#fell nightsong | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

neptuneunworthy · 22 days

Text

Irresistible

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Durge

Synopsis: "But the lure's of one's destiny is irresistible, isn't it?" Ketheric Thorm's words never left you; his speech following you around like an unforgettable symphony that you've yet to truly process. At least until just hours after you opened your mind to the astral tadpole. It made you wonder if perhaps your destiny this whole time was to become such a wretched thing. A monster.

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: References to Violence, Blood, Injury, Hurt/Comfort

Rating: Teen and up audiences

There was something so irritating how you found yourself so infatuated with terror. The feeling it brought to you always sent you reeling, a longing for a kindness dubbed “Hope” to be given to you to somehow rouse you from the ever-looming stupor The Urges ingrained into your body. You understood well enough this was not your choice, it was someone else’s, it could never be something you actively decided to feel.

Ketheric Thorn made you feel validated in this, though you are not sure he meant to. Yet he had in his little speech that he believed would somehow grant himself will to win an unwinnable fight. Call you cocky, but you understood well enough that your own prowess in killing and the arcane would grant you an easy victory. Not to mention your companions had proven more than enough help. The Nightsong herself even was shown to be worthy enough once more; helping strike down Thorm and then Myrkul.

Never in your life have you felt more powerful than when you cast the final fireball and Myrkul fell, Dame Aylin crushing Ketheric’s skull following.

Well, never in your known life. That amnesia was still rather a tough enemy in all of this. It had been something throughout the last forty-eight hours that kept you on your feet.

First starting with being visited yet again by that wretched butler. Then everything within the mind player colony afterward. You were horrified and yet also masochistically intrigued.

It’s no wonder you felt guilt, plenty of it, but most of all shame.

Ketheric Thorn was right about destiny. It was irresistible…and you think you were starting to fall in love with yours. It was horrifying because you did not know what it entailed other than the possibility of spilling the guts of your companions. Of your lover .

This thought had only grown more scary tonight, after you opened your mind to the Astral Tadpole.

You had snuck off after everyone finally laid back down, even waiting until you were positive Astarion had been in his meditative trance. The only person who still was up had been Withers, though he always was, and he didn’t seem to pay you any mind as you passed and then climbed up the ladders of the ruins. You were restless, and all you could think about was the utter mistake you made in letting that thing into your mind.

You knew you should think of other things, such as potentially freeing Orpheus, but it was extraordinarily hard when all you could do was think about how if your “destiny” was to become a vicious monster, then you have done nothing to stop it and simply made your execution date sooner by embracing the illithid side.

It hadn’t even been an hour since you returned either.

But he had been right— Ketheric had been right.

Destiny was irresistible.

Yet also equally as terrifying.

Yet you were infatuated with terror.

Yet tears fell from your purple-veined face as you looked out at the forest, the mountains, The City. The latter just within a days travel, your destination. Could you even show your face there? Sure, people have probably seen way worse than the marks you now bare but what if that assumption isn’t enough? What if they all know what you are? What if they could all smell the disgusting rot of flesh that is seeped deep into your bones? What if they kill you because they know exactly the ailment you carry?

You breathe out a shaky breath, following by an inhalation of surprise as your mind swirls in detection. A fuzzy and tingling feeling erupting in your head to alert you of another’s presence. Of course, when you turn your tear-stained face to look at the ladder, guilt only piles up further in your stomach like a bag of ball bearings. Astarion, of course. Who else would it be?

You hiccuped through a quiet sob at the sight of the vampire. Exhaustion had painted his face as if he had been the personification of it, and you suddenly wished you had made a better effort to check on if he had actually been in a trance or not.

Damned elves.

He isn’t quick to fall beside you, even in his state of exhaustion he is mindful of how he approaches you. Taking small steps with careful hands at his sides. Earlier on in your adventures this sort of trapezius could be confused for him stalking his prey, but you understood well enough it was his way of parsing out if it was okay to fully approach or not. Similar to how you respected his wishes when it came to certain physical aspects, he went out of his way to do the same; especially when you found yourself in such dire states like this.

You recall last night he awoke to you stood above him, a smug look on his face as he asked if you had come around for a cuddle. Of course the truth of the matter was far from something as soft and mundane. You tried to warn him as such. Only the next morning, when you finally had made it through the thrashing and he cut your binds loose, did you find yourself breaking down. He had gently tapped your shoulder, and when you did not back away, he brought you into a hug and did the best he could to assure you that you can control this.

Your eyes stayed on him for a moment more, before you sniffled and turned your gaze back toward the view of the vast view ahead. A few footsteps later and you felt him sat at your side.

“My dear,” he began with a concern that two-months ago would be laughable, “is there something you’d like to talk about?”

Here he was, giving you an easy way to tell him exactly what troubled you and ached your soul. Yet all you could do was keep your face turned from him, even shielding it slightly with your hand but act as if you were wiping away tears.

He hesitantly put a hand on your back as he spoke. “Of course if you would prefer we stay here silently we can do that too. I suppose the stars make a better roof than our tent. Though there certainly are more bugs .”

There was something nice in how he said our tent . A gentle reminder that whatever this thing the two of you have together is, it means you’re in this together now. The thought of which makes you relax somewhat, wiping more at your face and sniffling.

“I’m afraid, Astarion.”

“Whatever of?”

“Myself.”

His hand stilled against your back, and his lips pursed as he thought about what to say. That was as far as you could read him. Despite the fact he had opened his unbeating heart up to you, there was a great deal about the vampire he had yet to tell you. You understood why. Perhaps that is why it meant more when he attempted to comfort you.

Astarion peered at you, his red eyes and white hair glowing in the moonlight. “Is this about your ah…new look? ”

You wrinkled your nose, turning your gaze away from him and nodding. Thought that was such a small portion of it. Opening your mind to the Astral Tadpole had been an irresistible endeavor. A sickening sweet compulsion. The only reminder of you being some brand of regular had been the eye Volo bestowed upon you, and even then it wasn’t your actual eye. It was just a a foul green iris that let you see the unseen. If you ever see him again you aren’t sure if you will wish to sock him in the face or thank him for some small bit of normalcy.

You were brought back to reality by Astarion putting his hand on your shoulder, and leaning you against his side. Of course you leaned into him. Part of you wishing you had still been in the shared tent with him and cuddled up. Despite his touch sensitivity you had learned him to be quite the clingy sleeper.

His hand gently squeezes you, it is ironic that Astarion of all people can be so soft.

“No one else could ever pull off partial ceremorphosis as wonderfully as you.” There was a sing-song tenderness to his voice that reminded you of the early days. “I’m afraid even I would look dreadful.”

You wipe the back of your hand across your nose, sniffling once more. “Purple veins would really show off those wrinkles of yours, you’re right.”

He gasped, you couldn’t tell entirely if it was meant to be actually him taking offense, but if he had that was all he showed of it. Instead Astarion let silence sit in the air between the two of you, and it is something you both appreciate and dislike.

“Tav,” he says your name with a warmth you thought impossible; though a part of you knows deep down it is not your name, “I will not push for you to tell me what ails you. But I do wish for you to know that I’m…here for you.”

He had hesitated, and you understood why, he wasn’t used to whatever this budding relationship was.

“I’m scared of myself, like I…”

Your words had fallen apart as you looked at him, a knowing look, mixed with surplus amounts of concern. Though only if you knew what to look for in his eyes. The smallest twinge of his brow muscle and crease.

“…I’m afraid that Ketheric’s speech was a warning.” The words spilled out of your mouth, “that I…I opened my mind to that stupid tadpole and it was just simply my destiny this whole time. I was even—even that woman’s first tadpole victim, you heard her in the mind flayer colony. Ketheric he—he even knew me! I can’t remember them and yet—yet…my destiny is to become a monster, and that prospect terrifies me.”

You brought your legs up to your chest, ducking your head down and sighing weakly against your knees. It felt nice to say that out loud, though perhaps embarrassment crept its way through you now like someone had cast bestow curse and your life force was being drained. But no. That was simply the feeling of pure anxiety running its course through your illithid-touched veins.

Astarion doesn’t say anything for a long time either, simply continuing to hold you, and a part of you suspects it’s that so you can let it all out. You are a quiet crier but with the way your body shook, even someone with a hag-kissed eye could tell you were working through the motions.

“I had thought the same thing until recently you know,” his voice was quiet though distinctly thoughtful, “the whole becoming a monster thing. Not in relation to the damned parasite, but obviously that was on the list of worries.” He chuckled lowly, before continuing. “No, I mean my own ailment that without our tadpole friend, would turn me to dust and ashes.”

His voice becomes softer now, a steady sigh leaving his lips. “The Shadow Cursed Lands was a nightmarish reminder about my life for the past centuries. I hate to say it, but I miss The Grove and those tree-hugging lunatics…perhaps only because that had been the first time in so long I had seen the beauty of the day.”

You were not aware of his eyes having fallen on you as he ended that sentence, your face still tucked against your knees as you listened to his ramblings.

“In no world can you be a monster, Tav,” he said matter of factly, as if these were rules written into the universe itself. “Even if you did try to kill me last night. But I understand a little…hah…bloodlust, as it were.” He cleared his throat, “Ketheric Thorm and whoever may know you are fools anyways, and darling we do not believe the word of fools. Especially dead ones.”

You finally spoke a hint of teasing in your voice, “aren’t you dead?”

“ Undead, darling.” He corrected with a grin you could hear in his voice.

You tried to laugh, but instead you just breathed out. Though now you considered his words. Repeating them in your head over and over again.

You didn’t look at him still, though you did move your head up at least. Your eyes fell onto the mountains as you looked out onto the horizon once more. Contemplating what will await you when you arrive in the great city.

You were afraid. So afraid.

You recall when you had first broken out of the pod at the beginning of your journey. A bloodlust written into your bones with no memory to say as to why. You had a name that was not your own, you know this because sometimes you recall the face of a young boy when you look at flames from a certain angle. It was his name.

Was your face his too? Had you stolen that from him as well?

You cannot remember. You want to remember. You want a lot of things. Yet as you look at Astarion now, unsurprised to find he had been peering at you, you find that you are profoundly and suddenly somehow okay in this moment. For at the very end of the day, at least you have your companions.

You may be becoming an illithid monster. You might already be a monster. You perhaps are wearing someone else’s identity. Yet these problems are just that. Problems. He was right, at least you’re pretty sure he was if you understood what he meant properly.

You press your lips against his cheek and whisper, “thank you…and for what it’s worth, I’ll make sure you don’t turn to dust and ashes.”

Astarion smiled at you, despite the softness in his gaze, you could see the scheme and hunger in his eyes.

“My dear wizard, if the devil was correct and we make sure all goes according to plan then that fear will be irrelevant entirely. When-“ not if “-I Ascend, all such ideas of yours truly fading away in the sun will disappear entirely.”

You don’t show a sign of protesting to this idea, not with how happy and proud of himself he looks. Though deep down a part of you feels sick at the thought. Even without knowing the full picture of whatever this ascension entails, you wonder if this is truly the best course of action.

But again, he looks so full of joy at the idea that you would feel guilty protesting it. Especially right now. When it is so late and you believe you have reached the climax of emotional conversations for the night. Perhaps a part of you also fears that if you protest this idea of his that whatever this new relationship you have with him shall fizzle out…and you’re selfish and are not quite yet ready to face that possibility.

That night when you finally crawl back into the tent with him, you take a final look in the mirror.

“Will we be best friends forever, Tav?”

The boy with glasses and raven hair, Tav, smiles back at you and squeezes your hand, “forever.”

For once, your sleep that night is peaceful.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion acunin #astarion x reader #astarion x durge #astarion x tav #durgestarion #tavstarion #durge #the dark urge #baldurs gate iii #baldurs gate durge

22 notes · View notes

lakemojave · 3 months

Text

Tonight at 6pm Pacific: The Direct Actors, A Baldur's Gate 3 "Adventure" pt. 16!

I'll be real everyone. The team is in a very dark place right now. We're in the middle of the Gauntlet of Shar and the team is in a particularly bad way of things. Come see @radiofreederry play Dhudlei Durite, elf paladin, my friends Nana and @mayflowers429 play Leviathan, Dragonborn Dark Urge Monk, @caputvulpinum play Micah Harper, Tiefling Cleric, and me play Delilah "Mama D" Harper, Halfling Bard!

Art by @terrafey, recap under the cut. See y'all then!

twitch_live

THE STORY SO FAR: On the way to a union rally, Delilah "Mama D" Harper and her grandson Micah were abducted and taken aboard an ilithid nautiloid, which they escaped with mysterious dancer Leviathan and self-proclaimed "Champion of Ilmater and Paladin of Good" Dhudlei Durite. Each infected by a mind flayer tadpole, but so far immune from transforming into mind flayers themselves, The Direct Actors, as the party have come to be known, have been pushed to their breaking point in the Shadow-Cursed lands, and now look to break the power of Ketheric Thorm and end the curse once and for all...

LAST TIME: The Direct Actors entered the Thorm Mausoleum, and after Dhudlei solved a puzzle relating to Ketheric Thorm's life and descent into villainy, they discovered a hidden entrance to the Gauntlet of Shar, the proving ground for the Lady of Loss' Dark Justiciars. Micah pretended to pray at a Sharran altar, continuing to delight in fooling the goddess.

After a battle with some Sharran constructs in which the party was aided by a horde of reanimated skeletons, the party met Ketheric's lieutenant Balthazar, who, believing they were True Souls of the Absolute cult, charged them with retrieving the Nightsong, confirming that it was integral to Ketheric's immortality. Now armed with this knowledge, the party dispatched Balthazar and his undead before resting for the night.

With Dhudlei barred from entry to the Gauntlet of Shar, the party decided to take their Sharran cleric Shadowheart along for the journey, and she quickly became fixated on completing the trials to become a Dark Justiciar. The party encountered the orthon Raphael had tasked them with killing, which Mama D accomplished by literally talking him into killing his companions and himself.

The first of Shar's trials was a maze to test stealth, which Leviathan cleared after a few false starts. After this was the so-called Self-Same Trial, in which the party's voices and forms were stolen by shadow versions of themselves, which ripped into each party member's insecurities and flaws in order to tear them down. Emotionally and physically exhausted after defeating their doubles, the party set up camp for the night.

A tearful Micah confided in Leviathan about his own death wish, and the dancer comforted him in his own manner before his other personality drunkenly beseeched Micah and Mama D to tell him stories of past days. Leviathan then admitted that he felt he was going to "die" soon. Mama D insisted that she would not let that happen. As the party fell asleep, Micah received a cruel message from Shar, mocking him for his attempts to fool her.

Will the Direct Actors make it through the Gauntlet of Shar? Will Shadowheart become a Dark Justiciar? What is the Nightsong? Has Dhudlei really just been chilling this whole time making tea and eating Oreos? Find out on another exciting instalment of Baldur's Gate 3, starring the Direct Actors!

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #the direct actors #stream #twitch #shameless plugging

20 notes · View notes

anonnie-in-wonderland · 2 years

Text

nightsong

Summary:Y/N knows she’s just another hybrid that fell through the cracks a long time ago; nothing is special about her, except for her enchanting vocals. Fed up with her talent being exploited, she runs. A bad storm blows her into a tree, and the lives of seven idols who happen to be filming their downtime in the woods.

prologue

Word Count: 1.2k

rating: T for now

genre: romance | fluff | hurt/comfort

tags: idolverse | btsxreader| ot7xreader| hybrid!reader

It was funny that the only thing she had ever consistently liked about herself was her voice. It was exactly what got her into the mess that had become her life. Of course, at the time she had no way of knowing. No understanding of how unfair the world was for those like her. Hybrids.

Early life before the lounge was a blur. Even her parents' faces had faded, lost to time now. But she remembered that they loved her. It was a feeling of fullness that she remembered quite well. Her mother would hum to her a tune so beautiful it made her throat tight and her chest full to bursting with emotion every time she heard it. What she wouldn’t give to live in that moment for the rest of her days, the vague memory of being wrapped up in loving arms and hummed and rocked.

She had been small when she was separated from them, too young to understand at first. It was scary, yes. It was confusing, sure. But at the time, the stubborn kernel of belief that they would find her was absolute.

Instead, she was put into a crowded, dark place. What she knew now to be a shipping container. She had been unlucky enough to be smuggled, one of thousands of hybrids who fell through the cracks.

Trafficked illegally from her country of origin. Lots of other hybrids were there too, agitated, confused, despondent, crying. All the emotions were too much, so much to process for one little girl, lost and unsure of where her parents were.

She sat pressed in a corner, hands covering her ears, and humming to herself. Over and over. It didn’t matter what happened around her, so long as she got to hum. It soothed her, and unbeknownst to her, it was soothing the others too.

Soon people began to requesting her humming. When a baby cried. When someone was having a bad day. When the crate was too quiet, dark, and lonely. So she did. No one ever asked for anything more from her than that.

In all the uncertainty that her fragile life had become, she had a purpose that helped her feel less helpless. When the humans would open the crate and slowly go around from cage to cage, tossing in rations, she got quiet, clammed up. For them, she couldn’t manage a hum if she wanted to.

Sometimes, they didn’t come to give them food. They came to take hybrids away. Sometimes one at a time. Sometimes in groups. But when they lifted the cages from the crate and dragged them out into the world beyond, they were never seen again. She couldn’t help but wonder when it would be her turn, because clearly it was a matter of time. She was young, but she understood that much.

Time slipped away, whether weeks or months or longer she wasn’t sure. The darkness was disorienting in the same way it was a comfort, thanks to her hybrid senses and bat’s nature.

“You haven’t hummed in a while.” a voice had whispered to her from beyond the bars one day.

“Huh?” Startled, she had sat up, blinking until her eyes adjusted and she saw an adult female hybrid, cradling a baby to her chest. She might have been some kind of big cat; since she had only been with her parents in their little community, she didn’t know much of other species so it was hard to tell. Her cub had been all but a newborn when she first noticed them. Now he was big enough to sit up a little and turn his head from side to side and look around.

“I guess no one’s asked that of you. So many of us have already left…”

“Where do they go?” She’d asked naively, crawling closer and pressing against the bars.

The big cat’s face was pitying, “I don’t know,” she sighed. “I only pray it’s nowhere horrible. Silly as it is for me to say, I hope it’s somewhere they can find happiness. I hope that for you too, little one.”

“I want to go home.” she revealed. “I want my mama and papa back.” “I know, little one.” the older hybrid soothed. “I know.” Moving herself closer to the front of her cage as well, she offered a soft smile. “Would you like to learn a new song?”

Unable to sate her curiosity, the tiny young hybrid had agreed.

It was the first song she could remember learning by heart that had words. And from the minute she opened her mouth and sang it, everything changed. There was a power in singing, a light even in the darkness, and a beauty even in the ugliness all around them.

The woman, she’d learned, was a tiger. Her name was Eun-Sook, and her baby was Junseo. And they she grew to love them. Eun-Sook talked to her in the gloom, teaching her how to spell words and explaining things she didn’t know. And whether Junseo was babbling or crying, her singing could always calm him down, even when his own mother’s couldn’t. That was when Eun-Sook told her she had a very special gift that she should always try and hold onto.

The next day, the humans came again, and just like they sometimes did, they came to take someone away. She never thought it would be Eun-Sook. She cried and shook, reaching futilely through the bars. “It’s alright,” the tiger said softly. “Keep singing. And remember that even if we are not human, we will always be people.”

That was the last time she saw her, and for a while, the last time she sang. Although it was what Eun-Sook had wanted, she found it hard. Her reason to sing was gone. Then on a day when she missed the tiger and her cub terribly, she found the words of the song slipping out unbidden, right as the humans came in to deliver meals to the remaining hybrids.

He was confused at first, looking around to determine where the small voice was coming from. She was afraid, having never let the humans so much as hear her hum before, but she kept it up, trying to be brave for Eun-Sook and Junseo. For her parents, too. She didn’t stop even when the man came and stopped directly in front of her cage, or when they made eye contact. She only stopped when the song ended and she had no more notes to carry. He studied her, saying nothing, but his face was full of surprise and…excitement?

The next time hybrids were unloaded, she was among them. After so long without sunlight, the bright, clear day was blinding. She cowered in her cage, hands pressed over her eyes, hearing voices discussing things in a language she couldn’t understand.

She had no way of knowing it yet, but her voice had changed her fate, though only slightly. She was still to be kept captive, a caged songbird.

Some might consider her lucky. Of all the places she could have ended up, she ended up with him. Gao Hàoyú, owner of Kǒngquè, soon to be one of the most visited lounges in Beijing.

A/N: prologue for the new story that won the poll. Boys will be appearing next chapter 🤗

#ot7 x reader #hybrid!au #idolverse #bts x reader

314 notes · View notes

shadowshrike · 1 year

Text

Ascended Astarion Appreciation Post

I'm not going to do a true analysis here because I feel like all the individual lines of spawn/ascended/neutral Astartion and how broad the interpretations of them can be depending on the context of your playthrough have already been discussed ad nauseam by the fandom. The stellar voice work only adds to the ability for a player to feel a connection with whatever narrative they like best. However, I want to throw my personal experience with his storyline into the ring because I feel it's rather unusual.

For my style of play, I initially only brought Astarion along on my 'clever evil' run. I had no knowledge of his storyline before I started and didn't do any metagaming to win his approval; I just brought him along because the 2 minutes I saw of him in my main run made him seem like a good fit for a Tav with selfish choices. This was a custom bard playthrough where I made everyone love me by being a great con artist, killed the few who might make my rise to power more difficult (like the Nightsong), and lightly manipulated our companions into giving me their protection while I only took on minor risk. Naturally, Astarion played well with this character. He was entertained by having a partner to 'play' with, one who didn't get put off by cruel comments or his lust for power and was good at pretending to be manipulated by the questionably charismatic vampire.

I expected the power lust and loss of humanity toward the end of his story. What I did not expect was that by doing an Ascended playthrough first, I would ruin my desire to reload for the Spawn ending later. After all, aren't you supposed to want to do the "Good" thing when your default gameplay style is Good-aligned?

What solidified it for me were two things. First, his response to the Gur. His reaction suggested to me that he was probably a power-hungry noble before he was turned, one who paid the consequences for his cruelty, jumped at the chance for an escape through Cazador when faced with the consequences of that cruelty, and then spent the next 200 years being tortured horrifically for it. From everything I gleaned through his half-retelling, his story was much like the victims of hags or devils. I felt bad for the disproportionate horror of his fate, but there was an odd sort of justice in it as well, one that had long descended into pure evil thanks to the creature he fell victim to.

The second thing that turned me from doing a full playthrough just to see the Spawn ending was, oddly enough, the confession where he explains he's been manipulating you and has accidentally developed feelings. Now, this is partly because I may have accidentally skipped part of the animation, but when I decided to reciprocate the 'heartfelt feelings' as part of my character's manipulation, his answering smirk seemed to say, "Gotcha. So all I have to do is act vulnerable, weak, and like I would be nicer if someone just loved me for once in my life, and they'll protect me forever. I can do that."

After that point, I could never take any statement he made about redemption seriously, especially not if he was particularly blunt about it. The nail-on-the-head speeches I'd seen from him on the spawn path seemed exactly that - too perfect. Like it was exactly what a good character would want to hear, and something a rather poor manipulator but one who specializes in making people feel loved (which Astarion is) would fall back on. That's not to say the words don't ring with truth - they really do thanks to the beautiful voice work - but in the context of his relationship with power and dependence, every word felt like falling back on old habits to manage his fears. Ones he may not even be aware of, truthfully.

Do I think that was the intent by the writers? Absolutely not. But the more I pressed on in the story and he never reverted to that overly sweet act after he realized my character was actually more interested in giggling with him over how to obtain absolute power, the more it felt like the whole 'poor victim' act, although absolutely rooted in some truth, was truly an act to him.

He was terrified, would always be terrified, and had no problem doing whatever he needed to do in order to keep that terror at bay. His desperation made him easy to manipulate. He begged for both the tadpole's powers and Raphael's deal, staying true to a character that would always take the risk as long as it didn't threaten his vanity like the astral tadpole did. He was clearly incapable of forming a healthy relationship with anyone and had no interest in actually working on himself. Still, he was a master at adjusting his behaviors just enough to make himself safer in his new 'goodish' environment by acting like he had come to appreciate goodness. Not that he was ever completely heartless, even on a selfish/evil run, but it became clear that he mostly wanted goodness for himself. He didn't want a lack of chains in the world. He wanted to be the one holding them.

Ascending him was the obvious choice in an evil run. I would both be giving him the one thing he truly wanted and putting him forever in my debt...at least until his annoyance at having a debt outweighed his fear of being alone.

Becoming his spawn, on the other hand, was a hard choice. And probably the most satisfying narrative choice I made in all my playthroughs, good or evil.

For context, I had refused to use any tadpole powers in this run, giving it to him instead, so he could deal with the risk while being pleased by being handed more power. I didn't want to sacrifice anything personally while I was busy putting everyone in my debt. But here I was faced with a dilemma - did I have confidence that my character could still manipulate this vampire driven by fear enough to take the world if I let him turn me into a spawn so I could be immortal? Would the good and evil armies I'd raised to my name be enough to stop Astarion if he started to lose his utter devotion to me and made me a mindless thrall? If I said no or suddenly cast doubt on him, he'd certainly be enraged, given my prior support of him and his fear of rejection. Was the danger of angering him on top of losing that ascended vampire power worth my mortal freedoms? How long would that freedom even last if I said no, assuming he truly did end up exactly like Cazador, who would likely have just taken it from me in a rage?

Interestingly, this choice was made for me by the insight check that some people hate so much. When I saw he thought my character was still above him, that I had to degrade myself to be with him, I realized the man's leash hadn't gone anywhere. I could use him to get me the world. Yes, he would continue trying to manipulate me with empty promises, but I would continue manipulating him in turn by appealing to his petty vanity and insecurities. And together, we could have everything he ever lusted after with the only cost being a soul he was more than willing to lose.

I think the perfect cap to this was the ending. A romanced Ascended Astarion's ending was easily the most satisfying ending part of all the little character moments of all my playthroughs. The evil power fantasy was perfect. With the choices I made, it implied he was 100% as much my thrall as I was his (less literally in his case), leaving the corruption of his character beyond pure power lust open to interpretation. Add to that the satisfaction of his new unique dialogs near that end, and I was blown away. His confidence, for once, did not seem fake, though it was still informed by the fears that had driven him from the beginning. It was not his most healed or kind self (and how could he be either of those in any ending after 200 years of torture unless he was lying?), but his most free self, enjoying everything he ever wanted in a blaze of glory, relishing in his control, and fully giving himself to the newfound passions given by his second life.

Is he evil, selfish, and controlling? Absolutely. Will some hero inevitably take him out down the line when he gets a little too crazy with his powers? Probably. But such is the beauty and fun of the evil power fantasy.

It's unfortunate that playing this route, I can't enjoy how he is chained by the spawn route. I can understand what it is trying to do. Promoting the power of forgiveness, love, and support to allow someone to be their best self. It aims to apply human healing patterns to a supernatural creature in a cathartic way, one that has been successful for a great many people. But for me, it just doesn't land.

On runs where I care about his fate on a personal level, I hate to see him forced into a life where he loses all the things that have brought him joy, either now or when his lover dies. I don't want my choices 'for his own good' to mandate he forever sacrifices his own wants and needs. I hate how he tells you that you made the right choice after things have calmed down if you refuse to help him because what other option does he have? You've stripped him of hope outside of your protection. Without a cure, he's helpless at the feet of the Good heroes surrounding him who could end him in an instant if he's anything other than grateful and fawning for how much you've saved him. After the other route, that fate feels like dying a second slow death for a character so desperate for freedom and power, no matter how self-destructive it is. And since he basically says you did the 'right thing' when you have a high relationship no matter what end you choose with him, Good or Evil or in-between, it loses its power to me as a narrative anchor to any feel-good moments.

Personally, I like Astarion most as a character who is able to fulfill his base desires, ugliness and all. I think he's written in a way where he's well-suited to be both a victim and an awful person. I like the unique narrative of him being someone who is a bit of a monster and most fulfilled by being his worst self rather than seeking redemption, but appreciate that most people feel more fulfilled by a route where he's humanized and gets to heal through romance or a supportive friend.

I encourage everyone to find their own favorite variation of him. To me, he is one of the messiest characters who can have wildly different 'truths' depending on the context of your playthrough and your interpretations of his lines. Since he's a known liar and manipulator (and an unfathomably old one at that by human standards), there are a million and one different headcanons you can use to fill in the blanks on what he really means, who he really is, and what he really wants or needs.

I hope everyone out there enjoys whatever version of Astarion they like best. For me, I think I just might have to try a different variation on an evil playthrough. I want to see what other contexts I can get for his Ascension story and whether any of them hit as many satisfying narrative notes as my first.

#ascended astarion #essay #baldur's gate 3 #astarion

64 notes · View notes

choccy-zefirka · 1 year

Text

What remains of the cultists, has been cleaned up by now. Bodies, carted off and burned. Robes, collected to be unseamed and reused — morbid, yes, Jaheira was first to admit that. But the fabric is good, higher quality than a lot of the Harpers' refugee charges have seen in a lifetime. And warm, too, crafted to withstand the marrow-gnawing cold of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Even though the first specks of green are already starting to bud on the dessicated tree branches, the darkness will take a while to abate — and the children need blankets, now. Better over-the-top black blankets adorned with the symbol of the Absolute than none at all.

The cleanup has not been complete, though. There is still a sticky red residue caked all over the echoing stone halls, where the Absolute's worshippers once gathered and where their former captives have now made camp, free and ready to move on, once the Harper scouts confirm that the road is clear. There are still dark splatters, marking so many spots where the enemy fell. Reminders of hoe Lae'Zel's blade traced a squelching curve through a cultist's torso; or how Gale's lightning danced, from one lump of charred flesh to the next; or how Astarion leaped from the shadows, ripped into a tender, delicious throat, and withdrew again, smiling.

Niamh has made herself quite busy washing those markings off. She stands in the middle of one room after another, raises her wiry yellow arms to the ceiling, and then brings them down with an almost audible "Whoosh!". The gesture creates a thick, turquoise-tinged cloud, which hangs low for a split second, brushing its downy underside against the furniture, and then erupts into a stream of indoor rain.

Next, Niamh twirls her wrist and closes her fist, as if wringing an invisible towel. The summoned water evaporates, leaving the stone floor impeccably clean, reflective as a giant looking-glass. In its grey depths, an upside-down Niamh strides to the next splash of dried-up gore, while an upside-down Shadowheart watches her, wondering.

"Why all the effort?" she asks at last. "We will be leaving the place soon. And I am certain it will gather more grime ten times over before new tenants dare move in."

Niamh looks up from her work. Her pale eyes are huge and sincere as always. So unlike the steely glare you would commonly expect from a Githyanki — yet at this point, enough to move even Lae'Zel.

"The spell keeps me distracted," she explains.

Shadowheart responds with a soft "Hm".

For a while afterwards, the two women — Half-Elf and Githyanki, once strangers and now something very dangerously resembling friends — hold each other's gaze without another word. Within the long silence between them, someone who knows what they know, might hear the slithering whispers of Justiciars past in the Nightsong's prison, the torturous screech of the zaith'isk, the slosh of corrosive brine around the emerging Elder Brain. Far too much for a mortal mind to endure — without distraction.

And so Shadowheart understands. Still not saying anything, she joins Niamh in her calming routine. Create Water, Destroy Water. Rinse and repeat. Until the bloodied walls are washed cleaner than their hands and memories will ever be.

They are interrupted only by the soft beat of giant wings. Shadowheart flinches, still a touch unsettled by the sound. By the meaning that it carries. Niamh stops casting and tries to comfort her with a smile — again, without a word, yet with all the understanding.

This makes it easier to face their visitor.

Dame Aylin towers over them both, even the lanky Niamh: shoulders spread wide and strong, wings casting an opalescent glow over her polished armor. But just like the hallways of these battle-scarred towers, the glossy surface is marred with a streak of blood. Not her own, though: she is carrying someone in her arms. Sagging, heavy; horned head thrown back and tail hanging limp.

Niamh stumbles closer. Her pupils shrink in shock, taking in the familiar jagged cheekbones; the worry-lined face, now drained to a terribly, terribly wrong, desaturated shade of red; the blood-soaked light-brown hair. Her hand reaches for her throat, where the cry of recognition is trapped and twisted, crumbling into a hoarse ashy sob.

"Zevlor..."

"Verily, I pulled him from beneath a carpet of intellect devourers," Aylin announces. "He had goaded them into attacking him in the stead of a fleeing injured Fist. Oh, by my mother's milk, what a sight it was! What carnage of lacerating claws, what sizzling bite of foul psionics!"

Niamh's lips begin to tremble. Aylin's enthusiasm is clearly not contagious.

The knight catches the panicked look in her eyes, and corrects herself — perhaps after mentally asking, "What would Isobel say?"

"Lo, friends," she continues, much more somberly, as she floats across the freshly washed room and lays Zevlor down on the nearest desk.

Niamh nigh-on leaps to her side, followed by Shadowheart. Good thing, too: she might need someone to lean on. She watches the Tiefling twitch under Aylin's hands while she wrestles him free of his charred armor — and her knees almost buckle when she sees the ripped-up plough marks of his wounds.

He mutters something in snatches of words — mangled, panicked, collapsing onto themselves. But his eyes do not open, and his breaths are so ragged that you'd think his chest is covered on the inside with briars.

"You would do well to work your best healing magics," Aylin finishes. "For I fear the dark lair's filth may have left the wounds infected."

"You might be right," says Shadowheart. "Zevlor is clearly delirious."

"WHAT?!"

A sudden cry rings out — a burst of outrage from another onlooker, whom Niamh never noticed, either as a reflection, or in person.

"FUCKING ZEVLOR?!"

A young Tiefling skids across the damp floor, coming face to face with Aylin. His nostrils are quivering; his fists are balled into veiny lumps of fury.

Niamh shoots a wide-eyed glance at Shadowheart.

Zorru! They recognize him, from all the way back in the Grove... And yet, they also do not.

He is such a far cry from the fumbling, terrified boy who so easily dropped to his knees before Lae'Zel. These lands' shadow clings on to him, painting over his features in new, stark, hardened lines.

There is still fear in his eyes. Perhaps it will remain there forever, curling around his pupils by day and bursting free at night, erupting into nightmares of blood and guts, of friends' faces turned to contorted death masks, of the arms that once hugged him, snapped like dry tree branches in the final throes of agony. But his knees do not bend now.

"How dare you! How dare you!" he spits at Aylin — vaguely bemused, vaguely impressed — even as he trembles all over. "Most of us are gone now, and instead of bringing back survivors, you bring him! The bastard who did it to us! It's all his fault — all his fault!"

"You are not wrong, Zorru. But it's also more complicated than that," Niamh speaks up, in her most persuasive tone.

Her eyes are not exactly dry, and her hand is clawing at the edge of the desk Zevlor rests on... But her voice is steady. She has collected herself after her initial shock, and stands perfectly straight now — also a far cry from the lost druid apprentice, who groveled and apologized at every turn. For travelling with disagreeable companions. For being born a Githyanki, for being raised outside her people's creche. For... Existing in general.

"If your people agree to leave him be, I will take him with me. Whether he — " for a second, her voice does falter, but she pushes down the lump in her throat, determined to remain firm. "Whether he lives or dies, whether he chooses to join me as a companion or goes his own way, you will never see him again."

"Oh, we certainly don't want to," Zorru scowls — relenting.

"Very well," says Niamh. "Aylin, would you mind fetching Halsin and Isobel? We will need everyone for a prayer of healing."

Zevlor is trapped. Held in place by fleshy tendrils, bulging and covered in swollen lumps, oozing, dripping something warm, something cloying with rotten sweetness. They snake up his legs, glueing them together; they tip-tap up his back, every touch a shudder, and loop around his throat. They push into his mouth, deeper and deeper with each attempt to scream. They run along his temples, melting into one with his madly thrashing veins, and branch out with a sickly crackle when they reach the corners of his eyes... Propping his eyelids wide open.

Unable to blink, drowning in scorching tears, he has no choice but to look ahead. Into restless darkness, which keeps swirling, ever swirling into sickening spirals, like ink stirred in an inkwell.

Time and again, it recedes, rolls away in oily droplets, revealing the same scene, from different angles.

Sometimes, he can see it up close, making out the ruby sparks that still quiver on a dead girl's eyelashes — or sometimes, the view pans out, and he has to take in the entire the road where the cultists attacked them. Where he froze, entranced by dreams of glory... As if someone like him would ever deserve that! As if he would ever be welcomed back into Helm's fold! As if he hadn't failed, over and over, in his duties to protect the weak, to shelter the small, to stand guard against creeping darkness!

He sees them all, again and again: a pile of corpses from bird's eye view, like a grotesque pale flower on the branching path... And then, next time the darkness ebbs, he sees individual people. His people. His responsibility. Flayed apart and put on display before him in minute detail. So he can look, never blinking, and take in every line, every pore, every callus on the hands that once shook his, so trusting, so grateful to have an actual paladin in their midst.

Maybe he is still there, still among them, a swaying lunatic standing guard over people who will never draw another breath. Maybe he imagined all that followed — his capture, his desperate flailing inside the narrow, suffocating, coffin-like confines of a glass pod... His escape.

Yes, the escape must have been a figment of his weak, befuddled mind. After all, she was there. Niamh. His unlikely friend among the druids, and even more unlikely companion for one beautiful night. His ray of golden sun. His lost, long-gone hope.

First, he hallucinated her beside him — smiling tenderly when the roaring crowds celebrated him as a hero; her hand resting on his elbow; confetti caught in her flowing pink ponytail, making her look almost... Almost like a giddy, blushing bride.

And then, he invented a whole story about meeting her in Moonrise Towers. He imagined what she would have looked like, changed by her journey through the dark — more withdrawn, more weary, with purplish circles under her eyes and her hair shaved down to thorny bristles. Yet still happy to see him, still ready to hear him out, to forgive. This is what makes this a fantasy; more bloody wish fulfillment that cost so many lives!..

"I think it's working... Thank you for helping me with the spell."

A voice in the darkness? A new form of torment? It sounds like her again; he so desperately longs for it to be her again — but it can't be!

What if... The tendrils clutch him tighter, compressing his ribs to the verge of cracking... What if he is dead? And his soul returned to the Hells, where it belongs? And this mind-shattering blend of agony and temptation is his eternal punishment?

When the realization pierces through him, rupturing what was not yet crushed by his hideous bonds — he does what he did when his beloved city sank into Avernus. He screams.

... With that, comes another realization. He *can* scream. He can move his arms. The tendrils have come loose. He does not even need to strain against them before they recoil, melting into misshapen puffs of dull red smoke. Instead of being constricted, he... floats. Weightless, yet at the same time, keenly aware of his body — of how strong, how whole it feels. He is carried by waves of ethereal blue, not quite water, not quite light... Magic — Niamh's magic.

It trickled in before he could properly notice: blue cracks in the inky blackness, broader by the second. He blinks — oh, how wonderful it is, to be able to blink! — and all the swirling ink has been washed away. With it, the flashes of the cultists' victims — his victims, even more — are gone as well. The magic envelops him, cradles him, carries him higher... Odd — he seems to recall this sensation of being carried from somewhere before —

"On second thought, perhaps I will not miss hearing the screams of someone laid out on a table before me."

Zevlor gasps, like a half-drowned man tossed ashore. Then swallows — once, twice; by Helm's grace, he is parched. There is some manner of hard surface underneath him, cutting uncomfortably into his back. The light — a mix of dusty grey glow and the last fading wisps of magic — makes his eyes sting. The air prickles at his bare skin. It all feels very... real. And it makes so much sense: his body is affected, and his mind reacts to that. All of him works as one; all of him is his own again.

The half-elven woman who quipped about him screaming is still looking down at him. He... He remembers her; her name is Shadowheart...

"I apologize if I startled you," he half-whispers, his throat growing more and more scratchy with every word.

"No harm done," a massive, yet comforting presence swims into view — Halsin. "You have been through so much."

"We will be moving out soon, but there is still time to rest."

And that's... Gods, that's Niamh! Just as she appeared to him in his final hallucination.

"No... Not again..." he laments out loud, his eyes transfixed on her features. "I wanted this to be real..."

Niamh frowns.

"It is!"

She hastily reaches for his hand and cups it between hers. Zevlor's heart thumps softly against his mended chest; and out of the corner of his eye, he catches Halsin smiling knowingly.

"It is all real. Both the pain, and the hope. And you know what else is real?"

She carries his hand up, brushing it along her cheekbone and bringing it to rest against her lips.

"That you are no longer alone."

Shadowheart sighs.

"Karlach is going to be so insufferable about the two of you, isn't she."

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #zevlor #zevlor x tav #original things #i am literally posting this as i board a plane #baaaai

81 notes · View notes

verai-marcel · 7 months

Text

Your Hearth Is My Home (BG3 Fanfic, Astarion x Female Reader, Part 21 of 28)

Summary, Notes, Tags, & Part 1 are here.

AO3 Link is here, darling.

Word Count: 4,513

—————————————

Act II, Chapter 9 - The Artifact

As everyone packed their things and got ready to leave for the Gate, you realized that you had a new party member.

Jaheira had decided to accompany you to help defeat the Chosen of the Dead Three. She had said she couldn’t stand and watch some young brats make the same mistakes she did when she went against the Bhaalspawn.

Halsin had rejoined your party as well; he had promised your group that he would lend his aid in defeating the Absolute before returning to help rebuild Thaniel’s land. It was the least he could when everyone had helped him remove the curse.

And so now, with two druids along for the journey, you carried on to the city, despite your own misgivings about returning to a place where you might be recognized.

It’s been three years. Perhaps no one will remember me. I was only here for a tenday, after all.

It should have been a straight shot to the bridge that led to Baldur’s Gate. But just as you all had attempted to pass through, a gang of githyanki warriors ambushed you. But after having a good night’s sleep, your friends were invigorated and took them out quickly.

Lae’zel didn’t seem surprised by the attack. You spoke quietly to her as the group continued down the road and discovered that she had been visited by one of the other githyanki shortly before your group entered the Underdark. You had been sound asleep, apparently. She had met with the one you had seen flying a red dragon when you had just started traveling with them. You thought the brothel was a strange place to meet, but you figured clandestine meetings were probably commonplace there.

As you left the Shadowlands, you felt a soft tingling along your spine. It felt more like a gentle touch, like someone running their fingers delicately along your skin. You turned to see the huge tree that had been blackened and rotting suddenly glow and bloom, life returning to it in a sudden wave of growth. Light was returning to the land, and your friends had helped make it happen. You turned to the others, who had also stopped and were looking back, satisfied smiles on their faces.

The day passed on the road, chatting away, almost as if you all weren’t about to face the biggest threat to the city in nearly a century. You managed to pull Shadowheart aside and spoke with her separately from the others about what had happened in the temple.

It took her a bit to open up, but once she started to tell you, everything came pouring out. Her refusal to kill the Nightsong. Her decision to trust her instincts for once and not blindly do what Shar asked of her. What Dame Aylin told her last night in the inn.

“When we get to the city, I want to start searching for my parents.”

You held her hand. You had not put on your gloves today, on a whim. You were glad, for you felt a determination, strong and clear. The haze that you had always sensed in her emotions before was now gone, replaced by a clean clarity, like spring water. “I’ll help you, in any way I can.”

Shadowheart smiled warmly at you. “Thank you. For always being here for us. For me.” She squeezed your hand in return. “There is… one thing, I’d like your help with. I’ll tell you when we make camp tonight.”

***

You were halfway to the city when night fell, so you set up a camp a little ways off the main road. There was an abandoned house surrounded by red grasses and red-leaved trees. It was a beautiful area, not quite healed, but not quite dead either. You supposed it was because it looked like autumn had come to all the foliage that made it look so alluring to you.

Setting up the campfire, you were about to sing your fire cantrip when it suddenly lit on its own.

You felt a harsh sting at the base of your spine, and you quickly turned around. The air shimmered and Raphael appeared, all smirks and slimy grins.

“Oh? And where’s your pet?”

Your brow wrinkled. “He’s not my pet.”

His gaze focused on something over your shoulder. “Could have fooled me, with how quickly he’s coming to your side.”

You didn’t take your eyes off the devil, only listening for Astarion as he marched right up next to you.

“We delivered the devil. Now I want what I’m owed. We had a deal.”

Raphael sneered. “Indeed we did.”

You listened quietly, taking in everything that the devil was saying. It was horrendous. When Raphael disappeared with a flamboyant snap of his fingers and a plume of infernal smoke, you turned to Astarion.

He frowned. “Hmmm.”

You stepped closer and took his hand in yours. His emotions were a jumble of confusion.

“What do you think I should do?” he asked you in a quiet murmur.

You thought about how hard it was to feel free when you were constantly looking over your shoulder. “You’ll never be free while Cazador lives.”

“I hate how right you are.” He paused, thinking. “I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone even when I was just another wretched toy for him to play with. But if I’m the key to this power he craves, he’ll hunt me to the ends of Faerûn.”

You squeezed his hand.

Astarion let out a resigned sigh. “I need to take the fight to him.”

“Let’s ask the others for help.”

He looked at you, unsure.

Tugging on his arm, you led him to the others sitting by the campfire.

“No need to ask,” Gale suddenly said as you and Astarion sat down. “We’ll help you, Astarion.”

He blinked. “I…” Taking a small breath, he bowed his head. “Thank you.”

Karlach came over and sat beside him, lightly punching his arm. “C’mon now, did you really think we’d let that arsehole take you away from us?”

“And we’d be doing the city a favor,” Wyll mentioned. “I can’t in good conscience let someone like that become even more powerful.”

You watched Astarion, clearly still not used to having friends, awkwardly accept everyone’s offer to help.

Aww. I’m happy for him.

As everyone sat by the campfire, you mentally tallied up all of the things your friends wanted, and needed, to do. Visit the arcane bookstore to research the crown. Find Shadowheart’s parents. Kill Cazador. Beat the shit out of Gortash and take his netherstone. Find Orin and take her netherstone. Destroy (or control) the elder brain.

So many tasks. At the end of the day, it sounded like a laundry list for legendary heroes, not average folk.

But looking around at your friends, you thought, perhaps they could become legendary. After all, they all had harsh pasts that forced them to grow stronger, wiser, bolder, than anyone you had ever met before.

So why am I here?

The night went on, and the others began to head off to bed. You cleaned up and went to Shadowheart’s tent and asked her what she needed help with.

“I… I want to change my hair.”

You blinked. “Sure, of course.” Looking at her dark braid, you imagined the possibilities. Luscious wavy locks? A cute bob cut? “You have an idea in mind?”

“Well… I think I’d like to change the color, mostly.”

You blinked. “To… what?”

She looked up at the moonlight. “Perhaps something that suits my… heritage.”

Ah, Selune. Oh! “I have an idea.”

You sang your illusion spell, the one you had learned from Gale a while back. But now you could manipulate it to change aspects of the image, and with a few hummed notes, you could change how her hair looked in the image. She selected one that looked similar to her current style, but in silver.

“Alright, I apologize if this doesn’t work exactly how you imagine.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

You took a deep breath. Gods, I hope this works.

Then you sang. It was a soft song, one that grew out her bangs to mid-length, and changed her dark strands to platinum, the darkness ebbing away from her roots to the tips, as if you were singing away the shadows from her hair. When you finished, you grabbed her mirror and held it up to her. “What do you think?”

You held your breath as she turned her head one way, then another, her gaze critical.

Finally, she smiled. “I love it.” She turned and hugged you. “It’ll take some getting used to, but… it feels right.”

You hugged her tightly in return. “I’m glad.” Stepping back, you gently touched her braid. “It really does suit you.” Then you waggled your eyebrows. “Be sure that you ask Gale what he thinks in the morning. Or tonight.”

Shadowheart lightly slapped your arm, but shared your laughter.

***

“Are you quite done with your ladies night?”

You raised an eyebrow at Astarion, who was sitting inside of his tent, lounging back on a cushion, sipping a goblet of wine and reading a book.

“Are you jealous that we didn’t invite you?” you asked as you sat next to him.

“What do you think?”

“I think you were.”

He put his goblet down, grabbed his hair brush, and handed it to you silently.

You smiled. “You were.” Quietly brushing his hair while he relaxed under your touch, you realized after a while that he had placed his book down. You leaned over to look at his face.

His eyes were closed, his lips curved slightly, contentedness flowing from him.

“When’s the last time you fed?”

He answered after a few moments. “Yesterday, I think.”

You placed your wrist in front of his mouth. “Here.”

Gently, Astarion grasped your hand and kissed the inside of your wrist. He lightly ran his fangs along your skin.

You could feel his hunger, and his delight. And something simmering beneath those emotions, something darker, more primal. Bracing yourself for the pain, you took a deep breath.

“Thank you for this meal,” he said in a reverent whisper before biting down. It stung, as always, but the emotions you had felt before became more intense. Your whole body felt like it lurched with the sensations, and you could feel your heart suddenly racing, both from his eagerness to feed, and also from the intimacy of the act.

You weren’t sure how long he fed from you, but when he let go, he kissed your wound. “I have a vial of healing potion near those books in the corner,” he said. “Just for you.”

You poured a few drops of the potion on your wrist, then you lay down, almost curling up around him like a cat.

Astarion chuckled. “You’re like a kitten,” he murmured, commenting on your body language.

“Meow,” you said playfully.

He reached up and undid the leather strip that kept your bun together. He ran one hand through your hair, letting it cascade around his hand. “Gods, you’re beautiful.”

You blinked and looked up at him. “Erm, thank you.”

His expression looked pained, and you could feel a slight tinge of guilt through his touch. “So beautiful it almost hurts,” he whispered.

Frowning, you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him down beside you. You stared into his eyes, trying to figure out why he would say such a thing. Oh. I think I know why. “What would take that hurt away?”

He looked sad. “I don’t know.”

You gently pressed your forehead against his. “Perhaps a chaste kiss?”

You were half-joking, but he looked at you with such hope that you immediately felt bad.

“Can you imagine?” he whispered. “I’ve bedded thousands. And yet the thought of a mere kiss with you sends my heart aflame.”

Cupping his cheek, you smiled. “That’s because I’m special.”

“That you are.”

He and you both leaned in slowly, eyes closing as your lips came into contact. There was a spark, a flash of white hot heat that lasted half a moment before it melted into a soft warmth. You pulled away first, not wanting to risk anything further.

Astarion’s eyes fluttered open. “Perfection.”

You smiled. “You liar.”

He chuckled softly as he pulled you in close and settled in to trance. “About you? Never.”

***

You awoke in his arms again, and together you broke down the tent before you went to help clean and pack up camp for the rest of the journey.

After another day of eventless travel, you found an abandoned fort as night fell, and decided that although you were a stone’s throw away from the city’s outer limits, there was no reason to exhaust yourselves so soon when there would be fierce battles ahead. After setting up the campsite, you climbed up to the tower and stared at the city lights. It had been a while since you’d been here. Over three years, and to you, Baldur’s Gate still looked the same.

I wonder if Waterdeep looks any different now than when I left. Not that I would ever go back. Not unless I knew that masked lord was dead.

Taking in the view for a few minutes more, you finally turned and headed back down the ladder to the campfire, where Shadowheart and Gale were setting up the kindling.

“Shall I light it up?” Gale asked, his hand raised, ready to cast a cantrip.

“Sure,” Shadowheart replied, and while you quietly stood back and watched, Gale snapped his fingers, waved his hand, and murmured some words you couldn’t hear, his eyes never leaving hers.

Alright Shadowheart, I see why you fell for him.

Setting the campfire ablaze, Gale leaned a little closer to the cleric, their arms brushing against one another.

You tried to slip away, but you accidentally stepped on some dry leaves. Gods, could I have been any more cliché?

They both turned to you.

“How long have you been there?” Shadowheart asked as Gale stepped away from her.

Argh, I’m sorry Gale. “I was just walking past, so only a second or two.”

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“She was lying?”

Both of you looked at Gale.

You’re so smart, and yet so dumb. “I was trying to be discreet,” you said as you turned to Shadowheart. “Isn’t that what you taught me?”

She laughed. “I did, and I appreciate the effort.” Taking Gale’s hand, she smiled. “But… I think it’s alright now.”

Gale looked back at her in surprise.

“Besides, everyone in camp already knows,” you said with a laugh.

Gale continued to look surprised.

Oh my gods, Gale. “Anyway, I can’t wait to see you two holding hands openly now.”

When the supper was ready and everyone sat down together to eat, Karlach gasped and pointed at the two lovebirds holding hands, like a little girl excitedly seeing something cute.

“Oh my gosh, finally!”

Gale and Shadowheart blushed. The others only laughed.

“I told you, everyone knew already,” you said, passing out glasses of wine to everyone. “A toast, to friends, to love, and to beating up bad guys.”

Everyone heartily cheered and had a few more glasses before supper was over. While you cleaned up, everyone was relaxing by the fire, amicably chatting away. It was peaceful and nice.

But you felt a foreboding, deep down in your gut. And on your seal, to be honest. And for some reason, every time you focused on the lines of magic, there was always some kind of thread leading back to Shadowheart. Or more specifically, her pack.

Could it be…?

Finally, you could no longer resist your curiosity. You knew she kept some kind of strange artifact on her person, everyone knew about it. The others hadn’t told you too much about it, other than it contained a power that was helping them resist transforming into a mind flayer. So you went up to Shadowheart after you finished your chores.

“Can I… see your artifact?”

She looked surprised. “Why?”

“I…” You paused. You realized that only Astarion knew about your seal. “Um, just curious. You all have spoken about it here and there, and I realized that I had never seen it up close.”

She raised an eyebrow, but pulled it out of her pack and showed it to you. “You can look, but I don’t think you should touch it. It might… react poorly.”

You could tell she was lying, but you weren’t sure why.

As you approached, it glowed, power pulsing along its creases. Your seal pulsed in response, and you stepped back. “Oh, wow. Alright, well, it does seem a bit… dangerous.”

Shadowheart nodded as she put it away. “It’s the only thing keeping us from transforming into brain suckers, but it’s certainly brought us trouble along the way.”

“Ah, that’s true. Well, thank you for indulging my curiosity,” you finally said, and bid her good night.

Returning to Astarion’s tent, you lay on your bedroll and stared up at the stars. Astarion was taking first watch tonight, so you would be alone for the first half of the night. Before, it wouldn’t have bothered you. Now, you wanted to hold him in your arms.

Gods, is this what falling in love feels like? To be so… needy?

Slowly, you fell into a restless sleep.

***

You awoke to the sting of your seal burning on your back and sat bolt upright.

“Darling?”

Glancing over at Astarion, who had only just taken off his armor, you only said, “seal,” and ran outside, following the lines of power. You could hear him pulling his armor back on as he ran after you. Not bothering to sneak past the other tents, you ran to the main campfire and stared up at the wooden walkway. The lines of power ended there.

“There’s nothing here,” Astarion said as he caught up to you. “At least, not yet.”

Then he suddenly grasped his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

At the same time, a portal opened on the wooden walkway and several figures stepped out, their menacing silhouettes darkening the glow from the portal.

The figures, sensing that you were the weak one, all honed in and dashed towards you.

“Go to Withers!” Astarion yelled as he deflected an arrow shot straight at your head.

You ran towards the little hut at the edge of the campsite, just as everyone else appeared and ran towards the enemy, passing you on the way.

Then you saw the owlbear cub, snarling and growling, while Scratch tugged on its neck, trying to pull him away.

Oh gods, the little ones!

You stopped to help Scratch pull the owlbear cub away from the fight to where Withers was staying, calmly talking the cub down from its bloodlust.

“No sweetheart, you can’t go fight, not now. Wait until you’re bigger.”

~~But I want to fight now. Help big brother.~~

“Big Brother?” You looked over to see Halsin in his bear form, knocking back enemies with a mighty swing of his paws. Turning back to the little owlbear, you scratched his head. “When you’re bigger, my sweet. Let’s make sure you get lots to eat so you can grow big and strong, alright? But for now, you need to stay safe and alive so you can fight later.”

Owly looked up at you with his big pleading eyes.

“No, you must stay here.”

He hooted sadly.

You turned to Scratch. “Thank you for helping him.”

~Of course, Mistress. I couldn’t let our little brother get hurt.~

You blinked. “Mistress?”

Scratch tipped his head. ~Well. Yes. I suppose you’re our mistress now. You’ve been good to us. You care about us. You feed us.~

You nodded. “I suppose. But to me, we’ll always be friends.”

Scratch pressed his wet nose against your knee. ~Yes, always.~

Turning your attention back to the battle beyond, you decided to stay behind and wait for the others to handle the fight. You watched as they defeated the enemies and jumped into the portal. Everything grew quiet, and it looked like the warriors on the ground were well and truly dead.

You came upon the corpses, a bit surprised to see that they were githyanki.

Ah. Odd. Oh well.

You began to loot their bodies, taking all of their armor and weapons for later bartering. Then you dragged their bodies, one by one with Scratch’s help, to the cliff’s edge, tossing them off the side.

When you saw Owly devouring one of the bodies, you had an idea. “Owly, do you want to eat the others?”

Owly looked up and looked around. ~~Yes, more food!~~ he chirped happily around a mouthful of flesh.

Good, that’ll be less weight to push off the cliff.

You cleaned up the camp and prepared some healing potions, waiting for the others to return.

A few hours passed, and when they came out of the portal, your companions looked exhausted. More concerning to you was Gale was helping Shadowheart walk, her arm wrapped around his shoulders, favoring her left leg. You called her name and immediately went to the other side of her, putting her other arm around your shoulders. Helping her to the campfire, you and Gale sat her down, leaning against a rock to prop her up.

You went to grab a few healing potions, quickly returning just in time to see Gale holding her hand, gently whispering to her as she grimaced against the pain. You knelt down beside her and helped her drink two of the potions, monitoring the ghastly wound that ran along the length of her thigh as it healed.

“You’re a tough one, aren’t you,” you said soothingly as you helped her out of her armor.

Shadowheart only shrugged.

“Can you walk now?”

She nodded. “Yeah, seems alright.”

“Good. Leave your clothes outside your tent, I’ll clean and mend them before morning.”

You didn’t say anything when Gale led her to her tent and followed her inside.

Now you could tend to the others. Everyone already knew the drill as they tossed their clothes in piles outside of their tents, clearly ready to be done for the night. Just as you were about to dutifully gather their things, Astarion gently guided you back to his tent.

“Astarion?”

“It can wait until you’ve had some sleep,” he said, dropping his armor and bloody clothes on the floor inside of his tent. He pulled on a pair of soft linen pants and lay down on his bedroll. “Come here, darling.”

Just as you laid down next to him, he pulled you on top of him, draping you over his body like a blanket. A feeling of satisfaction oozed from him, so you let him hold you.

Letting his body lull you into a warm, comforting stupor, you softly sang a lullaby from long ago.

Soon enough, both of you fell asleep.

***

You woke up when Astarion did. More specifically, he jolted upright, accidentally flinging you to the side.

“Astarion? Are you alright?” you asked, panicking at the look of fear on his face.

“I… I slept.”

You blinked. It took a moment for you to register exactly what he said. “Wait, I thought elves didn’t sleep.”

“We don’t, generally speaking. At least, I don’t.” He stared at you. “Your song last night. It was different from your usual lullaby.”

You thought about it. “Oh… it was one my mother used to sing to me. It’s… in Sylvan…” You shook your head. “Wait, I thought nothing could make an elf fall asleep?”

Astarion stared at you. “Curious.” He finally shrugged. “Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you not sing that song in my presence again. I… dreamed about the past.”

He said that last word with such disgust that you were afraid to ask what he dreamed about. “I’m sorry.”

He waved away your apology. “You didn’t know.” Looking closely at your face, he raised an eyebrow. “You want to ask me what I dreamed about, don’t you?”

You swallowed. “I don’t want to make you relive something you don’t want to.”

He shrugged and held your hand. “Perhaps telling you will help me forget about it.”

You could tell that Astarion was omitting or glossing over certain things as he spoke, but you got the gist. Entombed for a whole year. You could barely manage a day without eating, but a whole year? You wanted to tear out Cazador’s entrails and strangle him with them. Your tears fell, full of rage and sadness for Astarion, who was punished far too harshly just for showing a bit of compassion.

He brushed your tears away. “You’re far too empathetic,” he said.

You have no idea. Taking a deep breath, you calmed yourself, your breath still shuddering. “I wish I could feed him his own innards.”

Astarion laughed. “If you could fight, you would have been a magnificent menace,” he said proudly. “It’s almost a shame you’re as sweet as you are. Can you imagine yourself tearing your enemies limb from limb?”

You chuckled. “That is definitely a fever dream of an image.”

He took your hands and pressed his forehead to yours. You could tell that some of the fear was subsiding, but there was still a slight thrum beneath everything else. He finally leaned back and took a breath.

“Everyone said that they’d help you. They’ll help you kill him, and you’ll be free,” you assured him.

He only hummed thoughtfully before getting up. “Well, I suppose we should face the new day, hm?”

***

As you went around cleaning and mending the damaged clothes from last night, you could overhear snippets of conversation as the others ate breakfast.

“The Gate is close. As is Cazador.” You could hear Astarion’s ire as he launched into a tirade, his words dripping with venom.

The others commented, but your ears perked up when he mentioned taking Cazador’s place in the ritual.

I’m not sure about this.

You continued to eavesdrop until they decided to look for Astarion’s ‘siblings’ around the dens of the city. You couldn’t quite tell what everyone was thinking, but with each person having their own goals in the city, you wondered if they were all distracted with their own thoughts and not truly paying attention.

After an hour, everyone had packed up and gotten their things packed onto the floating disc. Walking down the path towards the city, you quietly pulled Astarion aside.

“Are you sure about… taking Cazador’s place?”

“We need to find out more, but why not? Don’t you want me to be stronger?”

I do, but not if you’re sacrificing souls to a devil to do it. “Just… think about the consequences.”

He shrugged. “I am.”

You could tell that he wasn’t. Leaving it alone for now, you followed the group into Rivington, and a new phase of your adventure.

Gods, we have enough shit headed our way. I hope I can help them, if even just a little bit.

-------------------------------

Act II, Chapter 9 End notes: Finally, we’re getting to the city! What new trouble will our heroes find themselves in? How will our dear hearth witch handle the big city? Find out next week! Just seven more chapters to go, my dears…

Tags List: @numblytemporary @xalphafox @avitute @stormyjane7 @kmoon21

#bg3 #bg3 fanfic #astarion x f!reader #female reader #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #writing #bg3 spoilers #your hearth is my home

26 notes · View notes

meanbossart · 10 months

Note

I've been really enjoying your fic and it got me curious about how your campaign went??? I got the important parts (your Durge denied Bhaal, Shadowheart spared nightsong I think, Astarion obviously didn't ascend) but what else happened? Will we ever see any of the other companions?

Thanks for enjoying the story! I can say with pretty much certainty we won't be seeing any other canonical characters from the game, Jaheira, Minsc and Halsin would have stayed behind in Baldur's Gate, as well as Wyll. My Durge killed Lae'zel early in the game and Karlach also died at the end of my campaign.

Gale's character decided to go after the crown, and while he was the staple fourth member of my party the relationship had always been uh... Tense. This was before they apparently patched out how needy he was, but frankly it made for a really interesting story since i just kind of assumed his character was kind of a creep wearing a nice-guy's face. Also, to be fair, I DID fall for his "wanna see a magic trick" line but that just kindled the fire to my theory that he's actually a fairly manipulative person (and perhaps he's unaware of it). MIND YOU PLEASE that this doesn't mean i don't like his character - honestly i feel like I got a REALLY interesting side of him in my campaign and i wouldnt have it any other way - this was a party composed of the dark urge, Astarion, Shadowheart and GALE and to have us all turn down power and glory only for the goody-two-shoes wizard of the camp to turn kinda evil and power-hungry made for a really satisfying narrative.

... Sorry i ended up rambling about Gale LOL to actually answer the rest of your question, my campaign went like this:

I made a Fighter, champion sub-class, BIG hulking drow because i thought it would be funny. Because i went in blind I started off as a confused homicidal murderer who is a liiiittle weirded out about his urges but he doesnt stress TOO much about it. Is fairly standoffish and distrusting toward all of his companions which made for a weird start. Motivated by gold, killing things, getting this worm out his head and making off-color jokes. Ends up siding with the Tieflings because i also decided that, as a very hedonistic character who thinks we should be lunatics because we want to rather than because a cult is telling us to be, my durge would profoundly hate the absolute. As a male drow he also really hated Minthara so yeah, easy choice there. As mentioned above, I also killed Lae'zel when she tried to murder-suicide everybody.

I wasn't going to fuck anyone, believe it or not, so during the tiefling party i went with Gale because it SEEMED like he just wanted to show me something neat (it ended early because i failed his checks and i guess he can't get hard unless i can cast fireball). Also, at this point even though i made mostly "good" moral choices i *was* still a dick the whole time - despite this, everyone in camp wanted to fuck me BESIDES Astarion, which was so fucking funny and devastating that I decided my Durge would, from that moment on, turn on the charm and the flattery and make it his mission to bang him. So yes, they were manipulating each other. I don't have to explain why that made for a really really fun little dynamic. Also Astarion had to tell me he was a vampire through dialogue instead of biting me and i got to say "yeah duh" which was hysterical.

I finally banged him sometime during the underdark (didn't go to the creche at all) and during Act 2 I followed the same pattern of doing mostly the Good Thing while being arrogant the whole time, I fell into a kind of chaotic-neutral/true-neutral aligment and watched my little homicidal maniac cluelessly stumble his way into a hero's journey. I had also really grown to like Shadowheart at that point after having a really negative first impression of her character and she basically became my durge's best friend. Astarion also grew on me for all the reasons we know and love and he did his confession to me sometime in late act 2. I Never met Araj (though i think i mention her in the fan story only because her interaction is interesting) so I got the dialogue that isn't prompted by her encounter. I also had to "break up" with Gale at this point which boy that sure came as a surprise to me! I also didnt break the shadow curse.

Because I didnt kill isobel (Again, my guy didnt like people telling him what to do or not to do), my little butler guy made me wanna kill Astarion. I SWEAR this happened pretty late in game, maybe even in the first night in baldur's gate which i realize is unusual. Naturally I didnt and I decided that would be the turning point where my Durge decides to not just Go With The Flow of things but actively fight his urge and pursue its root cause. He tried to be more of a good person from that point on which was kind of a clumsy effort lol

He completely antagonized the emperor immediately upon him revealing his true identity, stole the orphic hammer from Raphael's house, betrayed Gortash after setting an "alliance" with him, killed Orin (she kidnapped the orphan and killed her in front of me because i failed the check :| ) stopped Astarion from ascending and helped Shadowheart kill everyone in the house of grief, i let her make her own choice regarding her parents and she decided to kill them. I also encouraged her to not immediately align with the Selunites just because of her past.

I got Astarion the thing that helps him read the necromancy book and i cannot tell you how satifyins it was that, after giving up unspeakable power by killing Cazador, that dude and his little ghoul army basically mauled Orin and her grandad for me practically by themselves while I was down on the floor with 1 health. PROUD OF YOU BUDDY.

Gale spoke to Mystra as well at some point and i swear I NEVER encouraged that guy to take the crown for himself. It was always either "do whatever you want" or "i think thats a shitty idea." At this point my Durge was super sick of him so they had a bit of a crappy relationship which may have something to do with how things turned out.

I betrayed the emperor, released Orpheus and when he asked if any of us wanted to be a mindflayer i went "Fuck No" big time and luckily the guy just did it for me. Chaos ensues, I kill the emperor and the absolute in an epic battle that took me like a whole day. I also killed Orpheus when he asked me to. Karlach died ( :c ) and Gale told me he was gonna fuck off to get the crown. In the final Astarion dialogue I told him we would find a way to get him to walk under the sun again.... AAAAAnd thats it i think? Man this game is huge lmao i swear i wasnt trying to be long-winded.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #a novel experience #ask #bg3 spoilers

37 notes · View notes

freyasilverbough · 2 months

Text

The Cave Bear and the White Wolf - Part 5

Summary: Freya, Halsin, and Shadowheart explore the Gauntlet of Shar. Freya and Halsin have a bit of a heart to heart where Freya reassures him that he doesn’t have to drop everything to help her when she’s hurt. They share feelings about their anxieties around the gauntlet and the upcoming battle with Ketheric. Also, Nightsong scene. I hope I did it justice, it’s my favorite in the whole game.

Cw: blood, stitches, scars. Massive Act 2 spoilers

Freya and Shadowheart bickered incessantly through their exploration of Shar’s Gauntlet. They had battled the orthon and the necromancer hiding in its depths well enough, and Freya reluctantly allowed the cleric to take the trials while she, Halsin, and Minthara searched for the relic that Ketheric Thorm kept hidden there.

They were so close now, they’d meant to march on Moonrise that day but the battles they faced in the gauntlet took more time than they’d expected to spend down here. Halsin knew they would need to make camp, everyone would need to be at their full strength to take on Ketheric. The necromancer, in particular, had taken his toll on Freya. She limped slightly as she led their party to the large elevator that had materialized with the umbral gems they’d acquired.

“Wait,” Shadowheart said. Freya tossed her head back and groaned, the last of her patience with the Sharran long gone.

“What now?” Freya all but growled.

“There’s something I need to find down here first. A weapon,” Shadowheart answered.

“On my oath, Sharran, if you mean to sacrifice my life down here for your wicked fucking goddess I will tear you limb from limb,” Freya threatened the cleric with enough venom to fell a horse. “Regardless, we’re all exhausted. We can finish here tomorrow. Let’s get back to the others, I need a drink.”

————

Gale had been instructed to deliver a bottle of Cormyrean brandy as a gift to Freya by Quartermaster Talli. The merchant must’ve deduced that it was her favorite. Halsin had never known her to accept a gift without so much as a single protest, but she simply snatched the bottle and nodded to the wizard in thanks as he finished cooking their dinner. She uncorked the bottle and took a long swig as she limped to her tent. He unbuckled his leather bracers while he sat on a log near the fire and rested his elbows on his knees.

He wanted to follow her, to make her let him heal that damned leg, but he didn’t want to break the trust she’d placed in him by invading her private moments. So he sat. He took the plate that Gale offered to him and ate his dinner in silence while the wizard sat next to him. Karlach bounded over to the fire with Wyll following closely behind her, the warlock and his former quarry were near inseparable as their journey went on. Lae’zel and Minthara stood near the githyanki’s tent. The two women were sharpening their blades and polishing their armor, taking small bites as they worked. Astarion joined Halsin and Gale on the log. Gale offered the vampire his wrist as wildlife in these lands would do him more harm than good. Shadowheart was lost in prayer outside her own tent.

The wizard was the one to break the comfortable silence. “She’s in a mood today, isn’t she?” He jerked his chin toward Freya’s tent.

Halsin nodded. “She’s a Selûnite who spent the day in a Sharran temple, who has little patience and a short temper on her best days. That, and we thought we’d be going back to Moonrise today. I’d be more concerned if she was in a good mood.” Gale chuckled and Astarion scoffed in agreement.

The vampire broke away from the wizard’s wrist. “I’m surprised you survived the day with those three, Halsin. Well done,” he commented sarcastically, as was his way. Halsin only laughed, he knew that if it had come to a brawl between any of those women, any attempts on his part to break them up would’ve been tantamount to suicide.

He glanced back to Freya’s tent, and found himself wondering if he should take her any food. She had done the same for him on many nights when he was sulking in his remote corner of the camp. She had to be starving, they hadn’t stopped to eat since breakfast and he knew they had a big day ahead of them once the dawn broke. Gale chuckled again and clapped Halsin on the knee as he rose to make another plate. “You’ve got it so bad, my friend. Go talk to her.” The wizard shook his head as he handed the plate to Halsin.

The wood elf reluctantly took it and carried it to where Freya made her camp. He stood at the closed entrance and cleared his throat. “Freya?” he asked, and heard only an “ow, fuck” in response, so he stuck his head in.

She had discarded her armor and was wearing a sleeveless shirt with loose cotton shorts that revealed the gash in her thigh, crossing over the old scar. She took another swig of her brandy and splashed the contents of another less valuable bottle of alcohol over her wound. She held a needle and thread in one hand and, to no surprise on Halsin’s part, was stitching her own flesh back together. Blue light radiated from her other palm as she used what was left of her oathbound healing magic to aid the process. She flicked her eyes up to Halsin as he entered the tent and set her dinner on the small, unoccupied table near her bedroll. He knelt in front of her and watched her work for a moment.

“Don’t,” she said. She made another stitch with skilled, nimble hands that had clearly done this several times before.

“I could’ve taken care of that, you know,” he answered. He didn’t dare comment on the fact that she would have another scar. I wear my scars with honor, she had said once. Indeed, she had plenty. The one across the bridge of her nose, the punctures on her shoulder where the wraith had grabbed her while she defended his portal, claw marks running down her other calf. He sensed each had a story, just as the one across his own forehead did.

“I know. I don’t care. You don’t have to heal me every time I get nicked in combat, if you did you’d be glued to my hip and that would just be annoying for the both of us.” Halsin disagreed with her statement, he kept finding excuses to be close to her every chance he got. “Honestly, Halsin, I’m fine. I don’t need you to rush to my aid every time I’m hurt. Two hundred years I’ve survived, and I intend to live at least two hundred more.”

She finished her stitching and reached over to grab a clean strip of linen from her bag to wrap her muscled thigh. Every movement was practiced and deliberate, a soldier patching herself up to get back in battle. She used the ground as leverage to push herself up and test her weight on the injured leg, bouncing lightly on that foot. She seemed to be satisfied enough, so she sat back down and pulled one knee to her chest as she extended her injured leg in front of her.

“How is your mind?” He asked the question on a whisper. “Today can’t have been easy for you.”

She breathed deep before answering. “I’m sure Selûne’s Chosen would be a fine trophy for Shar, unfortunately for her I think Shadowheart still has time to turn from her path of darkness to one of light. She’s still very young, and there’s something more to her. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Do you think she will try to sacrifice you?” Halsin’s blood ran cold at the thought. He knew if it came to it, Freya would prevail, but she cared so deeply for each of her friends that the death of one of them, even in self defense, would haunt her for the rest of her long life.

“I think if she was going to, she would have done it when she realized where we were. I think there’s more to this than what we can see, and I have to trust that the Moonmaiden guides my way.” She finished her brandy and leaned back against her pack. “Enough about me, how do you feel?” Her eyes never left his as she leveled her question, perhaps trying to see into his very soul.

He had no wish to burden her further. To heap his troubles on top of her own. She, quite literally, took the fate of the world onto her own shoulders without a single complaint while a parasite threatened to strip her of mind and soul at any moment. As soon as their mysterious artifact faltered in its protection, she would be gone. They both knew that, and she soldiered on regardless.

Yet, Halsin knew that he could not ask her to trust him with her burdens without offering that same trust in kind. “I feel…hopeful,” he whispered. “More than I have in a hundred years.” She hummed her agreement. “If only I had met you sooner, my friend. I also feel afraid. We have been given the best chance anyone has had to rid this land of its curse, to set nature to rights and watch the healing unfold. If we fail, I dare say there is no one who will be able to take our place.” Her blue eyes welled with unshed tears at his words, for she knew them to be true. If they failed, the curse would live on despite all they’d done here. For Halsin, he would never restore the balance of nature. For Freya, justice would go unserved.

“Do you think we can win this?” A sliver of doubt crept into her voice as the question softly escaped her lips.

“I…I will not lie to you, Freya, I do not know. Ketheric is a formidable foe.” Her eyes slid shut as a tear slid down her cheek at his confession. He reached over and brushed it away with his thumb. “You, though, you might be even more formidable than he is. I am not a betting man, but if I was, I’d gamble on you.” He hooked his finger under her chin and pressed a kiss to her forehead, closing his eyes against his own tears before he moved to leave.

Freya caught his wrist before he could go. “Stay,” she whispered, the word a prayer on her breath.

How could he deny her?

He removed his leather armor and lay shirtless beside her. She rested her head over his chest and he pulled her closer until she was nearly on top of him. He wrapped both arms around her slender frame and held her tight until they both slipped into trance, never once letting go of the warrior woman who now guarded his beating heart.

————

Halsin stood in the pool before Shar’s statue with Shadowheart and Freya, the former knelt in prayer, the latter watching the cleric with her sword drawn. The tension between the Selûnite and the Sharran had grown palpable, Halsin almost thought that he could touch it if he reached out. Shadowheart wielded a new spear, the Spear of Night, she had called it, and it set the paladin on edge.

Shadowheart stood. “I’m ready,” she stated as she stepped into the pool. Tendrils of darkness crept up his legs, like phantom arms pulling him under. They crawled up his chest, his shoulders, his head, ever hungry, and yanked him down until all he saw was black.

————

Halsin woke with a start in a horrifyingly familiar landscape. Coughing, he clutched his chest and looked to Freya, who was on her hands and knees, eyes wide as she took in the broken rock and violet atmosphere.

The Shadowfell. Shar’s domain.

“Fuck.” Freya bit out the word like she’d been struck. Any average Selûnite would be in mortal peril in the Shadowfell, but Freya was Selûne’s Chosen. Fear and worry clawed its way into his chest at the realization.

The party stood, and Halsin noticed that he felt lighter, his bones no longer tethered to the earth. Freya stepped forward, her body practically vibrating, and jumped from one rock to the next before Halsin could stop her.

“Blessed Nightsinger, witness my adoration,” Shadowheart prayed as they followed the paladin. Undead Dark Justiciars lined the path before them, but made no move on the Selûnite as she descended.

“Descend to her,” they whispered in unison. Freya never faltered in her steps in front of him. “Look upon her.”

“See my actions, Lady Shar, hear my words of faith.”

“Kill her.”

“Lady Shar’s will shall be done, as sure as night will fall.”

They reached a large platform, where a tall woman with yellow hair stood, shackled by magic fists glowing green. As Halsin leapt closer, he noticed the cracks in her skin, glowing gold under the dirt and grime.

An aasimar.

Freya and Shadowheart bounded onto the platform, the former angling herself between the caged woman and her Sharran friend.

“You,” the caged woman seethed, pointing a finger at Shadowheart. “You, who have come to seek the praise of her wicked goddess. You, who have come to drive a dagger through my heart.” She stormed towards Shadowheart, blue mage hands restraining her as she did.

“Not a dagger, a spear. My Lady Shar’s spear!” Shadowheart turned on Freya, anger and hatred and desperation etched into her expression. “Her fate is mine to seal, let me handle this!”

Freya raised her sword, the point of the blade inches from her friend’s chin. A tear rolled down her cheek as she whispered, “Strike me down if you must, but I cannot let you do this.”

“The fate you seal is your own,” the larger woman said. “To be a Dark Justiciar is to turn your heart from everything but loss. You will know no love, no joy, only servitude. Until, of course, your mistress inevitably discards you. And there is much she does not tell you - a terrible blood price that may extend beyond my own death.”

Shadowheart bristled as she stared down Freya’s blade. The paladin looked over her shoulder at the caged woman, and something like recognition flashed across her features. Halsin didn’t dare breathe as Freya lowered her sword and stepped to stand beside him. He had no idea what she was doing, but she took his hand in hers and gripped it like a lifeline. “Trust her,” Freya murmured under her breath to him.

“Well, well, well,” the stranger said. “What’s that I sense? A spear intended for my heart. Empowered by your goddess, aye. Empowered to kill the child of a god,” she yelled. “Do you know what I am, little assassin? For I know you - a lost child, frightened by wolves in the dark.”

“What did you say?” Shadowheart’s voice softened, green eyes growing wide.

“Much has been promised to you, hasn’t it? But what has been taken from you? What do you know of your own heart - your own life? I sense more in you than you know.” The woman straightened, and Freya was taut as a bowstring next to Halsin. Her eyes were trained on the exchange happening before them, her other hand gripping the hilt of her sword so hard he thought she’d burst her gauntlet. She whispered prayers to her goddess under her breath, as if Selûne could hear her in her sister’s domain.

Shadowheart was never meant to sacrifice Freya at all, he realized. It was this woman, bound by a necromancer’s magic, whose death was somehow more important to Shar than her twin’s Chosen.

“Whatever you think you know of me won’t matter, once I become who I’m meant to be,” Shadowheart said with wavering conviction.

“She knows something about you, Shadowheart,” Freya said. “Don’t you at least want to hear her out?”

The mysterious wound on Shadowheart’s hand flashed amethyst as she pulled the spear from her back. Freya stiffened, her sword raising once more, as she took a small step forward.

Shadowheart hesitated. She stared at her goddess’s spear in her grasp. The cleric raised her weapon, and Freya released Halsin’s hand to jump in front of the aasimar.

Shadowheart threw her arm back and cast the Spear of Night into the Shadowfell.

Freya’s breath came in hard pants as her sword clattered to the ground. Her relief came off of her in waves, fresh tears springing to her sapphire eyes. She put her hands on Shadowheart’s shoulders as the cleric realized what she had done.

“I can’t believe I did that…Lady Shar will disown me…what will happen to me now…?”

“Now what will happen. What will you do?” The taller woman said behind them. “Your past is not yet lost. Your future is not yet fixed.” She knelt as Shadowheart stumbled forward to her, Freya stepping to the side. “Lay a hand on me in friendship, not-quite-Sharran, and I will fight the battle that has been waiting for me this last century. Then, oh then, we will have much to discuss.” She bowed her head, and Shadowheart considered her for a long moment before placing her wounded hand on the woman’s shoulder.

The mage hands caging her vanished, and she dropped both hands to the ground.

She pounded her fist into the ground. “Our Lady of Silver, hear me.” Her fist pounded once more, free from her shackles, holy fury lacing every word.

By Silvanus.

“She Who Guides, the Moonmaiden Selûne.”

Freya dropped to her knees.

“Mother of the so-called Nightsong, the Nightsong is no more!” Her eyes glowed pure silver as she stood, her Selûnite armor materializing over her battered rags. Her suit was an exact match to Freya’s own. A great golden sword floated down to her outstretched hand, and she swung it in a wide arc as white wings appeared from her back.

The relic Ketheric was after wasn’t a relic after all, but a person. Selûne’s own daughter supplied his immortality. Now that she was free, not only would he finally be vulnerable, but they had made a powerful ally in this war. Halsin could only stare in awe as her boots touched ground once more.

“You have given me a great gift, little warrior,” the Nightsong said to Shadowheart. “Don’t you find it oh so curious that you would spurn your Dark Lady? Perhaps you feel a stirring of the truth already”

Freya rose to her feet, collecting her sword. “And you, my mother’s Chosen. You did well to follow her guidance. I look forward to seeing what you can do.” Freya dipped her chin in a nod at the aasimar’s words.

“But that will come later. There is a battle yet to be fought. You have done what we feared was impossible, you have released me from a century of sorrow. Your power is great, so to must be your weapon. The Moonmaiden will provide. Thus I have said, thus will it be so.” A golden glaive appeared in Shadowheart’s hand, replacing the Spear of Night.

Freya retook her place at Halsin’s side, divine purpose igniting her confidence in their cause anew. He squeezed her arm, sharing in her newfound hope. She was radiant in her anticipation of the coming battle, blue eyes bright and wild and excited. She smiled up at him and Halsin’s heart nearly stopped. She was breathtaking.

“Are you ready?” Selûne’s daughter asked them.

“Ready for what?” It was Shadowheart who answered, still so unsure of herself after defying her patron deity.

The Nightsong’s expression hardened in determination and the promise of righteous vengeance as she readied to launch into the sky.

“To kill Ketheric Thorm.”

#bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 halsin #halsin x tav #halsin silverbough #paladin tav #archdruid halsin #halsin x freya #paladin #selunite tav #nightsong #dame aylin #selunite shadowheart #bg3 act 2 #bg3 paladin #bg3 companions #bg3 fanfiction

7 notes · View notes

oathkeeper-of-tarth · 5 months

Text

Fic Prompt #3

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Shar; also features Selûne, and Balthazar, that wretched walking content warning Length: ~4000 words Summary: Aylin prays in the Shadowfell, to a mother who can't hear her - and an aunt who can.

What can silence the Nightsong? @stachless prompted "nightmare" and also drew [this art]. Brainworms heavily inspired by @featherwurm's [art] and its followup [here]. Also inspired by a bunch of Aylin's Shadowfell dialogue, the extremity of what she went through, her mother, and the Jesus-Christ-Superstar-Gethsemane of it all. Then we have my own need to see her cherished and taken care of and protected, along with a bit of weird fascination with how the Calm Emotions spell is actually supposed to work.

Hurt/comfort. Warnings for canon-typical violence and references to torture.

---

Once, there would have been a steady hum, a warmth blooming eternal in her chest. An undeniable, reassuring presence, like a hand on her shoulder, and a loving murmur in her ear as if her Mother were there, but only just out of sight. Now there is nothing.

There is worse than nothing; there is a tug, a pull, a leeching so unnatural and wrong it makes bile rise in Aylin's throat. Makes her first steps into a stumble, as she pulls herself to her feet from where the latest Sharran had felled her, leading her so close to the bounds of her enclosure that the sickly glow of the grasping claws starts to manifest.

So instead she kneels, as she has done countless times before: in magnificent temples and humble shrines, in muddy battlefields before and after skirmishes, in winter storms and in bright summer showers. Privately, or as one in a crowd of worshippers. Or, a traitorous little shard of her heart pipes up, with Isobel, whose devotion was always catching like the most pleasant of flames.

"Moonmaiden, hear me," once she finally speaks, Aylin's voice is strong to her own ears, rising clear and resonant from the depths of her chest, unhampered by her predicament or by the bitter sting of grief. It is a bracing thing to note, and it makes it easier to straighten her shoulders and persist.

The odious essence that permeates the Shadowfell makes calm, comfortable meditation a distant dream, but Aylin does her utmost to shake off the worst of it. She chooses instead to focus on going through all the well-practised, familiar, reassuring motions. Hands open, relaxed, palms resting on her thighs, eyes closed but not clenched shut, chin upturned slightly, waiting for the light of an absent moon.

"Weaver of the silver loom, look upon me with mercy and pluck the threads of my fate to lead them away from this place, away from this dungeon of loss and dark and grief."

It is easy, natural, to intone the words, even as the recitation feels slightly more formal than Aylin is used to. The conspicuous absence surrounding her and blanketing her heart does nothing to deter her.

"Guide me out of the grasp of shadow. Turn the tides, so that I may vanquish Your enemies once more and shield Your faithful from the darkness in turn, under Your watchful eye."

Ketheric will bleed, a Sharran plot that was allowed to fester and grow much too far will finally be thwarted, and Reithwin salvaged, recovered, a haven for those basking in the light of the moon once more.

Surely, whatever time Aylin has spent here… surely it is enough.

Her only answer is a coward's blow; a would-be justiciar who has snuck down to her prison oh-so-quietly, who has chosen to anoint herself with the blood of an unarmed, unaware opponent knelt in prayer.

In the rush of her own lifeblood Aylin could swear she hears laughter.

"Hear me. Moonmaiden," the words are ground out this time, slowly and painstakingly. "Our Lady of Silver. Shine Your gleaming light upon me, dispel the grip of shadow and pain, bolster my heart with Your radiance…"

There is an arrow lodged in her flank, and another one near her shoulder blade, still burning with the telltale traces of poison. This one wanted to make sure - a good Sharran: thorough, prepared. Lurking in the shadows and well out of reach, even for this. Truly meant for his mistress' embrace.

"I, whose hand has ever borne Your sword against wickedness gladly and with pride…"

The third in what can't have been more than, what, a day? But how to tell, when her own body falling and rising is the only thing she can rely on to try to gauge the passage of time? In any case, Ketheric is ramping up the production of his army, that much is clear.

So much of Reithwin has paraded before her eyes. People she had lived beside, even if for a little while, coming here to kill her. Some of them acknowledge the fact, even - let her know they never trusted her, sneer about their welcome and respect being but pretence, or forced by fear of divine retribution. Others avert their eyes and pretend they weren't the ones to help her pick out flowers for a bouquet to gift Isobel early in their courtship, just as they weren't the ones to help with the delicate petal-cups of the moonflower arrangements for her funeral.

If she thinks of what has happened, what must be happening to the ones who she hasn't faced here, the rage mixed with the bitter bite of failure threatens to overwhelm her utterly. They were hers to protect. Just as Isobel was.

She can't reach the accursed arrow in her back to pull it out. The sting mounts and mounts and meets the agony driven deep in her heart.

"Moonmaiden, hear me. As You guide the lost back onto their paths, as You set before our feet roads out of darkness, I pray. For my path is winding, never-ending, yet I have ever heeded--"

How much more? How much, how much, howmuch…

The spear to the heart she would have taken for one of the quick and merciful ones - but no. Because the Sharran misses, curse them, and then stops to deliver a tirade - before being swallowed by vicious, hungry shadows.

"The tides turn, inexorably," she mutters, half-dazed with blood loss, stumbling to her knees. "The tides, they… in Your strength, as all things, they…"

Aylin's head lolls forward, proud chin meeting chest, prayer cut short. "Enough. It is enough. I have borne--" What, she cannot say. Penance? Some crucial holy burden? Instead, she ekes out syllables around the agony in her chest, where the spear is still lodged. The spear left in her in disgust, once the acolyte realised it was a mere inert replica of the artefact they sought, incapable of delivering true death, of elevating them beyond a mere ordained assassin. Before their own fate was sealed so very efficiently.

One does not become the Chosen of a goddess by choosing themselves, after all.

"Please."

In the silence, she scrabbles with bloody hands and pulls the spear out herself, inch by painfully slow inch. Throws it into the abyss with a roar of fury and disgust, for she has no use for a weapon here. She cannot fight and tear and kill her way to freedom, a sword that cannot cut itself free. The best she could achieve by destroying her captors here and now would be oblivion, to be forgotten here.

Lost.

"Mother," she whispers, and feels burning shame at prayer being reduced to pleading. "Mother, please."

Nothing.

The necromancer visits again, when she is barely recovered from the last freshly-made justiciar, still catching her breath and clutching at newly-unshattered ribs.

Aylin has goaded him before. Barked out whatever insult came to mind, every threat and vow of vengeance most bloody on both him and his coward of a general, who so adamantly refuses to come face her. But this time - she will find she cannot remember, after, what it was she said that led to this - if she even said anything.

But whatever she does or mutters or simply is right then crosses some threshold, unfathomable to her. Something that permits such aimless, gratuitous cruelty, justifies it in the mind of the truly monstrous.

Balthazar is uncharacteristically silent, the usual sick gloating absent, when he gestures for the hands to pull her to her knees, to hold her in place; when they grip her neck and claw her head back and rip her jaw open against all her mighty strain, as if she is not even trying to resist. When she tastes the rust of the blade and then the rust of her own blood.

Her mouth burns, jaw and chin and palate aflame, agony spreading from the carelessly cut lip down to her throat. She spits blood, and blood, and blood, but it will not stop, and it chokes her. Dizzying, mortifying. Hunched over after she is released, one hand clenched in the dirt of her rocky prison, barely holding her up, the other scrabbling at her neck.

She cannot speak aloud the words that old and young, great and small throughout Faerûn know will bring the Moonmaiden's keen-eyed, loving gaze to them. But then, she has never really needed to. Selûne has ever kept watch over Her daughter, Her sword.

Mother. Aylin tries to think, upwards, upwards, imagining flying up to pierce the shadowy dome. Mother, hear me, when they would silence me.

Nothing.

Balthazar shuffles into her blurred view, doing something with a jar, and silver-flecked muscle and--

And what will he do with it? What does he do with all else he steals from her? It is a horror she does not want to contemplate.

Her tongue, made for poetry, made for battle cries and striking fear into the unworthy and the wicked, into the scheming and the twisted. Made for jubilation and proclamation, made for testifying the glory of her Mother and the good, righteous cause she championed so gladly. Made to argue and philosophise. Made for joy and pleasure taken in the mortal and worldly and wondrously, preciously, divinely mundane: tasting fine wine and succulent food and the sweetest of lips and the softest of skin and most cherished of flesh, all hers, once, all of it -- all of it taken, gone.

Lost.

Instead, violation and violence. A cut throat, and spilt guts. And here comes one with a cruel mace - atypical, for Sharran clergy. She would laugh at herself, a half-mad thing, at the spark of absurd, sick excitement at being murdered slightly unusually - but what else is there? What is there, here, in the void?

Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. Pain, or nothing.

Her.

Aylin does not attempt to pray when she next rises. She screams curses and barely-coherent tirades against her hated, hateful aunt, if only for there to be something, anything else.

"Silence," comes that rarely-heard voice. Despised, yet known. "My sister spawned a rabid dog, it seems."

A gleam of feeble triumph warms Aylin's heart. A response provoked. A goddess' hand forced, even if in a matter so very small. She stands, as tall and proud as she can in bloodied rags. "I was chosen to bear her light, to be her sword, to champion her cause--"

"She did not choose you," the voice cuts her off, growing louder and closer, echoing in the endless chasm of its domain, surrounding. "She made you. And what a pitiful job she did of it, too." The disdain is palpable, radiating out of every wisp of shadow swirling around the lonesome platform. "She whelped you to hunt down my faithful."

"She charged me with protecting her own." Aylin glares into the darkness, turning this way and that, trying to fathom where to best aim her fury from her perch in the eye of a growing storm.

"She who seeks always to steal from me, to supplant me, she who knows no measure, whose ambitions know no end."

The raging shadows swirl ever closer, angrier and angrier still. But Aylin refuses to be cowed, refuses to yield, faced with the one who gives her purpose. For the Sword of the Silverlight is a necessity, yes, but it is not Selûne who makes it so. It is her spiteful sister and her misguided followers, ever prowling and looking to harm.

"You lie, as always, Lady of Loss. She wishes only for peace, for her faithful to be left to make their own way, to flourish. Without your schemes, there would be no need for my service at all."

A clap of thunder behind her; Aylin turns, but not in time to see the grasping shadows that rush towards her, wind around her legs and arms, around her neck and chest. Restraints nothing like the eerie, necrotic claws, but just as cold and cruel and unmoveable.

"Ah, so my sister needs to bind her paladins with chains of bloodline to ensure they serve her?" The voice is mocking, and so very, very near. As if Shar herself is standing there, speaking in Aylin's ear as her shadows mercilessly pull her down. "Perhaps, for once, she is right. For I have claimed a prize from her already, and he has brought me you."

"I am not bound," Aylin spits out, pulling against her fetters, grinding her knuckles to dust and bone on the cold stone of her prison. "I am not bound. I choose, I serve, I am faithful--"

"You are a failure."

"I am-- I am Dame Aylin Silverblood, Sword of the Moonmaiden, Moon Daughter, Bearer of the Silverlight. When I am free, there will be a mighty reckoning. I will bring it on wings of silver, on the edge of my blessèd sword, in the name of my Mother, and in my own name."

"You are a failure," the darkness repeats, unphased, calm, certain, factual, "and so you have been discarded."

"I am," Aylin starts, barely forces out, then stops, gritting her teeth against the burning pressure, the rancid atmosphere cloaking her prison. "I am--"

"I am the Nightsinger and you are my Nightsong, and so it is mine to silence you."

The darkness becomes tangible, cloying, suffocating. Aylin tries to draw breath but finds that she cannot. Cannot see through the thickening murk even to the sickly blazing runes of her prison-circle.

"The moon does not shine its foul light here, and it never will. Here, in my perfect dark, we are gloriously free of it. Howl your foolish prayer-ditties, Nightsong - they will fall upon no ears. Your ever-whimsical, capricious mother has abandoned you to my care."

The shadows tighten and Aylin chokes on darkness like she choked on blood. Her back burns with phantom pains, spiking up and down her shoulder blades, and every wound and indignity feels visited upon her again. A scream feels like it should tear itself from her throat, but there is only silence.

"In the creation of my army, I have given you purpose. Much more than my pathetic sister ever has. And once that purpose is fulfilled, I will silence you forever."

She finds herself sprawled on the ground, suddenly free of the restraints, as the final, threatening proclamation rattles through her muscle, deep into her bones.

"The loss of a daughter," Shar sounds amused, almost, a cruel smile tainting her words, "is devastating, I hear. It will make a fine gift for my deserving kin. Now rise. One approaches who must prove their worth."

Aylin's mind is flooded with Isobel, Isobel, Isobel, and her chest feels like it will cave in on itself.

The air rushes in, finally, and Aylin tastes blood in her mouth from a bitten cheek, feels a pounding in her head - and very little else. A cool balm, a much-needed distance has been put between her and the red-hot thornvine of the past century, and it allows her to breathe.

She blinks, and knelt before her is Isobel, alive and whole, in a simple nightgown, hands aglow with the remnants of a freshly cast spell.

"Aylin?" She asks, cautiously, with the telltale downturn of the corner of her mouth that means she is concentrating. Her eyes are wide and filled to the brim with such tender concern, the restrained but clearly pained tremble in her voice more agonising than any Sharran knife. She keeps her distance, though the tension and the need to leap forward, to be close, to hold, is palpable.

"You were… I tried to wake you, but you weren't responding. It was like you were lost to me."

Lost.

"I am…"

Aylin stops, because she does not know what words could follow and not be lies.

"This will only last a minute. Please, stay with me, Aylin. Alright?"

Aylin nods.

"Breathe with me."

Aylin does.

"May I touch you?"

Aylin hesitates, where she should have roared her enthusiastic consent. But her entire body still feels raw.

"...yes," she says only when she truly feels it to be true, and Isobel seems… proud?

The lightest, gentlest hand comes to rest on her cheek and jaw. Familiar, loved, ever so slightly colder than… than before. Isobel.

She would have nuzzled into it happily, usually, pressed a kiss or two to the soft palm. It is a bit much at the moment, though, just that little bit too close, and so Aylin slowly pries it off her cheek and holds the hand between both her own instead.

Then the minute is up and the spell wears off, and the veil that was between her and what seems like the rest of the world abruptly falls away. Aylin draws air in with mounting effort, then lets it out in a hiss at the flood of sensation.

But the hand between hers serves to ground; Isobel's eyes, luminous in the moonlight that seeps into the room, hold her own and seem to encompass her entire.

"Should I cast it again?" Isobel asks softly, free hand already rising towards Aylin's temple.

She moves to decline, muster up some sort of casual air, but stops herself at the last moment. Digs down to the soldierly disposition that has been a help to her, an ingrained way to make sense of so much. It does no good to overestimate one's own capability. Her mind rattles off, almost of its own accord. A correct measure of one's strength is key to all engagements.

"Once-- once more, please, my love," Aylin asks, and is mildly surprised at the complete lack of shame and nauseating sense of inadequacy that had, for a time, become her stalwart companions.

"As many times as you need," Isobel says reassuringly, already leaning forward and reaching out with both hands. "There is no shame in accepting help."

It is a song and dance they both know well by now. The words Isobel has spoken what must be hundreds of times, in an effort to make them real and true to Aylin.

Her touch on what feels like the sides of Aylin's troubled mind accompanied by a murmured incantation take all of a second, but the coolness and numbness and the slight drowsiness ripple outward and encompass her again. The separation from herself, the distance from everything, is always mildly discomfiting and ever-so-slightly reminiscent of the Shadowfell - a reassuring fact, as Aylin takes it to mean she is in no danger of craving it, or growing to depend on it.

It is but a moment of reprieve each time. But it is just enough to buy her a chance to shore up her own defences, when they have been so cruelly torn down by the workings of her own unconscious mind. She places her hands over Isobel's own once again, breathes in time with her, and thinks, very deliberately, of little else.

This time, when the minute runs out, the shock of being plunged back into the world is barely noticeable.

There is no brand-wound placed on her by Shar, like brave Shadowheart still bears. And yet it still feels so often like her aunt's cruel grasp is lying in wait behind every shadow, waiting to snatch her up and pull her down, down, down, until her knees meet the cold rune-inscribed rock in the heart of the Shadowfell.

It makes Aylin still want to laugh at herself, sometimes. Her knees are, in fact, resting on the finest mattress of the grandest bed Waterdeep's House of the Moon could provide. Her legs are entangled with duvets filled with the softest down, with sheets of finest silk. And yet, and yet.

But she does not let out any bark of bitter, self-deprecating laugh, for even after everything, there is Isobel. The anchor. The crux of everything. The eye of a swirling storm. A beacon of light so blessedly blinding it washes out all else, all pain and sorrow and acrid, biting memory.

Isobel, whose mere presence drowns out the roaring winds of the Shadowfell, fills up the Lady of Loss' cursed silence that steals and numbs everything it touches.

Isobel, something to focus on when all else is too much, or too little. Who scuttles closer to Aylin on the bed once she sees her calmed enough, and leans in until they are pressed shoulder to shoulder.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Her thumb rubs small, delicate circles into the back of Aylin's hand.

Aylin sighs. "I cannot possibly begin to explain… to put into words…"

"Could you try? For me, my love, and for yourself?"

The only thing silencing Aylin now is she herself.

Truth and honesty, ideals to strive for - and the light that chases away any Sharran shadow. Aylin draws in a deep breath, as much as her chest that still feels cramped will allow. Squares her shoulders as if preparing for combat.

And still her words come out hesitant, almost meek. "I would not have wanted you to bear witness, then. To… to their crimes, their sins against me. To my shame. And so I do not want to make you a witness to them now, even if it is only through my telling."

She feels reluctant to expose Isobel to any of it. Even when, yes, she is an accomplished cleric and a healer and has seen and dealt with her own share of horrors, but…

"Aylin," the palpable pain in Isobel's wide eyes is already too much as she reaches out a gentle hand again, turning Aylin's face towards her. "You are the woman I love, and the chosen of my heart. Nothing will ever change that."

"It has been nigh a year." Aylin knows she sounds petulant. Knows she would have thoughtlessly blinked away the meagre span of a single year, before.

"Compared to a hundred?" Isobel shakes her head, looks at her almost pleadingly. That way she does, the way she seems to have reserved for whenever Aylin insists she should think nothing of the way she hastily exited a too-tight or too-dark space.

"Fine. Fine, my love, for you," Aylin breathes out. "But… outside. Let us first recover somewhat, in my Mother's light."

Let Her hear as well.

Isobel rises, takes her by the hand, and pulls her along, gently, out onto the balcony. Theirs is a spacious, luxurious suite situated in the prime spot of the temple complex housing wing, overlooking the luscious inner gardens in the House of the Moon. Usually, neither of them care for the pomp and circumstance their visits tend to invite in Selûnite spaces. But this time Aylin feels grateful for both the privacy and the position under the moonlight dome, as she does little but breathe in the scent of the moonflowers, freshly opened for the night, each cupping a little mote of moonlight and embracing it in blue.

For a good while, until Aylin feels ready, Isobel chatters, hums, softly fills any second of silence. She has come to understand so much, and Aylin is so grateful as she lets the sweet voice buoy her heart, carry her.

It felt near-blasphemous, at first, these calls to a goddess over things she would have once called trivial. But the joint efforts of her Mother and her beloved have convinced her they are anything but.

Mother? Aylin sends out the simplest of thoughts as she gazes upward and feels the moonlight bathe her face, fill her heart to bursting, settle around her shoulders like a blanket.

I hear you, daughter. I see you. I hold you under my gaze, safe.

This, too, is her birthright. Simple reassurance.

Under her Mother's silver eye, guarded in the circle of Isobel's arms, Aylin speaks. Once her words run dry and she is left feeling drained, scoured out, head dizzyingly feather-light, Isobel finally moves from her side. She returns within moments, wraps herself around Aylin and wraps them both in a star-embroidered coverlet.

"Never again," Isobel whispers, all moon-bathed steel, as she presses a dozen soft kisses to Aylin's face, then holds her to her chest. "I will not let anyone harm you again."

It is a heartwarming, if impossible thought. Aylin doesn't have it in herself to do anything but believe it.

The moon continues on her path across the sky, her Tears shining bright, as the night descends into a silence that is both warm and comfortable.

#dame aylin #isobel thorm #aylin x isobel #baldur's gate 3 #fanfiction #my fic #bg3 #oathkeeper writes things #fic prompts 2024 #sipping that hurt/comfort juice

34 notes · View notes

ghostlynighty · 4 months

Text

yo, we chiefs have been domesticated by this event and I can't even deny how much I loved it.

Spoilers for ditty nightsong below!

I just finished it and I still want more? I WAS SO SAD WHEN IT ENDED, I WANT TO BE A HOUSEWIFE TO ANGELL MORE!

it was so wholesome? But also angsty? Like oh my god, I don't even know what to say because it's so good? Yes we were kidnapped but it obviously didn't feel like it, we just became a housewife to Angell. No very intense scene, just some good ole domestic life and such. This event reminds me so much of Adela's event AND I LOVE THAT EVENT SO MUCH. I'm glad that it didn't end like Adela's event tho.

It might just be me but...chief might have fell in love a tiny bit and maybe Angell as well but we will never know!

I saw someone say the event reminds them of an otome game and I can see it!

ALSO THE MUSIC??

Idk I'm just really speechless, I'm sad that it's over. Also, it seems like the event has two different endings? Did you pick to come clean with her or live with her more? Cause I picked to live with her more, obviously.

#nighty tots #path to nowhere #ptn angell

16 notes · View notes

joeyscherryjubilee · 2 years

Text

Like Calls to Like (VI)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC

Author's Note: short chapter today, also I love Helaena.

Warnings: none?

Word count: 3,902

Summary: Laenyra claims her dragon.

Links: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V

It was no easy feat, convincing Helaena to take her to her dragon. Laenyra wished to ask Aemond again, but he would never take her, he was far too protective and Vhagar was far too ominous, she would surely scare off the mysterious dragon.

It had been a surprise when Helaena had finally agreed to take her upon Dreamfyre, the princess had steadfastly refused before suddenly agreeing, her tone one of prophecy but Laenyra would not argue.

Trusting her instincts, she had guided Helaena to a low mountain range between Horn Hill and Nightsong. There were fewer trees and it made landing easy, Laenyra thanked the gods for small mercies as the light from the moon was minimal and if anything happened to Helaena, she would never forgive herself.

“Thank you so much, Helaena.” She hugged the princess from behind, squeezing her tightly out of both gratitude and fear. Dreamfyre lowered herself so she could slide to the ground, stumbling only slightly.

“If you have not died by the next sunset, I will return here to bring you back.”

“Um, thank you.” Laenyra couldn’t be upset at the bluntness of Helaena’s words, especially because they were most likely not her own, but they did nothing to quell her turmoil.

But as Laenyra walked away she almost called for her aunt to stay, even though the presence of a tame dragon would scare the beast away. There was an intense uncertainty in the air, not assisted by the darkness, and she thought on her family. Helaena who would only have Aemond if she did not succeed, Laenyra wished to be there for her aunt. Also Viserys, who was now almost too sick to leave his bed, but still welcomed them to spend time with him and hear stories. And how long had it been since she had last seen her mother and been held in her arms, or argued and wrestled with Jace or chased Luke along the long hallways of Dragonstone, or cuddled with little Joffrey. To think nothing on the brothers she had yet to meet.

Though it was Aemond that Laenyra focused on most. She could not stop thinking of how panicked he would be to discover her gone. She had no plans to be eaten, but what if the connection was an imagined one and she had to return empty handed, or worse, she found the dragon but it attacked her.

Gods that would probably be worse. I would be known through the histories as a fool. Mummers would act out my death for years to come.

Laenyra could not help but be amused by the idea of such a performance, but quickly fell forlorn at the idea of her mother discovering her burnt corpse.

No, I will never get a chance like this again, even if I return unharmed I will hardly be allowed such freedoms again. I am the blood of the dragon, I am not scared.

Allowing her thoughts to guide her, she trekked east, following the line of mountaintops south, and was glad she had stolen Aemond’s fur-lined coat for protection against the wind.

“Don’t be afraid Laenyra, you are fire and blood.” Laenyra wished more than anything that Aemond was with her.

The a clearing neared and Laenyra attempted to push herself into the other beings body but it hardly ever worked when she was awake. The connection refused to work as she trudged through the thick trees, her heart yearning to finally come face-to-face with the beast.

Finding a steep incline, she sat herself atop it. The position provided Laenyra with a clearer view of the surrounding lands and she huddled into her coat. Targaryens ran hot, her grandsire always said it was their dragonsblood, but the chill in the air was harsh as she waited. She was certain that her dream had taken place in that area, the trees and hills had led her to the right spot.

The night grew steadily as she waited, listening for a quiet rustle or minuscule noise to signify such a creature.

So, it was a shock when a loud roar split the silence.

Laenyra scrambled to her feet, twisting around on the spot in order to clamp eyes on the dragon. It was only then she realised that he was too dark to see, too quick for her eyes to adjust, there was no way to protect herself.

Her heart jolted as another roar shook the ground.

Darkness flew within the night sky, circling tightly above before descending with speed. Something akin to fear seized ahold of Laenyra.

The dragon was indistinguishable against the sky. A pit of darkness with only two fierce eyes of orange fire to distinguish it from the night. Laenyra’s heart was steady despite the danger of a wild dragon. But as the beast landed, shaking the earth beneath it, the princess knew she was not in danger.

It unfurled its wings in a stretch, flapping them in a way of intimidation as it approached, regarding the girl wearily.

It had not seen her before, but it had felt her touch, her thoughts and memories.

Laenyra’s breath escaped her in sharp bursts and she fought her instincts to retreat.

I am a dragon.

She took a step forward, hand outstretched.

The beast roared furiously and Laenyra froze as a furnaced wind enveloped her. His teeth were a harsh gleam of white, all of them sharper than daggers and how easy it would be for them to tear through her.

Please don’t let me die. Mother will kill me if I die.

The dragon took another step towards her, his breath hot enough to blister as its nostrils flared, scenting the stranger it had been drawn to.

Laenyra stayed still and allowed it to sniff her, depending her life entirely upon the instincts of the dragon.

“Iksā gevie.” You are beautiful. She breathed out the words as it drew ever closer. Laenyra could feel the heat radiating from its body. The dragon was pure blackness, she could only see its body from the light of the moon. Had it been cloudy that night, she wouldn’t be able to even know he was there.

A crest of spikes crowned the beast’s head, his neck protected with spines and spikes that ridged down his torso and tail, ending in a fierce collection of barbs that was undoubtedly used for defence. Its body was streamlined but bulky, a cross between Seasmoke and Meleys and similar in size to Caraxes, his wingspan expansive as he disrupted the surrounding air.

It was his eyes though, that truly drew in Laenyra. Pools of molten gold, the colour of dragonfire and ruin. Fire and blood. The vertical, beaded, pupils regarded her with a sense of wariness and curiosity.

The dragon snorted, smoke pluming upwards and Laenyra felt emotions that weren’t hers, tears that didn’t belong whelmed in her eyes.

“Iksā mērī?” You’re lonely? She uttered, feeling the deep incomprehensible sorrow overcome her.

He bared his teeth before crooning softly, a soft growl building in his throat and he snapped at the air.

“Nyke shifang.” I understand. Laenyra whispered and dared to edge forward, trying to ignore the growl the dragon emitted. “Ao gīmigon nyke.” You know me.

She frowned as another emotion that didn't belong to her swept upon her.

“Nyke gīmigon ao.” I know you.

A name echoed in her mind.

“Kierynax.”

Laenyra stepped towards him and closed the gap, resting her hands upon his snout, unafraid at the heat that seeped into her body, the thrumming of another being’s heart in time with her own.

“Iksi mēre.” We are one.

Kierynax let out a deep rumble and lowered his head, allowing Laenyra to reach higher on his muzzle, his eyes closing as she stroked the ridges lining his face. His breath fanning over her face with a friendly huff.

She smiled and took a slow step around him, keeping her hand on his neck, enjoying the harsh warmth radiating from him.

Kierynax lowered himself further, his wings flapping impatiently and Laenyra moved out of the way for him to lie down.

“Ao jaelagon naejot sōvegon lēda nyke?” You wish to fly with me? She whispered, adrenaline coursing through her. She had flown before, but never on her own dragon. She knew nothing would compare to the reality of flying as one with her dragon.

Kierynax trilled restlessly and slapped his wings against the grass, their darkness absorbing the light of the moon as dirt flew up around them.

Laenyra mounted the darkness.

He growled quietly as she slipped onto his back, positioning herself between his wings.

“Alright.” Laenyra murmured, readjusting herself to sit more securely atop her dragon. His muscles rippled between her thighs as she leant forward to clasp at the barbs lining his shoulder blades.

His body was a weapon of self-defence, his spikes protruding in such a way it would be almost impossible to attack him without harm to the attacker. He was fast though, quick as lightening in her dreams and Laenyra doubted an attacker would even be able to catch up to him.

“How fast are you?” She grinned as a deep rumble emitted from Kierynax, clearly he was eager to show off. “Ivestragī īlva sōvegon hae mēre.” Let us fly as one.

She jostled dangerously as he stood quickly and tightened her grip in preparation. His body vibrated beneath her, the power of him coursing through the two beings as one.

Clinging on for all she was worth, Kierynax roared and started to move, gaining momentum before expelling his wings and flying through the air.

She laughed madly as he shot upwards, the wind and speed and movements all threatening to dislodge her, but she would not fall. He moved even higher and she felt her heart stutter as she looked down, the ground fading to blackness and so far away, but she was not scared.

The joy was unlike anything in the world, two souls tied together, she could feel Kierynax’s happiness as they bound themselves to each other, both belonging completely to the other. She thought of falling with hysterical speed and suddenly her dragon dived downwards, closing his wings to streamline straight towards the ground.

Laenyra and her dragon roared as one.

She leant backwards, gripping him tightly and leading him to pull upwards out of the dive, trying to command him mentally and physically. Kierynax’s wings billowed so powerfully they sounded like a crack of thunder and he charged upwards into the sky.

Smoke rose from his mouth as he emitted a high pitched croon, soaring steadily through the clouds.

“Sȳrī gaomagon.” Well done. Laenyra patted his scales, relishing in the warm of his body against the chill of the night. She leant forward to rest her head on his neck as her body finally calmed down.

“There is someone I wish for you to meet.”

___________________________

Aemond looked at Helaena.

Helaena looked at Aemond.

“Please tell me you didn’t.” He breathed slowly, attempting to contain the rage building within him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She said it with such an endearing look that he almost believed her.

“Really?” Aemond scoffed. “So I am misinformed?”

She shrugged and resumed her needlework.

“How am I supposed to know what you are informed on? That’s illogical, Aemond.”

Aemond bit back a groan of frustration.

“I was informed that in the middle of the night, you and Laenyra left, atop Dreamfyre and then hours later, you returned. Alone.” He was trying to maintain his temper. “Where did you take Laenyra?”

Helaena finally looked back to her brother.

“She wishes to find her dragon before she goes back home.”

“You went with her to find a wild dragon?” Aemond growled, upset that they had gone behind his back to put themselves in terrible danger, upset at the mention of Laenyra leaving. Also the betrayal of having woken and finding her gone.

Helaena stood and gave her younger brother one of her sad smiles, full of knowing. She took his hands in hers.

“Of course not.” She said and adjusted the collar of his tunic. “I simply dropped her in the right area and left her to it.”

“Helaena.” He growled. “You mean to tell me you flew with Laenyra, under the protection of Dreamfyre, but then left her undefended and alone to try and find a wild dragon that has no experience with human contact.”

She looked up as though deep in thought.

“Yes.” She chirped after a long moment. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“Helaena! She is facing a wild dragon and you expect her to be okay? How could you do such a careless thing? Laenyra loves you like a sister.” He seethed, stepping away from his sister in order to collect himself.

“She won’t die, Aemond.” She explained calmly, putting a soothing hand on his arm. “Laenyra will return atop a dark wind and green and black will fly together or fall as one.”

The words stirred something in him, a long forgotten memory from years ago, but he could not focus as the doors burst open, Ser Adrian holding a scroll.

“Prince Aemond, this arrived for you, from Sharp Point.”

“Sharp Point?” Aemond asked with scrutiny but took it from him nonetheless, noting the blue ribbon before tearing it open.

“Yes, my prince. It bears the seal of House Bar Emmon.”

“I know what sigil it is.” He snapped and moved away from the knight’s prying eyes.

Meet me at our tree, come alone.

His heart soared at the knowledge his princess was alright. The blue ribbon around the scroll meant for certain it was from Laenyra, they always wrapped messages meant for the other in blue ribbon.

“I have to go.” He muttered aloud, looking up to see Helaena wearing a knowing smirk.

“So she’s alright?” She asked smugly.

Aemond rolled his eyes but pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“I’ll never doubt you again.” He murmured and hurried out. Ser Adrian attempted to follow but Aemond was too quick, darting in and out of passages before taking the nearest horse and riding dangerously fast to the dragonpit.

He waved away the dragonkeepers greetings, ordering them to summon Vhagar as quickly as possible.

His dragon was old, but she was cunning and could sense his agitation as soon as he reached her. The sky was clear and Vhagar’s mighty roar shook the earth as she soared upwards, her speed egged on by her rider’s anxiety.

The wind tore at him, the chill of the day biting at his face and it worsened as they flew over the ocean. To fly over land would be the comfortable choice, but Aemond was too anxious to even consider it.

A tall lone tree, the tree they had confessed their love for each other, protruded in the distance and he gave a growl of frustration at how long it had taken him. Vhagar’s wings encompassed the wind to propel them forward, his eye set steadfastly on the tree.

If he had been less worried and more observant, he might of seen the shadow flying straight for them. Aemond gave a yell of surprise as a black blur dropped in front of him. It flew downwards from above and disappeared below Vhagar.

He turned in his saddle, desperate to get a bearing on the shadow as Vhagar roared, clearly displeased at the surprise. Aemond guided Vhagar to gain height, the new position giving him a better view of below, but he jolted as darkness flew above his head and disappeared into the clouds.

“Gīda, Vhagar.” Calm, Vhagar.

His dragon was uneasy at the speed of the newcomer, she did not enjoy the uncertainty and Aemond felt the same.

A jolt of fire erupted within the clouds above and Aemond growled, unsure as to how best protect himself and Vhagar. He commanded Vhagar to lower, if there was to be an attack, better it come from one direction and he could see it coming. Her tail skimmed through the water as she soared just above the ocean.

He turned around in the saddle constantly, cursing his lack of vision as he attempted to look everywhere at once.

The attack never came and Aemond’s heart finally stopped thudding in his ears. He stayed vigilant but after circling the coast four times he decided to give Vhagar a reprieve and landed on the beach. He dismounted but stayed close to her, not trusting the eery silence that had taken over.

Vhagar herself kept tossing and turning her head, attempting to locate the attacker. Aemond rested a hand on her muzzle, willing her to stay calm as he too scouted the skies.

He glanced around the surrounding beach. Where was Laenyra?

“Laenyra?” He yelled at the top of his lungs, fear jolting through him at her absence. Perhaps she was still at Sharp Point, maybe she was delayed.

A roar shook the earth and Aemond jolted as the shadow passed over him once more. Immediately assuming the mysterious beast had had something to do with Laenyra’s disappearance he moved to climb atop Vhagar and chase the beast down.

The only thing that stopped him was Vhagar making the most unexpected noise possible; a soft croon. Aemond spun to look and follow the trail of the soaring darkness, his eye eager and his heart furiously beating in his chest, only calming as he finally caught a flash of emerald green and dark brown tresses.

Laenyra?

She had taken his coat from his rooms the previous night, he was certain of it, and her hair had come loose, flowing out behind her. If Aemond were blind he would know her, know her look and feel her presence.

It was Laenyra.

And she was atop a dragon. Her dragon. The dragon she had been dreaming of for years. She circled the beast once more before diving downwards.

The dragon landed with startling precision, the sand spraying everywhere as the black wind let out a roar. Laenyra sat atop him, no saddle and windswept but she was beautiful and smiling so brightly Aemond’s heart pounded fiercely in his chest. He doubted anyone had ever looked so perfect in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.

Her beast lowered himself cordially, showing surprising concern for his rider considering how new their bond was. Laenyra slipped off his back, the spikes along his body assisting as she dismounted between his wing joint and neck.

Aemond almost ran to her, but Vhagar was too tense and the other dragon too unfamiliar.

Her proud smile was so infectious he couldn’t help but grin lopsidedly at her. Laenyra commanded her dragon to stay before running to Aemond.

“I can’t believe you.” Aemond said, but there was no anger behind his words as he took her in his arms. “You’re alright?”

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine, truly.” She insisted, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“You are a fool.” He murmured into her hair, thanking and cursing the gods for giving him such a wilful woman. “Goading a dragon such as Vhagar is incredibly stupid.”

“She would never hurt me.” Laenyra giggled and looked up at him, her smile shining upon him like the sun. “Besides, I wanted to show you how good of a flier I am.”

They looked to their dragons, green and black on the beach. Kierynax kept edging forward to sniff at Vhagar, who would shuffle away in annoyance at the younger dragon’s antics.

“You are a talented rider, a true natural.” He agreed, pride overcoming his frustration.

“And?” Laenyra asked as her hands gripped his collar, tugging him closer.

Aemond doubted his heart would ever get used to Laenyra and he flushed slightly, his face reddening.

“And I never should have doubted you.”

Her look was one of pure triumph.

“I’m glad that’s settled.” She said smugly.

Kierynax crooned softly as he moved closer slowly, more cautious of Aemond than he was of Vhagar.

“He fears me?” Aemond asked, disbelief evident in his tone.

“No. He just doesn’t know you.” Laenyra explained and stepped forward, beckoning her dragon forward.

Vhagar raised her head, keeping a keen eye on them.

“I don’t think he fears men, but you are unfamiliar to him.” She went on, moving in front of Aemond, putting herself between him and the dragon. “Come here, sweet boy.”

Kierynax, a full grown dragon that had a body layered in spikes and teeth as sharp as daggers, lowered himself and crooned like a puppy. Aemond chocked back a laugh as Laenyra giggled and closed the distance, wrapping her arms around the beast’s neck.

The dragon’s molten eyes stayed fixed on Aemond as the prince approached, the distrust evident but his rider kept him calm and still.

“Give me your hand.” Laenyra commanded, reaching back blindly to grasp his hand. She pulled him closer, wrapping on arm around her waist to establish a connection, and the other she laid upon the inky scales.

“He’s beautiful.” Aemond murmured in her ear, pressing a soft kiss to her neck. Laenyra squirmed but otherwise continued stroking her dragon, a look of pure wonder and joy on her face. He would lay down his life to keep her so content.

“Isn’t he?” She whispered with such pride that he almost envied the dragon for a ridiculous moment.

“His name?”

“Kierynax.” The dragon trilled as it heard it’s name. He raised his mighty head to look down on them, shuffling about to lie down, his breath hot against the chilled air.

“I am sorry I did not take you to find him.” Aemond felt guilty for keeping the two beings seperate, they could have had so much time flying together, exploring Westeros. Laenyra always wished to explore, her dream to one day fly across the Narrow Sea with her prince.

Her departure loomed over them, though Laenyra was far too happy with her new dragon to think on such things.

“That does not matter. I have him now.” Kierynax huffed as she turned away from him, clearly upset at not being the centre of attention.

Laenyra beamed at Aemond and he felt himself warm, his hands reaching for her, as they always did.

“You’re not upset at me?” He asked quietly, needing to know she did not resent him.

“Never, my love.” Laenyra murmured and stroked his cheek, trailing her fingers over his eyepatch. “And you are not displeased with me, for sneaking about?”

Aemond smiled.

“Never.” He whispered and leant down to press a sweet kiss to her neck. Laenyra giggled at the sensation and Aemond had one of his moments where he couldn’t believe she was real.

The pair stood still in sunlight, claiming the moment for themselves before Laenyra moved towards the two dragons, her midnight immediately shuffling to his rider’s side, eager to set off.

Laenyra was fast in her ascension of the beast, settling herself with startling ease between the dragon’s shoulders. She looked to Aemond with a smile that promised the world.

“Shall we?” She called, Kierynax shuffled eagerly beneath his rider, letting out a soft croon towards Vhagar. The she-dragon moved towards Aemond as he beckoned her, allowing her own rider to climb atop her mighty body.

Aemond looked at Laenyra.

Laenyra looked at Aemond.

The two grinned at another before taking off into the sky.

___________________

Tags: @grungegrrrl @daddysfavoritesexkitten @neenieweenie @m-indkiller @thelittleswanao3 @scarlettmoon98 @graykageyama @burningshewolf @beautyandthenovels @vivvyinvienna

151 notes · View notes

thewingedbaron · 8 months

Text

Together, Always- BG3 Fic Feb Day Eight

Skipping ahead to the end of act 2 on this one. Today's prompt got a little out of hand and ended up being much longer than origianlly planned. I hope you enjoy :)

Minor warning for menitons of torture. I used a bit of Shadowheart's dialogue after the Gauntlet of Shar, since it seemed fitting.

Pairing: Shadowheart x Tav (Alyss)

Ao3 Link Here

Day Eight: “It will be okay, as long as we’re together.”

“This is all some sort of terrible dream.”

Alyss’ head buzzed with residual magic as the planeshift spell dumped them on Shar’s doorstep. The world came rushing back, slowly focusing like a kaleidoscope of shadow and rock. Shadowheart’s words rung in her ears as her feet touched solid ground. Her vision returned just in time to watch the former cleric of Shar collapse.

“But… it’s real isn’t it?” Shadowheart’s eyes lifted, tears appearing at their corners as she took her in her friends. “I stood before the Nightsong. I heard Lady Shar’s words… and I failed her.”

Tears streamed down Shadowheart’s face. “Worse than failed, I defiled her! All because of what that aasimar said!”

Alyss took a shaky step toward her companion, her heart tearing. Her legs, however, were not quite ready to bear her, and the ranger collapsed to the ground. Gods damn it all, she thought. With tremendous effort, she forced her knees to bend, and her arms to work. She would crawl to Shadowheart if she had to.

The former cleric’s stare was a thousand miles away as she murmured to herself. Alyss wasn’t sure that she was even aware that there was anyone there to listen.

“I tried to leave…” She said. “But Shar blocked me. Punished me for failing her. I thought I knew the limit of pain that the incurable wound could inflict, but I had no idea.”

Alyss’ heart strained, tearing itself to tiny pieces. She threw herself across the gap between them, forcing her tired body to obey as she reached out and placed a gentle hand on Shadowheart’s arm. The half-elf didn’t acknowledge the touch.

“It felt like I was suffering the agony of a thousand people, all at once.” She murmured. “My blood was boiling, my hair on fire. I thought I’d claw my own face off with the pain…” Shadowheart’s voice broke. A half sob escaped her before she continued.

“She released me. Banished me. She said I was an outcast, that all of her children would know me and revile me… I… I’m alone.”

“No, love. You are never alone.” Alyss whispered.

Shadowheart’s eyes widened, darting to her face as if seeing her for the first time. “Love?” She asked.

Alyss froze. It had been some time since the two of them had spoken properly. Shadowheart had been so deep in the woes of the Shadow-Cursed Lands that she had time for nothing else. Alyss feared she had overstepped for a moment before a slight smile broke across the half-elf’s face.

“I… I suppose that is true. I am not alone. Not anymore.” she lifted a shaky hand, her fingers ghosting over Alyss’ cheek. “You’ve done more for me than my faith in recent days. In a long while. Thank you.”

Alyss smiled, tears pricking her own eyes. “I’m glad you finally see it.”

Despite herself, a small crack of a smile touched Shadowheart’s lips. Then, she folded, collapsing across Alyss before sobs racked her body. The ranger folded her into an embrace while her own tears fell silently. They stayed there for a long time, embracing on the steps of a tomb as the shadow lands twisted and curved around them. As they sat in each other’s embrace, holding on for dear life, the shadows did something strange. They began to curl back, parting in places as silvery moonlight descended into the gaps. There, in the patchwork sky above, Dame Alyin flew for Moonrise, a brilliant speck of silver against a darkened sky.

As Shadowheart’s sobs slowed, Alyss gently released her hold. Both women sat back on their heels, their eyes stained red as they found each other’s faces once more. A thousand words swirled in Alyss’ head like a maelstrom, but something bit back. Shadowheart had lost everything, her goddess, her family, her world had been upheaved. Now was not the time for grandiose love confessions.

“Wait.” Shadowheart said. Gentle hands seized Alyss’ shoulders as she leaned away. “Wait. Please.” the half-elf held them both in their kneeling position on the ground.

“There’s been something between us for some time. A connection more than friends…”

“Shadowheart, you don’t have to do this now.”

“No. I do. Alyss, please let me speak.” She said, placing a finger on the ranger’s lips. “I recognized it, but I didn’t act on it after that first night above the waterfall.” Shadowheart shifted, her eyes locked on Alyss’

“I thought my faith was the most important thing in my life. I couldn’t have been more wrong.” She paused for a breath. Alyss’ heart hammered in her ribs hard enough to crack a bone. “I’ve squandered too much time already. I want to be with you. Now and always. Do you want the same?”

Alyss could feel the silence that stretched between them, like a muffling cloak in her mind. She fumbled for the words to say, but could not find them. Shadowheart’s eyes searched hers, desperation gnawing at her irises. Alyss stopped, sucked in a breath to steady herself, and let it out slowly.

“I want nothing more, love. Now and always.” She whispered. Warmth flooded Shadowheart’s smile as new tears washed down her face.

“It wasn’t too long ago that I could never imagine smiling again,” she murmured. “Shows what I know.”

Alyss grinned, warmth flooding her body. Her mind buzzed, the trials and pains of the last twenty four hours forgotten. “I have been trying to tell you-”

Her words jumbled and stopped as the former cleric of shar seized her by the chin and kissed her. Something in Alyss’ heart burst, flooding her body with warmth. Whatever she had been thinking, it was gone now. The kiss shocked her mind blank. Her skin was on fire. Her blood boiled. Her heart melted as it beat. She could taste the tears in their kiss, but it somehow made it all the sweeter.

When Shadowheart broke away, it was too soon. Her face felt strangely cool without the cleric’s lips on hers. Alyss immediately began to scheme how to get her to do it again. Every nerve ending in her body felt as if it had been shocked, leaving her buzzing and dizzy.

“Keep your sarcasm for later.” Shadowheart smiled.

“I couldn’t possibly-” Shadowheart’s lips landed on hers, and Alyss’ mind was wiped blank a second time.

“Not to interrupt,” Wyll called for a long way away. “But we do still have a battle to fight.”

Alyss relaxed as their lips parted again. The world had righted itself in her mind. Now there was only one thing left to do. Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet, hauling Shadowheart up beside her.

The former cleric of Shar seized her hand, interlacing their fingers. “Are you sure about this?” She asked, her former confidence eluding her. “I’ll have a target on my back for the rest of my days. Shar does not forgive or forget.”

Alyss smiled.

“I know we have a lot to talk about, especially after all that.” she nodded toward the lonely gate leading back into the tomb. “But we will deal with it, right after we kick Ketheric’s ass. Sharrian assassins, old necromancers, even the gods damned Absolute isn’t going to stop us, alright?”

Shadowheart nodded, a small smile on her lips. “Together?”

Alyss grinned. “Always.”

#bg3ficfeb #thewingedbaron #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 #baldur's gate iii #baldur's gate oc #shadowheart #bg3 spoilers #baldurs gate 3 #writers on tumblr #shadowheart x tav #tav x shadowheart #love confessions #really breaking my own heart with this one

19 notes · View notes