them to wait out the sudden deluge. The water is going somewhere. Surely it will disappear as quickly as it appeared in the first place. And it’s not like he can drown.

“Astarion, water big,” says their illustrious leader who very much can drown.

He grinds his teeth and curses in every tongue he knows. This is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever asked of him, and he’s including her letting him feed from her. If she thinks she can make this some kind of…of regular occurrence, he’ll…he’ll…he’ll figure something out.

The next step submerges him to the knee. To the thigh. To his bollucks and he swears again. Finally, he’s up to his belly, arms raised to keep his bag of holding dry. The water snatches at him. Claws and shoves at him. Forces him in tottering little steps further and further downstream.

Finally able to cross running water and he gets this. The irony might kill a weaker man.

At one point, a surge comes as he’s taking a step and it nearly rips his boot off. He stumbles, arms flailing for something to grab but there’s nothing but more, horrific water.

He hopes she trips. Hopes she falls in and soaks every one of her belongings.

Then the floor starts to come up. He wades on, water lapping along his sides all the way to his arm pits. One step. Two. Water back down to his waist. To his thighs. Until he’s clambering up on smooth stone, sand crunching under sodden boots, his trousers clinging horribly to his legs.

Well. It worked. Miserable business, but it worked.

“Your turn, darling!”

He has no idea if she hears him. He pulls off his bag and tosses it behind him a foot or two. She still has sight; is probably watching him drip pathetically from her side.

Then she shouts—words lost—and, he assumes, begins her own crossing. All he has to do is take in the slack.

Which is more difficult than it should be, until he realizes the rope drags in the river. That seems like a bad thing, possibly. He starts to pull it in faster, wrapping it between palm and elbow.

Her shout is a soft thing. Too sudden. Too quiet in the roar of the flood waters. He barely registers it, lifts his head to track it. Opens his mouth to ask.

The line leaps off his hands. Burns a trail across his palms. And he has no time to so much as hiss before all that carefully coiled slack is gone. And he remembers it’s tied to his waist. Because he’s an anchor.

It’s rather like, he thinks later, being swatted by a dragon. The rope pulls tight, digs hard into his lower back, and he digs his heels in but it’s far too late for that.

He’s plucked right off the riverbank. Crashes into the torrent and the river, finally clutching its prize, claws him down.

He tries to rise. To no effect.

Tries to twist and dig his fingers into something, anything to slow him. To no effect.

The current takes his legs the moment his feet touch bottom. Twists him and he bashes his head against something. His mouth opens and cave water—thick with silt—shoves down his throat.

Astarion has no need for air. But that doesn’t mean a small part of him, one he long thought dead and buried, doesn’t remember that need. A long-dormant and dead part of his body inhales a lungful of floodwater—which hurts—and flails him around. Don’t drown, don’t drown, don’t die.

It’s by sheer luck his right hand strikes something. An ancient rockfall. Some forgotten statue to some forgotten god. Maybe it’s just the petrified remains of cave wyvern dung turned to bloody stone.

He grabs it. The current whips his body around and bashes his ribs against that same rock. Which means his lungs push out, and then pull in more of that disgusting water. But he’s got a handhold. And he may only be a spawn, one weakened by an illithid tadpole at that, but he is a vampire spawn and he’s panicking rather badly.

He hauls. Scratches and scrabbles, teeth bared, his toes digging in. Every ounce of him focuses on that one goal. That one necessity. To pull himself up. To drag his sorry self out of this watery hell.

He’s been through too much. Come too far to be swept away by this piddling flood. He’s escaped two hundred years of slavery from a vampire lord and he will not let a stupid, bloody cave end all that now.

He wrenches his head clear of the surface. Which means the furious water surges up over his head. But he tucks his chin down, finds his next handhold, and drags himself up.

Almost does.

The current is horrific. Stronger than it was only moments ago. It’s a beast to fight, but he can win. Except for the rope around his waist.

That is dragging him right back in. The rope around his waist, pulling taught in the current, where it’s tied around the waist of his only companion. She doesn’t have vampire strength. Doesn’t even have the strength to pull herself out of a hole. The only thing she has to offer—aside from the occasional, murderous hilarity—is her ideas and she knows it. He saw it in her mind when their tadpoles connected the night the gur nearly kidnapped him.

If he wasn’t blind, she’d be the dead weight of their party.

But he is blind, and she stuck with him. Helped him, even. She fed him and guided him and came back for him. And he cannot pull both himself and her out of this river.

He’s not sure how long a human can hold their breath. Surely not long, falling in so suddenly, and in water this cold, thrashing and trying to swim (and clinging desperately to that rope because it’s the only thing that might save her). Hells, she might be dead already.

He can feel panic in the tadpoles, mostly his own bleeding over enough that the others are aware and it’s all a cacophony, so he has to shut the whole thing out.

His grip slips. The water pulls at him like so many moist, unwanted hands. Wanting his body. Wanting to consume him.

He doesn’t remember drawing his knife. Is only aware of the blade hovering over the straining, vibrating line. She made a choice like this herself long ago; he saw that in her mind, when she chose to abandon her family and let another take the blame. She chose to save her own skin because she’s sensible.

She stayed with him.

She’s a practical sort.

She came back for him.

He slips again.

He slices.

The rope snaps. Slithers off into the roaring dark too fast for him to fully register. Then he’s scrabbling up, stumbling, banging his bad knee again and scraping his palms bloody. But he doesn’t stop. Not until he finds solid ground. Dry ground sloping up and away from him, some kind of vegetation squishing under his hands and knees.

Safe.

He retches up water, hunched and curled in. Tries not to focus on how cold it is coming back out.

Soon the retching and gagging turns to hideously wet coughing. And soon again, that subsides, and he’s on all fours, head hanging, face wet and drooling like a sick dog.

He sucks in air. Retches once more. Tries again and it makes him cough, but he breathes in.

“Fucking hells,” he rasps.

The river roars.

He staggers up. Finds nothing to brace himself against, and has to lean on his own knees as his blinded senses swim and try to orient themselves.

Something brushes his wrist. The rope, still at his waist. The end is a clean cut.

“Hello?” he says. He’s not sure why.

The river roars on.

He’s alive—for lack of a better term. He’s safe, on solid ground (for now). But he can’t fucking see and he’s lost in the Underdark in some flooding cave and he’s…

He’s alone. Sopping wet, scraped up and hungry and frozen to his bones. With nothing and no one but the thundering of a flood.

“Hello!” he tries again. Useless. Foolish. Because he’s a useless fool.

The river has taken her. Swept her off into the dark and he’s alone and it’s his fault. Trapped in a tunnel with the air shaking from the thunder, turning it thick and solid. And he can’t see and he has no idea where he is and he cut her loose. He’s alone. Trapped. Starving. Helpless.

And it’s his fault.

Can’t seduce his way out of a stone chamber, can he? Can’t stab his way out of a river. He’s nothing. He’s always been nothing and will only ever be nothing and even free, away from that bastard, he’s useless.

“Eleanor?”

His knee aches terribly. He lowers himself, shaking, to sit. Flop, really. All this way, all that effort, for him to end up exactly as he was. Weak and trapped. Always. Forever. He might as well hand himself back to Cazador.

The river roars—

Sound. Soft pitch, small noise. Barely audible over the torrent but he hears it. He’s up and stumbling again. Nearly runs into a wall or a pillar. The ground slopes down and he staggers back towards the water.

“Eleanor!”

Again, that sound. So tiny and frail. So mortal.

His feet hit a jumble and he goes down. Lands on his chin and his teeth clack together so hard it rattles his brain. But he’s up and moving again. Where. Where? She’s—

A shout. If he’s being generous. It’s a desperate noise that ends in a gurgle as the river tries to suck her back down.

He plunges back in. Arms out, hands waving.

Hits something. Other hands. They latch on and he pulls.

Nothing. She doesn’t budge. She breaks the surface again, sputtering and gagging. Must be pinned by something. He ducks under. Finds her body. Finds something pulled taut. The strap on her shoulder—her bag of holding.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. His knife is quite sharp. It slices through leather as it slices through rope. She immediately surges up and he pulls hard against her. They both surface gasping, choking, he undead and her very, very much alive.

He has to drag her the few steps back to shore. Tries to listen through the damned flood and the slosh of their steps and her very understandable hacking, to catch—there. The fast thump of her heart. A strong pulse. Frightened. But there and steady in the dark.

Someone with him.

Not alone.

He almost sags.

“Come on darling,” he says. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Previous - Index - Next

[fanstuffrantings]

Concept: elf tav who is just under 300, all of her children died as adventurers or guards. Her husband and her became vastly different people in the wake of all the grief. They havent spoken in years, incapable of existing around each other before breaking down. The journey after the crash she keeps seeing shadows her kids in the various party members and as such she desperately wants to help them. Save them in ways she couldn't for her own children. A pillar of love and guidance because her children may be gone, but she will always be a mother.

[bipolaroobito]

the Wyll hate on Reddit and IG is unbelievable and does feel kinda racist sometimes.

[cappuccino-lover]

"What is the worth of a single mortal life?"

— "Mine seems worth little, as my blood calls me to harm others."

Replaying BG3 the way God intended: as a hot pink tiefling Durge. Meet Red, my kind hearted-yet-unintentionally-scary Dark Urge!

[chopper-witch]

Btw if y’all don’t know much about Tiefling diets, let’s just say any tiefling character in BG3 would be dropping weight so fast. It isn’t a calorie issue, it’s simply the actual food. They can eat normal food fine, but they prefer/should eat primarily raw or mostly raw meats, and definitely enjoy the occasional helping of things like bone marrow, blubber, and even just plain blood. They are capable of subsisting off only coal or ash and sulfur. But give them those cabbages you scrounged or the pumpkins near the tollhouse in act 1 and they’ll eat it, but will not be happy about it or fully fed.

[everchased]

Ever I just wanna let you know that I love your half orc Tav so much. He is everything to me. He's a disaster but he also has the strength to bust down a door so he can be a disaster wherever he wants but he's also Soft on some levels. Excellent Tav A++++++ I'll be here until the end of time to look at him

i'm so glad he's entertaining because i also find him extremely entertaining. he's trying so hard not to be a disaster and he's actually doinggggggg fairly well!

he knows what people expect of him as a paladin of vengeance, and particularly as a half-orc, and he's content to play into that expectation to get done what needs to or if he just REALLY doesn't like you. after all, don't do what you love, do what you're good at.

that being said, he IS soft! intimidation is not his first choice outside of battle, it's just the one he knows will work! he crumples like paper for anyone he feels has been treated unfairly and he really doesn't like scaring commoners. it's part of why he goes by his last name. 'sir finch' is a much gentler visual to him.

[astral-veil]

When you're trying to keep your brethren vampires out of trouble.

[herotune]

elfs in the 15th century will go "i know a place" and then take you to the middle of the woods

(a little belated birthday present for myself! had a mighty need to see my electric cowboy/conman wizard jason and astarion together, so here we are—they're in love, your honor 💗)

[minty-bunni]

I can't find the right words to explain it right now, but I honestly think that Astarion would calm down about his hunger for power if given time in a safe and supportive environment.

He specifically references never having to fear Cazador (or anyone if he ascends) again when it gets to the point where he decides on whether to stay a spawn or not and that sort of feeling and behavior isn't exactly uncommon among abuse victims? If given a chance to actually realize he is safe, that Cazador is gone, and that no one will be Cazador version 2.0, those thoughts would likely lessen. Maybe not totally go away, but he probably wouldn't actually consider sacrificing 7000 souls to ensure his safety.

He is upset, not in a good mental state, and still learning that people care for him and that he will never have to go through Cazador's torture ever again. He wants power over people like Cazador had power over him in order to make sure no one could (or would even try to) force him back into the hell he just escaped from.

And this is just one of the reasons I think he is good representation. He shows some of the ugly of recovering from an abusive situation that some victims experience.

[nathanialhowe]

that line of astarions where hes like "oh dont pout because you're not getting your sweet, cuddly astarion. i can't be the person you want me to be" in act 3 makes me go crazy wtf